Native Son - Richard Wright [139]
“Aw, Ma, don’t you-all worry none,” he said, amazed at his own words; he was possessed by a queer, imperious nervous energy. “I’ll be out of this in no time.”
His mother gave him an incredulous stare. Bigger turned his head again and looked feverishly and defiantly at the white faces along the wall. They were staring at him in surprise. Buckley’s lips were twisted in a faint smile. Jan and Max looked dismayed. Mrs. Dalton, white as the wall behind her, listened, open-mouthed. The preacher and Mr. Dalton were shaking their heads sadly. Bigger knew that no one in the room, except Buddy, believed him. His mother turned her face away and cried. Vera knelt upon the floor and covered her face with her hands.
“Bigger,” his mother’s voice came low and quiet; she caught his face between the palms of her trembling hands. “Bigger,” she said, “tell me. Is there anything, anything we can do?”
He knew that his mother’s question had been prompted by his telling her that he would get out of all this. He knew that they had nothing; they were so poor that they were depending upon public charity to eat. He was ashamed of what he had done; he should have been honest with them. It had been a wild and foolish impulse that had made him try to appear strong and innocent before them. Maybe they would remember him only by those foolish words after they had killed him. His mother’s eyes were sad, skeptical; but kind, patient, waiting for his answer. Yes; he had to wipe out that lie, not only so that they might know the truth, but to redeem himself in the eyes of those white faces behind his back along the white wall. He was lost; but he would not cringe; he would not lie, not in the presence of that white mountain looming behind him.
“There ain’t nothing, Ma. But I’m all right,” he mumbled.
There was silence. Buddy lowered his eyes. Vera sobbed louder. She seemed so little and helpless. She should not have come here. Her sorrow accused him. If he could only make her go home. It was precisely to keep from feeling this hate and shame and despair that he had always acted hard and tough toward them; and now he was without defense. His eyes roved the room, seeing Gus and G.H. and Jack. They saw him looking at them and came forward.
“I’m sorry, Bigger,” Jack said, his eyes on the floor.
“They picked us up, too,” G.H. said, as though trying to comfort Bigger with the fact. “But Mr. Erlone and Mr. Max got us out. They tried to make us tell about a lot of things we didn’t do, but we wouldn’t tell.”
“Anything we can do, Bigger?” Gus asked.
“I’m all right,” Bigger said. “Say, when you go, take Ma home, will you?”
“Sure; sure,” they said.
Again there was silence and Bigger’s taut nerves ached to fill it up.
“How you 1-1-like them sewing classes at the Y, Vera?” he asked.
Vera tightened her hands over her face.
“Bigger,” his mother sobbed, trying to talk through her tears. “Bigger, honey, she won’t go to school no more. She says the other girls look at and make her ’shamed….”
He had lived and acted on the assumption that he was alone, and now he saw that he had not been. What he had done made others suffer. No matter how much he would long for them to forget him, they would not be able to. His family was a part of him, not only in blood, but in spirit. He sat on the cot and his mother knelt at his feet. Her face was lifted to his; her eyes were empty, eyes that looked upward when the last hope of earth had failed.
“I’m praying for you, son. That’s all I can do now,” she said. “The Lord knows I did all I could for you and your sister and brother. I scrubbed and washed and ironed from morning till night, day in and day out, as long