Native Son (3 page)

Native Son
made Wright easily the most respected black writer in America, and the most prosperous by far. In 1941, a stage production of the novel, directed by Orson Welles, only enhanced Wright’s fame. (A motion picture of the novel, photographed mainly in Argentina, with Wright himself cast as Bigger Thomas, was finished in 1950; however, it enjoyed little success, especially after censors in the United States ordered deep cuts.) In 1945, his
autobiography,
Black Boy
, was also a bestseller; but
Native Son
remained the cornerstone of his success. In 1948, his reputation suffered undoubtedly from the adverse criticism of James Baldwin, who essentially launched his own career that year with an essay, “Everybody’s Protest Novel,” which dismissed
Native Son
as a piece of mere “protest” fiction, reductive of human character and thus fatally limited as art. In 1952, the appearance of Ralph Ellison’s
Invisible Man
, with its dazzling modernist techniques, its lyricism, humor, and final optimism about America, also tended to make
Native Son
seem crude in comparison.

In the 1960s, however, with the dawning of the Black Power movement after the most bloody stage of the civil rights struggle, and the shocking upsurge of violent crime in the cities, especially among young black males, Wright’s novel increasingly seemed strikingly accurate and, indeed, prophetic. Later, in the 1980s, Wright’s reputation suffered again, this time under the scrutiny of feminist literary criticism, which could hardly miss the fact that, with few exceptions, the world of his fiction is fundamentally hostile to women, especially black women.

Nevertheless, Wright seems certain to continue to enjoy a lasting place of high honor in the African American and American literary traditions, and to be recognized as an author of world-class dimensions. While his overall reputation rests on a number of texts in different genres, including autobiography, essays, and travel writing,
Native Son
remains his greatest achievement. In 1963 (three years after Wright’s sudden death in a Paris hospital), the acclaimed cultural historian Irving Howe summed up, perhaps for all time, the epochal significance of the novel even as he criticized several of its aspects. “The day
Native Son
appeared, American culture was changed forever,” Howe declared. “It made impossible a repetition of the old lies [and] brought out into the open, as no one ever had before, the hatred, fear and violence that have crippled and may yet destroy our culture.”

A
RNOLD
R
AMPERSAD
P
RINCETON
U
NIVERSITY

Brrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinng!

An alarm clock clanged in the dark and silent room. A bed spring creaked. A woman’s voice sang out impatiently:

“Bigger, shut that thing off!”

A surly grunt sounded above the tinny ring of metal. Naked feet swished dryly across the planks in the wooden floor and the clang ceased abruptly.

“Turn on the light, Bigger.”

“Awright,” came a sleepy mumble.

Light flooded the room and revealed a black boy standing in a narrow space between two iron beds, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands. From a bed to his right the woman spoke again:

“Buddy, get up from there! I got a big washing on my hands today and I want you-all out of here.”

Another black boy rolled from bed and stood up. The woman also rose and stood in her nightgown.

“Turn your heads so I can dress,” she said.

The two boys averted their eyes and gazed into a far corner of the room. The woman rushed out of her nightgown and put on a pair of step-ins. She turned to the bed from which she had risen and called:

“Vera! Get up from there!”

“What time is it, Ma?” asked a muffled, adolescent voice from beneath a quilt.

“Get up from there, I say!”

“O.K., Ma.”

A brown-skinned girl in a cotton gown got up and stretched her arms above her head and yawned. Sleepily, she sat on a chair and fumbled with her stockings. The two boys kept their faces averted while their mother and sister put on enough clothes to keep them from feeling ashamed; and the mother and sister did the same while the boys dressed. Abruptly, they all paused, holding their clothes in their hands, their attention caught by a light tapping in the thinly plastered walls of the room. They forgot their conspiracy against shame and their eyes strayed apprehensively over the floor.

“There he is again, Bigger!” the woman screamed, and the tiny, one-room apartment galvanized into violent action. A chair toppled as the woman, half-dressed and in her stocking feet, scrambled breathlessly upon the bed. Her two sons, barefoot, stood tense and motionless, their eyes searching anxiously under the bed and chairs. The girl ran into a corner, half-stooped and gathered the hem of her slip into both of her hands and held it tightly over her knees.

“Oh! Oh!” she wailed.

“There he goes!”

The woman pointed a shaking finger. Her eyes were round with fascinated horror.

“Where?”

“I don’t see ’im!”

“Bigger, he’s behind the trunk!” the girl whimpered.

“Vera!” the woman screamed. “Get up here on the bed! Don’t let that thing
bite
you!”

Frantically, Vera climbed upon the bed and the woman caught hold of her. With their arms entwined about each other, the black mother and the brown daughter gazed open-mouthed at the trunk in the corner.

Bigger looked round the room wildly, then darted to a curtain and swept it aside and grabbed two heavy iron skillets from a wall above a gas stove. He whirled and called softly to his brother, his eyes glued to the trunk.

“Buddy!”

“Yeah?”

“Here; take this skillet.”

“O.K.”

“Now, get over by the door!”

“O.K.”

Buddy crouched by the door and held the iron skillet by its handle, his arm flexed and poised. Save for the quick, deep breathing of the four people, the room was quiet. Bigger crept on tiptoe toward the trunk with the skillet clutched stiffly in his hand, his eyes dancing and watching every inch of the wooden floor in front of him. He paused and, without moving an eye or muscle, called:

“Buddy!”

“Hunh?”

“Put that box in front of the hole so he can’t get out!”

“O.K.”

Buddy ran to a wooden box and shoved it quickly in front of a gaping hole in the molding and then backed again to the door, holding the skillet ready. Bigger eased to the trunk and peered behind it cautiously. He saw nothing. Carefully, he stuck out his bare foot and pushed the trunk a few inches.

“There he is!” the mother screamed again.

A huge black rat squealed and leaped at Bigger’s trouser-leg and snagged it in his teeth, hanging on.

“Goddamn!” Bigger whispered fiercely, whirling and kicking out his leg with all the strength of his body. The force of his movement shook the rat loose and it sailed through the air and struck a wall. Instantly, it rolled over and leaped again. Bigger dodged and the rat landed against a table leg. With clenched teeth, Bigger held the skillet; he was afraid to hurl it, fearing that he might miss. The rat squeaked and turned and ran in a narrow circle, looking for a place to hide; it leaped again past Bigger and scurried on dry rasping feet to one side of the box and then to the other, searching for the hole. Then it turned and reared upon its hind legs.

“Hit ’im, Bigger!” Buddy shouted.

“Kill ’im!” the woman screamed.

The rat’s belly pulsed with fear. Bigger advanced a step and the rat emitted a long thin song of defiance, its black beady eyes glittering, its tiny forefeet pawing the air restlessly. Bigger swung the skillet; it skidded over the floor, missing the rat, and clattered to a stop against a wall.

“Goddamn!”

The rat leaped. Bigger sprang to one side. The rat stopped under a chair and let out a furious screak. Bigger moved slowly backward toward the door.

“Gimme that skillet, Buddy,” he asked quietly, not taking his eyes from the rat.

Buddy extended his hand. Bigger caught the skillet and lifted it high in the air. The rat scuttled across the floor and stopped again at the box and searched quickly for the hole; then it reared once more and bared long yellow fangs, piping shrilly, belly quivering.

Bigger aimed and let the skillet fly with a heavy grunt. There was a shattering of wood as the box caved in. The woman screamed and hid her face in her hands. Bigger tiptoed forward and peered.

“I got ’im,” he muttered, his clenched teeth bared in a smile. “By God, I got ’im.”

He kicked the splintered box out of the way and the flat black body of the rat lay exposed, its two long yellow tusks showing distinctly. Bigger took a shoe and pounded the rat’s head, crushing it, cursing hysterically:

“You sonofa
bitch
!”

The woman on the bed sank to her knees and buried her face in the quilts and sobbed:

“Lord, Lord, have mercy….”

“Aw, Mama,” Vera whimpered, bending to her. “Don’t cry. It’s dead now.”

The two brothers stood over the dead rat and spoke in tones of awed admiration.

“Gee, but he’s a big bastard.”

“That sonofabitch could cut your throat.”

“He’s over a foot long.”

“How in hell do they get so big?”

“Eating garbage and anything else they can get.”

“Look, Bigger, there’s a three-inch rip in your pantleg.”

“Yeah; he was after me, all right.”

“Please, Bigger, take ’im out,” Vera begged.

“Aw, don’t be so scary,” Buddy said.

The woman on the bed continued to sob. Bigger took a piece of newspaper and gingerly lifted the rat by its tail and held it out at arm’s length.

“Bigger, take ’im out,” Vera begged again.

Bigger laughed and approached the bed with the dangling rat, swinging it to and fro like a pendulum, enjoying his sister’s fear.

“Bigger!” Vera gasped convulsively; she screamed and swayed and closed her eyes and fell headlong across her mother and rolled limply from the bed to the floor.

“Bigger, for God’s sake!” the mother sobbed, rising and bending over Vera. “Don’t do that! Throw that rat out!”

He laid the rat down and started to dress.

“Bigger, help me lift Vera to the bed,” the mother said.

He paused and turned round.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

“Do what I asked you, will you, boy?”

He went to the bed and helped his mother lift Vera. Vera’s eyes were closed. He turned away and finished dressing. He wrapped the rat in a newspaper and went out of the door and down the stairs and put it into a garbage can at the corner of an alley. When he returned to the room his mother was still bent over Vera, placing a wet towel upon her head. She straightened and faced him, her cheeks and eyes wet with tears and her lips tight with anger.

“Boy, sometimes I wonder what makes you act like you do.”

“What I do now?” he demanded belligerently.

“Sometimes you act the biggest fool I ever saw.”

“What you talking about?”

“You scared your sister with that rat and she
fainted
! Ain’t you got no sense at
all
?”

“Aw, I didn’t know she was that scary.”

“Buddy!” the mother called.

“Yessum.”

“Take a newspaper and spread it over that spot.”

“Yessum.”

Buddy opened out a newspaper and covered the smear of blood on the floor where the rat had been crushed. Bigger went to the window and stood looking out abstractedly into the street. His mother glared at his back.

“Bigger, sometimes I wonder why I birthed you,” she said bitterly.

Bigger looked at her and turned away.

“Maybe you oughtn’t’ve. Maybe you ought to left me where I was.”

“You shut your sassy mouth!”

“Aw, for Chrissakes!” Bigger said, lighting a cigarette.

“Buddy, pick up them skillets and put ’em in the sink,” the mother said.

“Yessum.”

Bigger walked across the floor and sat on the bed. His mother’s eyes followed him.

“We wouldn’t have to live in this garbage dump if you had any manhood in you,” she said.

“Aw, don’t start that again.”

“How you feel, Vera?” the mother asked.

Vera raised her head and looked about the room as though expecting to see another rat.

“Oh, Mama!”

“You poor thing!”

“I couldn’t help it. Bigger scared me.”

“Did you hurt yourself?”

“I bumped my head.”

“Here; take it easy. You’ll be all right.”

“How come Bigger acts that way?” Vera asked, crying again.

“He’s just crazy,” the mother said. “Just plain dumb black crazy.”

“I’ll be late for my sewing class at the Y.W.C.A.,” Vera said.

“Here; stretch out on the bed. You’ll feel better in a little while,” the mother said.

She left Vera on the bed and turned a pair of cold eyes upon Bigger.

“Suppose you wake up some morning and find your sister dead? What would you think then?” she asked. “Suppose those rats cut our veins at night when we sleep? Naw! Nothing like that ever bothers you! All you care about is your own pleasure! Even when the relief offers you a job you won’t take it till they threaten to cut off your food and starve you! Bigger, honest, you the most no-countest man I ever seen in all my life!”

“You done told me that a thousand times,” he said, not looking round.

“Well, I’m telling you agin! And mark my word, some of these days you going to set down and
cry
. Some of these days you going to wish you had made something out of yourself, instead of just a tramp. But it’ll be too late then.”

“Stop prophesying about me,” he said.

“I prophesy much as I please! And if you don’t like it, you can get out. We can get along without you. We can live in one room just like we living now, even with you gone,” she said.

“Aw, for Chrissakes!” he said, his voice filled with nervous irritation.

“You’ll regret how you living some day,” she went on. “If you don’t stop running with that gang of yours and do right you’ll end up where you never thought you would. You think I don’t know what you boys is doing, but I do. And the gallows is at the end of the road you traveling, boy. Just remember that.” She turned and looked at Buddy. “Throw that box outside, Buddy.”

“Yessum.”

There was silence. Buddy took the box out. The mother went behind the curtain to the gas stove. Vera sat up in bed and swung her feet to the floor.

“Lay back down, Vera,” the mother said.

“I feel all right now, Ma. I got to go to my sewing class.”

“Well, if you feel like it, set the table,” the mother said, going behind the curtain again. “Lord, I get so tired of this I don’t know what to do,” her voice floated plaintively from behind the curtain.
“All I ever do is try to make a home for you children and you don’t care.”

“Aw, Ma,” Vera protested. “Don’t say that.”

“Vera, sometimes I just want to lay down and quit.”

“Ma, please don’t say that.”

“I can’t last many more years, living like this.”

“I’ll be old enough to work soon, Ma.”

“I reckon I’ll be dead then. I reckon God’ll call me home.”

Vera went behind the curtain and Bigger heard her trying to comfort his mother. He shut their voices out of his mind. He hated his family because he knew that they were suffering and that he was powerless to help them. He knew that the moment he allowed himself to feel to its fulness how they lived, the shame and misery of their lives, he would be swept out of himself with fear and despair. So he held toward them an attitude of iron reserve; he lived with them, but behind a wall, a curtain. And toward himself he was even more exacting. He knew that the moment he allowed what his life meant to enter fully into his consciousness, he would either kill himself or someone else. So he denied himself and acted tough.

He got up and crushed his cigarette upon the window sill. Vera came into the room and placed knives and forks upon the table.

“Get ready to eat, you-all,” the mother called.

He sat at the table. The odor of frying bacon and boiling coffee drifted to him from behind the curtain. His mother’s voice floated to him in song.

The song irked him and he was glad when she stopped and came into the room with a pot of coffee and a plate of crinkled bacon. Vera brought the bread in and they sat down. His mother closed her eyes and lowered her head and mumbled,
“Lord, we thank Thee for the food You done placed before us for the nourishment of our bodies. Amen.” She lifted her eyes and without changing her tone of voice, said, “You going to have to learn to get up earlier than this, Bigger, to hold a job.”