Native Son - Richard Wright [59]
He jumped awake, hearing a knock at the door. His heart raced. He sat up and stared sleepily around the room. Had someone knocked? He looked at his watch; it was three o’clock. Gee! He must have slept through the bell that was to ring at two. The knock came again.
“O.K.!” he mumbled.
“This is Mrs. Dalton!”
“Yessum. Just a minute.”
He reached the door in two long steps, then stood a moment trying to collect himself. He blinked his eyes and wet his lips. He opened the door and saw Mrs. Dalton smiling before him, dressed in white, her pale face held as it had been when she was standing in the darkness while he had smothered Mary on the bed.
“Y-y-yes, mam,” he stammered. “I—I was asleep….”
“You didn’t get much sleep last night, did you?”
“No’m,” he drawled, afraid of what she might mean.
“Peggy rang for you three times, and you didn’t answer.”
“I’m sorry, mam….”
“That’s all right. I wanted to ask you about last night…. Oh, you took the trunk to the station, didn’t you?” she asked.
“Yessum. This morning,” he said, detecting hesitancy and confusion in her voice.
“I see,” said Mrs. Dalton. She stood with her face tilted upward in the semi-darkness of the hallway. He had his hand on the doorknob, waiting, his muscles taut. He had to be careful with his answers now. And yet he knew he had a certain protection; he knew that a certain element of shame would keep Mrs. Dalton from asking him too much and letting him know that she was worried. He was a boy and she was an old woman. He was the hired and she was the hirer. And there was a certain distance to be kept between them.
“You left the car in the driveway last night, didn’t you?”
“Yessum. I was about to put it up,” he said, indicating that his only concern was with keeping his job and doing his duties. “But she told me to leave it.”
“And was someone with her?”
“Yessum. A gentleman.”
“That must have been pretty late, wasn’t it?”
“Yessum. A little before two, mam.”
“And you took the trunk down a little before two?”
“Yessum. She told me to.”
“She took you to her room?”
He did not want her to think that he had been alone in the room with Mary. Quickly, he recast the story in his mind.
“Yessum. They went up….”
“Oh, he was with her?”
“Yessum.”
“I see….”
“Anything wrong, mam?”
“Oh, no! I—I—I…. No; there’s nothing wrong.”
She stood in the doorway and he looked at her light-grey blind eyes, eyes almost as white as her face and hair and dress. He knew that she was really worried and wanted to ask him more questions. But he knew that she would not want to hear him tell of how drunk her daughter had been. After all, he was black and she was white. He was poor and she was rich. She would be ashamed to let him think that something was so wrong in her family that she had to ask him, a black servant, about it. He felt confident.
“Will there be anything right now, mam?”
“No. In fact, you may take the rest of the day off, if you like. Mr. Dalton is not feeling well and we’re not going out.”
“Thank you, mam.”
She turned away and he shut the door; he stood listening to the soft whisper of her shoes die away down the hall, then on the stairs. He pictured her groping her way, her hands touching the walls. She must know this house like a book, he thought. He trembled with excitement. She was white and he was black; she was rich and he was poor; she was old and he was young; she was the boss and he was the worker. He was safe; yes. When he heard the kitchen door open and shut he went to the closet and listened again. But there were no sounds.