Native Son - Richard Wright [138]
“What do you want me to do?” Mr. Dalton asked coldly. “Do you want me to die and atone for a suffering I never caused? I’m not responsible for the state of this world. I’m doing all one man can. I suppose you want me to take my money and fling it out to the millions who have nothing?”
“No; no; no…. Not that,” Max said. “If you felt that millions of others experienced life as deeply as you, but differently, you’d see that what you’re doing doesn’t help. Something of a more fundamental nature….”
“Communism!” Buckley boomed, pulling down the corners of his lips. “Gentlemen, let’s don’t be childish! This boy’s going on trial for his life. My job is to enforce the laws of this state….”
Buckley’s voice stopped as the door opened and the policeman looked inside.
“What is it?” Buckley asked.
“The boy’s folks are here.”
Bigger cringed. Not this! Not here; not now! He did not want his mother to come in here now, with these people standing round. He looked about with a wild, pleading expression. Buckley watched him, then turned back to the policeman.
“They have a right to see ’im,” Buckley said. “Let ’em come in.”
Though he sat, Bigger felt his legs trembling. He was so tense in body and mind that when the door swung in he bounded up and stood in the middle of the room. He saw his mother’s face; he wanted to run to her and push her back through the door. She was standing still, one hand upon the doorknob; the other hand clutched a frayed pocketbook, which she dropped and ran to him, throwing her arms about him, crying,
“My baby….”
Bigger’s body was stiff with dread and indecision. He felt his mother’s arms tight about him and he looked over her shoulder and saw Vera and Buddy come slowly inside and stand, looking about timidly. Beyond them he saw Gus and G.H. and Jack, their mouths open in awe and fear. Vera’s lips were trembling and Buddy’s hands were clenched. Buckley, the preacher, Jan, Max, Mr. and Mrs. Dalton stood along the wall, behind him, looking on silently. Bigger wanted to whirl and blot them from sight. The kind words of Jan and Max were forgotten now. He felt that all of the white people in the room were measuring every inch of his weakness. He identified himself with his family and felt their naked shame under the eyes of white folks. While looking at his brother and sister and feeling his mother’s arms about him; while knowing that Jack and G.H. and Gus were standing awkwardly in the doorway staring at him in curious disbelief—while being conscious of all this, Bigger felt a wild and outlandish conviction surge in him: They ought to be glad! It was a strange but strong feeling, springing from the very depths of his life. Had he not taken fully upon himself the crime of being black? Had he not done the thing which they dreaded above all others? Then they ought not stand here and pity him, cry over him; but look at him and go home, contented, feeling that their shame was washed away.
“Oh, Bigger, son!” his mother wailed. “We been so worried…. We ain’t slept a single night! The police is there all the time…. They stand outside our door…. They watch and follow us everywhere! Son, son….”
Bigger heard her sobs; but what could he do? She ought not to have come here. Buddy came over to him, fumbling with his cap.
“Listen, Bigger, if you didn’t do it, just tell me and I’ll fix ’em. I’ll get a gun and kill four or five of ’em….”
The room gasped. Bigger turned his head quickly and saw that the white faces along the wall were shocked and startled.
“Don’t talk that way, Buddy,” the mother sobbed. “You want me to die right now? I can’t stand no more of this. You mustn’t talk that way…. We in enough trouble now….”
“Don’t let ’em treat you bad, Bigger,” Buddy said stoutly.
Bigger wanted to comfort them in the presence of the white folks, but did not know how. Desperately, he cast about for something to say. Hate and shame boiled in him against the people behind his back; he tried to think of words that would defy