The Outsider by Richard Wright
The weather continued bitterly cold. An icy wind swooped from a bleak sky, ripped against windowpanes, and clawed at passersby in the streets. Cross, overcome by a listlessness which he could not shake off, spent his days either lounging in his room or in the consoling shadows of movie houses. He was Mrs. Hattie Turner’s only paying guest and he heard rather than saw her, slightly in her cups at times, stumbling around downstairs in her dining room or kitchen. He learned from a gossipy drugstore clerk that she was a widow who owned her own home, that she drank a little too much, and that she had recently begun to receive the attentions of two men. Most of the time he could hear her playing blues or jazz records whose wild rhythms wailed up to him through the thin flooring. His morbid mood was susceptible to the lonely melodies and, as he tapped his feet to the beat of the tunes, his sense of estrangement became accentuated and he felt more inclined than ever to avoid contact with reality.
The raucous blue-jazz welling up from downstairs was his only emotional home now and he listened with an appreciation he had never had before. He came to feel that this music was the rhythmic flauntings of guilty feelings, the syncopated outpourings of frightened joy existing in guises forbidden and despised by others. He sensed how Negroes had been made to live in but not of the land of their birth, how the injunctions of an alien Christianity and the strictures of white laws had evoked in them the very longings and desires that that religion and law had been designed to stifle. He realized that this blue-jazz was a rebel art blooming seditiously under the condemnations of a Protestant ethic just like his own consciousness had sprung conditioned to defiance from his relationship to his mother who had shrilly evoked in him exactly what she had so desperately tried to smother, had posited in him that which she loathed above all in the world by bringing it too insistently to his attention. Blue-jazz was the scornful gesture of men turned ecstatic in their state of rejection; it was the musical language of the satisfiedly amoral, the boastings of the contentedly lawless, the recreations of the innocently criminal…Cross smiled with depressed joy as he paced about his room, his ears full of the woeful happiness of the blues and the orgiastic culpability of jazz.
He had enough money to keep him for awhile, but his pile of dollars was dwindling fast. Each night he vowed that on the following morning he would do something practical about his problem of identity, but the morning found him ready with excuses for inaction. He avoided trying to justify his fear of activity, but in his heart he knew that to exert himself was to invite down upon him those spells of dread; so he remained inert, hoping that by blending his bleak mood with the empty hours he would elude his compulsions.
Of a morning or of an evening he would encounter Mrs. Turner in the downstairs hallway and they would exchange greetings. Whenever she asked him if he were comfortable, he would tell her that everything was all right in a tone of voice that sought to hold her off from him, for he sensed slumbering in her strained manner a nervousness whose content he did not want to know. Now and then he noticed two well-dressed Negroes coming to visit her, but they roused neither his interest nor jealousy.
When she did finally break in on his jealous solitude, it was with a naïve brusqueness that swept him before it and he was again acting with swift heartlessness to save himself. His anxiety rose when he noticed her staring at him. Inflamed, his dread sucked all innocent events into its greedy maw. Was she not suspicious about his background? Why did those two men come to see her? Why were they always together? Did not policemen act that way? Why was not Mrs. Turner more relaxed with him of late? He even wondered if she searched his suitcase when he was out…
On the morning of the day of the eruption, the coming storm was presaged by the brittle manner of Mrs. Turner who failed to return his greeting in the hallway. At noon she knocked on his door. He made sure that his gun was handy, then rose and opened the door. She stared at him blankly, embarrassed.
“God, I’m rattled today,” she complained. “I came up here to say something, and now, for the life of me, I can’t remember what it was.” She tapped the knuckles of her hand against her forehead. “It’ll come back to me in a minute. If it doesn’t, then it couldn’t’ve been so very important, could it? I’m silly.” She forced a smile and left.
Cross was frantic. Had she come up to make sure that he was in his room? He ached to grab her and shake the truth out of her. He was certain that she had not forgotten the object of her errand; a mere failure of nerve had swamped her before she could speak. Quickly he packed his suitcase. Maybe she was trying to tempt him…? Or maybe the cops were waiting downstairs? He sat on the side of the bed and sweated.
What stalled his fleeing was his recollection of past times when he had misread events under the hot promptings of anxiety. Was he wrong now? But too many unanswered questions stood between him and Mrs. Turner’s nervousness. He fretted, listening for sounds in the house. No blue-jazz came up now, yet he knew that she was downstairs, alone. If the police cornered him in this room, what could he do? He looked out of the window upon a backyard whose deep snow gleamed bluish in the night. He could jump for it…He was suddenly alert, hearing slow footsteps on the upper stairs. Finally the sound of her heels tapped hesitantly along the hallway, then stopped at his door and all was quiet. He ran to the window, hoisted it, shivering in a stream of freezing air. He would never unlock that door until he was satisfied that she was alone. If the police were with her, they would have to bash in the door; meanwhile, he would leap out of the window…His suitcase? Hell, he’d just leave it…
She was standing quietly at his door. But why? He fingered his gun and waited. At last there came the sound of a congested throat being cleared, then a light sigh. He stiffened as he heard Mrs. Turner’s voice:
“Have you gone to bed yet?”
Why hadn’t she knocked? And why hadn’t she called him by his name? Perhaps she wasn’t speaking to him? He decided not to answer. Then a timid rap came at his door.
“Are you sleeping?” she called loudly this time.
“Just a second,” he said. He closed the window, adjusted his gun, turned the key, and opened the door cautiously, keeping his weight back of it to slam it shut. She was standing quietly with her back to him. He had opened the door so noiselessly that she was unaware that he was looking at her.
“Yes?”
She whirled, drawing in her breath, looking at him in blank fright.
“You scared me,” she sighed, her hands flutteringly protecting her breasts. Then she laughed nervously. “I’m so jittery. I hate like hell to bother you.”
A mute begging swam in her dark eyes and his dread vanished.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“You’ve got to help me,” she spoke as though she had debated for days on how to talk to him. “I need your advice about something terribly important.”
“Come in,” he said.
The dark blue dressing gown made her seem somehow naked, gave her an abandoned air that clothed her body in an appeal of sex. Cross fought shy of it. She moved to the center of the room, not looking at him. He left his door ajar as protection against any unexpected entry. Luckily, his packed suitcase was under the bed, out of sight. She seemed afraid of him; why? Was it the severe reserve that he had imposed upon himself that made her hesitate? He was poised, his feelings mobilized to react violently and suddenly in any direction.
“Mr.—” she looked helpfully at him. “What’s your name? I must be going out of my mind.” She sat and closed her eyes in confusion.
He smouldered. He knew it; she was fishing for information. Did she think that he was so naïve that he would inadvertently blurt out that he was Cross Damon? Yet, he was dubious; his mind believed her.
“Jordan’s the name,” he flung it at her and waited for her to challenge it.
“Oh, yes. Mr. Jordan, I’ve something to ask you—”
“What is it?”
“I’m in trouble and worried sick…”
Cross relaxed a bit. T
“Okay, Mrs. Turner. What’s bothering you?”
“I’m not trying to be fresh—But if you call me Mrs. Turner again, I’ll scream!” she protested in a sob of complaint.
“All right, Hattie,” he relented. “I’ll help you if I can.”
His words produced a convulsion in her and she clapped her hands to her face and wept. He wanted to console her, but he was afraid of his gesture committing him to more than he knew. She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her dressing gown and looked off.
“What do you want to tell me?” he asked her gently.
“Maybe I’ve waited too late to talk,” she stammered. “And I don’t know what to do…” A tremor went through her. “I’m scared I’m being cheated. Oh, why was I such a fool to believe them?” Her face darkened. “If they cheat me, I’ll kill them!” A crazy light lit her eyes.
“Who are you talking about?” Cross asked.
“They call themselves my friends.” She was composed now and talked more coherently. “I’m a widow. My husband died six months ago. He left me this house. It’s all I got…He was a good provider and took care of me. Now, I’m alone, and it’s hell when you’re a woman and all alone. I’m hounded by men running to me but for one reason: to steal this house. Every time I get to know a man, he’s up to some lousy trick…I didn’t know people were so bad.” She wagged her head and swallowed, overcome with self-pity. “About a month ago I met two men. One’s a real estate broker, Mr. White. The other’s a plain-clothes detective, Mr. Mills…”
A wave of voluptuous dread engulfed him. He stood, flexed for action. She was pulling a crude confidence trick by pretending to be in trouble and winning his sympathy and trapping him for the police! She noticed his agitation.
“What’s the matter? Oh, you’ll like Mr. Mills—”
“He’s on the police force?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Where’s he now?”
“At home, I guess,” she answered vaguely.
If she was really trying to deceive him, would she talk about a detective like that?
“How did you meet these men?”
She hung her head bashfully.
“Come on; tell me. How did you meet ’em?” he demanded.
“In a bar,” she answered coyly; it had been modesty that had made her hesitate. “Well, they told me how to make some quick money—”
“You mean you’re building a printing plant here?” he asked her; she was beginning to amuse him now.
“Oh, no! That would be wrong!” she protested, her eyes widening with shock. “They know an old, blind, sick man who wants to sell a $100,000 apartment building. Now, I can get an $8,000 mortgage on my house and they can persuade this old, sick man to sell me his building for $8,000—It’s a beauty; I’ve seen it.” Her eyes shone with hope.
“But why’s he selling a $100,000 building for $8,000?” Cross asked, trying to make sense out of the picture.
“That’s the point,” she explained eagerly. “You see, they’re friends of the old man. He’s about to die; he’s blind and’ll sign what they ask. I’ll get the $8,000 and they’ll draw up the papers and the old man’ll sign ’em. He’ll be dead in a month and can’t make trouble, see? Now, that’s an attractive proposition to me.” She added in a tone of regret: “Of course, I’m giving fifty percent to Mr. White and Mr. Mills.”
“Hattie, you’re joking,” Cross accused her.
“But it’s true,” she swore. “Ask Mr. White or Mr. Mills if you don’t believe me.”
“I doubt if they’ll talk to me,” he said.
“That may be,” she admitted. “They’re very high class men.”
Every time he thought that he was going mad, he met somebody else who had already gone mad, but in a nice, sweet sort of way.
“Don’t touch a deal like that,” he advised her.
“Why not? I’m alone and I need security—”
“But you’ve got your home—”
“But I want to do something! I don’t read and I’m tired of listening to jazz all day.” She brought her life’s problem to him.
“Hattie,” he spoke in a stilted manner to force the absurdity of her story upon her, “who’s this sick, blind fool who signs strange papers, who’s giving you a $100,000 apartment building for $8,000, and who’s dying in a month so you’ll have things clear?”
“You don’t understand,” she chided him gently; she was debating if Cross was intelligent enough to grasp the subtlety of her project. “It’s not quite fair for the old man,” she conceded. “But it’s legal. Mr. White says so.”
For days he had crept about the house with loaded gun, shaking in fear—all because of a woman with fantasies like these!
“How old are you, Hattie?”
“What’s that got to do with it?” she asked indignantly.
Cross knew the game: the sick, blind man, together with White and Mills, had chosen Hattie who didn’t like reading and who was tired of jazz as their sucker. Cross studied her full breasts, her plump thighs, her smooth arms…Her husband had protected her, but no one else ever would. Men would either want her money or her body, and no doubt they would take both.
“Do any of your friends know White or Mills?”
“No. They don’t associate with people like me, Mr. Jordan.”
“Hattie, you ever see Mills in the company of his fellow officers?”
“No,” she answered readily. “He works alone on very important cases.” What Cross was driving at finally hit her and she demanded: “Say, you act like Mr. Mills isn’t a real person, like I’m making this up—”
“Oh, Mr. Mills is real, all right. Too real. Hattie, have you a lawyer?”
“No,” she laughed gaily. “Mr. White calls ’em liars!”
“Hattie, these men are trying to cheat you,” Cross told her.
Her eyes widened and she covered her mouth with her hand to smother words she wanted to speak but did not want to hear.
“You think so?”
“They’re crooks!”
“Oh, Mr. Jordan, how could they be?”
He ought to leave right now and find another room. Was it his business if this woman wanted to lose her money? If he saved her now, she’d not rest until she had found others to deceive her. Hers was the kind of personality that bred the desire to cheat, and he was certain that, despite her tears of protest, she loved her role. Then why should he hinder her? If Hattie’s life was what living was without the screen of civilization, why did he not leave her with it? But it was not for Hattie that he was worrying. What was happening to her made a mockery of his conception of life, offended him and he wanted to stop it.
“Don’t see these men anymore,” he told her. “And don’t give them one damn red cent of your money, see?”
Hattie’s mouth gaped open; she stood abruptly, looked wildly about her, then flopped weakly on the bed, shaking with sobs.
“I don’t know,” she wailed.
“Now, don’t cry,” he told her. “Everything’s all right.”
“Men are so awful,” she lamented.
“They tried to take you,” he told her. “Now, you’re wise. Break with ’em.”
She turned on the bed and looked at him with stricken eyes and he wondered if she had already given them her money. Then suddenly he knew; she had given them her money and did not want to tell him, hoping that before she did, he would tell her something that would redeem the horror and undo her actions!
“What have I done?” she begged him meekly.
“You didn’t give them your money?”
Her weeping took on a quality of laughter, high-pitched and painful. Cross wanted to kick her. How could anyone be so avariciously dumb? And could he help her now?
“You gave them the money? A check?”
“No,” she gasped in reply. “Cash.”
“But why cash? We could stop the paym
“They said deals went quicker with cash. They wanted to close the deal before the old man died…”
Had she a right to be alive? Was anybody bound to respect a creature like this?
“How old are you, Hattie?”
“You asked me before,” she complained. “Why do you want to know? I’m twenty-nine.”
She began talking in a whimper, reliving the events of the morning. “We took a taxi to Mr. White’s office and signed the mortgage, then we went to my bank and got a certified check and I cashed it. We stopped and had a drink—”
“Who paid for the taxi?”
“Me. Why?”
“And the drinks?”
“Me. They said I was making the biggest profit. That’s the way men do it. I want to be business-like and I did what they said.” She dabbed softly at her eyes. “What can I do now?”
“Hattie, I want to ask you something and you must answer truthfully. I want you to understand what you’ve done, see?” he argued gently.
“Yes,” she answered, looking at him with dark, placid eyes.
“You were trying to steal a building, weren’t you?”
“But it was legal!” she defended herself.
“You’re lying!” he shouted at her. “I asked you to tell the truth!”
She did not answer; it was odd how respectable she really was. The crime did not offend her; but the idea of it did.
“You don’t have to talk to me,” he said, rising. “I’ve been thinking of moving—”
She whirled and clutched him with both of her hands.
“Don’t leave me! I need you, God knows—Don’t be mad at me. I’ll do anything you say!” She collapsed on the bed again.
“Hattie, you turned thief and while you were trying to steal from the blind man, they stole your $8,000. It’s an old trick,” he explained.
“I’ll lose my house,” she wailed. “What must I do?”
“Tell the police at once—”
“And I’ll get my money back?”
“I doubt it. They’re not so foolish to keep that money. That so-called blind man’s got it. Mills and White are watching you to see if you get wise. When are you seeing Mills and White?”