Native Son - Richard Wright [100]
“You’d better do something about those ashes, boy!” one of the men called.
“That fire can’t get any air, Bigger!” It was Britten’s voice.
“Yessuh,” Bigger mumbled.
He could scarcely see. He stood still, his eyes closed and stinging, his lungs heaving, trying to expel the smoke. He held onto the shovel, wanting to move, to do something; but he did not know what.
“Say, you! Get some of those ashes out of there!”
“What’re you trying to do, smother us?”
“I’m getting ’em out,” Bigger mumbled, not moving from where he stood.
He heard a cup smash on the concrete floor and a man cursed.
“I can’t see! The smoke’s got my eyes!”
Bigger heard someone near him; then someone was tugging at the shovel in his hands. He held onto it desperately, not wanting to let it go, feeling that if he did so he was surrendering his secret, his life.
“Here! Give me that shovel! I’ll h-h-help y-you….” a man coughed.
“Nawsuh. I-I-I can d-do it,” Bigger said.
“C-come on. L-let go!”
His fingers loosened about the shovel.
“Yessuh,” he said, not knowing what else to say.
Through the clouds of smoke he heard the man clanging the shovel round inside of the ash bin. He coughed and stepped back, his eyes blazing as though fire had leaped into them. Behind him the other men were coughing. He opened his eyes and strained to see what was happening. He felt that there was suspended just above his head a huge weight that would soon fall and crush him. His body, despite the smoke and his burning eyes and heaving chest, was flexed taut. He wanted to lunge at the man and take the shovel from him, lam him across the head with it and bolt from the basement. But he stood still, hearing the babble of voices and the clanging of the shovel against iron. He knew that the man was digging frantically at the ashes in the bin, trying to clean as much out as possible so that air could pass up through the grates, pipes, chimney and out into the night. He heard the man yell:
“Open that door! I’m choking!”
There was a scuffle of feet. Bigger felt the icy wind of the night sweep over him and he discovered that he was wet with sweat. Somehow something had happened and now things were out of his hands. He was nervously poised, waiting for what the new flow of events would bring. The smoke drifted past him toward the open door. The room was clearing; the smoke thinned to a grey pall. He heard the man grunting and saw him bent over, digging at the ashes in the bin. He wanted to go to him and ask for the shovel; he wanted to say that he could take care of it now. But he did not move. He felt that he had let things slip through his hands to such an extent that he could not get at them again. Then he heard the draft, this time a long low sucking of air that grew gradually to a drone, then a roar. The air passage was clear.
“There was a hell of a lot of ashes in there, boy,” the man gasped. “You shouldn’t let it get that way.”
“Yessuh,” Bigger whispered.
The draft roared loud now; the air passage was completely clear.
“Shut that door, boy! It’s cold in here!” one of the men called.
He wanted to go to the door and keep right on out of it and shut it behind him. But he did not move. One of the men closed it and Bigger felt the cold air fall away from his wet body. He looked round; the men were still standing about the table, red-eyed, sipping coffee.
“What’s the matter, boy?” one of them asked.
“Nothing,” Bigger said.
The man with the shovel stood in front of the furnace and looked down into the ashes strewn over the floor. What’s he doing? Bigger wondered. He saw the man stoop and poke the shovel into the ashes. What’s he looking at? Bigger’s muscles twitched. He wanted to run to the man’s side and see what it was he was looking