Native Son - Richard Wright [67]
“Don’t be that way.”
“You just can’t treat me any old way, Bigger.”
“I ain’t trying to, honey.”
“You can’t play me cheap.”
“Take it easy. I know what I’m doing.”
“I hope you do.”
“For Chrissakes!”
“Aw, come on. I want a drink.”
“Naw; listen….”
“Keep your business. You don’t have to tell me. But don’t you come running to me when you need a friend, see?”
“When we get a couple of drinks, I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Suit yourself.”
He saw her waiting at the door for him; he put on his coat and cap and they walked slowly down the stairs, saying nothing. It seemed warmer outside, as though it were going to snow again. The sky was low and dark. The wind blew. As he walked beside Bessie his feet sank into the soft snow. The streets were empty and silent, stretching before him white and clean under the vanishing glow of a long string of street lamps. As he walked he saw out of the corners of his eyes Bessie striding beside him, and it seemed that his mind could feel the soft swing of her body as it went forward. He yearned suddenly to be back in bed with her, feeling her body warm and pliant to his. But the look on her face was a hard and distant one; it separated him from her body by a great suggestion of space. He had not really wanted to go out with her tonight; but her questions and suspicions had made him say yes when she had wanted to go for a drink. As he walked beside her he felt that there were two Bessies: one a body that he had just had and wanted badly again; the other was in Bessie’s face; it asked questions; it bargained and sold the other Bessie to advantage. He wished he could clench his fist and swing his arm and blot out, kill, sweep away the Bessie on Bessie’s face and leave the other helpless and yielding before him. He would then gather her up and put her in his chest, his stomach, some place deep inside him, always keeping her there even when he slept, ate, talked; keeping her there just to feel and know that she was his to have and hold whenever he wanted to.
“Where we going?”
“Wherever you want to.”
“Let’s go to the Paris Grill.”
“O.K.”
They turned a corner and walked to the middle of the block to the grill, and went in. An automatic phonograph was playing. They went to a rear table. Bigger ordered two sloe gin fizzes. They sat silent, looking at each other, waiting. He saw Bessie’s shoulders jerking in rhythm to the music. Would she help him? Well, he would ask her; he would frame the story so that she would not have to know everything. He knew that he should have asked her to dance, but the excitement that had hold of him would not let him. He was feeling different tonight from every other night; he did not need to dance and sing and clown over the floor in order to blot out a day and night of doing nothing. He was full of excitement. The waitress brought the drinks and Bessie lifted hers.
“Here’s to you, even if you don’t want to talk and even if you is acting queer.”
“Bessie, I’m worried.”
“Aw, come on and drink,” she said.
“O.K.”
They sipped.
“Bigger?”
“Hunh?”
“Can’t I help you in what you doing?”
“Maybe.”
“I want to.”
“You trust me?”
“I have so far.”
“I mean now?”
“Yes; if you tell me what to trust you for?”
“Maybe I can’t do that.”
“Then you don’t trust me.”
“It’s got to be that way, Bessie.”
“If I trusted you, would you tell me?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t say ‘maybe,’ Bigger.”
“Listen, honey,” he said, not liking the way he was talking to her, but afraid of telling her outright. “The reason I’m acting this way is I got something big on.”
“What?”
“It’ll mean a lot of money.”
“I wish you’d either tell me or quit talking about it.”
They were silent; he saw Bessie drain her glass.
“I’m ready to go,” she said.
“Aw….”
“I want to get some sleep.”
“You mad?”
“Maybe.”
He did not want her to be that way. How could he make her stay? How much could he tell her? Could he make her trust him without telling everything? He suddenly felt she would come closer to him if he made her feel that he was in danger. That’s it! Make her feel concerned about him.
“Maybe