Native Son - Richard Wright [49]
He stuffed the pamphlets into his coat pocket and looked at his watch. It was ten minutes until seven. He had to hurry and pack his clothes. He had to take that trunk to the station at eight-thirty.
Then fear rendered his legs like water. Suppose Mary had not burned? Suppose she was still there, exposed to view? He wanted to drop everything and rush back and see. But maybe even something worse had happened; maybe they had discovered that she was dead and maybe the police were looking for him? Should he not leave town right now? Gripped by the same impelling excitement that had had hold of him when he was carrying Mary up the stairs, he stood in the middle of the room. No; he would stay. Things were with him; no one suspected that she was dead. He would carry through and blame the thing upon Jan. He got his gun from beneath the pillow and put it in his shirt.
He tiptoed from the room, looking over his shoulder at his mother and sister and brother sleeping. He went down the steps to the vestibule and into the street. It was white and cold. Snow was falling and an icy wind blew. The streets were empty. Tucking the purse under his arm, he walked to an alley where a garbage can stood covered with snow. Was it safe to leave it here? The men on the garbage trucks would empty the can early in the morning and no one would be prying round on a day like this, with all the snow and its being Sunday. He lifted the top of the can and pushed the purse deep into a frozen pile of orange peels and mildewed bread. He replaced the top and looked round; no one was in sight.
He went back to the room and got his suitcase from under the side of the bed. His folks were still sleeping. In order to pack his clothes, he had to get to the dresser on the other side of the room. But how could he get there, with the bed on which his mother and sister slept standing squarely in the way? Goddamn! He wanted to wave his hand and blot them out. They were always too close to him, so close that he could never have any way of his own. He eased to the bed and stepped over it. His mother stirred slightly, then was still. He pulled open a dresser drawer and took out his clothes and piled them in the suitcase. While he worked there hovered before his eyes an image of Mary’s head lying on the wet newspapers, the curly black ringlets soaked with blood.
“Bigger!”
He sucked his breath in and whirled about, his eyes glaring. His mother was leaning on her elbow in bed. He knew at once that he should not have acted frightened.
“What’s the matter, boy?” she asked in a whisper.
“Nothing,” he answered, whispering too.
“You jumped like something bit you.”
“Aw, leave me alone. I got to pack.”
He knew that his mother was waiting for him to give an account of himself, and he hated her for that. Why couldn’t she wait until he told her of his own accord? And yet he knew that if she waited, he would never tell her.
“You get the job?”
“Yeah.”
“What they paying you?”
“Twenty.”
“You started already?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“I wondered what made you so late.”
“I had to work,” he drawled with impatience.
“You didn’t get in until after four.”
He turned and looked at her.
“I got in at two.”
“It was after four, Bigger,” she said, turning and straining her eyes to look at an alarm clock above her head. “I tried to wait up for you, but I couldn’t. When I heard you come in, I looked up at the clock and it was after four.”
“I know when I got in, Ma.”
“But, Bigger, it was after four.”
“It was just a little after two.”
“Oh, Lord! If you want it two, then let it be two, for all I care.