Native Son - Richard Wright [40]
“I don’t know,” he said.
“My! But you say the funniest things,” she giggled.
“Maybe,” he said.
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
“You don’t mind, do you?”
“I don’t mind.”
“You know, for three hours you haven’t said yes or no.”
She doubled up with laughter. He tightened with hate. Again she was looking inside of him and he did not like it. She sat up and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. He kept his eyes straight in front of him and swung the car into the driveway and brought it to a stop. He got out and opened the door. She did not move. Her eyes were closed.
“We’re here,” he said.
She tried to get up and slipped back into the seat.
“Aw, shucks!”
She’s drunk, really drunk, Bigger thought. She stretched out her hand.
“Here; gimme a lift. I’m wobbly….”
She was resting on the small of her back and her dress was pulled up so far that he could see where her stockings ended on her thighs. He stood looking at her for a moment; she raised her eyes and looked at him. She laughed.
“Help me, Bigger. I’m stuck.”
He helped her and his hands felt the softness of her body as she stepped to the ground. Her dark eyes looked at him feverishly from deep sockets. Her hair was in his face, filling him with its scent. He gritted his teeth, feeling a little dizzy.
“Where’s my hat? I dropped it somewhere….”
She swayed as she spoke and he tightened his arms about her, holding her up. He looked round; her hat was lying on the running board.
“Here it is,” he said.
As he picked it up he wondered what a white man would think seeing him here with her like this. Suppose old man Dalton saw him now? Apprehensively, he looked up at the big house. It was dark and silent.
“Well,” Mary sighed. “I suppose I better go to bed….”
He turned her loose, but had to catch her again to keep her off the pavement. He led her to the steps.
“Can you make it?”
She looked at him as though she had been challenged.
“Sure. Turn me loose….”
He took his arm from her and she mounted the steps firmly and then stumbled loudly on the wooden porch. Bigger made a move toward her, but stopped, his hands outstretched, frozen with fear. Good God, she’ll wake up everybody! She was half-bent over, resting on one knee and one hand, looking back at him in amused astonishment. That girl’s crazy! She pulled up and walked slowly back down the steps, holding onto the railing. She swayed before him, smiling.
“I sure am drunk….”
He watched her with a mingled feeling of helplessness, admiration, and hate. If her father saw him here with her now, his job would be over. But she was beautiful, slender, with an air that made him feel that she did not hate him with the hate of other white people. But, for all of that, she was white and he hated her. She closed her eyes slowly, then opened them; she was trying desperately to take hold of herself. Since she was not able to get to her room alone, ought he to call Mr. Dalton or Peggy? Naw…. That would betray her. And, too, in spite of his hate for her, he was excited standing here watching her like this. Her eyes closed again and she swayed toward him. He caught her.
“I’d better help you,” he said.
“Let’s go the back way, Bigger. I’ll stumble sure as hell…and wake up everybody…if we go up the front….”
Her feet dragged on the concrete as he led her to the basement. He switched on the light, supporting her with his free hand.
“I didn’t know I was sho drunk,” she mumbled.
He led her slowly up the narrow stairs to the kitchen door, his hand circling her waist and the tips of his fingers feeling the soft swelling of her breasts. Each second she was leaning more heavily against him.
“Try to stand up,” he whispered fiercely as they reached the kitchen door.
He was thinking that perhaps Mrs. Dalton was standing in flowing white and staring with stony blind eyes in the middle of the floor, as she had been when he had come for the glass of water. He eased the door back and looked. The kitchen was empty and dark, save for a faint blue hazy light that seeped through a window from the winter sky.
“Come on.”
She pulled heavily on him, her arm about his neck. He pushed the door in and took a step inside and stopped, waiting, listening. He felt her hair brush his lips. His skin glowed warm and his muscles flexed; he looked at her face in the dim light, his senses drunk with the odor of her hair and skin. He stood for a moment, then whispered in excitement and fear: