Native Son - Richard Wright [85]
He had to get back to his room. He tiptoed along the hall, through the kitchen, down the steps and into the basement. The torrid cracks of the furnace gleamed in the crimson darkness and he heard the throaty undertone of the draft devouring the air. Was she burnt? But even if she were not, who would think of looking in the furnace for her? He went to his room, into the closet, closed the door and listened. Silence. He came out, left the door open and, in order to get to the closet quickly and without sound, pulled off his shoes. He lay again on the bed, his mind whirling, with images born of a multitude of impulses. He could run away; he could remain; he could even go down and confess what he had done. The mere thought that these avenues of action were open to him made him feel free, that his life was his, that he held his future in his hands. But they would never think that he had done it; not a meek black boy like him.
He bounded off the bed, listening, thinking that he had heard voices. He had been so deeply taken up with his own thoughts that he did not know if he had actually heard anything or had imagined it. Yes; he heard faint footsteps below. He hurried to the closet. The footsteps ceased. There came to him the soft sound of sobbing. It was Peggy. Her sobbing quieted, then rose to a high pitch. He stood for a long time, listening to Peggy’s sobs and the long moan of the wind sweeping through the night outside. Peggy’s sobs ceased and her footsteps sounded once more. Was she going to answer the doorbell? Footsteps came again; Peggy had gone to the front of the house for something and had come back. He heard a heavy voice, a man’s. At first he could not identify it; then he realized that it was Britten’s.
“…and you found the note?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago?”
“About an hour.”
“You’re sure you didn’t see anyone leave it?”
“It was sticking under the door.”
“Think, now. Did you see anybody about the house or drive way?”
“No. The boy and me, that’s all that’s been around here.”
“And where’s the boy now?”
“Upstairs in his room, I think.”
“Did you ever see this handwriting before?”
“No, Mr. Britten.”
“Can you guess, can you think, imagine who would send such a note?”
“No. Not a soul in this whole wide world, Mr. Britten,” Peggy wailed.
Britten’s voice ceased. There was the sound of other heavy feet. Chairs scraped over the floor. More people were in the kitchen. Who were they? Their movements sounded like those of men. Then Bigger heard Britten speaking again.
“Listen, Peggy. Tell me, how does this boy act?”
“What do you mean, Mr. Britten?”
“Does he seem intelligent? Does he seem to be acting?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Britten. He’s just like all the other colored boys.”
“Does he say ‘yes mam’ and ‘no mam’?”
“Yes, Mr. Britten. He’s polite.”
“But does he seem to be trying to appear like he’s more ignorant than he really is?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Britten.”
“Have you missed anything around the house since he’s been here?”
“No; nothing.”
“Has he ever insulted you, or anything?”
“Oh, no! No!”
“What kind of a boy is he?”
“He’s just a quiet colored boy. That’s all I can say….”
“Did you ever see him reading anything?”
“No, Mr. Britten.”
“Does he speak more intelligently at some times than at others?”
“No, Mr. Britten. He talked always the same, to me.”
“Has he ever done anything that would make you think he knows something about this note?”
“No, Mr. Britten.”
“When you speak to him, does he hesitate before he answers, as though he’s thinking up what to say?”
“No, Mr. Britten. He talks and acts natural-like.”
“When he talks, does he wave his hands around a lot, like he’s been around a lot of Jews?”
“I never noticed, Mr. Britten.”
“Did you ever hear ’im call anybody comrade?”
“No, Mr. Britten.”
“Does he pull off his cap when he comes in the house?