Native Son - Richard Wright [82]
“You ain’t going to turn away from me now! Not now, Goddamn you!”
She said nothing. He took off his cap and coat and threw them on the bed.
“They’re wet, Bigger!”
“So what?”
“I ain’t doing this,” she said.
“Like hell you ain’t!”
“You can’t make me!”
“You done helped me to steal enough from the folks you worked for to put you in jail already.”
She did not answer; he turned from her and got a chair and pulled it up to the dresser. He unwrapped the package and balled the paper into a knot and threw it into a corner of the room. Instinctively, Bessie stooped to pick it up. Bigger laughed and she straightened suddenly. Yes; Bessie was blind. He was about to write a kidnap note and she was worried about the cleanliness of her room.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
He was smiling grimly. He took out the pencil; it was not sharpened.
“Gimme a knife.”
“Ain’t you got one?”
“Hell, naw! Get me a knife!”
“What you do with your knife?”
He stared at her, remembering that she knew that he had had a knife. An image of blood gleaming on the metal blade in the glare of the furnace came before his eyes and fear rose in him hotly.
“You want me to slap you?”
She went behind a curtain. He sat looking at the paper and pencil. She came back with a butcher knife.
“Bigger, please…. I don’t want to do it.”
“Got any liquor?”
“Yeah….”
“Get you a shot and set on that bed and keep quiet.”
She stood undecided, then got the bottle from under a pillow and drank. She lay on the bed, on her stomach, her face turned so that she could see him. He watched her through the looking-glass of the dresser. He sharpened the pencil and spread out the piece of paper. He was about to write when he remembered that he did not have his gloves on. Goddamn!
“Gimme my gloves.”
“Hunh?”
“Get my gloves out of the inside of my coat pocket.”
She swayed to her feet and got the gloves and stood back of his chair, holding them limply in her hands.
“Give ’em here.”
“Bigger….”
“Give me the gloves and get back on that bed, will you?”
He snatched them from her and gave her a shove and turned back to the dresser.
“Bigger….”
“I ain’t asking you but once more to shut up!” he said, pushing the knife out of the way so he could write.
He put on the gloves and took up the pencil in a trembling hand and held it poised over the paper. He should disguise his handwriting. He changed the pencil from his right to his left hand. He would not write it; he would print it. He swallowed with dry throat. Now, what would be the best kind of note? He thought, I want you to put ten thousand…. Naw; that would not do. Not “I.” It would be better to say “we.” We got your daughter, he printed slowly in big round letters. That was better. He ought to say something to let Mr. Dalton think that Mary was still alive. He wrote: She is safe. Now, tell him not to go to the police. No! Say something about Mary first! He bent and wrote: She wants to come home…. Now, tell him not to go to the police. Don’t go to the police if you want your daughter back safe. Naw; that ain’t good. His scalp tingled with excitement; it seemed that he could feel each strand of hair upon his head. He read the line over and crossed out “safe” and wrote “alive.” For a moment he was frozen, still. There was in his stomach a slow, cold, vast rising movement, as though he held within the embrace of his bowels the swing of planets through space. He was giddy. He caught hold of himself, focused his attention to write again. Now, about the money. How much? Yes; make it ten thousand. Get ten thousand in 5 and 10 bills and put it in a shoe box…. That’s good. He had read that somewhere…. and tomorrow night ride your car up and down Michigan Avenue from 35th Street to 40th Street. That would make it hard for anybody to tell just where Bessie would be hiding. He wrote: Blink your headlights some. When you see a light in a window blink three times throw the box in the snow and drive off. Do what this letter say. Now, he would sign it. But how? It should be signed