Native Son - Richard Wright [81]
He reached a corner and went into a drug store. A white clerk came to him.
“Give me a envelope, some paper and a pencil,” he said.
He paid the money, put the package into his pocket and went out to the corner to wait for a car. One came; he got on and rode eastward, wondering what kind of note he would write. He rang the bell for the car to stop, got off and walked through the quiet Negro streets. Now and then he passed an empty building, white and silent in the night. He would make Bessie hide in one of these buildings and watch for Mr. Dalton’s car. But the ones he passed were too old; if one went into them they might collapse. He walked on. He had to find a building where Bessie could stand in a window and see the package of money when it was thrown from the car. He reached Langley Avenue and walked westward to Wabash Avenue. There were many empty buildings with black windows, like blind eyes, buildings like skeletons standing with snow on their bones in the winter winds. But none of them were on corners. Finally, at Michigan Avenue and East Thirty-sixth Place, he saw the one he wanted. It was tall, white, silent, standing on a well-lighted corner. By looking from any of the front windows Bessie would be able to see in all four directions. Oh! He had to have a flashlight! He went to a drug store and bought one for a dollar. He felt in the inner pocket of his coat for his gloves. Now, he was ready. He crossed the street and stood waiting for a car. His feet were cold and he stamped them in the snow, surrounded by people waiting, too, for a car. He did not look at them; they were simply blind people, blind like his mother, his brother, his sister, Peggy, Britten, Jan, Mr. Dalton, and the sightless Mrs. Dalton and the quiet empty houses with their black gaping windows.
He looked round the street and saw a sign on a building: THIS PROPERTY IS MANAGED BY THE SOUTH SIDE REAL ESTATE COMPANY. He had heard that Mr. Dalton owned the South Side Real Estate Company, and the South Side Real Estate Company owned the house in which he lived. He paid eight dollars a week for one rat-infested room. He had never seen Mr. Dalton until he had come to work for him; his mother always took the rent to the real estate office. Mr. Dalton was somewhere far away, high up, distant, like a god. He owned property all over the Black Belt, and he owned property where white folks lived, too. But Bigger could not live in a building across the “line.” Even though Mr. Dalton gave millions of dollars for Negro education, he would rent houses to Negroes only in this prescribed area, this corner of the city tumbling down from rot. In a sullen way Bigger was conscious of this. Yes; he would send the kidnap note. He would jar them out of their senses.
When the car came he rode south and got off at Fifty-first Street and walked to Bessie’s. He had to ring five times before the buzzer answered. Goddammit, I bet she’s drunk! he thought. He mounted the steps and saw her peering at him through the door with eyes red from sleep and alcohol. His doubt of her made him fearful and angry.
“Bigger?” she asked.
“Get on back in the room,” he said.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, backing away, her mouth open.
“Let me in! Open the door!”
She threw the door wide, almost stumbling as she did so.
“Turn on the light.”
“What’s the matter, Bigger?”
“How many times do you want me to ask you to turn on the light?”
She turned it on.
“Pull them shades.”
She lowered the shades. He stood watching her. Now, I don’t want any trouble out of her. He went to the dresser and pushed her jars and combs and brushes aside and took the package from his pocket and laid it in the cleared space.
“Bigger?”
He turned and looked at her.
“What?”
“You ain’t really planning to do that, sure ’nough?”
“What the hell you think?”
“Bigger, naw!”
He caught