The Outsider (29 page)

“It's a deal,” Cross said, his eyes deep and thoughtful.

Cross said good-bye, descended into the streets, entered a bar and sat brooding over Bob's believing mind. He found himself amused and a little intrigued at the prospects of meeting some Communists tonight. In all of his cudgeling of his brain to find some disguise for his outlaw existence, he had never seriously considered Communism. But why not? Did not the Communists, like he, have a secret to hide? And what was the Communist secret? Cross felt that at the heart of all political movements the concept of the basic inequality of man was enthroned and practiced, and the skill of politicians consisted in how cleverly they hid this elementary truth and gained votes by pretending the contrary…If, by pretending, he could find a hiding place, why, he would pretend that he believed in the Communist pretensions…Why not? They are deceivers and so am
I…That ought to be fair enough, he thought as he took a long gulp of beer.

But the Communists were shrewd; they'd hardly be taken in by his birth certificate; he would have to buttress his pretensions of being Lionel Lane by some other document. What? By God, he had it! Lionel Lane's draft card…! The postman had said that Lane had died of consumption, and then it was highly likely that Lane had been classified in the draft as unfit for military duty…

He paid for his beer and went out into the nervously falling snow. There was a black cop standing at the corner and he accosted him, telling him that he had been six months in Arizona for his health, that he had lost his draft card, and that he had forgotten the address of his Draft Board…He gave the cop Lionel Lane's address and in turn the cop directed him to the Draft Board which was located in the basement of a church.

Cross was feeling better by the minute. When he found the church, which was located on West 134th Street, he saw a throng of young men hanging around the entrance. No; he'd not go in now; he'd wait until nearly closing time. He mingled with the boys and learned that the Draft Board did not close until nine o'clock that night. It was now a little after seven. He spent the hour and a half in a nearby movie and at ten minutes to nine approached the church, entered the basement and saw that a young Negro clerk was in charge; there were three or four other young men hanging about. When the clerk came to him, Cross recited his prepared lie:

“Look, I'm listed as unfit for military duty with this Board. I've been in Arizona for the past six months for my health and I'm sailing for France; I'm on my way to Switzerland…But I've lost my card. I've got
to get a duplicate, or I won't be allowed aboard the ship—”

“What's your name and where do you live?”

“The name's Lionel Lane and I'm at 145 West 147th Street.”

The clerk left. Cross was nervous. If Lane's death had already been reported, why, he'd simply bolt for it…The clerk returned with a folder.

“We've got your record here,” the clerk began. “But how do I know you're Lionel Lane?”

“Here's my birth certificate,” Cross said, presenting the duplicate he had gotten in Newark.

“Look,” the clerk said, examining the certificate, “I'll fix up a duplicate card for you and I'll have the chairman sign it, but the secretary of the board is the man who gives the final okay and he's not here. You'll have to come back in the morning—”

“But I'm sailing in the morning. I've got my ticket. I'm packed to go—”

“Gosh,” the clerk said. “This stumps me—”

“But I got to have that card,” Cross insisted.

“But I don't have the authority to give it to you—”

“You're looking at my birth certificate,” Cross pointed out.

“Look, anybody can have a birth certificate,” the clerk said. “We do things here by routine. The chairman'll sign your card tonight. But the secretary's not in; he won't be in 'til tomorrow morning—”

“Okay,” Cross assented to the fairness of the clerk's statement. “But, look, if I was trying to dodge the draft, do you think I'd come here and ask for a duplicate?”

“I guess not,” the clerk grinned. “Say, what time do you sail?”

“I've got to be at the boat at ten—”

“Okay. I'll get the card ready, have the chairman sign
it. You be here at nine sharp in the morning and the secretary'll give it to you.”

“Is that all you can do?”

“That's all, buddy.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

The clerk turned to another young man and Cross walked into the corridor. When the office closed tonight, his draft card would be signed and on the desk of the chairman of the board. How could he get that card? If he waited till morning, the secretary might raise questions and cause trouble. He walked along the corridor, thinking frantically. He looked around; the lights in the inner offices had been turned off. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that the clerk was busy, bent over the files. Cross walked quickly to his left, not knowing where he was going. Could he hide in the office? No; that was too dangerous…How in God's name could he get back here tonight, after everyone had gone? He had it; yes, he'd open a latch on one of the windows near the ground…He advanced slowly and softly into the dark, his hand outstretched to prevent his colliding with unseen objects. He flicked on his lighter and shielded the flame with his hand. Yeah; there was a window…But could he reach it easily from the outside? He doused the light, pushed the latch on the window and lifted it slowly. Peering out, he could see that the window gave on to a fetid areaway. This was no good…

Footsteps in the corridor made him freeze; through the open doorway he saw that a light had been clicked on in the office next to him. He waited. Maybe he could hide in a clothes closet…? The light went out and he heard footsteps retreating. The clerk had gone into that office for something and had returned to the front…

He sighed, crept into another office and at once saw
the dim reflection of a street lamp. This was it…He unlatched the window and slid it up noiselessly. Fumbling in the dark, he took out his address book and tore off a page and inserted it beneath the sill, then stood debating. Maybe he ought to leave by this window…? Naw; it was too risky. He closed the window; the piece of paper would help him to identify the window from the outside.

Reentering the corridor, he walked out boldly, feeling that it was better to give the impression that he was not afraid, that he knew where he was going. Outside, he ambled along in the drifting snow, scanning the street in both directions. There were not many passersby, but he saw lights shining through the stained glass windows of the church on the first floor. If a service was about to begin, all the better; it would mean that no one would be prying around in the basement. He walked on till he spied the bit of paper jutting from the window sill. Lights still blazed in the draft office. Sheltering himself in a doorway, he waited.

Ten minutes later the lights in the draft office winked out, one by one; finally, the clerk, flanked by two other men, emerged. Was it safe to enter now? Yes; he'd try it. He stood beneath the fluttering piece of paper and lingered till the street was empty; then, in one quick movement, he hoisted the window, climbed into the office and dropped to the floor amid a shower of heaped-up snow from the sill. He closed the window, pushed the lever of his lighter and peered about. The office was deserted. He went into the corridor and looked into all the rooms…Now, where was the desk of that Draft Board chairman…? He approached a big, shiny desk that had a swivel chair and saw a neat pile of manila folders. He grabbed them, thumbed quickly through them. Yeah; goddammit,
here it was!
He detached his
draft card; it was signed. He then read the items describing the physical appearance of Lionel Lane and grew thoughtful. Lionel Lane had weighed 158 pounds and he weighed only 148…Well, he could always say that he had lost ten pounds, could he not? That's what tuberculosis did to you, didn't it…? But this other item was more difficult; Lionel Lane was listed as being five feet six inches in height and he was five feet eight. It was a little thing, but it might cause him trouble…Oh, yes; he could fix that…He looked about for a typewriter; he would type an “8” over that “6”! He uncovered a machine; holding his lighter in his left hand, he inserted the card, jiggled it until the figure “8” coincided with the “6” and hit the key. There…He put the card into his billfold, doubled the folder, stuffed it into his inside coat pocket. Now, get out of here…

He stood, thinking. Soon the death of Lionel Lane would be reported to the board and the personnel would be wondering what had happened to the folder of Lionel Lane…There would be some sort of inquiry…A solution clicked in his mind. Yes,
all
the files should be destroyed. If
his
file alone was missing, questions would be raised; but if
all
the files were missing, then he had a chance…And he noticed that each manila folder was wrapped in cellophane and cellophane burned like hell…He opened a window so that a draft would feed the fire, then bent forward and ignited a folder; he watched the cellophane smoke, curl, leap into flame. He backed away, seeing the flames grow, spread from folder to folder; soon the top of the desk was one blazing, red sheet with thick, acrid smoke billowing ceilingward. He opened the door and hurried out, then stiffened in his tracks. Good God! His lips parted in stupefication. He heard the surging of a lusty hymn coming from above! He had forgotten that
he was in a church! But there was no help for that now…

He left the door of the office open so that a current of air would sweep into the room; then he went down the dark corridor to a stairway and mounted to the street level. The singing came loud and sonorous:

He hurried into the street and looked back at the church, then up to the tall steeple which was faintly visible in the frantic flakes. He walked on slowly to the end of the block, wondering when the smoke or the flames would show. He saw a fire alarm box and paused. A man passed. Then a child. He waited until the street was empty, opened the box, pulled the lever, then walked briskly to a corner drugstore, entered, perched himself atop a stool where he could watch the front of the church. He ordered a cup of coffee, sipped it, waiting.

Suddenly he saw a man hurry from the church; then a small knot of men came out; soon a throng of people was pouring from the church door. A moment later he heard the sound of distant sirens.

“Looks like there's a fire somewhere,” the clerk behind the counter said.

“I see some people running out of the church down the street,” Cross said casually.

The clerk went to the window. “By God, you're right! Fire's coming out of the basement window of the church!”

He joined the clerk at the window. Yes, the draft office was blazing…

“How much is this cup of coffee?” he asked.

“Hunh?” the clerk grunted.

“How much is this coffee?”

“Ten cents.”

Cross left a dime on the counter and walked calmly from the drugstore. He had a dinner engagement to meet some Communists.

 

A quarter of an hour later Cross climbed six flights and pushed the bell of Bob's flat. Bob himself opened the door and grabbed his arm.

“Man, give me your coat and hat—Sarah's here and raring to meet you,” Bob said, guiding Cross straight to the kitchen where Sarah, a brown-skinned woman with a strong, hard face was cooking dinner. “Sarah, honey! C'mere! I want you to meet Mr. Lane!”

Sarah was bent over a table busily flattening dough with a rolling pin; she glanced up at Cross, then quickly back to her biscuit board.

“Just a sec,” she answered placidly.

She was solidly built without being fat, yet her soft, pliable muscles seemed as strong as any man's. She had black hair, a well-shaped mouth and a firm chin. Her movements were deft as she cut the thin spread of dough into biscuits and placed them swiftly into tin pans and shoved them into an oven. She wiped her hands on a dish towel, turned and smiled. Then her face grew solemn as she came toward Cross and stared with eyes full of surprise. The memory of his recent attacks of dread returned and Cross's muscles grew rigid. Had Sarah seen him before? Maybe he had known her in Chicago? Because she was staring at him, he stared at her. Sarah advanced to within a few inches of Cross and broke into a wide grin.

“What's the matter, Sarah? Can't you say hello?” Bob exclaimed.

Sarah cupped her right palm under Cross's chin, cradling it gently. Then a wild roar of laughter spilled out of her; she bent double, unable to control herself. She sobered somewhat and, still holding Cross's face in her right palm, she said:

“Look at that face
—Lead Kindly Light…
And he's meeting some Communists tonight, hunh? Honest to Pete, man, you got the
sweetest
face I ever saw!”

She turned from Cross, ran to a chair, flopped in it, flung back her head and yelled at the top of her lungs. Bob joined in, but more sheepishly than Sarah. Their laughter filled the corridor. Maybe they were getting even with him for his having deceived Bob…?

“Don't be mad, man! You got to get used to Sarah—She just blabs out what pops into her mind, that's all,” Bob explained.

Cross had had the illusion of feeling at home with these outsiders, but now he felt himself being pushed more than ever into that position where he looked at others as though they were not human. He could have waved his hand and blotted them from existence with no more regret of taking human lives than if he had swatted a couple of insects. Why could he never make others realize how dangerous it was for them to make him feel like this? He lowered his eyes and stared at them, a tight smile hovering on his lips. He trembled to do something, but he clamped his teeth and reined himself in. He knew that he had the kind of face that would always look much younger than his age, but never in his life had another person grabbed hold of that face with their bare hands and made blatant fun of it. What kind of life had Sarah lived that made it possible for her to laugh so openly at him? Pity for her came into his mind, but he banished it, realizing that it was hard to hold pity for someone who most likely did not want it.