Native Son - Richard Wright [78]
He looked round the street and saw a sign on a building: THIS PROPERTY IS MANAGED BY THE SOUTH SIDE REAL ESTATE COMPANY. He had heard that Mr. Dalton owned the South Side Real Estate Company, and the South Side Real Estate Company owned the house in which he lived. He paid eight dollars a week for one rat-infested room. He had never seen Mr. Dalton until he had come to work for him; his mother always took the rent to the real estate office. Mr. Dalton was somewhere far away, high up, distant, like a god. He owned property all over the Black Belt, and he owned property where white folks lived, too. But Bigger could not live in a building across the “line.” Even though Mr. Dalton gave millions of dollars for Negro education, he would rent houses to Negroes only in this prescribed area, this corner of the city tumbling down from rot. In a sullen way Bigger was conscious of this. Yes; he would send the kidnap note. He would jar them out of their senses.
When the car came he rode south and got off at Fifty-first Street and walked to Bessie’s. He had to ring five times before the buzzer answered. Goddammit, I bet she’s drunk! he thought. He mounted the steps and saw her peering at him through the door with eyes red from sleep and alcohol. His doubt of her made him fearful and angry.
“Bigger?” she asked.
“Get on back in the room,” he said.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, backing away, her mouth open.
“Let me in! Open the door!”
She threw the door wide, almost stumbling as she did so.
“Turn on the light.”
“What’s the matter, Bigger?”
“How many times do you want me to ask you to turn on the light?”
She turned it on.
“Pull them shades.”
She lowered the shades. He stood watching her. Now, I don’t want any trouble out of her. He went to the dresser and pushed her jars and combs and brushes aside and took the package from his pocket and laid it in the cleared space.
“Bigger?”
He turned and looked at her.
“What?”
“You ain’t really planning to do that, sure ’nough?”
“What the hell you think?”
“Bigger, naw!”
He caught her arm and squeezed it in a grip of fear and hate.
“You ain’t going to turn away from me now! Not now, Goddamn you!”
She said nothing. He took off his cap and coat and threw them on the bed.
“They’re wet, Bigger!”
“So what?”
“I ain’t doing this,” she said.
“Like hell you ain’t!”
“You can’t make me!”
“You done helped me to steal enough from the folks you worked for to put you in jail already.”
She did not answer; he turned from her and got a chair and pulled it up to the dresser. He unwrapped the package and balled the paper into a knot and threw it into a corner of the room. Instinctively, Bessie stooped to pick it up. Bigger laughed and she straightened suddenly. Yes; Bessie was blind. He was about to write a kidnap note and she was worried about the cleanliness of her room.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
He was smiling grimly. He took out the pencil; it was not sharpened.
“Gimme a knife.”
“Ain’t you got one?”
“Hell, naw! Get me a knife!”
“What you do with your knife?”
He stared at her, remembering that she knew that he had had a knife. An image of blood gleaming on the metal blade in the glare of the furnace came before his eyes and fear rose in him hotly.
“You want me to slap you?”
She went behind a curtain. He sat looking at the paper and pencil. She came back with a butcher knife.
“Bigger, please…. I don’t want to do it.”
“Got any liquor?”
“Yeah….”
“Get you a shot and set on that bed and keep quiet.”
She stood undecided, then got the bottle from under a pillow and drank. She lay on the bed, on her stomach, her face turned so that she could see him. He watched her through the looking-glass of the dresser. He sharpened the pencil and spread out the piece of paper. He was about to write when he remembered that he did not have his gloves on. Goddamn!
“Gimme my gloves.”
“Hunh?”
“Get my gloves out of the inside of my coat pocket.”
She swayed to her feet and got the gloves and stood back of his chair, holding them limply in her hands.
“Give ’em here.”
“Bigger