Native Son (37 page)

“I think it but proper to inform you that in many quarters it is believed that Thomas, despite his dead-black complexion, may have a minor portion of white blood in his veins, a mixture which generally makes for a criminal and intractable nature.

“Down here in Dixie we keep Negroes firmly in their places and we make them know that if they so much as touch a white woman, good or bad, they cannot live.

“When Negroes become resentful over imagined wrongs, nothing brings them to their senses so quickly as when citizens take the law into their hands and make an example out of a trouble-making nigger.

“Crimes such as the Bigger Thomas murders could be lessened by segregating all Negroes in parks, playgrounds, cafés, theatres, and street cars. Residential segregation is imperative. Such measures tend to keep them as much as possible out of direct contact with white women and lessen their attacks against them.

“We of the South believe that the North encourages Negroes to get more education than they are organically capable of absorbing, with the result that northern Negroes are generally more unhappy and restless than those of the South. If separate schools were maintained, it would be fairly easy to limit the Negroes’ education by regulating the appropriation of moneys through city, county, and state legislative bodies.

“Still another psychological deterrent can be attained by conditioning Negroes so that they have to pay deference to the white person with whom they come in contact. This is done by regulating their speech and actions. We have found that the injection of an element of constant fear has aided us greatly in handling the problem.”

He lowered the paper; he could not read any more. Yes, of course; they were going to kill him; but they were having this sport with him before they did it. He held very still; he was trying to make a decision; not thinking, but feeling it out. Ought he to go back behind his wall?
Could
he go back now? He felt that he could not. But would not any effort he made now turn out like the others? Why go forward and meet more hate? He lay on the cot, feeling as he had felt that night when his fingers had gripped the icy edges of the water tank under the roving flares of light, knowing that men crouched below him with guns and tear gas, hearing the screams of sirens and shouts rising thirstily from ten thousand throats….

Overcome with drowsiness, he closed his eyes; then opened them abruptly. The door swung in and he saw a black face. Who was this? A tall, well-dressed black man came forward and paused. Bigger pulled up and leaned on his elbow. The man came all the way to the cot and stretched forth a dingy palm, touching Bigger’s hand.

“Mah po’ boy! May the good Lawd have mercy on yuh.”

He stared at the man’s jet-black suit and remembered who he was: Reverend Hammond, the pastor of his mother’s church. And at once he was on guard against the man. He shut his heart and tried to stifle all feeling in him. He feared that the preacher would make him feel remorseful. He wanted to tell him to go; but so closely associated in his mind was the man with his mother and what she stood for that he could not speak. In his feelings he could not tell the difference between what this man evoked in him and what he had read in the papers; the love of his own kind and the hate of others made him feel equally guilty now.

“How yuh feel, son?” the man asked; he did not answer and the man’s voice hurried on: “Yo’ ma ast me t’ come ’n’ see yuh. She wants t’ come too.”

The preacher knelt upon the concrete floor and closed his eyes. Bigger clamped his teeth and flexed his muscles; he knew what was coming.

“Lawd Jesus, turn Yo’ eyes ’n’ look inter the heart of this po’
sinner! Yuh said mercy wuz awways Yo’s ’n’ ef we ast fer it on bended knee Yuh’d po’ it out inter our hearts ’n’ make our cups run over! We’s astin’ Yuh t’ po’ out Yo’ mercy now, Lawd! Po’ it out fer this po’ sinner boy who stan’s in deep need of it! Ef his sins be as scarlet, Lawd, wash ’em white as snow! Fergive ’im fer whutever he’s done, Lawd! Let the light of Yo’ love guide ’im th’u these dark days! ’N’ he’p them who’s a tryin’ to he’p ’im, Lawd! Enter inter they hearts ’n’ breathe compassion on they sperits! We ast this in the nama Yo’ Son Jesus who died on the cross ’n’ gave us the mercy of Yo’ love! Ahmen….”

Bigger stared unblinkingly at the white wall before him as the preacher’s words registered themselves in his consciousness. He knew without listening what they meant; it was the old voice of his mother telling of suffering, of hope, of love beyond this world. And he loathed it because it made him feel as condemned and guilty as the voice of those who hated him.

“Son….”

Bigger glanced at the preacher, and then away.

“Fergit ever’thing but yo’ soul, son. Take yo’ mind off ever’thing but eternal life. Fergit whut the newspapers say. Fergit yuh’s black. Gawd looks past yo’ skin ’n inter yo’ soul, son. He’s lookin’ at the only parta yuh tha’s
His
. He wants yuh ’n’ He loves yuh. Give yo’se’f t’ ’Im, son. Lissen, lemme tell yuh why yuh’s here; lemme tell yuh a story tha’ll make yo’ heart glad….”

Bigger sat very still, listening and not listening. If someone had afterwards asked him to repeat the preacher’s words, he would not have been able to do so. But he felt and sensed their meaning. As the preacher talked there appeared before him a vast black silent void and the images of the preacher swam in that void, grew large and powerful; familiar images which his mother had given him when he was a child at her knee; images which in turn aroused impulses long dormant, impulses that he had suppressed and sought to shunt from his life. They were images which had once given him a reason for living, had explained the world. Now they sprawled before his eyes and seized his emotions in a spell of awe and wonder.

…an endless reach of deep murmuring waters upon whose face was darkness and there was no form no shape no sun no stars and no land and a voice came out of the darkness and the waters moved to obey and there emerged slowly a huge spinning ball and the voice said
let there be light
and there was light and it was good light and the voice said
let there be a firmament
and the waters parted and there was a vast space over the waters which formed into clouds stretching above the waters and like an echo the voice came from far away saying
let dry land appear
and with thundering rustling the waters drained off and mountain peaks reared into view and there were valleys and rivers and the voice called the dry land
earth
and the waters
seas
and the earth grew grass and trees and flowers that gave off seed that fell to the earth to grow again and the earth was lit by the light of a million stars and for the day there was a sun and for the night there was a moon and there were days and weeks and months and years and the voice called out of the twilight and moving creatures came forth out of the great waters whales and all kinds of living creeping things and on the land there were beasts and cattle and the voice said
let us make man in our own image
and from the dusty earth a man rose up and loomed against the day and the sun and after him a woman rose up and loomed against the night and the moon and they lived as one flesh and there was no Pain no Longing no Time no Death and Life was like the flowers that bloomed round them in the garden of earth and out of the clouds came a voice saying
eat not of the fruit of the tree in the midst of the garden, neither touch it, lest ye die….

The preacher’s words ceased droning. Bigger looked at him out of the corners of his eyes. The preacher’s face was black and sad and earnest and made him feel a sense of guilt deeper than that which even his murder of Mary had made him feel. He had killed within himself the preacher’s haunting picture of life even before he had killed Mary; that had been his first murder. And now the preacher made it walk before his eyes like a ghost in the night, creating within him a sense of exclusion that was as cold as a block of ice. Why should this thing rise now to plague him after he had pressed a pillow of fear and hate over its face to smother it to death?
To those who wanted to kill him he was not human, not included in that picture of Creation; and that was why he had killed it. To live, he had created a new world for himself, and for that he was to die.

Again the preacher’s words seeped into his feelings:

“Son, yuh know whut tha’ tree wuz? It wuz the tree of knowledge. It wuzn’t enuff fer man t’ be like Gawd, he wanted t’ know
why
. ’N’ all Gawd wanted ’im t’ do wuz bloom like the flowers in the fiel’s, live as chillun. Man wanted t’ know why ’n’ he fell from light t’ darkness, from love t’ damnation, from blessedness t’ shame. ’N’ Gawd cast ’em outa the garden ’n’ tol’ the man he had t’ git his bread by the sweat of his brow ’n’ tol’ the woman she had t’ bring fo’th her chillun in pain ’n’ sorrow. The worl’ turned ergin ’em ’n’ they had t’ fight the worl’ fer life….”

…the man and the woman walked fearfully among trees their hands covering their nakedness and back of them high in the twilight against the clouds an angel waved a flaming sword driving them out of the garden into the wild night of cold wind and tears and pain and death and the man and woman took their food and burnt it to send smoke to the sky begging forgiveness….

“Son, fer thousan’s of years we been prayin’ for Gawd t’ take tha’ cuss off us. Gawd heard our prayers ’n’ said He’d show us a way back t’ ’Im. His Son Jesus came down t’ earth ’n’ put on human flesh ’n’ lived ’n’ died t’ show us the way. Jesus let men crucify ’Im; but His death wuz a victory. He showed us tha’ t’ live in this worl’ wuz t’ be crucified by it. This worl’ ain’ our home. Life ever’ day is a crucifixion. There ain’ but one way out, son, ’n’ tha’s Jesus’ way, the way of love ’n’ fergiveness. Be like Jesus. Don’t resist. Thank Gawd tha’ He done chose this way fer yuh t’ come t’ ’Im. It’s love tha’s gotta save yuh, son. Yuh gotta b’lieve tha’ Gawd gives eternal life th’u the love of Jesus. Son, look at me….”

Bigger’s black face rested in his hands and he did not move.

“Son, promise me yuh’ll stop hatin’ long enuff fer Gawd’s love t’ come inter yo’ heart.”

Bigger said nothing.

“Won’t yuh promise, son?”

Bigger covered his eyes with his hands.

“Jus’ say yuh’ll
try
, son.”

Bigger felt that if the preacher kept asking he would leap up and strike him. How could he believe in that which he had killed? He was guilty. The preacher rose, sighed, and drew from his pocket a small wooden cross with a chain upon it.

“Look, son. Ah’m holdin’ in mah hands a wooden cross taken from a tree. A tree is the worl’, son. ’N’ nailed t’ this tree is a sufferin’ man. Tha’s whut life is, son. Sufferin’. How kin yuh keep from b’lievin’ the word of Gawd when Ah’m holdin’ befo’ yo’ eyes the only thing tha’ gives a meanin’ t’ yo’ life? Here, lemme put it roun’ yo’ neck. When yuh git alone, look at this cross, son, ’n’ b’lieve….”

They were silent. The wooden cross hung next to the skin of Bigger’s chest. He was feeling the words of the preacher, feeling that life was flesh nailed to the world, a longing spirit imprisoned in the days of the earth.

He glanced up, hearing the doorknob turn. The door opened and Jan stood framed in it, hesitating. Bigger sprang to his feet, galvanized by fear. The preacher also stood, took a step backward, bowed, and said,

“Good mawnin’, suh.”

Bigger wondered what Jan could want of him now. Was he not caught and ready for trial? Would not Jan get his revenge? Bigger stiffened as Jan walked to the middle of the floor and stood facing him. Then it suddenly occurred to Bigger that he need not be standing, that he had no reason to fear bodily harm from Jan here in jail. He sat and bowed his head; the room was quiet, so quiet that Bigger heard the preacher and Jan breathing. The white man upon whom he had tried to blame his crime stood before him and he sat waiting to hear angry words. Well, why didn’t he speak? He lifted his eyes; Jan was looking straight at him and he looked away But Jan’s face was not angry. If he were not angry, then what did he want? He looked again and saw Jan’s lips move to speak, but no words came. And when Jan did speak his voice was low and there were long pauses between the words; it seemed to Bigger that he was listening to a man talk to himself.

“Bigger, maybe I haven’t the words to say what I want to say, but I’m going to try…. This thing hit me like a bomb. It t-t-took me all week to get myself together. They had me in jail and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what was happening…. I—I don’t want to worry you, Bigger. I know you’re in trouble. But there’s something I just got to say…. You needn’t talk to me unless you want to, Bigger. I think I know something of what you’re feeling now. I’m not dumb, Bigger; I can understand, even if I didn’t seem to understand that night….” Jan paused, swallowed, and lit a cigarette. “Well, you jarred me…. I see now. I was kind of blind. I—I just wanted to come here and tell you that I’m not angry…. I’m not angry and I want you to let me help you. I don’t hate you for trying to blame this thing on me…. Maybe you had good reasons…. I don’t know. And maybe in a certain sense, I’m the one who’s really guilty….” Jan paused again and sucked long and hard at his cigarette, blew the smoke out slowly and nervously bit his lips. “Bigger, I’ve never done anything against you and your people in my life. But I’m a white man and it would be asking too much to ask you not to hate me, when every white man you see hates you. I—I know my…. my face looks like theirs to you, even though I don’t feel like they do. But I didn’t know we were so far apart until that night…. I can understand now why you pulled that gun on me when I waited outside that house to talk to you. It was the only thing you could have done; but I didn’t know my white face was making you feel guilty, condemning you….” Jan’s lips hung open, but no words came from them; his eyes searched the corners of the room.

Bigger sat silently, bewildered, feeling that he was on a vast blind wheel being turned by stray gusts of wind. The preacher came forward.

“Is yuh Mistah Erlone?”

“Yes,” said Jan, turning.