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AWARD BOOKS A A 558N 95¢ MAC
ONE OF THE GREATEST BLACK WRITERS
OF ALL TIME. ONE OF THE MOST NOTABLE
GIFTS IN U.S. WRITING" -Time Magazine
a novel of
sudden violence





SAVAGE
HOLIDAY
By RICHARD WRIGHT
AWARD BOOKS
NEW YORK
TANDEM BOOKS
LONDON


W 95266 war
1965
First Award Printing 1965
Second Award Printing 1969
DEDICATION
Το
Clinton Brewer
Copyright © MCMLIV by Richard Wright
All rights reserved
AWARD BOOKS are publishod by
Universal Publishing and Distributing Corporation
235 East Forty-fifth Street, New York, N. Y. 10017
TANDEM BOOKS are published by
Universal-Tandem Publishing Company Limited
14 Gloucester Road, London SW7, England
Manufactured in the United States of America


860170-012
SAVAGE HOLIDAY
PART ONE: ANXIETY
PART TWO: AMBUSH
PART THREE: ATTACK
167


For he who sins a second time,
Wakes a dead soul to pain,
And draws it from its spotted shroud,
And makes it bleed again,
And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,
And makes it bleed in vain!
Oscar Wilde's The Ballad of Reading Gaol
And, behold, there came a great wind from the wilder-
ness, and smote the four corners of the house ...
-Job, 1:19


- CASCADE of shimmering yellow light show-
ered down from crystal chandeliers and drenched the
faces of more than five hundred men and women din-
ing at the long, resplendent banquet tables in the
Jefferson Banquet Salon of one of New York's largest
and most luxurious mid-town hotels. Like a fabu-
lously gaudy canopy, red, black, and gold streamers
of twisted paper crisscrossed the ceiling, festooned
the walls, evoking an atmosphere that was rich,
dense, and colorful.
On a wall to the right, spanning the length of the
room, high up near the ceiling, was strung a huge,
white, eye-catching banner whose modernistically
blocked characters of red and blue proclaimed:
THE LONGEVITY LIFE INSURANCE COMPANY, INC.
GIRDS THE WORLD AND BRINGS
Security to You and Your Survivors
Tonight We Tender a Fond
HAIL AND FAREWELL
to
ERSKINE FOWLER
FOR THIRTY YEARS OF EXEMPLARY SERVICE
AND DEVOTION
11


12
RICHARD WRIGHT
Near the center windows in the left wall and at a
table decorated with a giant, spraying bouquet of
long-stemmed roses sat a quiet, reserved group of
men whose fleshy faces, massive bodies, gray and
bald heads marked them as wealthy executives. One
of them, a white-haired man whose forceful, ruddy
face, China blue eyes, and squared chin gave him
the demeanor of a tamed pirate, was speaking:
"And now, this doughty warrior, after thirty long
years of care and toil, lays down his burden of respon-
sibility and can honestly look any man in the eye and
say, 'I've earned this rest of mine with the sweat of
my brow—this is the end of a perfect day!"
The speaker's hearers were visibly moved and the
handclapping was as soft, as shy, as the rustling of
tree leaves in a spring wind.
“Brothers and sisters, just think-Erskine Fowler
looked upon Longevity Life as his family! Ah, I re-
member him years ago-though it seems to my mind's
eye that it was but yesterdayl-running errands,
learning the ropes, figuring the angles, growing up
with a growing company, becoming a Mason, a
Rotarian, a Sunday School Superintendent, a man of
parts . . . What a miracle life is! What a tremendous
boon we have been to this man, and what a godsend
he has been to us! What a collaboration! What a
partnership! What a fulfillment of promise ...!"
Applause, strident, deafening...
"Brothers and sisters, thirty years is a long, long
span of time:-Time enough to cap the hair of a head
like mine with silver frost. ... Time enough for count-
less souls to be chastened in the valley of suffering....
Time enough for Almighty God to lay His final
Hand upon some of us. ... Time enough for millions
of new faces to make their God-given appearance
here on earth in our midst. ... Time enough for war


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
13
... Time enough for peace ... Time enough for sor-
row ... Time enough for a little happiness ... But,
never forget, time enough for devotion, for service,
for character building, for brotherly love ..."
The speaker's voice quavered under the stress of
emotion. A few scattered handclaps began, timid
and hesitant; then, gathering courage, the crowd
lifted their applause to a crescendo that went on and
on until the white-haired man finally stemmed the
flood with his uplifted palms.
"Brothers and sisters of the Longevity Family, I'm
not here to make a speech tonight. I want simply as
president, or head of this family, to make manifest to
the world that if Erskine Fowler has served us well,
we want him and the world to know it.
"Last month our Board of Directors voted unani-
mously to have a special medal of gold struck in his
honor.
"Long and earnestly we debated in choosing the
words to be inscribed upon that medal.” Amid silence,
the speaker paused, took from an inside coat pocket
a flat, black box and, opening it, gazed for a moment
at something which his audience could not see. “One
side of this medal of gold bears the profile of Erskine
Fowler, and the opposite side-" He paused again,
turned the medal in the flat box, and continued:
"... bears these simple, heartfelt words which I'll
read if Erskine Fowler will be so kind as to stand
up..."
A six-foot, hulking, heavy, muscular man with a
Lincoln-like, quiet, stolid face, deep-set brown eyes,
a jutting lower lip, a shock of jet-black, bushy hair,
rose nervously, ran his left hand tensely inside of his
coat (as though touching something), brushed his
right hand across his chin, then let his fingers, which
trembled slightly, rest upon the table in front of him.
TLC INIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN LIBRARIES
TON


14
RICHARD WRIGHT
UNA
His facial features seemed hewn firm and whole from
some endurable substance; his eyes were steady; he
was the kind of man to whom one intuitively and
readily rendered a certain degree of instant defer-
ence, not because there was anything challenging,
threatening, or even strikingly intelligent in those
carelessly molded and somewhat blunted features;
but because one immediately felt that he was superb-
ly alive, real, just there, with no hint in his attitude
of apology for himself or his existence, confident of
his inalienable right to confront you and demand
his modest due of respect. .. . He looked confound-
ingly younger than his forty-three years; indeed, one
would easily have taken him to be thirty-five or -six.
... He stood with a fixed, embarrassed smile and
his brown eyes shone with the moisture of emos
tion.
The speaker cleared his throat and declaimed:
"Erskine Fowler, the Board of Directors, the Presi-
dent, and the officials, and more than five thousand
employees of the Longevity Life Insurance Com-
pany declare unto you: 'WELL DONE, THOU
FAITHFUL STEWARD OF OUR TRUSTI
Spontaneously, as one man, the crowd gained its
feet and gave vent to prolonged cheering. The
speaker extended to Erskine Fowler's left hand the
flat, black box containing the gold medal; next he
seized Erskine Fowler's right hand and shook it with
vigor, then clapped him in a fatherly way on the
back, pronouncing: “God bless and keep you,
Erskinel”
"Thank you, Mr. Warren,” the recipient said, in a
half-whisper.
"Show it! Let's see it!” Sundry voices rang out.
There were yells, whistles, stomping of feet. A
maudlin mood seized the crowd. Erskine Fowler,


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
15
CE
with pride, timidity, and even an element of fear
gleaming in his face, tiptoed and lifted the flat box
high above his head and turned it to left and right,
allowing the soft sheen of the golden disc to shed
its lustrous benediction upon all eyes. His move-
ments were stiff and constrained, as though he were
acting against his will.
"Higher, higher ...!"
Erskine Fowler forced a smile. A lusty singing
broke out and, a moment later, the orchestra under-
scored the full-bodied strains:
For he's a jolly good fellow
For he's a jolly good fellow
For he's a jolly good fellow
Which nobody can deny ...
Erskine Fowler's fingers shook; he fumbled clum-
sily with the flat black box and laid it on the table
before him. His lips quivered; then he could no
longer check the turbulence of his emotions. As the
clapping rose louder and higher, profuse tears seeped
from his eyes and etched their way slowly down his
cheeks. Erskine Fowler drew forth his handkerchief,
balled it, and dabbed fumblingly, trying to dry his
eyes. Some of the young, dewey-eyed stenographers
crooned:
"Aw look...! That's so cute! He's crying ...!
There were masculine shouts:
"Speechl Speech!"
Erskine Fowler brought himself under control; he
hunched his huge shoulders a bit forward, made a
slight, nervous, upward-shrugging motion with his
arms and elbows close to his body, as though hitch-
ing up his trousers before going into combat, and set
his face resolutely toward the crowd. He lifted his
THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN IBRARIES
:


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
17
EL
ing hand in building up this our common monu-
ment of business. But what we achieved was not
merely all business. As our great President has so
often pointed out, and I heartily agree with him,
millions of people depend upon us for their welfare,
come to us in their bereavement, and seek us out
in their hope ... That's not business; that's faith!”
** A ripple of handclapping ... A sharp, tense
struggle seemed to reflect itself in Erskine Fowler's
face; he mastered himself quickly, suddenly laughed,
tossed his head roguishly, shot a shy, darting glance
at Mr. Warren, and then recommenced in a lilting,
jocular manner:
"I'm retiring at what is a rather unusually early
age, but don't kid yourselfl Sure; I'm forty-three; but,
by golly, I feel that I'm twenty-threel There's a hell
of a lot of kick left in this old mule yet!"
Laughter, shouts, even some whistling ...
“Tell 'em, Erskinel"
"Yeah!”
"Don't give up, boy!"
"Sure; I'm retiring, but not out of action! I'm smil.
ing and moving into the reserve ranks ...!”
"Atta boy!”
“We're with you, Erskinel”
"Now, don't you think that because I'm retiring,
that I'm going to stop living,” Erskine Fowler warned
them, shaking a threatening forefinger. “Why, I
haven't even begun living yet!” He banged the table
with his fist.
More handclapping ...
"I'm deeply loath to sever my ties with this splen-
did organization.” He switched to a sober note,
speaking in a husky whisper. “But, when one has
served his time, he must go. Yet the sun's not setting
for me... I beg leave, with all due respect, to cor-
rect a statement of our beloved President. He spoke
l.
4


18
RICHARD WRIGHT
of this being, for me, the end of a perfect day! No;
no ... No; my friends! It's high noon! Not only for
me, but for Longevity Life!”
Erskine Fowler saw Mr. Warren lean forward,
break into a smile, and nod his approval as more
handclapping beat through the air. Erskine Fowler's
face flushed and became darkly pugnacious as he
argued:
“The Board of Directors has voted to retain me in
the capacity of a consulting advisor." He turned and
faced Mr. Warren. "Mr. President, sir, let me cau-
tion you that I'm going to be a mighty disappointed
man if my phone doesn't ring one of these mornings
soon and I don't hear you telling me: 'Erskine, I
want you to get right down here at once; there's
something terribly important I want you to do!”
Amid something akin to pandemonium, Mr. War-
ren rose hastily and rushed to Erskine Fowler's side,
took hold of his shoulder and spun him round with
affectionate rudeness. With cheers deafening their
ears, the two men confronted each other, immobile,
silent; then Mr. Warren flung wide his arms in a
gesture of receiving to his heart a brother whom
he would never deny. Elaborately he embraced
Erskine Fowler and patted him tenderly on the back
with both of his palms. When the cheering had sub-
sided, Mr. Warren informed Erskine Fowler in tones
that carried throughout the room:
"You bet your sweet life I'll call you, Erskine; and
by God, when I do, you'd better come!”
Staring solemnly into each other's eyes, they shook
hands. Erskine Fowler was moving his lips, trying to
say something, but he could not get his words past
the constriction in his throat. In the end he simply
nodded his head and his eyes were dripping wet....
A tall, gray-haired man sprang to his feet, his right


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
19
hand raised, and called out above the tumult: "Mr.
President! Mr. President!”
The noise abated a bit.
"Yes, Mr. Edwards,” Mr. Warren answered.
"Mr. President," the gray-naired man began as the
room quieted, “I hope that I'm not out of order. And,
assuming that I'm not, I hereby move that an account
of these honorable proceedings be published in the
next issue, along with suitable photographs, of our
official journal, Longevity Life...!"
A stout, red-faced man rose and boomed: “I second
that motion!”
With his arm still draped about Erskine Fowler's
shoulders, Mr. Warren proclaimed: "It has been
moved and seconded that a full account of the honor-
able proceedings of this august ceremony be com-
memorated with proper dignity in the pages of our
official journal, Longevity Life. Is there any discus- :
sion on this motion?”
“Question! Question!” rose from several throats.
"If there's no discussion, I ask all who are in favor
of this motion to signify their assent by saying, 'Yes'!"
“YYYEEESSSSS!” a growl of approval thundered
from the crowd.
“Those opposedl” Mr. Warren called.
Silence.
“The motion is carried unanimously!" Mr. Warren
shouted, both of his palms stretching upwards with
fingers spread.
A young woman dressed in a white suit came
briskly forward with camera and flashbulb and, stoop-
ing and sighting, sent three flashes of blue lightning
into Erskine Fowler's and Mr. Warren's face.
Erskine Fowler stood uncertainly, blinking; then,
overcome, he sat abruptly. A storm of whistling,
stomping, and yelling rang in his ears and there was


20
RICHARD WRIGHT
an abortive attempt to sing For He's a Jolly Good ,
Fellow again; but the orchestra, at a signal from one
of the executives, filled the room with a popular
waltz tune and the waiters hurriedly began remov-
ing the tables and chairs. Erskine Fowler watched
dazedly as dancing couples, smiling and looking at
him, began to swing undulatingly past his eyes that
swam in tears ...
He felt lost, abandoned; he was alone amidst it all.
Time was flowing pitilessly on; Longevity Life would
keep màrching, and he was on the outside of it all,
standing on the sidelines, rejected, refused; he swal-
lowed and dried his eyes again. Suddenly he felt that
he could endure no more of it; he rose and mumbled
hoarsely: i
"Excuse me, please. I'll be back in a moment..."
He headed toward the men's room, his eyes on the
floor, walking slowly. Several men clapped him heart-
ily on the back and called out their congratulations.
Erskine Fowler forced himself to smile at them ...
Yes; Erskine had filed. He had taken himself out of
their sight, had broken his promise to remain until
the end of the banquet. A sudden sense of outrage
had made him decide that he would no longer be a
party to his own defeat. ).. As he made his way down
the corridor toward the stairway, anger burned in
him so hot and hard that his vision blurred. When
he had declared to that array of upturned faces that
"leave-taking is always such a melancholy business,"
he had not been speaking at random or rhetorically.
Indeed, he had had to rein himself in, while facing
that crowd, to keep from bursting out with the true
facts, to keep from screaming to the public that the
whole thing was a farce, a put-up job! And what was
now making him so angry and disgusted with himself


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
21

was that, at the last moment, instead of hurling a
monkey wrench into Warren's smoothly organized
machinery of falsehood, he had had a failure of nerve,
had collaborated in the game of make-believe.
The urge to expose to his co-workers the hidden
reasons for his leaving Longevity Life had clashed
with his pledged word to hold his tongue, and the
resulting tension had so tautened his muscles that
he could not have endured any more of that cere-
mony without actually collapsing temporarily. His
sitting there at his table so quietly and knowing that
within an hour a thirty-years' relationship would,
against his will and in spite of his protest, irrevocably
terminate had been like watching a knife whose
sharp edge of blade was nearing a bared nerve. ...
To avoid meeting his erstwhile associates, he
sought to leave the hotel by a side entrance. He
came to the head of a rear stairway and paused,
gazing broodingly down at the descending sweep of
wide, carpeted steps. He was alone. Slowly his left
hand reached inside his coat and his fingers touched
the tip ends of a row of four automatic pencils-
black, red, blue, and green-clipped to an inner
pocket. Whenever he was distraught or filled with
anxiety, he invariably made this very same compul-
sive gesture which he had developed in some ob-
scure and forgotten crisis in his past; his touching
those pencils always somehow reassured him, for
they seemed to symbolize an inexplicable need to
keep contact with some emotional resolution whose
meaning and content he did not know....
Yes; his leaving that banquet had been indefensible
and irrational. He had not only broken his promise to
Warren to stick it out, but he had revealed himself as
a man who could not keep a grip upon himself. Yet
he knew that his running out had another and deeper
TO
COM


..
SAVAGE HOLIDAY
Even though that bylaw, which had enabled the
Board of Directors, at its own discretion, to compel
the retirement of any employee who had thirty years
or more of service, had been enacted more than two
years ago, his obsessive conviction of having been
unfairly dealt with, unfeelingly lopped off, made
him now suspect that they had had him especially in
mind when they had voted it.
But what had stung his ego most of all was that
Miss Cramer, his loyal ex-secretary, had told him
this morning at the office-making him swear on his
honor that he'd never breathe a word of it to a living
soul-that Robert Warren, President Albert Warren's
youngest son-just turned twenty-three years of
agel- (Young enough to be my son! Erskine had
exclaimed to himselfl) was taking over his work as
the district manager for Manhattan. ... So it was not
only because they thought him inefficient, not be-
cause he wasn't liked and respected by everybody,
that he was being dumped; it was to make a place
for his son that Warren was giving him the air!
Robert Warren was going to be married and old
man Warren was making Robert the district man-
ager of Manhattan as a wedding present!
Erskine remembered having seen the kid, Robert,
a few times, sometimes on the street and sometimes
around the office; and had not seen, on those oc-
casions, anything distinctive or exceptional about
him. Just a good-looking, jolly youngster flashing up
and down the avenues in his sport model, convertible
Buick with a tall, blonde girl... Once or twice he'd
read in the gossip columns about young Warren's
being at this or that nightclub. But never would
Erskine have thought that such a harmless, money-
spending brat would have been selected to replace
him ... And that hare-brained girl he was marrying


24
RICHARD WRIGHT
... A fumigated tart, no doubt ... The injustice of
it made him want to vomit.
All afternoon before the banquet he had sat in his
apartment by his telephone, fuming, trying to sum-
mon up enough courage to phone Warren and have
it out with him. But, despite his raw anger, he hadn't
been able to act. He had thought of sending Warren
a wire and calling off the banquet, but he hadn't
been inventive enough to think of iron-clad reasons
for such an action-reasons that could be made pub-
lic... Night had found him still seething and unde-
cided.
But when he'd reached the hotel, knowing that
within an hour his last chance to protest would be
gone, he'd taken the bit into his teeth and had de
manded a short conference with Warren and the
crusty, acid-tongued vice president, Ricky. The show-
down had taken place in a tiny room off the banquet
hall behind closed doors, and no sooner had Erskine
looked into their grim and determined faces than he
had become swamped with doubts and had regretted
his rashness.
"Well, Erskine, what's on your mind?” Warren had
broken the ice, speaking through a lying smile.
Erskine had swallowed and wished to God that
he'd not asked for such an audience. But what had
he to lose? By the living God, he'd let them know
what he thought of such cowardly deception. He had
to protest their abandonment of him...
“Why didn't you tell me that you wanted me out
to make a place for your son?" he had demanded of
Warren with more bluntness than he had intended.
Warren had paled, his lips parted, and he looked at
Ricky and turned away, shaking his head. It had been
Ricky who had taken up the fight.
"Fowler, aren't you stepping just a bit outside of


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
25
your little track?" Ricky had asked with cool in-
solence.
“Look, don't play games with me," Erskine had
said. “I know what the score is. And this is a cheap,
sickening way to treat a man who's given his life to
this company ..."
“We're not interested in your opinions, Fowler,"
Warren had said.
"I think you are interested,” Erskine had put in.
"Or else you'd have been man enough to have told
me what was up. No; you wanted to ease me out"
"Fowler, are you mad, man?” Ricky had bawled
at him. “We've settled this! You promised you'd go!
The hell with the reasons ... Now, why do you bring
up this matter half an hour before the banquet ...?
"Because I found out the trick you're playing on
me,” Erskine argued. “You didn't dare tell me-"
"So what?" Warren had demanded. “Fowler, you're
off balance, boy! Don't overestimate yourself!”
“Look here, Fowler.” Ricky had let his voice drop
to a neutral, almost kindly tone. "You've got sever-
ance pay. You own some stock in the company. To
all intents, so far as the public is concerned, you're
being retired with your consent. You're being kept
on as an advisor. You're drawing a pension ... We're
giving you a public banquet. What in hell more do
you want?”
"Honesty!” Erskine had shouted. “I just want you
to be straight with me, just as I've been with you!"
"Fowler, the banquet room's filling up... People
are waiting ... You can't back out now ... Be honor-
able_” Warren had argued gently.
"Where's your honor?” Erskine had asked in a .
frenzy.
“Look, I'll help you get another position," Warren
ENSITY OF MICHIGAH-LIBRARIES
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26
RICHARD WRIGHT
S
had said. “Be reasonable, man. Nobody's disputing
your loyalty,"
"Who told you about Robert Warren's taking your
place?" Ricky had asked pointedly.
"Never mind,” Erskine had said. “So, this is how
you felt all along, hunh
"All right,” Ricky had snarled. “You're asking for
it, by God, and I'm going to give it to you. You're
through, Fowler; hear? You're out of date, behind
the times; get it? We want live wires with gray mat-
ter upstairs; see? Maybe we ought to have put you
iwise long ago. ... All right; you're good, Fowler.
But, goddammit, you're not good enough! You just
don't have what we want! Do you want me to spell
it out any clearer? Now, go out there and do what
you -promised! If you back out now"
WELL FIRE YOU!” Warren had shouted in a
brutal rage. “We'll kick you out! Embarrass us to-
night, after we treat you like a right guy, and
we'll..." Warren's face had turned a deep red.
"Don't you cross me, Fowler. We've been damned
good to you. Now, you play straight.”
Humiliation had choked Erskine and he'd known
that he'd been licked. He'd burned his bridges; the
gulf that had yawned so nakedly between them
would never have been so glaring had he kept his
mouth shut. Ricky's thin lips had been shut tight, like
a trap; and Warren's China-blue eyes had gleamed
as cold and blue as twin icebergs. And at that mo-
ment the nervous, discordant sounds of the musi-
cians' instruments being tuned up in the banquet
room had come to him. Erskine's legs had trembled.
Ricky had reached out suddenly and had clutched
hold of Erskine's arm and had pushed him roughly
against a wall.
"If you don't go through with this, you're out
dSS


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
27
without even a recommendation,” Ricky had said.
"Do you want to fight Longevity Life?"
"No," Erskine had breathed, wilting.
“That's just what you're doing, and I warn you!"
Warren had told him.
"But ... but..." Erskine's voice had stuck in his
throat.
He'd longed to send his right fist smashing into
Warren's face; instead, as though performing a cere-
monial gesture of penance, his left hand had nervous-
ly reached inside his coat and felt the tips of the
four pencils clipped there... For almost five minutes
the three of them had stood wordlessly in the tiny,
closed room, fronting one another but avoiding one
another's eyes, and in the background there was that
faint, discordant plunking of a violin, the insistent
sounding of the keys of A, B flat, and C on the
piano...
“Well, dammit, what're you going to do?” Ricky
had demanded.
Impulsively, Erskine had moved toward the door;
he'd not known just where he was going; he'd just
wanted to get out of their presence. Tall, strong
Ricky had grabbed his shoulder and had spun him
round.
“Don't strike me, Ricky,” Erskine had muttered,
his eyes narrowing.
"You're not walking out of here without giving us
an answer,” Ricky had said, taking his hand from
Erskine's shoulder.
Erskine had hung his head. For twenty years he
had worshipped these men, and now they were hat-
ing him.
“Okay; I'm through," he had mumbled, swallow-
ing.



INI
wwthis suremees SAVAGE HOLIDAY
29
been maimed for life in an automobile accident, and
you wouldn't, couldn't believe her or take her word
for it, or take her doctor's word for it, and you'd
smiled at her and led her to believe that you believed
her and you easily beat her at her crooked game
by just looking into her eyes and letting her fool
herself into thinking that maybe you were falling
for her, and, in the end, you'd trapped her into ad-
mitting that she was lying and you settled her claim
for one-tenth of what her itchy palms had been
wanting ...
Yes; insurance was a small-time, stupid, greasy-
faced Italian grocery-store keeper who had amateur-
ishly set his dingy, garlic-reeking place ablaze hoping
that he'd collect enough insurance money to start all
over again under another name and in another state,
and you'd talked to the dope for fifteen minutes and
had caught him in such a tangle of contradictions
that he'd gotten frightened and had confessed and
was eventually sent to prison for five years eve apa
Yes; insurance was an old, sweet-looking woman
of seventy-odd who'd insured her new daughter in-
law for a huge amount of money and then had, with
a stout hatchet, killed her one night in her bed
and had told a seemingly plausible tale of having
awakened from her sleep and having seen a tall,
dark man (Erskine was convinced that all “tall, dark
men” were but the figments of guilty women's
imaginationl) fleeing down the dark hallway of their
frame house and of immediately afterwards hearing
groans in her daughter-in-law's bedroom and of find-
ing her daughter-in-law in bed hacked to pieces and
soaking in blood, and you had from the first doubted
the sweet-looking old woman's sobbing story and a
few days later, while rummaging about the house
with an inspector from the company, had found the


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
31
people leave natural things alone? Why were they
forever tinkering and changing things? Yeah; they'd
always regarded him as a little queer in the office
because he wouldn't exclaim and wax slobberingly
enthusiastic over every new gadget. Well, at least
I'm free of their taunting me behind my back. ...
And they'd miss him; of that, he was sure. Why,
things'd get so snarled up in the office that in a
week they'd phone him and beg him to come back
and straighten them out. Ah, and just wait until
the next quarterly dividends were declared! He'd
bet a cool, even hundred bucks that they'd be some-
what lower. They couldn't help but be lower with
his not being there to spot the phonies and cut
corners . . . Bad business! Erskine pronounced his
judgment as he plodded through the Saturday-night
crowd.
He knew, however, that his bitter tirades against
his former colleagues were but a crude camouflage
covering his real dilemma. What was fundamentally
fretting him was that-now that he'd retired and
was free-he didn't know what to do with himself.
His hated freedom was simply suspending him in a
void of anxious ignorance that was riveting his con-
sciousness with self-protective nostalgia upon the
familiar atmosphere of the Longevity Life Insurance
Company.
What, for example, did he want to do at this mo-
ment? Go to a movie? No. A movie would only dis-
tract him and he didn't want to be distracted. Read
a book? No; no; God, no! He would have resented
some novelist's trying to project him upon some
foolish flight of fantasy. He could, of course, visit
his favorite bowling alley; but he was not inclined
to sweat out the poisons of his tired body tonight...
The alien thorns that were nestling in him went far
re
AT
bowling all he could of upon som


32
RICHARD WRIGHT
deeper than the flesh... Then, what was he to
do...?
A subtle sense of terror, potent but vague, seeped
into his soul and the night's damp heat made sweat
beads on his upper lip. Yes, God; this was that un-
welcome, uncanny, haunting sensation against which
he had to employ all his emotional energies now;
the dodging, the eluding of this nameless and invis-
ible enemy had gripped and preoccupied him more
and more since his life had turned from a settled
routine into a nagging problem. He was plagued
by a jittery premonition that some monstrous and
hoary recollection, teasing him and putting his teeth
on edge because it was strange and yet somehow
familiar, was about to break disastrously into his
consciousness. He blinked his eyes, shook his head,
touched the tips of his four pencils in his inner coat
pocket to free himself of these filmy cobwebs dust-
ing at his mind ... A red traffic light made him halt
and he felt the hot pavement vibrating beneath his
feet as a subway train sped through the underground.
Nervously he slipped the flat, black box holding his
gold medal into his outer coat pocket and swabbed
his face with his handkerchief. He sighed, angry
and repelled by this haunting sense of not quite
being his own master. WORK OSVE
7 Work had not only given Erskine his livelihood
and conferred upon him the approval of his fellow-
a men; but, above all, it made him a stranger to a
part of himself that he feared and wanted never to
know. At some point in his childhood he had as-
sumed toward himself the role of a policeman, had
accused himself, had hauled himself brutally into the
court of his conscience, had arraigned himself before
the bar of his fears, and had found himself guilty and
had, finally and willingly, dragged himself off to


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
33

serve a sentence of self-imposed labor for life, had
locked himself up in a prison-cage of toil ... Now,
involuntarily reprieved, each week six full new Sun-
days suddenly loomed terrifyingly before him and he
had to find a way to outwit that rejected part of
him that Longevity Life had helped to incarcerate
so long and successfully. He was trapped in free-
dom. How could he again make a foolproof prison
of himself for all of his remaining days? What invis-
ible walls could he now erect about his threatening
feelings, desires? How could he suppress or throttle
those slow and turgid stirrings of buried impulses
now trying to come to resurrected life in the deep
dark of him? How could he become his own absolute
jailer and keep the peace within the warring pre-
cincts of his heart?
The majority of men, timid and unthinking, obey
the laws and mandates of society because they yearn
to merit the esteem and respect of their law-abiding
neighbors. Still others, reflective and conscious, obey
because they are intelligently afraid of the reprisals
meted out by society upon the breakers of the law.
There are still other men of a deeper and more sensi-
tive nature who, in their growing up, introject the
laws and mandates of society into their hearts and
come in time to feel and accept these acquired no-
tions of right and wrong as native impulses spring-
ing out of the depths of their beings and, if they
are ever tempted to violate these absorbed codes,
act as though the sky itself were about to crash upon
their heads, as though the very earth were about
to swing catastrophically out of its orbit...
Such a man was Erskine Fowler, but the laws and
mandates which he had introjected into his heart
were of a special sort, and were unknown to him


34
RICHARD WRIGHT
until, one day, time accidentally exposed what they
were ...
But, now, to avoid the commission of what crime-
or had the crime already been committed and was
he trying to escape its memory?-was Erskine han-
kering so anxiously to imprison himself? What had he
ever done-or what did he fear doing?-that made
him feel so positively that he had to encircle him-
self, his heart, and his actions with bars, to hold
himself in leash?
The air was close and humid. It was nearing mid-
night; the traffic and the passers-by had lessened.
He walked, brooding.
Reaching hòme, he rode up in the automatic ele-
vator to the tenth floor of the Elmira apartment
building which was located in the upper Seventies
of Manhattan; he entered a bedroom that had never.
been dishonored by the presence of a stray woman
of pleasure. Undressing, he assured himself that he'd
soon solve the problem of his enforced leisure; that
his general state of mind was all right; that he was
a good man, honest, kind, clean, straight-the kind
of man who loved children. Why, take that little
five-year-old Tony Blake who lived next door ...
He'd given that child so much ice cream and so
many toys that his mother, Mrs. Blake, à shapely,
plump, brunette war-widow, was astonished and
blushed when trying to stammer her gratitude.
On occasion Mrs. Blake herself, with her easy,
flashing smile, had caught his timid fancy. She was
comely, as alone as he was and, at odd moments,
he'd found himself wondering about her. Once, on a
summer Sunday morning-he'd been brewing coffee
in the kitchen-he'd caught a glimpse of her clad only
in panties and brassiere and the image had lingered


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
35
in hiç consciousness for days, confounding him with
its drastic persistency. Another time, one summer
evening, just before getting into bed, he'd seen her
completely nude through the open window of his
bedroom. That time he'd nipped in the bud the pos-
sibility of any such image haunting his mind by
promptly becoming angry. “She doesn't have to be
so blasted careless, does she?" For a week after that
he'd not treated little Tony to any dishes of ice
cream at the corner drugstore. It was not until
Tony's puzzled, accusing eyes had reproached him
that he'd resumed his role of the big father scat-
tering gifts. I
He showered, climbed into bed, and sighed; he
had to rise early in the morning and do his duty
at Sunday School. But he couldn't sleep; he tossed
restlessly on the hot mattress, wondering what he
would do with himself on Monday. Minnie, his
colored maid, would be in the apartment and he'd
hate her to see him at loose ends, pacing to and fro.
Through his open window he heard Mrs. Blake's
phone ring once, twice, three times ... She's not in,
he thought. She sure received a lot of telephone
calls. He'd heard vaguely (was it from Mrs. Wester-
man, the wife of the building superintendent?) that
she worked nights; but what kind of work ... ? And
little Tony remained alone all night. What a mother!
No wonder so many people in this world got into
trouble; they didn't get the proper kind of guidance
in their childhood. Women who couldn't give the
right kind of attention to children oughtn't to be
allowed to have them. Well, Mrs. Blake was a war-
widow; that excused her some. But, nevertheless, a
child of five oughtn't to be left alone all night ...
The night air was warm, heavy, motionless; he
sighed and tossed on the hot sheet. Mrs. Blake's
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SAVAGE HOLIDAY
37

trees and he peered cautiously and saw a tall man
swinging a huge ax chopping furiously into a
v-shaped hollow of a giant tree and the chips were
flying and the man's face was hard and brutish and
criminal-looking and he was now resolved upon sur-
prising the man and demanding that he get out of the
forest and stop stealing his trees and he crept closer
and saw that the man was about to cut straight
through the tree and all at once the man stopped and
whirled and saw him and yelled run go quickly the
tree's about to fall and he looked up and saw the tall
tree bending slowly and falling towards him and he
heard the man yelling for him to run but he couldn't
move his feet and when he looked up this time
the tree was crashing down upon him and he man-
aged to move at last trying to keep his eyes on the
falling tree and he tripped on something and fell
headlong and when he looked back to see where
the falling tree was it was too late for the tree
was upon him and he could feel the leaves and
branches swishing and stinging his face and eyes
and ears and then the crushing weight of the tree
trunk smashed against his head ...
Bang bang bang came into Erskine's ears. He
opened puffy eyes and blinked at the bright sunlight.
Morning already? He was still sleepy. He turned
his head and saw the towering tops of Manhattan's
skyscrapers drenched in golden sunlight, but he was
still staring at the strange dream images which were
now fleeing from his consciousness. Again he heard
that loud banging and he knew that Tony was-beat-
ing his drum.
"That child," he muttered.
His watch told him that it was seven-thirty; Sun-
day School did not commence until nearly ten; he
WWWWWWWWWW


38
RICHARD WRIGHT
ROS
had time to doze again. He rolled over, closed his
eyes ... Tony's yell came strident and piercing:
"Awhool Awhool Awhoo! The Indians are com-
ing!”
She's sleeping and she lets that child bang and
yell at this hour of the morning... The child's noise
ceased and he tucked his head deeper into his pillow
and drifted into semi-dream state, thinking of Tony
who, in turn, made him recall dimly his own, faraway
childhood. Yes; be too had once romped and played
alone, yelling war whoops, and there'd been no
mother to look after him either. Wasn't that maybe
why he was so fond of Tony? And, too, wasn't it
maybe because Mrs. Blake-alone, sensual, impulsive
-was so much as he remembered his own mother
that he found himself scolding her and brooding
over her in his mind? Emoting DAEMTM nas
He had no memory of his father who had died
when he was three years old; it was his mother whom
he remembered or, rather, the images of the many
men who always surrounded her laughing face-men
I who came and went, some indulgent toward him,
some indifferent. Gradually, as he'd come to under-
stand what was happening, he'd grown afraid,
ashamed. They'd lived down in Atlanta then and
the boys in the vacant lots and on the school grounds
had flung cold, scornful words at him, and he'd been
furious with his mother. Even now he winced with
'a dull, inner 'pain as he recalled his dreadful di-
lemma in trying to decide who deserved more to be
killed for having behaved so that the boys on the
playground could taunt him: ought the men be
killed, or ought his mother be killed ...?
Erskine shook his head, trying to stave off emo-
tional scenes stemming from his childhood ...
What was it that made him afraid to remember? He


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
forced himself to lie still and there came to him a
recollection of a tormented night: he'd been ill in
bed and his mother had told him to go to sleep, that:
she was going out ... He'd begged, wept, his teary
eyes intent upon the fat, bald man who stood at his
mother's side. He'd hated that man. His mother had
been powdered, rouged, wearing a wide hat...
Whom had he hated more? His mother or the man?
They'd gone out and he, burning with fever, had
gotten out of bed and had gone to the window and
had yelled and yelled ... His mother had told him
that she'd found him the next morning lying huddled
under the window, dopey with fever. He'd had
pneumonia and his mother had nursed him and he'd
wanted to remain ill all of his life to keep her
with him. But after he'd gotten well she'd gone off
again, as always, and he'd been left alone in the
house all day and night, hating her, trying to think
of the many things he wanted to do to her to make
her feel it...
Full of sullen, impotent rage, he had let his heated
imagination range wild and had choked back his yen
to act. He'd developed into a too-quiet child who
kept to himself, ignoring a world that offended him
and wounded his sense of pride in what he loved
most; his mother... He'd sought refuge in dreams
of growing up and getting a job and taking his
mother into some far-off land where there'd be no
one to remember what had happened. ..
Then one cold winter day-he was eight years
old-his mother had been hauled off to jail as a pub-
lic nuisance and Aunt Tillie had come down from
New York and fetched him. He'd never learned the
name of his mother's offense; when he'd asked Aunt
Tillie about it, she'd shaken her head and turned him
off with: “It's the men who ruin women, Erskine.”
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SAVAGE HOLIDAY
pious or Christian. He pulled on his robe and lum-
bered into the kitchen and filled the coffee pot, lit
the flame of the gas stove, listening to Tony's shout-
ing:
"Bang! Bang! Bang! You're dead!”
He sighed. If only he could take that child to Sun-
day Schooll As twigs are bent, so grow the trees ...
Twice he'd shyly asked Mrs. Blake's permission to
take Tony to Sunday School and she'd consented,
but each Sunday morning when he'd been ready to
go, she'd been sleeping and Tony had not been prop-
erly dressed. Too much nightclubbing, too much
whiskey, and God knows what else ... His nose
wrinkled in disgust as he doffed his robe and en-
tered the bathroom. He adjusted the hot and cold
water faucets until the twin streams ran tepid. He
was about to take off bis wrist watch preparatory to
stepping under the shower when his doorbell shrilled.
“Who is it?” he called, turning and standing in the
bathroom door, his right hand lifted to reach for his
robe.
“Paper boy!” an adolescent voice called. “Wanna
collect this morning, please!”
"Oh, yes. Just a moment,” he answered.
He'd promised to pay that boy this morning but,
gosh, he'd forgot to get change. Still nude, he crossed
the room and put his mouth to the door panel and
called out:
"Say, will next week be all right? Really, I've no
change; I'm sorry ... Or do you want to take down
a twenty-dollar bill and get some-?"
"See you next week, Mister!” the boy called to
him. “You owe me two-twenty; that right?"
“That's right,” he told the boy.
He heard the thud of his thick Sunday paper hit
the carpeted floor of the hallway outside and then
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42
RICHARD WRIGHT
the muffled sound of swift feet rushing toward the
elevator; he caught the clank of the elevator door
opening and closing ... Yes; he'd have to remember
and pay that paper boy next Sunday; it wasn't right
to keep a kid like that waiting for his money ... He
might have need of it...
Then he heard his coffee pot boil over in the
kitchen. Golly! He'd made that flame too highl-Still
nude, he sprinted into the kitchen and lowered the
gas fire. The redolence of coffee roused his hunger;
he opened the refrigerator and hauled out the eggs,
the butter, the bacon, a jar of strawberry jam, and a
tin of chilled fruit juice. Padding on bare feet, he
visualized the plate of succulent food he'd have.
About to reenter the bathroom, he paused. Better
get my paper ... Two weeks ago his Sunday paper
had been stolen. Secreting his naked body, he
cracked the door and peered to left and right in the
sunlit hallway. Nobody's there ... Half of the bulk
of his Sunday paper lay near his toes, but the other
half, evidently having slid, was scattered at the foot
of the stairway. Feeling a draft of air on the skin
of his unclothed body, he stooped and gathered the
wad of papers at his feet, his left hand holding open
the door behind him. Why did that boy fling his
paper about like this? Mad maybe because I didn't
pay 'im ...
He pushed the door back into his room and waited
to see if it would remain open. He saw it swinging
to, towards him, slowly. He'd have to open the door
wide, all the way back to the wall; and, in that way,
he'd have time enough to grab the other section of
the paper and get back to his door before it closed.
Pushing his door all the way back until it collided
with the wall of the room, he watched it; it was still.
He sprang nudely forward in the brightly-lighted


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
43
hallway and, with a sweep of his right hand, scooped
up the second half of his paper, pivoted on his bare
heels, and was about to rush forward to reenter his
apartment when the door began to veer slowly to, to-
wards him. With his left hand outstretched, he dashed
toward the door and reached the sill just as the door,
pushed by a strong current of air, slammed shut with
a thunderous metallic bang in his face. He blinked,
quickly seized hold of the doorknob with his right
hand and rattled it firmly. The door did not budge;
it was locked!
He frowned, staring, a look of mute protest in his
eyes. He became dismayingly conscious of his nudity;
a sense of hot panic flooded him; he felt as though
a huge x-ray eye was glaring into his very soul; and
in the same instant he felt that he had shrunk in
size, had become something small, shameful... With
flexed lips he rattled the knob of the door brutally;
the door still held. He knew that his door was locked,
but he felt, irrationally, that it would just have to
open and admit him before anyone saw him here
nude in the hallway ... Then his lips parted in com-
prehension as he remembered that only last month
he had had the lock on the door changed, had in-
stalled a new system of steel bolts. There had been
a series of robberies in the building and he had taken
that precaution to protect himself. Now, even if he
hurled his whole weight of two hundred pounds
against it, that door would stand fast...
"Oh, God,” he breathed.
Again he clutched the knob of his door and shook
it with fury, looking with dread over his shoulder
as he did so, fearing that someone might come into
the hallway. The door remained secure, solid, bur-
glarproof. He glanced down at his hairy legs, his
frizzled chest; save for the clumsy hunk of the Sun-


44
RICHARD WRIGHT
day edition of the New York Times, he was nude,
frightfully nude.
Erskine's moral conditioning leaped to the fore,
lava-like; there flashed into his mind an image of
Mrs. Blake who lived in the apartment next to his,
the door that was but six inches from his right hand;
also there rose up before his shocked eyes the prim
face of Miss Brownell, a faded, graying spinster
of forty-odd, who lived just across the hall from him;
and he saw, as though staring up into the stern face
of a judge in a courtroom, the gray, respectable faces
of Mr. and Mrs. Fenley-Fenley of the Chase Nation-
al Bankl—who lived in the apartment which was just
to the left of the elevator. Good God! He was super-
intendent of the Mount Ararat Sunday School; he
was a consulting advisor to the Longevity Life In-
surance Company; he had a bank balance of over
forty thousand dollars in cash; he had more than
one hundred thousand dollars in solid securities, in-
cluding government bonds; he was a member of
Rotary; a thirty-second degree Mason; and here he
was standing nude, with a foolish expression on his
face, before the locked door of his apartment on a
Sunday morning...
of the Montor. Good Goat which was jus
A fine film of sweat broke out over the skin of his
face. Again he grasped the doorknob and strained at
it, hoping that his sheer passion for modesty would
somehow twist those cold bolts of steel; but the door
held and he knew that steel was steel and would not
bend. There was no doubt about it; he was locked
out, locked out naked in the hallway and at any
second one of his neighbors' doors would open and
someone would walk out and find him ... They'd
scream, maybe, if they were women. Good God, what
could he do? His face was wet with sweat now.


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
45
He tensed as the faint sound of the elevator door
opening downstairs came to him, echoing hollowly
up the elevator shaft. Somebody was coming up!
Maybe to this floor! He glared about in the sun-
flooded hallway, searching for nooks and crannies
in which to hide, clutching awkwardly his bundle of
Sunday papers. His hairy body, as he glanced down
at it, seemed huge and repulsive, like that of a giant;
but, when he looked off his body felt puny, shriveled,
like that of a dwarf. And the hallway in which he
stood was white, smooth, modern; it held no Gothic
recesses, no Victorian curves, no Byzantine incrusta-
The elevator hind which, he coulzantine incrus
The elevator was coming up... He felt that he was
in the spell of a dream; he wanted to shake his head,
blink his eyes and rid Kimself of this nightmare. But
he remained hairy, nude, trembling in the morning
sun. If that was Miss Brownell coming up, she might
scream; she'd surely complain, maybe to the police...
He felt dizzy and his vision blurred. The muted hum
of the rising elevator came nearer. Where could he
hide himself? He prayed that whoever was coming
up in the elevator was not getting off at this floor.
Flattening his back against the cold, wooden panels
of his door, pressing the bunch of newspapers tight-
ly against his middle, he closed his eyes, reverting
for a moment to the primitive feelings that children
have-reasoning that if he shut his eyes he would not
be seen. The muscles of his legs quivered and sweat
broke out in the matted hair of his chest. He heard
the elevator pass his floor and keep on rising...
Thank God!
He relaxed, swallowed; then, gritting his teeth till
they ached, he whirled and rattled his doorknob
again, knowing that the door would not open, but
rattling the knob because he had to do something ...
THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN LIBRARIES
his back apne bunch of his eyes, Tevhildren
ly against .. pressing the bunthe cold, wooden


46
RICHARD WRIGHT
Whom could he call for help? But if he called out,
somebody was sure to open a door and he could not
control who it would be ... God ... He felt like
vomiting and, on top of it all, through the locked and
bolted door, he heard his coffee pot boiling over
again.
He stiffened, hearing the telephone ring in Miss
Brownell's apartment. What could he do? The sound
of a distant door opening and closing came to him,
then he heard the far-off music of a radio. It was
getting late; the morning was passing; each second
brought discovery closer. Despair made him feel
weak as he heard the elevator descending and a min-
ute later he heard the elevator door opening and
closing downstairs. Then the soft, low whine of the
elevator wafted up; it was climbing towards him
once more ... Lord ... Once more he stood with his
back glued to the panels of the door, shielding him-
self with the newspapers, his body as still as a tree,
sweat dripping from his chin. The drone of the ele-
vator came nearer; it reached the tenth floor and
passed, going upward again. He sighed.
He had to do something, but what? He wanted to
run, but fought off the urge, fearing that any move he
made would worsen his predicament. Hell, he
breathed, giving vent to a curse for the first time
in many long years.
Oh, he had an ideal Yes; that's what he'd do...
If he got into the elevator and rode down to the first
floor, he could conceal himself in the elevator and
call to Westerman, the building superintendent. Yes,
that was his only chance ... What a foolish, wild,
idiotic thing to do-trapping one's self naked in a
building in broad daylight! Get hold of that super-
intendent; that was the thing ... The superintendent
had a passkey for every apartment in the building.


48
RICHARD WRIGHT
ging the newspapers with his left elbow, reached
with his left hand, not daring to breathe, and pushed
the button for the tenth floor. At once the elevator
started up again and he let his breath expire through
parted lips. Yes; he'd have to get out of this elevator;
it was too dangerous ...
But how could he get back into his apartment? The
elevator buzzer rang in his ears and he shivered;
somebody was ringing for the elevator ...! He kept
his teeth clamped and something seemed to be jump-
ing in his stomach, like a nerve cut loose from his
ganglion, writhing. He brushed rivulets of water from
his forehead, bit his lips, waited, counting the floors:
seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth ... The elevator halted;
he reached forward to open the door, but paused and
stared through the murky block of glass to see if
the hallway was empty. Then, just as he was about
to open the door, the elevator started again, going
downward!
He searched frantically for the red emergency
button, found it, jammed it fumblingly with the
forefinger of his right hand; the elevator stopped.
He wanted to scream and bring this spell of unreality
to an end; but this unreality was real; he was expe-
riencing this ... Now, the button for the tenth floor.
He reached out to push it, but, before his finger
touched it, the elevator was climbing upward! A
chorus of buzzings was now sounding in his ears;
many people were calling for the elevator ... For a
moment he stood paralyzed, realizing that now a
backlog of tenants was waiting on several floors, all
trying to get possession of the elevator.
He had to stop the elevator, but his overanxious-
ness warped his judgment and made him lose time.
It seemed that he had to look longer than ordinarily
to find the right button to push. Again he leaped up-


50
RICHARD WRIGHT
in his breath. Through the dingy plate of glass he
saw Miss Brownell standing there, her hand stretched
out to enter the elevator. A growl rose in his throat
and he flung himself against the door. What could
he do?
Yes; he had to get to the eleventh floor where the
hallway was empty, and leave the elevator! And he'd
hide on the stairway until Miss Brownell had gone.
He pushed the button for the eleventh floor and the
elevator lifted upward and he knew that it was he
who commanded the elevator to move this time.
There was now a loud banging on the elevator
doors ...
"What's the matter?"
"Send that elevator downl” a man's voice boomed.
“Wait, will you?” Erskine screamed, his body shak-
ing with rage, shame, despair, and a sickness which
he could not name.
The elevator came to a standstill at the eleventh
floor and, through the cloudy square of glass, he
saw his way clear. He opened the door and stepped
out, feeling that he was escaping an enormous throng
of encircling, hostile people armed with long, sharp
knives, intent upon chopping off his arms, his legs,
his genitals, his head ... Squeezing the wet wad of
newspapers close to his drenched skin, he crept
down the stairway, leaving dark tracks of water each
time his naked feet touched the purplish carpet. His
body was so hot that the warm air of the hallway
seemed, by contrast, cold. The sunlit hall was quiet
save for muffled sounds of radios coming from sur-
rounding apartments.
He heard the elevator going down. Hugging the
cold, marble wall, he descended. There ... He could
see a tip of Miss Brownell's wide hat and a stretch
of her white dress as she waited for the elevator.


RICHARD WRIGHT
straight into the full morning sun and he was blinded
for a moment. His momentum now carried him out
upon the balcony and he was turning his naked
body in the direction of the window of his bath-
room even before he saw where he was going.
His right leg encountered some strange object and ..
he went tumbling forward on his face, his long,
hairy arms flaying the air rapaciously, like the paws
of a huge beast clutching for something to devour,
to rend to pieces ... He steadied himself partially by
clawing at the brick wall and then he saw, in one
swift, sweeping glance, little Tony's tricycle over
which he had tripped and fallen and also there
flashed before his stunned eyes a quick image of
Manhattan's far-flung skyline in a white burst of
vision and also, like a crashing blow against his skull,
Tony, his little white face registering shock, staring
at him, clad in a cowboy's outfit, standing atop his
electric hobbyhorse near the edge of the balcony, his
slight, frail body outlined, like an image cut from a
colored cardboard, against a blue immensity of hori-
zon...
The physical force that had carried him through
the doorway now propelled him towards little Tony
who was holding a toy pistol gripped in his right
hand ... Erskine checked himself in his blind rush;
his naked foot slipped on the concrete and he fell
against the top railing encircling the balcony, feeling
it shake, sway, and wobble as his two hundred
pounds struck it. He was lying now with one of his
shoulders resting against the railing ... Tony, poised
atop the electric hobby-horse, opened his mouth to
scream and then, slowly-it seemed to Erskine's
imagination when he thought of it afterwards that
the child had been floating in air-little Tony fell
backwards and uttered one word:
Yay now propoy pistol op in his blindhe fell


54
RICHARD WRIGHT
He forgot that he was naked and stood staring at
the loosened iron railing, his hands lifted in midair,
the fingers curved and turned inward toward his
hirsute body that gleamed wetly in the brilliant sun-
light. Then he moved slowly and hesitantly toward
the iron railing which now dangled loose and pro-
truded over the side of the balcony. He wanted to
look down there, but the mere thought made him
dizzy ... Mechanically, he glanced at his bathroom
window. He was straining his ears, waiting to hear
some sound-a sound that he thought would surely
stop the beating of his heart. Then he heard it; there
came a distant, definite, soft, crushing yet pulpy:
PLOPI Slow Tima powita
A spasm went through his body; he covered his
face with his hands; he knew that Tony's body had
at last hit the black pavement far below; it seemed
that he had been standing here naked on this bal-
cony in the hot morning's sun waiting for an eternity
to hear that awful sound, a sound that would re-
verberate down all the long corridors of his years in
this world, a sound that would follow him, like a
taunting echo, even unto his grave...
Erskine groped for the support of the wall behind
him, feeling that some invisible power had numbed
his body. He suppressed an impulse to weep and
tried to understand what had happened. But the
event he had witnessed, the horror in which he
had somehow participated contained so many shad-
owy elements that he was baffled. Had Tony fallen
because he had been afraid of him, or had that bal-
cony railing simply given way, or what? He stared
at the iron railing, then looked about, as though
seeking another presence. Finally the reality of it
came to him clearly: Tony had been so frightened of


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
55
his wet, hairy body, of his distorted, sweating face,
of his brutal rushing to the balcony that he had lost
his balance, had tilted on the railing, and had plum-
meted ... His skull tightened as he pictured, in spite
of himself, Tony's little smashed and bloody body
lying on the concrete pavement below, perhaps
quivering still... He'd scared that poor child ... He
hadn't intended to; but they would say that he had
done it on purpose ...? GOD! NO! He'd tell 'em
what had happened ... No one could possibly blame
him, could they? But, if no one had seen him on
that balcony, then why tell...? What good could
telling do now? Tony was no doubt dead and it was
too late to help him ... And, if he did tell, what
could he tell...? That he'd been trapped naked
and had run upon the balcony to climb into the win-
dow of his bathroom and had so terrified the child
that he had fallen? Who'd believe that?
He was still nude; he had to hide ... The yellow
sun rekindled his terror. His bathroom window was
some three feet above him ... Tiptoeing, he found
that his fingers were inches short of the ledge. Yes;
regardless of what had happened to Tony, he had
to seek shelter for his nakedness. That infernal elec-
tric hobbyhorsel That fool contraption from which
Tony had fallen ... Maybe, if he stood upon it, he
could reach the ledge of his window? He'd try. He
placed the hobbyhorse beneath the window, stepped
upon it, feeling it swaying a bit, and grabbed hold
of the ledge of his bathroom window. He felt dizzy as
his naked body dangled perilously in air; the hobby-
horse slid from beneath his feet and clattered metal-
lically over on its side. He clung to the ledge with
both hands, flexed his muscles, hoisted himself up-
ward with a lunge and pushed the resisting window
up a little, feeling something hot and sharp biting
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56
-
RICHARD WRIGHT
into the flesh of his left palm. Suspending his weight
on his right hand, he took his left hand from the
ledge and glanced at it out of the corner of his
eye: a deep, bloody gash extended from his thumb
across the top of his hand ... Already blood was
seeping in a red line down his arm ...He had to
work fast; shoving strainingly with his wounded hand
against the window, he slid it up ... Yes; now he
could make it. Skinning his knees and elbows, pant-
ing, he struggled his slippery body up and went head
first through the window and fell upon the com-
mode, rolled over and lay still, gasping for breath, re-
laxing ... He was saved ...
His rioting impulses slowly grew somewhat quiet.
His damp nude body lay huddled on the tiled bath-
room floor, his head inclining weakly against the
porcelain side of the tub. The soft, pelting drone of
water against the shower curtain made him recall
that he'd been about to bathe-it was like summoning -
up something out of the remote past. He became
aware of his smarting, bleeding knees which were
now doubled under him, and then a wild pain made
him suck in his breath; his left palm was throbbing
in agony. He inspected the livid gash from which
blood was oozing with each beat of his heart. His
eyes blinked slowly. What had happened? For a sec-
ond he yearned to perform a mental act and annul
it all; but no, he couldn't; it had happened; it was
real, as real as that red blood running out of his
left hand...
He pulled himself up and went to the sink and let
cold water flow over the wound. Pinching the flesh
together, he held the wound closed with the firm
but soft pressure of the tips of his fingers. He looked
around, dazed. God, there was blood on the window
sill ... He grabbed a towel with his right hand,
dampened it under the faucet and swabbed the


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
57
bloody spots away from the sill and the floor. He
rinsed the towel clear of stains and left it balled in
· the sink.
Tony's dead! He began to tremble and he leaned
weakly upon the edge of the bathtub. Good God!
What could he do? Tentatively, he lifted the pres-
sure of his fingers from his left palm and at once the
blood began to flow again. He'd have to hold the
wound shut until the blood had coagulated ...
Automatically, his mind sought for someone else
upon whom to shunt the blame for what had hap-
pened; but, remembering the undeniably acciden-
tal nature of the episode, he realized that he didn't
need a scapegoat upon which to dump the responsi-
bility. It had all transpired so quickly, so ineyitably,
so utterly shorn of any intention on his part that he
could have sworn that it had happened to some-
body else.
The incident had thrust him entirely on his own,
and nothing he had ever heard of could offer him
any guidance now. Clinging to the whole balcony
tableau of horror was a hopeless nebulosity, some-
thing irresistibly unreal; one moment he felt that
he knew exactly what had happened, and yet the
next moment he was not so sure. His jaws trembled
as he heard again that distant, unmistakably cushy:
PLOPI Dread rammed a hot fist down his throat as
he wondered if anyone had seen him naked on that
balcony... Christ ... Maybe somebody was now
phoning the police that a naked man had been seen
chasing a child! Under the sweat of his face his
skin turned gray. What could he do?. Tell his story
now, at once? He bowed his head in indecision. But
maybe nobody had seen him and if he started bab-
bling now he would only put a frightful idea in other
people's minds. Perhaps he should say nothing...?
He stood and stared again at the opened bathroom


RICHARD WRIGHT
window. Yes; he ought to have steeled himself and
looked down into the street to see where Tony had
fallen. A new idea made him feel that he too was
burtling through space. Suppose, in falling, Tony
had managed to catch hold of an iron railing jutting
out, had checked the velocity of his descent, had
cushioned his fall so that he was now hurt, but
alive—? Then Tony would tell how he had come
rushing, naked and wild-eyed, out upon that bal-
cony ...
A lightning wish seized him; it was a wish that
Tony was dead, that Tony had fallen all the way to
the street without touching anything, that Tony had
died instantly upon his impact with the pavement.
Guilt and shame filled him, yet that wish persisted.
He wanted to look through the half-opened win-
dow and see if people were looking in his direction,
but he had the sensation that some invisible pres-
ence was watching him; he felt that looking out of
that window supplied proof of a guilt of some kind
... His mind was now working rapidly. The window
of Mrs. Blake's kitchen looked out toward his bal-
cony! Good Lord ... Maybe she'd seen it all, and
was too stunned, too stricken to weep or scream ...?
He shook his head. The truth was that Mrs. Blake
was probably sleeping off a night of high-powered
drinking and carousing ... He hoped that she was.
He moved to the window, placed his bare feet
astride the commode and squinted at an array of
shut windows; all was quiet, still. Quickly he shut
the window and walked like a drunken man into
the kitchen where a cloud of vapor was spouting
from the coffee pot and fogging the windowpanes.
He turned out the gas; then, mechanically, using
his right hand, he replaced the eggs, bacon, butter,
jam, and the tin of fruit juice back into the refrigera-


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
59
tor and softly closed the door. His appetite was
gone...
Still nude, he wandered back into his bedroom and
saw his bathrobe lying crumpled on a chair; he
snatched it up and struggled into it. His neglecting
to put on that robe was the cause of it all... Tears
formed in his eyes; he nursed his bruises, feeling
that there was something urgent he had to do. The
faint wail of a police siren sounded through the Sun-
day morning calm and his body jerked. Had someone
seen Tony's little body falling, or had someone come
across it in the street and phoned the police?
Erskine wilted. Maybe he'd be arrested in a matter
of minutes ... He'd been urgently wanting to go to
his bedroom window and peer down into the street
to see where Tony had fallen, but sheer terror had
kept the desire out of his consciousness. He took a
step toward the window, then paused. Wouldn't
somebody see him staring down into that street and
couldn't it be said later that that was proof that he
already knew what had happened?
He shook his head. No; he would look out of the
window because he'd heard the sirens howling; and
that howling was now rising to a scream that was
coming nearer and nearer. He stanched the flow of
sweat on his brow by wiping his forehead with the
sleeve of his bathrobe. The sun's heat was now
spreading in the room, filling the air. If anyone
questioned him about Tony, he must not let himself
be caught off guard and blurt out something that
would entangle him in a bog of contradictions. In
his insurance work he had dealt with criminals
enough to know that to be caught in even a trivial lie
might lead to complications. For example, if he'd
known that Tony had fallen and had made no out-
cry, would that not imply that he possessed a guilty
that hower and nearer. Henis forehead wit


60
RICHARD WRIGHT
hing; bized and to distinct felt th
knowledge of a deeper nature than what had actu-
ally happened? Just what, then, would his story be?
But wasn't this question idle, premature as long as
he didn't know if Tony was dead or alive? He had
first to determine what the facts were.
Yes; everything hinged upon a dead Tony that
would leave him free to invent any story he liked, or
remain silent, whichever course suited him more. In
his tortured cogitations, Erskine felt that it was
imperative to separate two distinct sets of facts: his
running half-crazed and naked upon that balcony
was one thing; his seeing Tony fall and his inability
to save him was another thing. And his consciousness
protested violently the putting of the two of them in
any way together for, when associated in his feel-
ings, these compounded events swamped him with a
sense of guilt that was deeper than that contained
in the accident which his panic had brought about.
At last he went to the window and tried to see
down into the street, but he was much too far away
to make out anything, save a patch of pavement on
the opposite side. He leaned out cautiously now and
stared down and at once he saw a small black knot
of people gathered directly below him on the side-
walk near the curb, forming a circle about something
which he could not see. Yes, that must be the body of
Tony they were gaping at... More sirens were
screeching now; a moment later a police car tore
around the corner and pulled to a stop athwart the
throng of people.
Without knowing it, Erskine covered his mouth
with his right palm. His fate was down there where
those people stood; he stifled an impulse to rush
down and join the crowd. What if Tony was still
alive? He'd read in newspapers about how relaxed
children were when they fell, that children had been


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
61
known to fall six floors and still live ... And if Tony
was alive, what would he say? He leaned weakly
against the window casing, hearing Tony's piping
voice telling the police that he'd been playing alone
upon the balcony and then Mr. Fowler had come
running, panting, wild-eyed, naked, and angry upon
him and he had been so frightened that he'd
fallen ...
And what would be his rebuttal to Tony's story?
Could he tell the police that he'd tried to get his
paper and that his door had slammed shut and he'd
been trapped in the hallway and had been dodging
naked and terrorized through the building and had
finally rushed to the balcony like that...? Erskine
knew instinctively how others would regard that
story and his knowing made even him protest against
believing it. And if he didn't believe it, would
others? Yet it was an objectively true story; it had
happened just like that...
Such a story would be the ruin of him. What
would the Daily News or the Mirror think of it?
What would his friends and relatives think? They'd
think that he was "queer”... As the word queer
came to his mind, he felt again a tight cap of some-
thing like steel pressing down upon his skull and
he all but collapsed. Yes; these days everybody was
talking about “complexes” and the "unconscious”;
and a man called Freud (which always reminded
him of fraud!) was making people believe that the
most fantastic things could happen to people's feel-
ings. Why, they'd say that he'd gone deliberately on-
to that balcony like that, nude...
He saw Westerman, the building superintendent
whom he had sought so futilely and frantically half
an hour ago, running toward the crowd, pulling on
his coat. Another police car arrived, its siren scream-


62
RICHARD WRIGHT
ing and its brakes whining as it came to a halt be-
side the crowd. Policemen poured out of it. An am-
bulance came. Erskine lifted his eyes and scanned
the other windows of the apartment building;
no one had as yet looked out. Again his vision
plunged down and he saw the policemen driving the
crowd back. Ah, there was little Tony ... A tiny,
dark, oblong object, like a broken doll, sprawled in
the midst of a vast pool of blood ... The body lay
half on the curb and half on the sidewalk, about
five feet from a fire hydrant.
"He's dead," he whispered with relief, then whirled
guiltily, expecting to find that someone had over-
heard him.
Suddenly he was aware of white blobs of faces in
the crowd turning upward and he shrank quickly
back into his room; he glanced at the other windows.
Yes; other people were looking down now, but no
face had turned to look at his window. He sank upon
his unmade bed; tears of remorse and relief clogged
his eyes. He whimpered:
"Oh, God, why did this have to happen to
me...
Erskine was undone and, had there been anyone
at that moment to hear his confession, he would have
spilled out more than he knew. His life had gone
deadly wrong and, in his extremity, he was trying
to give up and find repose in some higher wisdom
that he felt vaguely was in his heart.
The dim shrill of Mrs. Blake's phone brought him
to his feet; his eyes stared as though trying to see
through the far wall of his room. He listened as the
phone pealed again and he pictured her rising sleep-
ily from bed, rubbing her eyes, struggling to over-
come last nights drinking, and reaching for the


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
63
phone ... No; the phone was ringing again. In the
midst of its sixth ring, it stopped abruptly. He tiptoed
into the living room whose left wall formed a com-
mon partition with her bedroom, put his ear to the
cool white plaster and tried to listen, but could
hear nothing. Then he flinched as a scream came to
his ears. Yes; she knew now ... The scream came
again, then again. He heard the elevator door open-
ing and closing in the hallway and then there came
the sound of Mrs. Blake's doorbell ringing insist-
ently, repeatedly.
Ought he to look into the hallway? He had the
right to find out who was doing all that screaming,
hadn't he? Composing himself, still clamping the tips
of his fingers over the wound of his left palm, he
went to the door, opened it and saw Westerman, the
building superintendent, standing in the open door-
way of Mrs. Blake's apartment, with his back to
him. He could not see Mrs. Blake, but he could
hear her voice:
“No; no; no ... What are you saying up
Mrs. Blake pushed Westerman aside, ran out of
her apartment in her nylon nightgown, and stopped
in the middle of the hallway; she looked around
blindly, her eyes wild and her face white with
shock. She rushed on bare feet toward the bal-
cony..
“Mrs. Blake,” Westerman called helplessly to her,
"he's not there. I tell you he fell..."
Mrs. Blake paused and, without turning around,
she screamed. Then she whirled and clapped her
hands to her face.
, “Tony,” she moaned.
Westerman was staring at the crazed, half-nude
woman.
"Somebody find Tony!” Mrs. Blake wailed...
way of Mrs. Blaindent, standinga w Westerman,' the


04
RICHARD WRIGHT
"But Mrs. Blake ..." Westerman began again.
The elevator door opened and Mrs. Westerman
came running out.
“Oh, God, you poor woman!" she cried.
Erskine noticed that Westerman was staring about
with a dull, stupid expression.
"What's happeningpErskine asked in a whisper.
Westerman lifted his hands in a gesture of hope
lessness.
"It's Tony... Poor little Tony,” the man said.
“What about him? Is there anything wrong?” Er-
skine asked.
Westerman turned away, blinking, unable to speak.
Mrs. Westerman now glanced toward Erskine and
shook her head sadly. Mrs. Blake was struggling to
break free from Mrs. Westerman, straining toward
the elevator.
"Take me to Tony," she whimpered.
"Mrs. Blake,” Westerman was pleading, trying to
help his wife hold the woman.
Erskine could see that Westerman was a little
shy about handling Mrs. Blake, for the blurred out-
lines of her plump, curving body were distinctly
visible through her sheer nylon nightgown.
"Poor little Tony's dead!” Mrs. Westerman wailed,
gulping. "He fell ... Dear God in Heaven ... The
little thing's all crushed and bloody ... Angels of
God, help us all..."
“No!” Erskine found himself saying, shaking his
head. He wondered if he were acting naturally
enough...
“Mary!” Westerman called to his wife in a tone of
protest. “Get her back into her apartment... She's
got to put on some clothes ... She can't go down
there like that."
Mrs. Westerman stared, finally comprehending


66
RICHARD WRIGHT
“When did this happen?" Mr. Fenley asked
Erskine.
“This morning, I think ..."
“This morning?” Mr. Fenley echoed.
“Presumably so," Erskine said.
Mrs. Fenley, frail, tall, clad also in her bathrobe,
came to the door, her mouth open, her eyes staring,
at Erskine.
“Good morning," she greeted Erskine tensely.
“What's all this about little Tony?"
“Good morning, Mrs. Fenley," Erskine answered
her. “I don't know, really. Westerman says that Tony
fell from the balcony and was killed..."
“Good God! From the balcony...pas
“Seems so. That's what they say. Westerman and
his wife are now inside with Mrs. Blake-" He ges-
tured toward the open apartment door.
Westerman came out of Mrs. Blake's apartment in
time to overhear Mrs. Fenley's request for informa-
tion.'
"Little Tony fell from the balcony; he was
crushed," he told them. “He must have been killed
as soon as he hit the pavement..."
“The balcony on this floor?” Mrs. Fenley asked.
“Yes, I think so," Westerman said.
"Oh, dear! That poor little child,” Mrs. Fenley
moaned, clutching her throat and turning to her hus-
band. She swung around, as though suddenly re-
membering her duty. “That poor woman ... How she
must be suffering-” She ran to the open door of
Mrs. Blake's apartment and entered.
Erskine saw Fenley stoop and gather up the bulk
of his Sunday paper and at once Erskine did the
same. Surreptitiously, he tried to smooth out his
crumpled wad ... The elevator door had been left
open and from it came the insistent sound of buzzing.


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
67
Westerman stepped to the elevator and closed the.com
door.
"Is there anything we can do?” Mr. Fenley asked
Westerman.
"I'm afraid not, sir,” Westerman replied. He looked
worried, stunned. “I want to see that balcony," he
said at last, frowning.
"Then it was from this floor?” Mr. Fenley asked.
"I guess so,” Westerman mumbled. “It was where
he played most of the time. ..."
"Goodness,” Erskine breathed.
Erskine's legs were trembling. He had a hot im-
pulse to tell Westerman right then and there what
had happened for, maybe, they'd find it out sooner
or later and blame him ... for what? What could
they blame him for? And if he had anything to tell,
should he not have told it already? To try to tell
now was awkward ... And yet the longer he waited,
the more impossible it would be to tell. And it all
had too much the air of a wild dream to make
sense. Yes; he'd follow Westerman and see how
he reacted when he saw that loose iron railing jut-
ting off the balcony into space ... He pushed the
lever on his lock and, as he did so, he cursed himself
for having forgotten to do so earlier this morning. If
he'd done that, all of this would not have hap-
pened; Tony would be alive, yelling, beating his
drum ... He walked behind Westerman, still wear-
ing his bathrobe, holding his Sunday newspaper ...
“But what happened?" Erskine asked Westerman.
"We don't know, sir,” Westerman replied vaguely.
"I always was kinda scared of that balcony. Too
small for kids to play on.”
"But is the child really dead?” Erskine asked.
"Maybe they could still help him, save him..."
Erskine swallowed; he could feel that his voice car-
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RICHARD WRIGHT
ried a note of a man not wanting to believe what he
had heard.
"He's dead,” Westerman told him flatly. “The cop
said he was DOA-dead on arrival.”
Westerman came to the open door giving onto the
balcony and stood staring for a moment. Erskine,
standing directly behind Westerman, had to tiptoe
and peer over the man's shoulder to see the tumbled
tricycle and the overturned electric hobbyhorse
which now lay near the iron railing, having been
pushed there by Erskine's naked feet when he had
hoisted himself upward into the bathroom window.
The iron railing was conspicuously loose; one end
had been torn from the brick wall and was now
extending out into space...
Erskine lifted his head and his eyes anxiously
searched the window ledge for blood spots. There
were none. Thank God...] Only a miracle had kept
that window ledge free of blood stains, and he had
forgotten to inspect it until this very moment...
“Jeeeesus,” Westerman breathed. “That railing
came smack out of that wall... How on earth could
that happen?”
Westerman advanced upon the balcony now.
"Could he have fallen against it?” Erskine asked
him in a low, charged tone.
Westerman did not reply; he bent forward, got
to his knees and examined the gaping hole from
which the railing had come.
"God, the cement's loose; that's why the railing
came out,” Westerman spoke as though to himself.
He then looked up to Erskine. “See?” he asked,
pointing.
Erskine shuddered but kept his face straight. True,
the cement had been somewhat loose, but he knew in
his heart that Tony's weight and the blow dealt that


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
69
-
railing by the hobbyhorse would not have torn that
railing from that brick wall; it had been his added
weight of two hundred pounds-accidentally thrown
against the railing-that had made that railing sag
and give way...
“Yes,” Erskine murmured.
Westerman got to his feet and stared about. "He
must've been playing on that horse and fell, maybe
... He went against that railing. That damned horse
is heavy. I've lifted it many a time to bring it out
here for Tony." Westerman lifted the horse. "Feel
this, Mr. Fowler,” Westerman said to Erskine.
Erskine hesitated, then took hold of the horse and
lifted it; it weighed nearly sixty pounds.
"It's kind of heavy," Erskine allowed himself to
admit.
"You're telling me?" Westerman said scornfully.
"Why in God's name they want to make toys as big
and heavy as that, I don't know." Westerman scowled
in disgust. "If he had fallen against that railing
alone, it wouldn't have pulled loose; but when he
and that damned horse, the two of them, hit that
railing, it gave ... Don't you think sopa
“Looks like it,” Erskine said with a dry throat. He
felt that he was speaking the truth.
Cautiously, Westerman peered over the edge of
the balcony, then drew back, his eyes full of pity,
horror, and wonder.
"Makes me dizzy just to look down there," he
mumbled, sweat standing on his brow.
Erskine heard dull footsteps behind him; he
glanced round and saw Mr. Fenley, pale, concen-
trated, tense, advancing toward the balcony, his thin
lips hanging open and the sparse, blond and gray
hair on top of his head tossing in the wind.
“No child should be allowed to play on a balcony
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RICHARD WRIGHT
as tiny as that,” Mr. Fenley snapped with indigna-
tion. He turned and was about to leave when he al-
most collided with a uniformed policeman.
"Which of you is Mr. Westermanpy the policeman
asked.
"I am, sir,” Westerman said. “This is awful_"
"Is this where he fell from?" the policeman asked.
"I guess so," Westerman mumbled. “These are
his playthings. And this was where he played all
the time"
"Hmmnn," the policeman grunted, staring about.
"That iron railing ... Was it always loose, like
that...po
“No, sir,” Westerman replied stoutly. “That's the
first time in my life I've seen it like that." The man's
voice rang with conviction; he was frowning and
staring at the loose cement. “That railing was cer-
tainly not like that yesterday, sir. I washed windows
on this floor and I'd have seen it, if it had been.”
“Who else comes out on this balconypa the police-
man asked.
"Nobody but Tony; he played here a lot," Wester-
man said.
"Whose window's that the policeman asked,
pointing to Erskine's bathroom window.
“That's my window," Erskine told him.
"Did you hear anything out here this morning?
the policeman asked him.
"I heard the child beating his drum," Erskine said.
"Was there anybody with ’im?"
"Not that I know of.”
"Did the child make any strange outcries pas
"I heard him shouting, playing,"
"But no sounds as though he was hurt or any-
thing?"
"Nothing like that."


72
RICHARD WRIGHT
and had frightened the child, wouldn't the idea
leap into everybody's mind that he had been up to
something “perverse”? Did telling the truth mean
that one had to expose one's self uselessly to slander
of that sort? But why was he so certain that others
would think him “perverse”? Erskine's experience
as an insurance man had taught him that man was
a sneaking, guilty animal, always prone to excesses,
to outlandish attitudes. Common sense urged him to
hold his tongue, and he was positive that no motive
other than that of prudence was prompting him to
silence.
"I was in my apartment," Mr. Fenley explained. “I
saw nothing. I heard a commotion and looked out
of my door and saw Mrs. Blake crying and yell-
ing..."
"I was taking in my paper when I heard Mrs.
Blake scream," Erskine found words at last. “God,
it's a pity"
"You folks mustn't touch anything here,” the
policeman said. He went to the balcony and peered
down, then to left and right.
Mr. Fenley went back into the hallway and Ers-
kine followed him.
. "It's awful,” Erskine said to Mr. Fenley.
"It's that mother of his, if you ask me,” Mr. Fenley
said sotto voce. “She was sleeping, she said... Im-
agine! She ought to be whipped to let a child play
out there."
"Guess you're right,” Erskine found himself eagerly
clutching at a scapegoat.
"And she's weeping," Mr. Fenley said in disgust.
"She ought to."
Mrs. Fenley came out of Mrs. Blake's apartment,
followed by Mrs. Westerman who was leading the
weeping Mrs. Blake by the arm. Mrs. Blake had


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
73
.
dressed, but her tumbling black hair spread wildly
over her shoulders, half hiding her face and spilling
down to her waist. The door of Mrs. Blake's apart-
ment slammed shut and Erskine stared at it as though
hypnotized, recalling how, just less than an hour ago,
he had been standing naked and terrified before his
own door that had slammed shut.
"Will she be able to get back in?" the policeman
asked, coming forward.
"Don't bother,” Mrs. Westerman said. “I've got
passkeys to all the apartments in the building. I'll
let her in when she comes back.”
Mrs. Blake walked with difficulty, her knees sag-
ging. She paused as she passed Erskine and stared
blankly before her. Erskine imagined that, for half
a second, her large, limpid, brown eyes were rest-
ing upon him. Or had they? He grew tense. He had
to be careful and keep a tight hold on himself. ...
Mrs. Fenley went to her husband's side and
clutched his arm nervously, staring at Mrs. Wester-
man and Mrs. Blake. The two women, Westerman,
and the policeman entered the elevator; the door
closed and the elevator sank.
"Poor, poor woman,” Mrs. Fenley murmured in
awe.
"I wonder if there's anything we can do?” Erskine
spoke uncertainly.
"Well, the police are taking care of everything
now," Mr. Fenley said. “It's too bad ... Come, dear."
He took his wife's arm and led her into their apart-
ment.
Erskine stood alone in the hallway, hugging his
bundle of Sunday papers. Suddenly he was afraid
to enter his apartment. He dreaded being alone
now. When supported by the presence of the others,
everything had seemed natural, his not telling had
UNIVERSITY


74
RICHARD WRIGHT
had a normal aspect. But the moment he was alone
and face to face with himself, he felt that he ought
to tell. But how could he? He stood brooding, biting
his lips.
The elevator door opened and Miss Brownell, her
arms full of groceries, came out with wide eyes and
a pale face.
“Oh, Mr. Fowler, do you know what has hap-
pened?" she demanded, running up to him.
"About little Tony? It's awful, awful... I can't be-
lieve it,” he told her.
"What a ghastly, horrible thing!” Miss Brownell
sang out as she closed her eyes. “I had to walk ten
blocks to buy something for lunch, and when I
passed down there I thought I'd faint when they told
me that that was little Tony lying there all smashed
... The poor little thing was all covered with a sheet
or something. I couldn't even bear to look in his
direction. They're taking him to the hospital now_"
“The hospital?" Erskine repeated her words. "But
I thought the child was dead ..." Had he spoken too
abruptly, in too surprised a manner?
"He is,” Miss Brownell assured him quickly. “But
it seems that they take 'em to the hospital anyway.
Mr. Westerman says that the Medical Examiner has
to decide if the death was accidental or not. But,
of course, it was . . . Just a formality, you know? Oh,
things like this unnerve me no end ... And that Mrs.
Blake lost her husband in the war, you know? How
did poor Tony fall?”
"Nobody seems to know," Erskine said uneasily.
"That Mrs. Blake,” Miss Brownell pronounced the
woman's name in a sudden, sober manner, biting her
lips and shooting a meaningful glance at Erskine.
“Yes,” Erskine said quietly, agreeing.
They had both passed a moral judgment upon the


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
75
mother of Tony. Her arms loaded, Miss Brownell
was now trying to open her door, fumbling awk-
wardly with her key.
"Here; let me help you there,” Erskine said, ad-
vancing.
“Oh, thank you,” Miss Brownell said, surrender-
ing her key.
Erskine unlocked her door and handed her her
key.
“You're so kind,” Miss Brownell murmured, smil-
ing at him.
“Not at all,” Erskine mumbled.
"I just can't seem to get that poor child out of my
mind,” Miss Brownell wailed.
“I know what you mean,” Erskine said, nodding
sympathetically. He felt sweat breaking out again
over the skin of his body.
"Well, good-bye,” Miss Brownell called, smiling
sadly.
"Good morning, Miss Brownell,” Erskine said.
Miss Brownell's door closed and Erskine turned
and headed for his door. He stopped. He was staring
at a copy of Mrs. Blake's New York Times that lay in
a neat, folded heap at her door sill. And his copy of
the New York Times was crushed under his arms,
damp, crumpled ... Yes; he'd exchange the news-
papers ... Mrs. Blake would be too upset to notice
that her copy was not fresh, was damp and wadded.
... She'd surely not read the paper today; and even
if she did notice that her papers were soiled, wouldn't
she think that Tony had been playing with them ...?
Stooping quickly, he let his paper fall softly to
the carpet and then picked up her paper; he glanced
round; no one was in sight. He sighed, still trem-
bling slightly, then went back into his apartment,
shut the door, and leaned weakly against it. He stifled
THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN LIBRARIES


76
RICHARD WRIGHT
a groan. He was feeling a terror that he had felt a
long, long time ago, feeling it but not understanding
it. He felt alone, abandoned in the world abandoned
and guilty. Why?
"God, it wasn't my fault.” He spoke aloud in a
stern, resentful, and insistent voice.





I V UMBED, shaky, Erskine went to his bedroom
window and stared down into the street, feeling that
something grossly unfair had happened to him. The
crowd had dispersed and the sun lit to distinctness
the dark, irregular smudge where Tony's body had
lain in its pool of blood.
How utterly stupid it all was! With a violent re-
flex action he spun round, his face contorted with
rage; he smote his right fist into his left palm; then
his knees sagged from pain. He'd forgotten that he
had cut his hand. Blood began to flow again from
the wound; he went to the bathroom, washed it, and
sealed it with adhesive tape.
He sank into a chair, brooding. His mind strenu-
ously protested the potency of that accident. If only
he hadn't foolishly failed to flick the lever on his
lock; if only that lazy, good-for-nothing Mrs. Blake
had been looking after her child properly; if only
he hadn't left his bedroom window open, a draft of
air would not have pushed his door shut; if only
he'd taken time and looked on that balcony before
rushing out; if only, when he'd gone down nude in
the elevator, those two young girls hadn't been
waiting there; if only that cursed newsboy hadn't
come at that time; if only he'd gotten out of bed
the moment he'd opened his eyes, instead of lolling
79


80
RICHARD WRIGHT
and day-dreaming-none of this would have hap-
penedl But who, in the name of God, would have
foreseen such a concatenation of events?
One aspect of the accident bothered him above all:
why had little Tony been so frightened of him as to
lose his balance when he'd come running nude onto
the balcony? Tony knew him, admired him; then,
why had he gone into such a panic... ? It's true that
he'd been naked, and, when naked, Erskine knew
that he was not a pleasant or poetic sight...
Erskine realized that a child's mind was a strange
shadowland, and what seemed ordinary to adults
would loom as something monstrous or fearful to
Tony who had lived in a world of Indians, horses,
bombing planes, soldiers, whales, and perhaps things
never seen on land or sea. What, then, had Tony
associated him with that seemed so fantastic, fright-
ful? Why had the sudden sight of him-huge, hairy,
sweating, panting-sent Tony reeling?
And where, in the medley of these unrehearsed
episodes, did the element of his guilt lie? Was it
because he'd denied any knowledge of how the child
had died that he felt guilty? No. He knew that even
now, if he told Mrs. Blake or the police how utterly
blameless he'd been, he'd still feel guilty? Why?
Never in Erskine's life had his emotions been à
problem to him; indeed, he had lived with the as-
sumption that he had no emotions. From puberty on-
wards he had firmly clamped his emotions under the
steel lid of work and had fastened and tightened that
lid with the inviolate bolts of religious devotion. Now
he felt ambushed, anchored in a sea of anxiety, be-
cause he was tremblingly conscious of all of his
buried demons stirring and striving for the light of
day. What did one do in situations like this? He then
felt guilty of feeling guilty.... Ought he to seek ad-
felt quilty &

.


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
81
of rebellionen when ughted ato
vice? But from whom? And about what? His strong-
est impulse at this moment was not to talk about
this, to deny its existence; he felt that his telling
others about it would make him feel even more
guilty, that he was no longer master of himself, and
he was far too proud for that....
Erskine could deal swiftly and competently with
the externalities of life. If something went wrong,
he called in a lawyer, an accountant, or a policeman,
and matters were righted at once. But who could
one summon when one's emotions went into a state
of rebellion? Vainly he groped for an explanation that
would enable him to deal with this. He felt tricked;
things shouldn't be like this! things were not like
this. Things had become temporarily snarled; soon,
however, he'd straighten them out again.
What had occurred was simple and, being an
executive, he ought to be able to arrive at a quick
solution. All right: the thing to do was to tell what
had happened. ... Then why all this perturbation,
hesitation? Intuitively, he felt that some dark visitor,
long banished from his life, was knocking at the door
of his heart; and he didn't want to open that door
and see the strange but familiar features of that
visitor's face. But, if he didn't open that door, what
was he to do? Just listen endlessly to that hollow, re-
sounding knocking?
The honorable, Christian thing to do was to tell
the police; he had connections; he had money; he
could hire a lawyer. But, no; that was not the way
out; not at all. Considerations of personal safety were
not constraining him; he could, if worse came to
worst, bribe his way out. But, out of what would he
bribe his way? He wasn't guilty...
He had a foggy hunch that there was as yet some
nameless act that he could perform that would right


82
RICHARD WRIGHT
the wrong, redress the evil he had inadvertently
done. But whenever he was on the verge of thinking
of that act, of forming a clear image of it, he sweated,
trembled, and all but sank under the weight of morti-
fication and guilt. What, then, was that act? What
dark nature did it possess to evoke such distress in
him? He sat upon his bed and stared unseeingly.
He checked his watch; good God ... He'd only
twenty minutes to get to Sunday School ... He show-
ered, dressed, fumbling with his clothes, still nurs-
ing his wounded hand. If any investigation got
under way, he didn't want it said that he'd, perhaps
from nervousness, remained away from church for
the first time in ten years. And he needed the sus-
taining solace of his fellow-Christians at this mo-
ment. He was convinced that in the end his faith in
God would lead him to a solution. .
He got his Bible, his book of Sunday School les-
sons and stood undecided before that fateful door
that had slammed shut in his face. His stomach felt
queasy; he drank a glass of water and let himself out.
He crossed the bright, empty hallway, summoned
the elevator, and rode down and went out into the
street.
A policeman stood a few feet from the fire hy-
drant, near the spot where little Tony's body had
lain. The streets were filled with Sunday quietness.
He wanted to talk to the policeman, ask him what
had been the opinions of his colleagues about Tony's
accidental fall; but he recalled that most of the
crooks that he had caught, when he'd sleuthed in
the insurance business, had betrayed themselves by
talking too much. He forced himself to turn and walk
down the block.
It was too late to get his car from the garage, and
he felt much too nervous to drive anyway. He hailed


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
a taxi, gave the driver the address of his church, and
settled back in the seat, mopping his wet face with a
balled handkerchief. Now, what was his future con-
duct to be? Yes; as soon as church was over this
morning, he'd visit Mrs. Blake and pay her his re-
spects. But what would he say to her? And what, if
anything, had been the meaning of that fixed, brief
stare she had, while being supported by Mrs. Fenley
and Mrs. Westerman, given him in the hallway? Or
had he imagined that? Had anyone else noticed it?
He chided himself for letting his overstrained nerves
get the better of him. No one suspected anything;
if they had, they'd have voiced it long before now.
He'd better concentrate on his Sunday School les-,
son, which Tony's death had robbed him of time to
study, so as to be able to perform his religious duties
without betraying the turbulent state of his emo-
tions. Well, he'd improvise; with God's help, he'd
spread His Word...
"Here you are, sir," the driver said, pulling to the
curb in front of a huge white sandstone church
topped by a white cross.
As he paid the driver, he heard the church bell
tolling with melancholy softness through the sunny
air. Compulsively touching the tips of the pencils
clipped to his inner coat pocket, he strode with
brisk, confident steps through loitering groups of
young men and women and entered the church. A
plaintive wave of hymn filled his ears:
Just as I am, without one plea
But that Thy Blood was shed for me,
And that Thou bidd'st me come to Thee
O Lamb of God, I come.
Just as I am, though toss'd about
With many a conflict, many a doubt,


RICHARD WRIGHT
Fightings and fears within, without,
9 Lamb of God, I come.
CHURCH REHMED
Long lances of soft light falling from stained glass
windows made delicate crisscrosses in the dim,
vaulted interior of the church, and the serried rows
of faces in the circular pews, arrayed one behind the
bther and stretching away into the shadows, closed
around him like a sweet benediction. The nostalgia
of the singing voices soothed his taut nerves and at
once he felt better. The world seemed to be gaining
in safety, solidity this was his world, a world he be-
lieved in, trusted a world he had supported all his
life and which, in turn, buoyed him up with its sunlit
faith from which all confusions had been forever
banished by the boon of God's great grace.
At a long walnut table, placed before and below
the pulpit, sat Mrs. Ira Claxton, smiling and nodding
at him as always, her head crowned magically by a
halo of snow-white hair; she was, bless her, filling in
for him. The memory of Tony's death-plunge and
his sense of guilt fled as he walked down the middle
aisle, bowing from left to right, recognizing faces of
friends, and he knew that they were all noticing him
intently because, for the first time in ten years, he
was fifteen minutes late. These were his people; they
needed him and he needed them; theirs was a world
in which little children did not, for wildly mysterious
reasons, tumble from balconies to their deaths; in this
world there were no dark, faceless strangers knocking
at the doors of one's soul.com
He shook hands with Mrs. Claxton, his assistant;
with Deacon Bradley, the treasurer; and with forty-
year-old, shy Miss White, the Sunday School sec-
retary. Mrs. Claxton leaned toward him and
whispered:


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
85
yu
.
"I was beginning to wonder..."
"A terrible accident happened in my building this
morning," he whispered to her. "I'll tell you about
it later."
Mrs. Claxton's gray eyes widened in sympathetic
concern as she nodded, not skipping a beat of the
music or a word of the hymn.
The deep-throated, sonorous tones of the organ
made him join in the hymn; he lifted his baritone
voice to swell the volume of song. He was contented.
He was home ...
The opening remarks had already been made by
Mrs. Claxton and the next items were a prayer by
Deacon Bradley; the reading of the minutes by Miss
White; and the treasurer's report, also by Deacon
Bradley. Following that, Erskine would introduce
the morning's topic which, according to the Sunday
School book he held in his moist fingers, read:
GOD'S ETERNAL FAMILY
A murky illustration depicted Jesus speaking to a
vast crowd at the edge of which stood Mary, Jesus'
mother, and her sons. Below the picture ran these
verses:
ST. MATTHEW, 12: 46, 47, 48, 49, 50
46 While he yet talked to the people, behold, his
mother and his brethren stood without, desiring to
speak with him.
47 Then one said unto him, Behold, thy mother
and thy brethren stand without, desiring to speak
with thee.
48 But he answered and said unto him that told
him, Who is my mother? and who are my brethren?


88
RICHARD WRIGHT
God's mighty parable, a parable in which He has
couched our lives from childhood onward! Man-
made families lurch and wreck themselves on the
rocks of circumstance, but one has only to lift his
eyes, tear himself away from selfishness, and he sees,
with the help of God, another family, God's eternal
family—a family whose foundations are built of God's
will and love."
Patting his damp brow with his folded handker-
chief, Erskine concluded in simple but stern tones:
“Who is my mother? Who is my brother? What
terrible words! But what saving words! With one
master-stroke of His sword of righteousness, God cut
the chains of human slavery and made us all free,
free to see mothers and sisters everywhere, free to
recognize brothers in our neighbors, free to extend
our claim of kinship! Christ challenges you to do as
He did: Take the hand of even your loved ones and
bring them into that higher, greater family which is
of God! Christ likewise enjoins you to clasp hands
with your neighbor, even your enemy-those who
hate us and whom we hate and lead them into that
family where hate is no more, where enemies are
transformed into brothers, neighbors! Christ denied
His mother and His brothers, but only to make all
women His mother and all men · His brothers and
neighbors!"
He sat, compulsively assuring himself that his
colored pencils were intact. There was discreet hand-
clapping, which was unusual for the decorous,
middle-class members of the Mount Ararat Bap-
tist Church. Mrs. Claxton leaned and whispered with
admiration in her eyes:
"It was wonderfull"
· “Mrs. Claxton,” Erskine spoke on the spur of the
moment, "would you be kind enough to take charge


90 . RICHARD WRIGHT
of Mrs. Blake's nude, voluptuously sinful body which
he had glimpsed twice through his open window ...
After Sunday School had let out, Erskine took
Mrs. Claxton's hand in his own and implored her:
"Please, tell Reverend Barlow that I shan't be at
the afternoon or evening services."
"You don't feel well, do you?" she asked compas-
sionately.
"Really, I don't."
"We'll miss you,” she told him.
Though the distance was more than fourteen
blocks, he decided to walk home. But the moment
he was on the hot sidewalk, under the noonday sun,
amid the passers-by, his mood of confident righteous-
ness began to ebb. Had anyone seen him on that bal-
cony? Had the Medical Examiner or the police found
any clues that would make them suspect that some-
one had been with Tony on that balcony? Maybe the
police were waiting to question him now ... God!
He suddenly didn't want to go home. And Mrs. Blake,
what could he tell her? He'd offer her his con-
dolences; but after that, what? Where was that neat
solution that he'd been hugging to his heart back
there in that dim, song-filled church? He must talk
to somebody about this ... No; he couldn't! His steps
slowedThere was but one way out for his con-
Science; he had to see Mrs. Blake and settle this
thing r.. But something in him warned him off from
her.
He entered Central Park. Sunday couples loitered.
The sun blazed. Children skipped and ran. A little
girl blew bubble gum. A black boy sat on a bench
reading a comic magazine. A cloud of pigeons
whirled in wild freedom in the sky and he could see
their taut, almost transparent wings. He found an


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
91
empty bench and sat. He was hungry, but the idea
of food nauseated him. Nervously he rubbed his
damp palm across his eyes. Blast it all, what was
he to do?
He fell into a tense brooding, trying to reorder his
situation into a meaningful design. Yes; that foolish
Mrs. Blake was the cause of all his-trouble... Had
she been the kind of mother she should have been,
none of this would have happened. His eyes nar-
rowed as recollection brought to his mind the kind
of images that proved his thesis.
He recalled that one Sunday morning he had gone
down in the elevator and Mrs. Blake had been wait-
ing on the first floor; she'd been so tipsy that he'd
caught her arm to keep her from stumbling as she'd
entered the elevator. At the time he'd been dis-
gusted and amused, but now his memory of that
incident made him seethe with moral rage. He should
have complained about her then, should have pro-
tested the right of a morally depraved woman like
her to live in the building.
Suddenly his condemnation of Mrs. Blake was
buttressed by still another and stronger memory.
About a year ago he'd been awakened around five
o'clock one morning by a strange noise-a dim, regu-
lar and rhythmic creaking—which had soon stopped.
He'd lain in bed puzzled, wondering what could have
been happening. A week later-it had been around
four o'clock in the morning this time-he'd heard
that same vague, rhythmic noise, and this time he'd
known with a dismaying flash of intuition what was
happening.... He'd gotten up and changed rooms,
converting his living room into his bedroom to escape
overhearing Mrs. Blake's carnal activities ... Yes;
that was the kind of woman she was, and he was


92
· RICHARD WRIGHT
more than ever certain that the true guilt for the
death of Tony lay not on his, but her shoulders.
He licked his lips and stared unseeingly through
the yellow sunshine. There was trying to break into
his mind yet another recollection, but he was fight-
ing it off... Why? He bent forward and squinted
at the green grass and his mind drifted. He recalled
one evening last month when the summer sky was
still light and he'd come home early from the office
and had found little Tony alone upon the sidewalk.
The child had smiled and run skippingly toward
him, grabbing his hand.
"Hi, Mr. Fowler!" Tony had greeted him.
"Hello, Tony. How are you?" he'd asked him.
"Fine."
"What are you doing?"
"Playing."
“How's your mother?"
"Dunno. I ain't seen her today yet. She's sleep
ing."
"Oh."
"Are you tired, Mr. Fowler?"
"No, Tony. Why?
"Are you very busy now??
"Not at all. Whypy
"Talk to me some, hunh? A little," Tony had
begged.
He had looked into those round, large, black
eyes--helpless eyes, lonely eyes.
"Why, sure, Tony. But haven't you got anybody to
talk top
Tony's lips had quivered and he had not answered.
"Where are your little playmates? Don't you talk
to them?
“Naw. I never talk to nobody. No friends around
here wanna play with me. ..."


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
“Whypo
Again Tony had refused to answer; he'd looked
off and frowned.
"All right, Tony. I'll talk to you. Let's go to the
drugstore and get a malted milk, hunh? You don't
think that your mother would mind, do you?"
“Naw. I won't tell her."
"But you should tell her everything you do," he
told Tony. “Don't you?"
“Naw. Why should I?
“Good boys do, you know.”
"I'm bad ..."
A stab of pity had gone through Erskine's heart
as he'd stared at the child.
"Oh, no! Why do you say that?"
“Mama says so."
"Don't you tell your mother what you do during
the days
“She never asks me what I do."
"But suppose you lose your appetite from drink-
ing a malted milk,“ Erskine had posed a problem for
him; "wouldn't your mother want to know why you
won't eat?"
"Naw. She just fixes the supper and leaves it for
me to eat when I wanna.”
“But don't you talk to your mother at all?" he'd
asked the child, leading him by the hand.
"She tells me to wash my face and not to make so.
much noise," Tony had said resentfully.
"Look, sometimes you must try telling her what
you do during the day,” Erskine had said. “Try it ..."
"She won't listen"
“But, Tony, your mother must talk to you some
times->
"But she won't tell me what she does," Tony had
complained bitterly.


94
RICHARD WRIGHT
"Don't you love your mother?”
Tony had not answered.
"You should love your mother, you know, Tony."
“Maybe she doesn't want me to love her-"
“Why do you say that?”
"I dunno.
"Does she beat you often?"
"Naw. Sometimes ... But I don't care."
“Then, what does she do to you to make you say
that she doesn't want you to love her, Tony?"
"She never does anything. Mama's not like other
ladies," Tony had said in confusion.
“Oh, Tony! You mustn't say that,"
"But that's what Mike who lives down the street
says."
Erskine had been shocked. He'd patted Tony's
head and had squeezed his hand in pity. There had
been anger in his eyes as they'd entered the drug-
store and seated themselves in a booth.
“Tony, you must not listen to what this Mike
says-"
""But all the boys say that," Tony had informed
him.
Erskine's understanding had been a remember-
ing ... If only he could help this abandoned child!
Somebody ought to report that Mrs. Blake to the
authorities ... They were silent until their malted
milks came and they sat sipping them through long
straws,
“Why don't you ever come to see my mama?" Tony
had asked him suddenly.
“She's never invited me,” Erskine said, staring at
the boy.
“Then why don't you call up and ask her to let
you come over, like the others do?" Tony had de
manded hopefully.


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
95
"I guess I'm pretty busy, Tony,” Erskine had an-
swered uneasily.
"I like you better than I like the other men who
come to see her," Tony had said, looking Erskine
full in the face. “They won't talk to me. They take
mama in the bedroom and lock the door."
"I like you, Tony. You're a good boy," Erskine had
mumbled, avoiding Tony's eyes.
Offense nestled deep in Erskine's heart. Tony had
so upset him that he wanted to leave. He hadn't
known how to act or what to say. His pity for the
child had made him remain.
“When you were a boy, did you sleep in bed with
your mother?" Tony had asked in a far-away voice.
"I guess so. I really don't remember, Tony. Do
you?"
TA
"Yes; when there isn't a man in bed with her."
Erskine had wanted to tell Tony not to talk like
that, but he felt that he hadn't the right to. He'd felt
more intimidated with Tony at that moment than
with any adult he could have named.
"Do you sleep with your mother oftenps he'd found
himself asking Tony.
"I used to. But there are so many men coming
to see her at night now...I go to sleep in her bed
when she's away at work at night, but when I wake
up in the morning, I find that she's taken me out of
her bed and put me in my bed, and there's a man in
the bed with her," Tony had said, staring off into
space.
“Tony, you must not talk like that!”
"But it's true," Tony had said.
"You really must love your mother, you know,"
Erskine had said in confusion.
"I do," Tony had said, quietly, sincerely. “But she
loves so many other people.”


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
97
The child's eyes had filled with tears and he'd
stared down into his empty glass.
"You're fooling me," he whimpered.
“No; I'm telling you the truth. Why don't you
believe me?
"Dunno."
Tony had mastered himself and was drying the
tears.
"Tony, God made all people in the world"
"Yes. But..." Tony had stammered diplomatical-
ly.
“But what?
“Mama didn't say that we are made like that."
"What did she say?"
"She said that men and women make babies"
"Oh, sure; sure, Tony. They do. But God lets
them make them
"Whyps
"For His glory. So little boys like you can have a
chance to live,” Erskine had explained, forcing a
smile as he talked; but he knew that he'd not an-
swered Tony and he wondered if it was his duty to
do so.
"But whyps Tony had asked wailingly.
"Don't you think you ought to ask your mama
about that, Tony? It's better for her to tell you—"
"But she won't tell me everything... Now, you
tell me why God makes the babies_
"It's His will, God's will"
“Will? What's will, Mr. Fowlerp
"Er-It's desire, Tony. When you desire some
thing, you want it, you will it. Understand?"
“Then God wants them to be angry?" Tony had
asked, frowning.
Erskine had blinked. What was the child getting
at?


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
99
Erskine had known that he had to be careful.
He could not give this child an explanation that
would make him repeat his words to his mother,
for his mother might well come to him and bawl him
out for it.
"Maybe she does,” Erskine had sighed in defeat.
"But you are a man," Tony had argued. “You can
find out. People will tell you anything"
"I guess I don't want to ask them, Tony," he had
said wearily.
Tony had stared off again, then his lips quivered.
“I don't want to grow up,” he had said at last.
"I don't wanna be a man-
"Why"
“ 'Cause I don't wanna fight,” he said. "I don't
wanna fight ladies like my mother ..."
Erskine had not answered that. He had been
determined to stop the conversation. Yes; he'd take
Tony to the toy shop down the street and buy him
something to distract him. That was as good a way
as any of getting out of this horrible atmosphere
of panic and degradation that Tony evoked around
him. ****
“Say, Tony, wouldn't you like some toys from the
store down the street?"
Tony's eyes had grown round.
“For real?"
"Sure."
"I wanna long-range bomber," Tony had said with
excitement. “The kind that carries the atom bomb."
"All right. But do you think they've got them
there
"Sure. I've seen 'em in the windows."
Erskine had paid and had sauntered out, thought-
fully leading Tony by the hand. The child chatted
about a film he'd seen in which fighter planes had


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
103
make-believe game of “fighting," and Erskine felt
ill.
"Lookl" Tony was screaming now with a mixture
of compulsive terror and fascination in his face. “The
little baby fighters are falling down...!
Sweat had stood on Tony's face and his body
trembled. He looked wildly about, as though seeing
something that Erskine could not see. Suddenly he
dropped the planes; then, in an effort to find shelter
from his self-created nightmare, he grabbed Er-
skine's legs, shut his eyes, and clung to him fran-
tically.
"What's the matter, Tonyß" Erskine had asked
him, holding him.
"Oh! Oh! I'm so scared," Tony had whimpered.
“Now, now,” Erskine had said. “It's nothing. Don't
cryl I'm here with you..."
In the end Erskine too had grown frightened, for
he could feel what was frightening the child. What
could he do for Tony? He's all mixed up... He
ought to talk to Mrs. Blake about Tony... But had
he the right to interfere? He had stooped and gath-
ered up the bombing planes from the sidewalk and
handed them to Tony. But Tony would not take
them; he backed off, shaking his head, turning his
face away.
"I don't want 'em; I don't want 'em," Tony had
sobbed, flinging out his hands.
"But they're yours, Tony,” he'd tried to persuade
the child. “Take 'em and keep 'em.”
"They scare me; they scare mel” he'd sobbed.
Tony had started running towards the entrance
of the building. Erskine had been of a mind to run
after him, to try to comfort him, but he checked
himself. The bombing planes suddenly felt loath-
some in his hands and he had an impulse to toss


104
RICHARD WRIGHT
them into the street. But, no ... He'd be acting like
Tony if he did that ... He sighed, picturing Tony
hiding and sobbing somewhere, trembling and brood-
ing over images of life much too big and compli-
cated for him. He took the abandoned bombing
planes and gave them to Mrs. Westerman.
“Just keep these for Tony, won't you?” he'd asked
her. “He forgot them and left them on the sidewalk.”
"He, he-” Mrs. Westerman had chuckled. “That
child's a case. He's always doing that. He's a queer
child, he is ... He plays alone, then gets scared and
runs off and leaves his toys."
“Does he do that all the time pas
"All the time,” Mrs. Westerman had said, shaking
her head. “He's scared of something..."
Erskine had been so angry and depressed that he
had not wanted to eat his dinner that night.
He still sat hunched on the bench in Central Park,
staring at the green grass long after the images of
Tony's tortured fare and his bombing planes had
vanished from his mind. Good God... Now, he
understood it. Yes, poor little Tony had thought that
he, naked, frantic, wild-eyed, had been about to
fight him and fear had made him lose his balance
and topple ... Christ, were there happenings like
that in this world? Were there shadows of that
density lurking behind these bright, straight streets?
He longed to discuss this with somebody, but he
felt that at the very moment of uttering his words
to describe it, its reality would somehow vanish.
Strangely, the accident had happened more than
four hours ago, and it was not until this moment
that he had realized the truth. ..
Brooding, the memory of his own long dead moth-
er returned to him. Yes; he understood Tony. He


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
105
too recalled watching strange men tramping in and
out of the house in his childhood, and he felt a
surging sense of terror, old, buried, trying to re-
capture him. He cut the distasteful recollection short
by doubling his fists, rising and glaring about, ob-
livious of his surroundings. He muttered out loud:
"Women oughtn't to do things like that..." , nu de votom
Again his emotions became religious. The cer-
tainty he had felt in church returned. He must some-
how redeem what had happened to Tony! That was
it! Conviction hardened in him. In redeeming Tony,
he'd be redeeming himself. How neatly the double
motives fitted! He'd help to purge the world of such
darkness ... How right he'd been in refusing to ac-
cept blame for Tony's death; it hadn't been his fault
at all. Only an ignorantly lustful woman could spin
such spider webs of evil to snare men and innocent
children! As he walked he told himself with the
staunchest conviction of his life: “That Mrs. Blake's
the guilty one..."
He entered a cafeteria and toyed absently with a
plate of food. On the sidewalk again, he headed
slowly toward home. In the lower hallway of the
building he met Mrs. Westerman.
"What about Tony?” he asked her.
Mrs. Westerman shook her head and closed her
eyes.
"Ah, that poor thing... God bless his soul ... He
died still holding that toy pistol of his,” she said. “I
think it was one you gave him." ;
“Did they find out how he fell?"
“He was just playing and fell,” Mrs. Westerman
told him. “That's what the Medical Examiner said.
And, of course, the child never regained conscious-
ness."


106
RICHARD WRIGHT
"Is there anything I can do for Mrs. Blake?" he
asked her.
Mrs. Westerman let her deep, gray eyes rest melt-
ingly on Erskine's face.
"You're so kind, Mr. Fowler," she sighed. “Tony
was so fond of you. He spoke of you all the time.
Told me many times that he wished you were his
daddy ... He was so alone, that child.” Mrs. Wester-
man shook her head and closed her eyes again.
“Lord, I don't know ..." Her voice trailed off.
“What do you mean, Mrs. Westerman?" Erskine
asked, sensing that she was about to say something
about Mrs. Blake.
"I just don't know," Mrs. Westerman repeated
significantly.
"What are you talking about?" Erskine demanded,
hugging his Bible and Sunday-school-book tightly,
feeling tension entering him.
"I'm not one to judge others, Mr. Fowler," Mrs.
Westerman said, looking Erskine full in the face.
"You can speak frankly to me,” he told her.
Mrs. Westerman drew a deep breath, waved her
hand in front of her eyes as though to brush aside a
repellant image, and then lifted her hands in a
gesture of disgust.
"That woman ... And she calls herself a mother,"
Mrs. Westerman sighed again. Plainly she wanted to
be coaxed to talk.
"Yes,” Erskine said, feeling relieved, “I under-
stand.”
"She's upstairs now. Just got back from the un-
dertaker, she did. She's just shattered. But she blames
everybody but herself for what happened. She says
she wants to sue the building for letting that railing
be loose like that... Says she's sure somebody
must've been on that balcony_"


108
RICHARD WRIGHT
ее
"Oh! But I thought she said that she was sleep
ing when Tony fell”
"She was; she claims—"
"Then how could she see somebody on my bal-
conyps
"She says she got up once to signal to Tony not
to make so much noise,” Mrs. Westerman explained.
“Then she says that she went back to bed ... For a
long while, she says, she didn't hear anything ... She
got worried, thinking that Tony had gone down into
the street ... She then went to her window again
and couldn't see Tony. Now, here's the funny part
of it... She says that she saw feet... somebody's
feet dangling in the air ... She says that she thought
that it was some other child playing with Tony, you
understand? I'll tell you her very words ... 'Naked
feet dangling in the air'... Can you imagine that?
Maybe she was drunk; she admits she'd been drink-
ing a little ... Mr. Fowler, I could still smell liquor
on her breath when she went down with me in the
elevator to see Tony's little body lying there ..."
Mrs. Westerman shrugged. "Or maybe she's all
mixed up, in a kind of fog or something; you know?
Maybe she's remembering the man who was with
her, hunh? Could be, couldn't it, Mr. Fowler? She
feels guilty now and she's trying to think up some-
thing out of thin air to take the blame off of her..."
“But I don't understand,” Erskine protested, blink-
ing. "Why, that's my balcony... I heard nobody out
there but Tony; he was beating his drum ... And
how could she talk of seeing someone naked out
there ...po He choked, but managed to continue.
"And what's all that got to do with Tony's falling??
"Nothing, if you ask me, Mr. Fowler,” Mrs. West-
erman said stoutly. "And my husband'll say the same
thing. He's not here now; he's down at the police


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
109
station trying to answer all their damn-fool ques-
tions. Listen, I think she was drunk, drunk as a coot.
I think she was confused and I'd say so in court
under oath, so help me God.”
“But how could she see onto my balcony?" Er-
skine asked. He knew well that she could see his
balcony, but he thought it best to establish his ig-
norance of that; he wanted to be totally innocent of
everything connected with Tony's falling.
"From her kitchen window, if she leaned out a
little-"
“Oh," he breathed, pretending surprise, “I didn't
know that.”
"She can get a tiny glimpse of your balcony...
But, Mr. Fowler, she didn't see anything; take my
word for it,” Mrs. Westerman swore. “I told her to
her face that I doubted if she saw anything or any-
body on the balcony but Tony ... Listen, Mr. Fowl-
er, she's just like all these loose women; they're a
dime a dozen ... When somebody catches 'em with
a man, they start yelling: “Rapel it's a wonder she
didn't say it was a nigger she saw. You understand?"
"I understand,” Erskine said, nodding.
“ 'Naked feet dangling in the air' on the balcony,"
Mrs. Westerman repeated Mrs. Blake's words in a
tone of derision. “And, would you believe it, she said
that those feet were going up, mind you; those
naked feet were going up in the air! When I told
her that that was impossible, she switched back to
that damned iron railing..."
“Say, just how drunk was she when she went
down this morning to see Tony?” Erskine asked
her shrewdly.
"Hal” Mrs. Westerman exclaimed dramatically,
rolling her eyes at him. She sucked her lungs full of
air and launched out: “Listen, Mr. Fowler, you


112
RICHARD WRIGHT
punk waving at her from the car before he drove
off ... Of course, sometimes they went up with her,
but don't ask me what they did! Now, she's alone...
What kind of friends did she have, I ask you?"
"God only knows,” Erkine sighed.
“Yes, God only knows,” Mrs. Westerman readily
relished the phrase and rolled it on her tongue. She
shook her head. "It's a pity that a fine, Christian
man like you has to be bothered with the likes of
her, Mr. Fowler. Oh, that Mrs. Blake ... She sure
upset us all today. My poor husband came tearing
in here, white as flour, asking me to phone upstairs
and tell Mrs. Blake that her son was hurt. Would
you believe it? I had to wait on that phone till she
was sober enough to understand what I was saying
... That phone rang six times before it could wake
her out of a drunken sleep..." .
"Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Erskine clucked his tongue and
shook his head; his legs were trembling.
"Well, let's all hope for the best,” Mrs. Wester-
man sang, throwing a bright, ironic smile at Erskine.
“Yes. Well, see you later,” Erskine said.
He rode up in the elevator, thinking: She saw
someone on the balcony... But she isn't sure ...
Good God! She was close ... Would she tell the
police what she had seen, or had Mrs. Westerman's
scornful rejection of her confused perceptions made
her hesitate? He entered his apartment and stared
at the bulk of the unread Sunday paper. How like
a dream it all was! No; it was real. Tony's death was
real; Tony's timid questions about where babies
came from were real... He lay on his unmade bed
and the afternoon wore on. The sky grew gradually
dark and deep shadows entered the room. He rose
and stared moodily out of his open window at the
window of Mrs. Blake's living room and was sur-


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
113
prised to see a light burning there. Her window was
up too. Go and see her now ... No; wait... Wait
for what? He didn't know.
He gave a start as his phone rang. He picked up
the receiver and heard a dim hum, and back of that
hum he caught the faint sounds of street traffic,
honking of auto horns, a policeman's whistle ...
“Hello,” he called into the phone.
Silence.
“Hello, hello," he repeated.
Still silence, but the sounds of street traffic were
still audible.
“Hello!” he raised his voice, his eyes worried.
The line clicked. Hmnnn.i. Had someone waited
just long enough to hear his voice, and then hung
up? He cradled the phone and stared. Had someone,
besides Mrs. Blake, seen him naked on that balcony?
But, if they had, wouldn't they have spoken to the
police about it before now? Oh, maybe that had
been Mrs. Blake? He rushed to his open window
and heard the sound of her television set: music
was playing. The sound he'd heard on the phone
was that of street traffic... He shook his head; he
was too wrought up; he was imagining things. Who-
ever had called would call again no doubt...
He sat on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers
though his damp hair. It was almost night. Restless,
he rose and stood at his window and stared at the
lights of the city. He spun round as his phone rang
again. He snatched it up and spoke:
"Hello!”
There was no answer. This time there was a ca-
cophony of faint voices, as though the transmitter on
the other end was picking up sounds in a bar or
restaurant. He darted to his open window and
peered into Mrs. Blake's living room. The clear


114
RICHARD WRIGHT
strains of music were still coming over ... Definitely,
it was not Mrs. Blake who was phoning him.
"Hello, hello," he spoke frantically into the phone.
"Mr. Fowler ...?” It was a distant, strained voice
of a woman.
"Yes; this is Mr. Fowler speaking. What is it?"
No answer ...
“Yes? Who's speaking?"
“I saw what happened," a thin, tinny voice wailed
in his ear.
The line clicked. Erskine felt that some giant hand
had snatched him from contact with the living world
and had lifted him high up into a cold region where
there was no air to breathe. He jiggled the hook.
"Hello, hello," he whispered into the phone.
The line was dead.
There was now no doubt about it; he'd been
seen by somebody other than Mrs. Blake ... But
what was the motive? Blackmail? God, he ought
to go to the police this moment, right now; he was
a fool to blunder around like this in a stupid funk.
It'd be said that his staying away from the police
was proof of guilt. And the longer he waited, the
more difficult it would be for him to justify his not
having told the police right off. Indeed, if he went
now, they'd certainly want to know why he'd waited
so long... And that was why he didn't go ... Cause
was becoming effect, and effect cause.
He cradled the phone and a look of defiance came
into his face. All right, suppose someone had seen
him? So what? What had he done wrong? Nothing
... He'd wait and see what that woman who'd called
him would do. He'd wait... Why, he was acting as
if he'd really killed Tony. If anyone had killed Tony,
it was that confounded Mrs. Blake ...


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
115
He was alert, hearing sounds coming from his
balcony, just outside of his bathroom window. Were
the police examining that iron railing? No; not at
this time of night ... Maybe it was the superin-
tendent? He'd go and see. And what was that bal-
cony door doing open at this time of night, anyway?
It was usually locked ... Well, it was his balcony,
wasn't it? He'd look. He went into the brightly
lighted hallway and quickly opened the door to the
balcony and a shaft of light from the hall ceiling
fell upon the somber face of Mrs. Blake who had
turned and was staring at him with parted lips
and a look of fright in her large, dark eyes.
"Oh, Lord," she sighed, "you scared me."
"I'm sorry," he mumbled. “I heard someone here
... It's you, Mrs. Blake ..."
She turned from him and hung her head. Did she
suspect him of anything?
"I feel simply dreadful about Tony," he told her.
She wept softly with her head turned away, her
body making a sharp silhouette against the blue-
black density of the night sky. He saw that she'd
been trying to drag the heavy electric hobbyhorse
into the hallway. The superintendent had, no doubt,
given her the key to the balcony door ... She was
dressed in a rose-colored nylon robe and a slight,
rain-scented wind was making her tumbling black
locks tremble about her face and eyes. His nostrils
caught a whiff of an intriguing perfume. Erskine was
seized by a state of numbed anxiousness.
"Oh, let me help you with that,” he said, going
to her.
"Don't bother,” she muttered.
What did that sullen tone of voice mean?
"Ill help you.” He spoke with an undertone of re-
sentment.


116 RICHARD WRIGHT
She stared at him for a moment, then began
weeping afresh, covering her face with her hands,
leaning against the sagging iron railing which wob-
bled perilously as her weight impinged upon it.
"Be carefull he told her, taking her arm and pull-
ing her roughly from the edge of the balcony. "It's
dangerous there..."
"I don't care," she whimpered...
"You don't know what you're saying," he told
her.
"Poor Tony," she sobbed. "I feel like dying..."
"You must take care of yourself," he said.
She continued weeping as though she had not
heard; she leaned now against the brick wall of the
building. The thought shot through Erskine's mind
that if she'd fallen accidentally over that iron rail-
ing, there'd be one person less to say that they'd
seen him or "naked feet" on the balcony this morn-
ing... The idea created such instant horror in his
mind-it was as though the idea had been pushed
upon his attention by some force that he was seized
- with pity for her and he sought at once for some-
thing to banish the notion, to cover it up. Touch-
'ing the tips of the pencils in his inner coat pocket,
he stared at her shuddering body and his fear and
moral condemnation of her filed and he yearned to
soothe her. Timidly, he patted her shoulder.
"There, now ... You must brace up...1ll take
these things inside for you. Where do you want
them? In your apartment?
"Yes,” she gulped. Then she whispered: “Tony
was so deeply fond of you.” She coughed. “Next to
me, he loved you most in this world ..."
"And I loved him too,” he said quickly.
As she leaned against the wall, she sobbed. He
picked up the tricycle, a baseball bat, a toy rifle, and


SAVAGE HOLIDAY 117
a drum and placed them in the hallway in front of
her door. Was that image of those “naked feet
dangling” in her mind still? He lifted the heavy
electric hobbyhorse and put it in front of her apart-
ment door; when he returned to the balcony, she'd
gathered up the remaining toys. Gently he took the
things from her and, with his left arm full, he
guided her with his right down the hallway. She
unlocked the door of her apartment and went in
and stood, dabbing at her eyes and trying to con-
trol her twisting lips.
"Where do you keep this pas he asked.
“Just leave 'em," she managed to say.
"I'll put 'em away for you
“There, in the hall closet," she whimpered.
He stored away all the toys except the electric
hobbyhorse which was too big for the closet.
"Where do you keep this?” he asked.
"I'll have to take it apart,” she mumbled, sinking
into a chair and weeping again, her bosom heaving.
Her wet cheeks and her trembling body chas-
tened him; her grief was so genuine, so simple, that
his conception of her as an evil, giant, entangling
spider-mother seemed remote. She was a poor woman
who needed counselling and understanding and her
stricken humanity appealed to him powerfully. He
did not take his eyes off her until she looked at him.
He saw that the hobbyhorse was attached by bolts
to a metal base containing an electric motor.
"Have you a screwdriver?” he asked her.
"No. But there's a knife in the kitchen. It's what
I use," she gasped, trying to stem her weeping. But
the tears continued to stream down her face.
He flicked on the light in the kitchen and searched
in a table drawer and found a big, sharp, butcher
knife. Five minutes later he had the hobbyhorse


118
RICHARD WRIGHT
taken apart and stored away in the closet. Holding
the knife, he stood over her. She still wept, her face
hidden in her arms.
"Is there something else you want me to dopus he
asked her, his eyes searching over her slumped form.
She straightened and, seeing the knife, leaped
from her chair and backed off with terror in her
face.
"What's the matter pºs he asked, feeling terror too.
"That knife ... Don't point it at me like that...I
can't stand knives!” she cried.
He looked down in surprise at the knife in his
hand; he had forgotten that he was holding it.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled.
Was she afraid of him? Did she think that he'd
killed Tony and was now trying to kill her? He put
the knife in the kitchen; when he returned, she
forced a smile.
“I'm sorry... I act so silly," she apologized.
"You are a little unstrung," he commented.
They were silent. He recalled that awful thought
that he'd had about her falling off the balcony, as
, Tony had fallen, and now he was wondering what
she'd seen in his face to make her leap up in terror
when he'd stood over her with that knife in his hand
... He had to struggle to overcome thoughts of
death about her and it made him almost hysterically
anxious to help her. It was only when he was react-
ing to her distress that he felt right about her.
"You've been so kind," she murmured. “God, I
must look a sight...” She cocked her head and her
right hand fussed nervously with her disordered hair.
"I wish I could be of some help to you," he
mumbled humbly. “After all, Tony was a little friend
of mine. I used to talk with him a lot, you know ..."
Her eyes rested full on him with that same blank,


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
119
-
-
bleak stare that he'd seen that morning; or was he
imagining it...?
"He babbled about you always,” she said, closing
her eyes. "He hadn't had much of a father in his
little life, and he was always talking of your being
his father..." She flashed a twisted, shy smile that
begged forgiveness. “Just a child's notion,” she ex-
plained, turning her head away quickly to hide her
trembling lips.
"He was a lonely child, wasn't hep” he ventured
to ask, remembering Tony's fear that early skylit
evening when he'd been frightened by his "fighting
bombing planes.
She stared and lowered her head guiltily, like a
scolded child.
“I'm afraid he was," she said, sighing. “Next year
he would have been in the country. Now, he's gone
... I can't believe it."
She looked at him, then her eyes fell; a wistful
smile flitted across her lips as she murmured: “He
was always asking for a father ..." She stood ab-
ruptly, turned, her eyes blinded with tears. Her
hand groped for the jamb of the door and she
stumbled. He seized her arm and guided her to a
sofa in her living room and helped her down on it.
A floor lamp with a deep tan shade shed a bright
cone of yellow light upon her cascading black hair,
the creamy, satiny skin of her naked arms, the
throbbing aliveness of her throat, the ripe fullness
of her breasts, and the helpless wetness of her face;
her right leg, tapering and slanting, almost lost in
shadow, extended at an angle across the rug and
terminated in a tiny foot jammed tightly into a black
pump shoe and it made a lump rise in his throat...
Suddenly she slid down upon the sofa until her
nylon, rose-colored robe fell away and her right


120
RICHARD WRIGHT
leg, nude to her thigh, sprawled with a dimpled
knee. With shut eyes she keened a low, tense moan:
"Tony... Tony ... Tony..."
She twisted her body round and buried her face
in the back of the sofa, as though yearning to es-
cape the presence of an implacably monstrous
world. Erskine felt pinioned in space. A fleeting
glimmer of intuition made him suspect her of play-
ing the role of an emotional agent provocateur to
lure him into disclosing what he knew, but the no-
tion was too far-fetched and he dismissed it from
his mind. Blending in one wild wave, shame, anger,
and guilt rose in him. His feelings were trying fum-
blingly to resolve themselves into something defi-
nite about the woman; but she hovered before him
elusive, now threatening, now appealing ... As she
continued to weep, a part of her left breast showed
and he could see a dark reddish tint circling the
nipple, glowing like a shy shadow through her nylon
brassiere. He was transfixed, swamped by a hot
desire to protest her nudity, yet he could not take
his eyes off her. And her nudity was so clearly, un-
intentionally the product of a, pounding grief shat-
tering her that all her blatant sensuality seemed
redeemed, annihilated. So ransomed was her sexuality
by her suffering that he wanted to get to his knees
and beg her to forgive him, to absolve him for hav-
ing accidentally scared poor Tony to death ....
As he watched her lithe body writhe on the sofa,
he recalled Mrs. Westerman's having said that she
had seen "naked feet dangling on his balcony ...
Fear slowed the beat of his heart. Was she acting?
How did one take a woman like this? He strove to
simplify his emotions about her, and he couldn't.
He wanted to reach out and cover her nakedness,


122
RICHARD WRIGHT
this not his chahis arms so that moved him as much
Yet, she was so broken, abandoned ... But was
this not his chance to save this woman, to own her,
to hold her in his arms so that no one could, would
want to claim her? The idea moved him as much
toward revulsion as toward compassion, as much
toward wanting to slap her as toward wanting to
caress her-to fling her from his sight or take
her and tell her what life could mean, ought to
mean... He mopped clumsily at the sweat on his
face. In him something was teetering, reeling as
Tony had when he had lost his footing and tumbled
from the balcony ....
“You know, you must take hold of yourself." He
made himself speak, amazed at how compassionate
his tone was.
She grew still and glared stonily before her.
"Nobody knows anything of my life.” She spoke
in a bitter tone.
"That's right,” he urged her softly, "go ahead and
talk. It'll help you..
"They're saying all kinds of things about me"
“Who?"
"That awful Mrs. Westerman, and the others too,"
she said. She stared at him sulkily and mumbled.
“And maybe you too, for all I know_"
“Oh, no!” he protested, blushing. She was like a
mistreated child now and he felt more confident as
his mind encompassed the narrow range of her re-
actions. The simpler she was, the safer he felt. “Now,
now ... You mustn't let things like that bother you,”
he told her soothingly, remembering that, just a few
hours ago, he'd agreed heartily with Mrs. Westerman.
"That Mrs. Westerman's saying it's all my fault,»
she whimpered. “And God knows what else she's
saying about me... But how could I help what hap-
pened? I work nights ..."
:


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
123
He wanted to ask her if she'd been drunk, as Mrs.
Westerman had said, but he decided not to.
"You work?” he asked gently, leading her to talk.
“Of course I do," she said, showing astonishment
that he should ask. "How do you think I live? I'm
not rich_”
“What kind of work do you dope he asked.
"I have the hat-check concession in the Red Moon."
She spoke with a certain defiance.
. “The Red Moon? What's that?"
"A nightclub," she said flatly. “And it's hard to
make ends meet, really. I've got five other girls em-
ployed with me on a percentage basis. After rent,
expenses, and the kickback I have to give to the
nightclub owner, what have I left? Just enough to
get by on ... I wanted so much to hire a colored
woman to look after Tony, but I'd have to pay fifty
dollars a week. I can't afford it. And I work such
long, long hours . . . That's why I always come home
so late. And God knows what people think I'm do-
ing... How could I look after Tony and earn my
living at the same time?" Her voice died in her
throat.
More sinned against than sinning, he told himself
with satisfaction, relishing the advantage that his
money and social status gave him over her.
"I've never been in a nightclub," he told her mus-
ingly.
“Reallyp" She stared at him. “Well, working in a
nightclub's just like working any other place ...
The people who have fun in such places are not
those who work in them.”
"I guess you're right,” he said.
“There's no guessing about it.” She spoke bitterly.
"Try it once."


126
RICHARD WRIGHT
"Naked feetp Erskine tried to make his voice
sound disbelieving; he felt sweat on his face.
“That's what I thought I saw,” she mumbled, blink-
ing, begging him with her eyes to believe her.
"But what do you meanphe demanded.
"It sounds odd, I know," she agreed. “The super
and his wife, that Mrs. Westerman, won't believe
me. They don't like me, anyway... But that's what I
saw..."
"You think you saw that?” he asked her pointedly.
"I saw feet ... real f-feet; they w-were going u-
up_” She broke off in confusion and her face red-
dened.
"You think that somebody was on that balcony
with Tonypa
"I don't know. But-"
"Maybe Tony fell from some other floor," he sug-
gested. "He did play on other floors, didn't he?"
“Yes,” she breathed, her eyes cast down. “That's
true ... Oh, God, I don't know!” She looked at him
hopefully. “Maybe that was a workman I saw ...po
"On a Sunday morning" There was a trace of
scorn in his voice. "And what would he be doing
barefootedpas
"I don't know," she answered in a singsong voice.
“Maybe Tony pulled off his shoes and was climb
ing," he suggested. “Boys do things like that, you
know, in the summertime"
“No; no ... These were big feet I saw," she as-
serted stoutly.
"Could you be certain of how big they were from
that distance?" he asked in a district attorney's tone.
“Maybe you were looking at another balcony,"
"I don't know, I don't know..."
“Are you sure that you didn't see a reflection or


SAVAGE HOLIDAY 127
something?" He pressed her gently, sympatheti-
cally.
"I know it sounds wild ... You didn't hear any-
thing on the balcony, did you?” she asked suddenly.
“Tony woke me up with his drum," he said easily.
"Then I went back to sleep"
"I'm sorry," she apologized; yet it was evident that
she was not at all satisfied.
“Were you alone?" he questioned her, wanting to
see if she'd lie about the man who had spent the
night with her.
Resentment flickered in her eyes and two red
spots bloomed in her cheeks and spread till her en-
tire face burned. Yes; she knows that Mrs. Wester-
man has talked to me...
“Yes,” she said uneasily, "at that time I was.” She
looked off, biting her lips.
She had evaded telling him the truth. A little
whore ... He felt more and more justified in not tell-
ing her that it was his feet dangling in the air that
she had seen just before he had fallen through his
window into the bathroom. Yet, clashing with his
feeling of justification was a sense of anger and
jealousy for her living so loosely, sloppily, for her
giving herself so easily. He felt that she had no moral
claim upon him, yet he wanted to save her, rescue
her, and find out something about the strange man
who'd spent the night with her ... And, under it all,
his heart was sullen and guilty because he realized
that his emotions were hopelessly contradictory.
"If you'd seen 'naked feet' like that,” he advised
her with sudden coldness, "you should have called
someone"
"Everybody's telling me what I should have donel”
she lamented, bursting into a wild sob. “I didn't
know ... Maybe I only thought I saw something


128 RICHARD WRIGHT
..." She was almost ready to give up her story. In
despair she flung back her head and covered her
eyes with her hands; her knees spread and the folds
of her robe fell away and he was looking at the
quick thickening of her thighs as they curved up-
ward. Now, since his fear was abating, she was begin-
ning to excite him all the more. She sat up at last and
stared at him with full eyes clouded with tears and
he could not meet her gaze.
"For Tony's sake, I'd like to help you in this,” he
told her haltingly.
"You're very kind ..." She smiled at him suddenly,
smiled with tears in her eyes. “It helps a lot when you
can talk to somebody. I don't know why you bother
with me. You know, I've always been a little scared
of you."
"Whypa.
"Well, I don't know really. You always seem so
friendly, yet so faraway, in another world_"
"I'm not faraway at all, my dear," he told her,
his confidence waxing, feeling that he had no need to
be uneasy with her now.
"I'm no intellectual,” she said, concerned with the
impression that she was making. “I'm just a straight-
from-the-shoulder, down-to-earth woman who says
what she thinks. If I don't do or say the right thing,
it's just because I don't always know what the right
thing to say or do is ..." She smiled a smile that in-
dicated that, though she was humble, she knew her
intrinsic worth.
"Don't let that bother you," he coaxed her.
Her face showed sudden consternation. She stood
abruptly and placed the index finger of her right
hand to her temple and shook her head.
“Lord, I've forgotten to get little Tony's clothes to
gether," she wailed. “The undertaker wanted them


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
129
22
as soon as possible... I'm so worried that I don't
know if I'm going or coming..."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"I'm going to lay his little things out," she said,
going into the next room.
Erskine sat and brooded. He'd help her; it was his
duty to ... But what a woman! She had no more
morals than a cat... At last he now understood how
she was able to live in the Elmira Apartments; she
had a bat-check concession in a nightclub. Well...
He'd lend a helping hand to this woman who'd
killed her child's spirit even before the child's body
had been accidentally killed ....
Mrs. Blake returned to the room with an armful
of Tony's clothes which she placed gently on a chair.
Slowly she lifted up one of the child's garments and
stared at it with troubled eyes.
“My little baby," she began weeping again. "God,
tell me what happened to him! Tony, you're not
gone... It can't, it can't be truel”
Erskine choked back a wild and hot impulse to
tell her what had happened. No; she'd never believe
the simple truth, would she? And she'd wonder why
he hadn't told before. Her tears unhinged him and he
sat numbed and helpless.
"You mustn't give way, you know," he implored
her.
Gradually she quieted a bit, then looked around
with eyes swimming in tears. She rose and went to
the sofa and picked up the crumpled copy of the
New York Times and proceeded to spread it out and
place the clothes on it. She was unfolding the second
section when she paused and stared down intently
at something that Erskine could not see.
"Look!” she called in a low, breathless voice.
"What?” he answered.


130
RICHARD WRIGHT
"It's blood!" she almost screamed, dropping the
papers from her hands. “LOOK!"
Erskine ran to her side. The sheet of newspaper lay
at her feet and he saw on it a huge, irregular blotch
of what was undoubtedly blood; it had soaked
through several layers of the newspaper and glared
guiltily at him ...
“That's blood; isn't it?" she asked in a whisper.
Erskine froze and did not answer; as he stared he
recalled what had happened. While in the hallway,
he'd been holding his newspaper in his right hand;
but, after he'd returned from the balcony, he, without
knowing it, had switched the papers into his
wounded left hand. And, upon leaving Miss Brown-
ell's door, he had had the idea of exchanging her
paper for his! AND HE HADN'T REALIZED THAT
HIS BLEEDING LEFT PALM HAD LEFT THIS
TELLTALE BLOTCH OF BLOOD... Now, how
could be explain that stain of blood? Each moment
seemed to bring forth some incident to enforce his
silence about the truth. Slowly, furtively, he secreted
his taped left palm ...
"That’s blood,” she said, talking more to herself
than to him.
"Looks like it,” he mumbled, not knowing what
else to say.
"But..." Turning, she looked full at him. “Do you
think Tony was hurt before he fell?”
"I don't know," he said.
"What happened to my child?" she wailed again,
gritting her teeth in anguish.
He lifted the wad of newspaper, took it to the
light, and made a pretense of examining it closely.
What could he tell her? She'd take this bloody wad
of newspaper to the police, unless he stalled her off
somehow.


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
131
“Do you think someone bothered Tonyps she
asked.
"It's hard to tell," he said. "He might have hurt
himself, maybe"
"But he'd bave called me if he had," she insisted,
her eyes blinking in bewilderment.
He had to think of something; yes; he had it ...
"Oh,” he pretended surprise. “I heard him crying
this morning,"
“Crying?
"Yes; I heard his drum; it woke me up ... Then I
heard him crying in the hallway,” he explained, actu-
ally visualizing what he was recounting. “I remember
now; I went back to sleep, listening to his crying_"
“Then he was hurt," she said.
"Might've fallen off the hobbyhorse," he said with
a hot and dry throat.
"But my paper was in front of my door," she said.
"Then he must have come into the hallway and
tried to stop the blood with the newspaper,” Erskine
told her.
"But he ought to have called me," she protested,
standing, her eyes wide with wonder.
"Maybe he thought you'd punish him," he argued.
His words had a tremendous effect upon her; she
turned her face from him, sank upon the heap of
clothes in the chair, and sobbed.
"Don't say that,” she begged. “Mrs. Westerman
tells everybody that Tony was scared of me... No;
no; no... Tony, Tony, what did mummy do to you?
I wasn't mean, Tony; Tony, my poor little helpless
baaaby..." She gulped. “I whipped him when he
was bad, when he wouldn't obey ... But what else
could I do?"
Erskine watched her like a hawk. Her sense of guilt
and her grief were making her accept what he'd sug-


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
133
"I mean somebody with whom you can discuss all
this?"
"I wouldn't dare tell the people I know how ]
live"
"But don't you think we ought to show these
bloody papers to the police?” he asked her again,
boldly.
"What good would that do?" she asked despair.
ingly. “It must've happened like you said; he hurt
himself and was scared, scared of me... And I don't
want people to talk and talk about me!”
"Look, you must brace up..."
She sat upright and stared stonily at the floor.
"I'm more alone than you can imagine,” she con-
fessed. Then, fearing that she was becoming too
quickly intimate, she asked him: “Say, don't you
want something?” She glanced down at herself. “Oh,
God, I look a mess tonight... Look, how about a
drink?s
"No. Thank you."
"A cup of coffee, thens
"Well, 1ll take one with you."
"Good."
As she went into the kitchen, he watched the
flowing movements of her body under the rose
colored robe. Her sheer animality gripped him with
wonder. Listening to her bustling in the kitchen, he
knew that he'd made, in spite of himself, an emo-
tional commitment. But what was he to do with the
woman? He didn't know her; he had to be careful.
Maybe she was trying to trap him, preparing black-
mail? Yet he sat, impatiently waiting for her return
... Why was he so glad to welcome her gestures of
modesty, even though he thought her a whore? Why
had her plea of ignorance put him so quickly at ease?
She knew exactly, instinctively, how to put confi-


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
135
at it now; he'd wait a little ... Ahl His waiting would
be predicated upon his helping her arrange Tony's
funeral; that would keep him near her. How won-
derfully it all coincided! Not a single strand would
dangle loose!
At last she came in with a tray filled with ham
sandwiches, a pot of coffee, sugar, and cream.
"Oh, Mrs. Blake, you shouldn't've bothered,
really"
"But I haven't had a bite to eat today," she told
him.
"I'm hungry too,” he admitted.
"I'm Mabel,” she murmured coyly, placing his cup
of coffee on an end table next to his easy chair.
"And I'm Erskine,” he said, smiling.
They ate in silence. Now that he'd decided to go
all the way, he studied her. She was of medium
height; her deep-set eyes were dark brown and held
a remote, shy, impulsive look; her mouth was a little
large without being in any way loose, with shapely,
strong lips; but what excited him most were strong
white teeth which, through her almost always slightly
parted lips, could be seen hovering in her mouth, as
though waiting to bite...
"You know, Mabel,” he began quietly, "I'm an in-
surance man. Only yesterday I retired after thirty
years. I'm quite free and I'd be only too glad to
handle the arrangements for Tony."
She paused with a mouthful of food, swallowed,
and tears flooded her eyes. ..
"Oh, God," she sighed, "would you do that? I'm so
lost..
“There, there," he consoled her, patting her arm,
secretly glad of the firm but yielding flesh beneath
the tips of his fingers.
Her face reflected humble admiration. O
and I'm quite freents for Tony: food, swallowed,


136 RICHARD WRIGHT
"You're retired?" she asked incredulously. "But
you're so young
"I'm forty-three.” He struggled to keep pride out of
his voice.
“And I'm twenty-nine," she said absently. “But
how could you retire so early?"
"I started work when I was thirteen."
She shook her head; she couldn't understand it.
"I began working when I was twelve, and I'm
getting nowhere,” she confessed.
He basked in the glory of the praise in her eyes.
“Tell me, what plans have you for Tony?"
"I hate to be such a bother."
"You're not. And I want to help. Really, I do."
"I'm not used to someone taking worries off my
mind,” she said wistfully. “It makes me a little
scared.”
"Why?"
“You're spoiling me,” she smiled at him.
"Financially, are you able—
"I've a little money ..." Her lips pouted sadly.
"Since Mark, my husband, died-he was killed in the
war-I've had to do everything alone. But it's hard
... I was saving Mark's government insurance money
to put Tony through college. Now, he's gone...
And they're whispering that I neglected him. I'm
just the butt of everybody's gossip. I didn't want
Tony to grow up in New York, but my parents
weren't able to help me with 'im "
"Where do your parents live?”
"In Pennsylvania; a place called Altoona. I was
born in Pittsburgh. My father's dead, but my
mother's living. She's remarried. She and my step-
father work,”
"Do you ever see your mother? Hear from her?”
"Not often,” she admitted, blushing. “You see,


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
137
my life's so upside down, what with my working
nights ... After twelve hours in that hot, smoky
nightclub, all I'm fit for is to tumble into bed."
She gazed off somberly, her breasts hanging full
under her robe. Watching her, his heart beat faster;
then a counter-movement of his consciousness began
as there rose before his eyes an image of what Tony
called "fighting. Anger inhibited hts swelling sense
of desire. This woman bothered him: one moment
she seemed so intimately close; the next moment she
was in flight, captured by alien realities ... Who was
this man who'd stayed with her last night? -
“Do you ever think of changing your life, Mabel?
he asked her out of a mood of his brooding.
"What do you meanp” she asked; she was self-con-
scious, wary.
Do you want to go on like this?
"But what in the world can I do?" she wailed. She
sulked. “I'm so tired of drifting." She sighed. “When
I was married, things were simple."
Her helplessness lifted Erskine out of his fog of
doubt. Yes; he could handle her... She was begging
for guidance.
"Do you ever go to church?"
"I used to, but I've no time now," she said.
"One learns to live by following moral laws," he
said.
“Yes; I know," she said lamely
She'd never had a chance and she'd be a willing
pupil, and he'd cure her of her moral lapses. They
talked in muted tones and she entrusted to him the
full details of Tony's funeral and made out a check
to cover the expenses.
"Ill take this burden off your poor shoulders,
Mabel," he promised her.
"Oh, thank God for you, Erskinel"


138
RICHARD WRIGHT
"I'd better let you rest now," he said, rising. “I'm
close by, you know. If you want or need anything,
just holler."
"You're so kind,"
"It's nothing.” A thought struck him. “Say, you
didn't phone me today, did you?”
She seemed startled; her lips moved silently before
she answered.
"Mepp
“Yes."
"Why, no. Why?"
"It's nothing. Forget it."
He squeezed her hand gently; in the doorway she
told him good night as though she'd known him for
a long time, and her face held an expression of inno-
cent waiting.
But, when alone in his apartment, he was troubled.
Did she still believe that she'd seen "naked feet dan-
gling”? What did she really think of that stain of
blood on the newspapers? And who was that woman
who'd called and said that she'd seen what had hap-
pened? Yes; wouldn't being close to Mabel put that
woman at a disadvantage? Later, he'd tell Mabel
everything, he'd make her understand how it had
happened ...
But his doubts persisted. He yearned to believe
that she was as innocent, as good as a boy believes
his mother to be, but her manner told him that that
was impossible. His desire for her was so close to
his rejection of her that he couldn't separate the two.
His mind was far too literal in its functioning to per-
mit him to disentangle such conflicting emotions.
Whenever he sought a compromise of his love-hate
struggle, he grew distressed. He lay on his warm
bed with wide eyes, staring until dawn; just before
sunrise he fell into a fitful doze.


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
139
He awakened in a mood of calm soberness. How
could he have felt such a headlong predilection for
Mabel? He was so astonished at what he'd felt that
it was like being told of the meandering emotions
of someone vaguely known to him. Was it possible
that he'd felt like that last night?
Hadn't he explained that spot of blood on the
newspapers sufficiently for Mabel to forget it? And
who'd believe her tale of “naked' feet dangling"?
Wasn't his fear of her unnecessary? But that phone
call ...? Mabel hadn't mentioned phoning him and
he believed in her; she'd been distracting herself
with her television set when he'd received that call.
Who, then, was that woman? Mrs. Westerman? Why
should she do that? She'd been in her basement
apartment when Tony had fallen. Well, he'd wait and
see if whoever it was that called would repeat their
call. If they did, he'd go straight to the police.
As an insurance expert, he had some experience
with the criminal mind. Now, if Mabel had seen
"naked feet dangling," wouldn't she behave exactly
as she was now behaving? She was a hatcheck girl in
a nightclub and maybe she'd confided her story to
some of her boy or girl friends? Wouldn't that ac-
count for the fact that his mysterious caller had not
asked for a confirmation, had not waited for a reac-
tion? He'd simply been warned that someone knew
... someone had seen him nude on the balcony...
But, if Mabel was in on this, wouldn't she be more
concerned about avenging Tony's death? Certainly.
She'd not call and say that she'd seen what had
happened, and then do nothing about it. No; Mabel's
reactions last night were genuine. Some outsider
made that phone call, but for what purpose?
Then, after all was said and done, there was but
one solution: his being close to Mabel would enable


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
141
ful for her level-headed sanity as she asked him
shyly:
“Mr. Fowler, don't you think I could make some
breakfast for that Mrs. Blake? Poor soul, she has no
one to look after her.”
“I'll ask her,” Erskine said, avidly appropriating
her suggestion. He found Mabel's number in the
phone book and dialed. “Mabel? This is Erskine
... Good morning?”
"Oh, good morning,” Mabel said in a sleepy,
throaty voice.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked her; he was try-
ing to picture how she looked in bed and his skin
tingled.
"I didn't sleep at all,” she complained in a grum-
bling tone.
“Oh, dear! You've got to rest,” he told her. “You
mustn't break down, you know. Look, my maid's
here. Do you want her to bring you some coffee?"
"I'd just love some,” Mabel drawled in a thankful
voice. “You're sure it's no trouble?”
“None at all. And I'd like to talk to you for about
half an hour regarding arrangements for Tony,
hunh?”
"Sure. Come on over. God, you're wonderful to
me. I don't know what to say,” she stammered.
“Don't say anything. Listen, I'm going to bring
you some sleeping pills. You've got to rest.”
“Thanks, Erskine.”
"See you."
“ 'Bye.”
He hung up. "Take her over something, Minnie,”
he said.
"I sure will,” Minnie agreed heartily.
Erskine smiled and relaxed on his pillow. But a
moment later he was frowning. Why hadn't he


142
RICHARD WRIGHT
caught an echo of grief in her voice? She'd spoken
as if she'd not lost her son! He wondered if perhaps
she was not glad that Tony was dead... The idea
made him flinch; he grew angry with himself for
having such notions. The more he thought of Mabel
the more he found himself unable to control the
images that popped into his mind.
He drained his coffee cup, rolled out of bed, shaved,
showered, dressed, and went out and rang Mabels
doorbell. He was surprised at the Mabel who opened
the door. She was pert, brisk; she held a detached
smile on her heavily rouged lips. Her body was
sheathed in a tight-fitting, dark silk frock and a
cigarette dangled from her lips. He entered her apart-
ment feeling that her new mood was subtly shutting
him out of her life. He fought down an attitude of
resentment.
"Erskine, dear, how on earth will I ever be able
to repay you for all your trouble?” Her voice indi-
cated that she regretted having accepted his aid,
that she'd reflected and thought better of the whole
thing.
“But I've done nothing for you yet,” he told her ar-
dently. Maybe someone else had offered to help her?
He felt that she was in flight, evading him. He
handed her a tiny bottle. “Here are some sleeping
pills. If you take two of them, you'll relax and sleep
some.”
"I don't know why you think of me,” she said,
taking the bottle reluctantly. “I'm so much
trouble ..."
As she led him down the hallway to the living
room, he felt that it was her sense of inferiority that
was making her so different. Her helplessness and
gratitude rekindled his faith in her. Yes; he could
handle her ...


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
145
too soon?” he asked her bluntly. "You'll have to notify
your relatives, your husband's relatives, won't you?”
"No. I have no relatives here in the city, Erskine,"
she said. “And Tony's father's people are in Califor-
nia. I want the ceremony simple-
“Yes,” Erskine agreed, fighting down his revul-
sion. Doesn't she understand anything? This is no
way to bury anybody ... “But haven't you notified
Tony's father's people yet?”
"Not yet. I will ... later. When I have time"
"But, look here, Mabel,” he said, wanting to slap
her. “You're inviting some friends, aren't you? What
about invitations?
“I'm inviting no one,” Mabel said, her face white
and her eyes staring. “Just you, if you'll be so kind as
to come, Erskine.” Tears glistened on her long, dark
eye-lashes. “You see, Erskine, I'm all alone in the
world. I've no friends, really. I've no one I can really
count on, that I can trust. I've nobody ..." Her voice
choked.
Erskine was stricken. His distrust and irritation
fled. Oh, God, what had he done to her? He'd judged
her harshly a moment ago and now he hated himself.
Once more Mabel was redeemed in his feelings; once
more she was the abandoned, tragic queen of his
heart, a queen whom he'd serve loyally, without
reserye. She didn't even think enough of the other
men she knew to invite them to the funeral ... Only
he was being invited. He rose, took her hand and
patted it.
"You can depend on me, Mabel," he said in a husky
voice. .
"You shouldn't bother about me,” she whispered as
she wept.
"Now, there"
"I'm not worth it."


146
RICHARD WRIGHT
"Yes; you are worth it,” he scolded her gently, ten-
derly. "And I don't want you to let me hear you
talking like that again. Brace up. Ill attend to every-
thing. Why don't you take a sleeping pill and get
some rest?”
"Ill try."
"And íll see you right after lunch, hunhas
“Yes,” she sniffed.
He picked up the suitcase and, after he'd let him-
self quietly into the hallway, he heard her phone
ringing again. He paused, waiting, frowning, listen-
ing to Mabel's muffled voice through the door panels.
“Hello."
“Oh, Jack!"
"It's so good to hear your voice too."
“Oh, I'm all right. Just a little tired.”
"No! I'm not working tonight.”
6
»
u
»
You did? How nice"
"No; I won't be at the club this week. I'm really
a little ill..."
"Darling... No; some other time, hunh?
“ 'Bye. Thanks for calling, dear."
Erskine was so angry that he wanted to fling the
suitcase out of his hand. How had he gotten himself
into this? He rode down in the elevator, asking him-
self: Now, who's Jack...? And again he'd noticed
that she'd said not one word about Tony's being
dead. Didn't she care? "She's unnatural,” he mut.


SAVAGE HOLIDAY 149
"Just make it a simple, nondenominational, Pro-
testant service.”
"Very good, sir. With music, sir?"
"Yes. Organ music..."
"And a choir, sir?"
"No. No choir."
"Have you any special selections of sacred music
in mind, sir?”
"No."
"Would half an hour of music be enough, sir?"
"I guess so."
"Are there any special effects you wish to have
registered, sir?"
"Special effects?" Erskine asked, baffled.
“The mother wouldn't mind if we put the toy
pistol in the child's hand, would she, sir?” Jenkins
asked with a shadow of a smile. "He had his pistol in
his right hand when they found him, they tell me.
It makes him look so lifelike; don't you think, sir?”
"No; no ... No special effects.” .
“Just as you say, sir.”
Erskine stifled his anger. Mabel should have been
“ with him; she should have told him what she wanted.
Why had she dumped all of this upon him? He had
half a mind to cancel the funeral, set it for another
date, make new arrangements, etc.; but he cast the
thought aside.
“How many guests are you inviting, sir?
“Not many,” Erskine hedged.
“Will fifty seats be enough, sir?"
“You'd better make it fifteen seats_-"
“Will fifteen seats be enough, sir?"
"Oh, most certainly,” he answered, unable to speak
further. The truth was that even fifteen seats were
too many ...
He was edging toward the door in disgust. He


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
151
Minnie came bustling in from the kitchen, wiping
her wet hands on her apron.
"Mr. Fowler!” she called.
"Yes, Minnie?”
“Mrs. Blake told me to tell you that she's gone
down to get her hair done,” Minnie told him, her
eyebrows arched.
"Oh, yes,” he said, trying to hide his disgust.
"She said she'd be back soon.'
“Thanks, Minnie.”
“Your lunch'll be ready in a jiffy, Mr. Fowler,” Min-
nie informed him.
Erskine grimaced. "I'm not hungry, Minnie. I
don't want anything"
“But you'll starve, Mr. Fowler!”
"I can't eat now, Minnie,” he said irritably.
"I know," Minnie said softly, shaking her head.
“You're grieving over Tony. But you oughta eat, Mr.
Fowler..."
"I'll eat out later, maybe.”
"Yes, sir."
He sat in his living room, near the open window,
sunk in thought. What's wrong with me? he asked
himself. Why was he letting himself get into such a
state? Yet, he had to admit that he was frantic to
know if Mabel had really gone to the beauty parlor
... How could she think of her hair and nails when
her son lay dead on a metal table under a blue neon
light? Or had she gone to meet some man and had
lied to Minnie? He didn't know which of these two
possibilities he could have hated more...
A moment later he stiffened, hearing the low but
distinct sound of Mabel laughing! She had come in
and was talking on the phonel He went to his open
window and tried to steal a glimpse, by leaning dis-
creetly out and peering into her living room. Yes;


152
RICHARD WRIGHT
he could catch a slither of an image of her nyloned
leg and a tan pump shoe swinging to and fro beyond
the jamb of the living room door as she talked on the
phone. He couldn't overhear the conversation but,
occasionally, a low, contented chuckle wafted to
him. Hell! He doubled his right fist, whirled back in-
to the room, and smote the arm of his sofa.
"She's a whorel” he swore out loud.
"Sir?” Minnie's voice came from the kitchen.
"Nothing, Minnie,” he muttered, looking about.
Minnie came to the door, her eyes round with sub-
servience.
“You want something, sir?
"No; no ... I was talking to myself, I guess."
Minnie vanished, looking puzzled. He'd ditch
Mabel first thing tomorrow afternoon. Damn her!
How could she laugh like that the day after her child
was dead? And she'd never laughed like that with
him ... He ran his fingers through his tousled hair.
She was not thinking of him or Tony ... She was
claimed elsewhere .. That cheap, cold monster!
He could not hear her laughter now. Ought he not
to report his arrangements for Tony's funeral and
tell her off? Then his mouth dropped open as he
caught the metallic whir of a phone being dialed.
Ah, she's calling me now ... He leaped up and stood
before his phone and waited. But his phone did not
ring. He glanced toward her window, trying to vis-
ualize what she was doing. Then there came to him
again the sound of her throaty, laughing voice float-
ing on the hot, humid air of the sweltering afternoon,
-laughter that was like gurgling water tumbling over
rocks in a meadow. She's phoning somebody else
... That bitch!
He threw himself full length upon his bed and
closed his eyes, jamming his fist against his mouth,


SAVAGE HOLIDAY 157
"But he's just a boy,” she protested, frowning at
him, containing herself.
Could he ever believe anything she told him? He
got to his feet and his lips formed a line of resolve.
By God, he'd let her know right now what he thought
of such loose, vile conduct!
"You mean that you didn't tell him about Tony?”
"No. Why should I?" she countered stoutly.
Erskine blinked. Maybe she knew a lot of things
that she wasn't telling him ... At times this damned
woman seemed so simple, so transparent; yet at other
times she was so complicated, so full of shadows
where no shadows had a right to be.
“That seems odd—”
"What's so odd about it?" she asked. “He's noth-
ing to me. I don't want him in my life. He's a nice
boy; he's a customer at the club, and—”.
“Look, Mabel,” Erskine confronted her. “Of course,
I've absolutely no right to say anything to you about
what you do. But don't you think you're acting kind
of hard ...? You just lost your son ... Don't you
think it's more fitting, more seemly, to remain at
home, and not see so many men?”
“But he's the only man who's come here, besides
you," she said, her cheeks blazing. “And I had to get
my hair done. I couldn't go to that funeral tomorrow
looking like I was—"
“You could have told this boy who was here that
you didn't feel well, that your son was dead, that you
couldn't receive him today!" he shot at her.
“But he's nice!” she argued. “He comes to the
Red Moon to drink"
“But that doesn't give him the run of your house,
does it?”
She stood and her face flamed scarlet.
“This is my house!” she screeched. “I receive whom


158
RICHARD WRIGHT
I please\” She sucked in her breath. “You too?
Haven't I got enough trouble? My God, what do I
do? What on earth do you think I'm doing with that
boy? Making lovepo
Erskine shuddered under the impact of her out-
spoken attack. It was precisely because he'd thought
that maybe she'd been making love with Charles
that he had accused her, but he had winced when
she had put his thoughts into such hard, direct
words.
“Why don't you leave me alone, if you think that
I'm not good enough for you?" she cried. “Why do
you and that Mrs. Westerman keep riding me? I
didn't ask you to come here! You said that you
wanted to help mel Now, I'm too low to be helped
by you ... I told you I'm a hatcheck girl. Didn't I?
Did I lie to you? God-dammit, I've got to livel What
in God's name do you think I'm doing...pa
Should he believe her or not? Her shame and
anger told him to believe her, but to whom could
she be talking on the phone all the time?
"Who are these men who are calling you on the
phone all the time?” he asked her; he was trembling
with fear for trespassing into her life, but he had to
know. “How many men are you in touch with right
now.pl
He had all but branded her a prostitute. She was
still as stone, her eyes unblinkingly upon his face.
Then she ran to the sofa and fell upon it, buried
her face in her elbows and sobbed.
"No; nol” she screamed, turning and glaring at him.
"Don't you talk to me like that! You can't! I can't
stand it! What are you trying to do to me? I didn't
ask you to come herel I didn't ask for your help! I
didn't think you'd act like this ... What do you take
me for? A whore?” As though the word “whore” had


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
159
slipped out of her mouth unintentionally, against her
will, she clapped her hands over her lips and moaned.
“Leave me alone, leave me alone, I say,” she sobbed,
her shoulders hunched and heaving. “God, I want
to die... Oh, Mark, why did you die ... Oh, Mark,
why did you die and leave me like this? I've no
husband and every man wants to slap me ... Am. I
a criminal because I've no husband?” She bared her
teeth in rage and knocked her fists against her
head in a hysterical frenzy that shook her whole
body..
Erskine was dumbfounded. Contrition gripped
him. He went to her and stood over her. Had he
reduced her to this? She was his again, nobody
else's ... Pity welled in him so strong that he felt
a weakness in his knees.
“Mabel...” he said in a begging voice, almost
a boy's voice.
“Go 'way,” she cried. “Go 'way from me, you rich
bastard! If you keep bothering me, I'll kill you,
you hear?”
“Oh, Mabel, no!” he pleaded. “Let me explain—"
“Get out of my apartment!” she screamed.
"Mabel ... Listen ..." He reached out his hand to
pat her shoulder.
"Don't you touch me!” she panted with fury.
He did touch her and she sprang to her feet, her
eyes wild and bloodshot. “Leave me alone!" She was
suddenly still, her eyes narrowing. “All right,” she
spat at him. “So what? Suppose I sleep with every
man in this block! What'sit to you, hunh? What's it
to anybody on this damned earth? It's my body, isn't
it?”
“No, Mabell God, no!” Erskine whispered, shaking
his head.
“Suppose I'm selling myself, hunh? Do you want to


160
RICHARD WRIGHT
buy me? Then why don't you ask? Is that what's
worrying you?” She sank to the floor, her hands
clasped before her, unable, it seemed, to catch her
breath. She appeared about to choke. Then she whim-
pered: “Tony, Tony, come back to mummy... Oh,
God, tell me what happened ... I'm so alone...
Tony, you've gone and I don't want to live any
more ..." She tossed back her head, shut her eyes,
and clutched with both hands at her hair and pulled
as though trying to rip out the strands by their roots.
She gasped and went into a spasm, her limbs trem-
bling involuntarily; she seemed to have taken leave
of her senses.
Erskine stood spellbound, appalled. Hot gratifi-
cation suffused his body with so keen a sensation
that he felt pain; he could scarcely breathe. She
was his now, completely; like this, she belonged to
him. He had conquered her, humbled her. He could
now afford to be kind, to maintain his trust in her.
Because she had been receding beyond his grasp,
he had treated her abominably, had hurled at her
his complaints and abuses and had checked her in
her flight; but now he could be compassionate, loving
towards her, for she was prostrate and at his feet...
“Mabel, dear, I'm sorry ..."
She seemed not to hear him; her hands opened
and shut with spasmodic rhythms and her eyes rolled
so far back into her head that only the whites showed.
"Oh, God, she's fainting!”
He lifted her and carried her into her bedroom.
Gently, he placed her upon her bed.
“Mabell” he called in panic.
Her lips hung open and loose and she began to
breathe a little easier. Ought he to call a doctor?
Minnie? What had he done to her? Undecided, he
watched her. At last her eyes rested unseeingly upon


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
161 -
his face and the violent heaving of her bosom grew
less. She turned away from him and stared dully off
into a corner of the room, sighing in despair.
“Go 'way,” she breathed.
“Mabel, forgive me ...".
"What are you doing to me?" she asked in a
whimper.
“I'm sorry; I'm so sorry...” he mumbled. What a
fool he'd been to hurt her like this! She was, despite
all her paint and sophistication, but a child and
needed a child's loving care. He took her in his arms
and held her tenderly close, whispering: “Forgive
me, Mabel ... I didn't know ..."
"I thought you wanted to help me," she said; she
was on the verge of tears again.
"I do; I do,” he assured her.
Her body lay limp in his arms and he watched
the tears drying on her long, dark eyelashes. How
could there be any desire to deceive in anyone with
a face so helpless and innocent as hers? Yes; he'd
make it up to her. She was staring at him with a look
compounded of accusation, entreaty, and despair.
“Erskine, why are you treating me like this?" she
asked in a quiet, intimate voice. "What have I done
to you?”
He hung his head. His right leg began to tremble.
He felt something like a wave of heat flash through
him and he tightened his arms about her. He wanted
to hold this lovely woman who tortured him so and
never let her go, wanted to hold onto her forever...
He bent to her and whispered:
“Mabel, I love you..." He felt pleasantly dizzy,
as though he were standing up high somewhere and
looking down from a great height.
She turned swiftly in his arms, half lifting herself


162
RICHARD WRIGHT
on her elbow, and stared at him in utter disbelief.
Then she sighed.
“Erskine ..." Her voice had a note of mild protest.
"I love you; I love you," he repeated. “I want to
marry you."
"No!”
"I mean it; I do_"
“My God," she said.
"I mean it honorably," he hastened to assure her.
"I don't know what's happening to me,” Mabel said,
looking about vaguely, holding her head between the
palms of her hands.
"I love you; that's why I spoke to you as I did. I
couldn't help it..."
"But you don't know me."
"I know I love you. You're haunting me. I can't
get you out of my mind, Mabel ..."
Slowly she pulled free of him and sank into a chair
at the side of the bed, her lips hanging open in shock.
For a moment Erskine was afraid that she'd spring up
and run from him, accuse him of taking wanton ad-
vantage of her helplessness and grief, and he was
ready to let loose a net of pleas to stay her departure,
to beg her to forgive him. He felt his face burning
and he waited. She stared at the floor, then lifted
her large, dark eyes to his face. He saw a thousand
questions in them.
“I don't want to upset you, Mabel,” he told her,
taking hold of her left hand with his right. “Perhaps
I shouldn't have spoken to you about my feelings at
a time like this. You're numb with sorrow. But you
were wondering why I dared criticize you, question
you ... You must realize that I'm in love with you
and you seem to belong to me... Try to understand
that. I'm not much good at expressing myself, Mabel.
I'm a business man. I guess I'm just jealous. I can't


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
163
help it. Please, you mustn't think badly of me. Tell
me, you don't, do you?"
Her eyes looked off and she did not answer.
"Please, I beg of you, Mabel,” he pleaded, “don't
be angry with me. Tell me that you are not angry..."
She still did not look at him or give any sign that
she had heard. What was she thinking about?
“Mabel,” he begged.
“Don't talk to me like that,"
“I must! Mabel-
"I'm going crazy," she wailed.
"Mabel,” he implored her.
“Yes,” she whispered.
"Look at me..."
"No."
"Yes. Look at me, darling ... You must look at
me... I can't stand thinking that I've hurt you..."
He felt the slow, heavy thump of her heart under
the silk dress, and again her eyes were wet, her lips
trembling.
"Mabel, look at me..."
Slowly she turned her head and her eyes rested
nakedly on his face; they were defenseless, those
eyes, as they stared directly into his own.
"I love you," he said..
"Yes,” she whispered and sighed.
"You're not angry ...?"
"No."
They were silent. He still held her hand, it was
limp, warm, pliant ... She sat in an attitude that
made her seem bent forward, as under the weight
of too much emotion. Her eyes, wet like a bird's wing
caught in a rainstorm, went from his face and then
to the floor several times. Then her body shook slowly
with a slight motion that was scarely perceptible,
shook each time her heart beat; she seemed to be,


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
165
“ 'Bye.”
He unlocked his door and went inside. He was
trembling. It seemed that he was walking on air. He
stood in the middle of the room and folt wrapped
in the fulfillment of long-sought dream. He smiled
and, at the same time, a sense of dread made him
bite his lips. Slowly he sank upon the side of his
bed and gazed unseeingly about him; he was en-
thralled, elated, yet full of wonder and fear... He
was glad that Minnie had finished her cleaning and
had gone; if she saw him now, she'd think that he
had gone out of his mind ...
Mabel's phone rang, tinkling faintly through the
afternoon's hot air. He rose and hurried to his open
window, inclined his head, straining to listen, a
deep frown dividing his eyes. He heard her voice,
but could not make out her words. There came to his
ears a low, rich, satisfied peal of laughter that ended
abruptly, as though she were afraid that he'd hear
her.
Who was she talking to now? She's playing with
me ...! That bitch... She didn't really care a fig
about what he had said to her. Damn her! He:
grabbed hold of the pillow of the bed and, in a
hot fury, balled it tightly in his long, strong hands,
his fingers squeezing at the soft batch of feathers
until the fingers of his left hand touched the fingers
of his right, penetrating the fluffy bunch. Then his
face flushed almost a black red and he ripped the
pillow in two, tearing the cloth, and the white
feathers scattered wildly in a dense, thick cloud
about the room, floating and hovering slowly in the
still, hot air. His rage was so deep that he could
scarcely see.
Gradually he became aware that his left palm was
throbbing with pain and when he looked at it he


166
RICHARD WRIGHT
saw that he had torn off the patch of adhesive tape
and drops of blood were pulsing and falling from
the raw gash and forming a small pool on the highly
polished hardwood floor. A large white feather
floated slowly down to the puddle of blood, hovered
above it for a second, then settled lightly upon its sur-
face, its edges fluttering futilely, as though trying
in vain to escape the clinging viscousness of the
bright red liquid ...


PART J. ATTACK
We must obey the gods, whatever those
gods are.
-Euripides' Orestes
... This cup is the new testament in my
blood; this do ye, as oft ye drink it, in
remembrance of me.
-St. Paul, I Cor. 11:25
See, see where Christ's blood streams in
the firmamenti
One drop would save my soul-
-Christopher Marlowe’s Dr. Faustus


170
RICHARD WRIGHT
pecting one kind of reaction from her and she kept
bewildering him with actions that were completely
contrary.
He was willing to forget whatever she had done in
the past, but her past could not, must not follow her
into his life. Hadn't she sense enough to know that?
Didn't she know a good man when she saw one? At
dinner tonight he'd be strict with her. She's just
a little spoilt fool... And her prettiness has turned
her silly ...
Fatigued, he stretched upon this bed and fell into
a sleep that was troubled by dreams. He thought
that he was a child again and was in a huge and
empty church which had row upon row of pews ex-
tending towards a tall pulpit and he was walking
down the center aisle with slow and measured steps
and to the sound of low, sad organ music and he
was wondering why he was alone and walking like
this and then suddenly he saw ahead of him a coffin
beautifully wrought in shining silver and surrounded
by heaping banks of flowers and as he neared the
gleaming coffin something urgent compelled him to
look down and he saw a dead woman who was
lovely and young and lying in a flowing white muslin
dress and it seemed that she was not really dead
but just sleeping and then a strange man whom he
felt that he had seen somewhere before but could
not remember where came up to him from his left
and the man's face was beginning to blur and he
felt that the man was asking his permission to open
the coffin so that he could see the entire body of
the woman and the man reached forward with a
hand clad in a white glove and slid down the lower
half of the lid of the coffin and there lay revealed
the lower half of the woman's body which was nude
and he could see that her legs were moving slightly


172
RICHARD WRIGHT
Dear Erskine: I'm sorry that I'm not in. Please for-
give me. I'm with some very dear friends of mine.
Won't you phone me at: ATWATER 9-0632? Just
ask for Mabel... We can fix a time for dinner and
maybe you could pick me up, perhaps? My best-
MABEL
Why was she acting like this? Was she grieving
over Tony at all? How could she so lightly accept
another invitation? And only four hours ago he'd told
her that he loved her? He oughtn't phone her; he'd
teach her a lesson. He had some pride, hadn't he?
Of course, she was with some Tom, Dick, or Harry,
as always ... And, in the end, it was the necessity to
know who that man was that made him decide to
phone her. He'd swallow his pride for once. But
she'd better not go too far; by Heaven, she'd better
not ... He dialed the number and a man answered:
"Mike's Tavernl Mike speaking!”
He heard a din of babbling voices in the back-
ground. He tightened with jealousy. She's in a bar!
My God! His hand shook. He wanted to hang up...
"Hello! Who's on the phone?" the man's voice was
rough.
"Is Mrs. Mabel Blake there?” he asked finally,
"Mabel Blake?"
“Yes.”
"Hold on a second ..." There was a pause. Then:
"Mabell Mabell Somebody tell Mabel she's wanted
on the phone...!"
Evidently she was well-known there.
"Hold on; she's coming.”
He heard the receiver being laid down gently. He
still wanted to hang up and, when he did hear
Mabel's voice, he could not speak for a moment.


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
173
"Erskine, is that you, dear?"
He bit his lip and did not answer.
"Hello... Is that you, Erskine?”
“Yes, Mabel,” he dragged the words out of him.
“Oh, darlingl. I'm sorry ... Listen, do you want
to come by here and pick me up? And I want you to
meet some friends of mine."
"Where are you?”
"In Mike's Tavern. 50th and Sixth Avenue. Won't
you come, honey?"
“But I thought we were having dinner together
tonight?"
“We are, darling! I didn't forget. Oh, do come...
And forgive me for not being home when you came.
But some friends asked me over for a drink; I was
feeling so low, so lonely, so blue ... Aren't you com-
friends of pick me up? ten do you
ing?"
"All right, Mabel. I'll be there in quarter of an
hour."
"Lovely."
"Good-bye.”
He heard a smacking sound of lips over the wires
and he knew that she was giving him a kiss ... Was
she drunk? He hung up and felt like vomiting. To-
night he'd decide one way or the other. He hailed a
taxi and slumped down in his seat to brood. Was it
because he was old that her behavior seemed so odd?
No; for thirty years he'd met and dealt with people
of her age, but they'd been far more reasonable,
honorable. Well, if she was really the kind of woman
he was beginning to think she was, he'd tell her off.
He felt beginning to the was really th
Erskine stepped with misgivings through the door
of Mike's Tavern and moved forward through fumes
of beer and clouds of blue smoke, searching for
Mabel. There she was, sitting at a rear table sur-


174
RICHARD WRIGHT
rounded by people ... She was wearing a semi-eve-
ning dress and her face was sullen, heavy, her eyes
slightly glazed.
"Mabell” he called to her, unable to get any closer
because of the crowd.
She looked about for him; when she saw him she
let her mouth gape in a glad sign of welcome.
"Erskine, darling!” she crooned. “Come over here.
Oh, darling, I thought you were angry with me and
weren't coming ... Say, you folks, move over and
let Erskine in. Let him pass, won't you, Fred?"
"Sure thing," Fred agreed affably, rising and mov-
ing aside.
Erskine stepped beside her; he felt out of place,
embarrassed.
“Share my chair,. darling; won't you?" Mabel
asked. “There's no other place to sit.”
He sat next to her on one half of her chair and
he smelt the alcohol on her breath. God, she's
drunk...
"Erskine, meet Fred," Mabel said, waving her
hand airily. She presented the others. “There's Will,
Eva, Martin, Gloria, and Butch.”
Erskine nodded to each of them and forced a
smile.
“What'll you have to drink?" Fred asked Erskine.
“Just anything,” Erskine mumbled, afraid to say
that he didn't drink.
“Scotch and soda?" Fred asked.
“Sure,” Erskine said impulsively. He felt that had
he refused, it would have made him conspicuous,
and he yearned to pass unnoticed among them ...
Mabel caught hold of his chin and, holding it
between her two palms, turned his face to her.
"I'm bad, hunh?”


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
175
“You're worried. Is that why you're drinking?” he
asked her in a whisper.
“I'm bad; I know it,” she said with exaggerated
melancholy. “You left me alone and I didn't know
what to do. My friends called me and I came ..."
“That's all right,” Erskine lied; his face burned be-
cause she was demonstrating her intimacy too pub-
licly by holding his cheeks like that. But he was
determined not to lose his temper in the presence of
her friends. He'd have it out with her later.
"You're angry with me!” Mabel wailed and began
a drunken kind of weeping. “Nobody likes me-"
"We do like you, Mabel,” Will said, winking at
Erskine.
"She's upset about something," Martin told Gloria.
“What can we do for her?” Eva asked of the table
in general.
“Now, now," Erskine whispered chidingly to her.
"Don't cry like that.”
"I c-c-can't b-help it,” Mabel sobbed.
“Give her another drink,” Gloria said.
"Yeah; I want another drink,” Mabel said, lifting
her head suddenly and staring in front of her with
tear-drenched eyes.
“Give Mabel another drink!” Gloria called to the
waiter.
“Don't you think you've had enough?” Erskine
asked her in a timid whisper.
“Now, don't you scold me, Erskine,” Mabel said.
“Be nice to me tonight, hunh? I need somebody to
be nice to me..." She was mumbling sentimentally.
"Erskine, you're good..."
The waiter brought Erskine's drink and Erskine
took hold of the chilled glass, hoping that no one
would notice that he did not know how to drink.
With a quick gesture he lifted the glass to his lips


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
177
"No."
“Yes; you are,” Mabel insisted. "I can feel it.” She
hung her head. “I'm not good enough for you"
“No; don't say that."
"I know it,” Mabel raged. She glared at him. “Say,
what do you want with me, anyhow?”
"Aren't you hungry?" Erskine tried to evade her.
"What do you want with me, I asked you?” Mabel
asked, her eyes sleepy and swimming.
"Aren't we having dinner together?" Erskine coun-
tered, seeking now to hurry the time of departure.
“Sure; sure ... But we've got all night to eat in,"
Mabel said.
The waiter brought her her drink.
“We'll go after your drink, won't we?" Erskine
asked with a note of pleading.
“Yes; I know ... You wanna go ..." Mabel waved
her hand aimlessly, floating it limply through the
air. "Awright, go ... Just leave me here, like that..."
She snapped her fingers. “Go then; I'll go to the dogs
quietly... You don't wanna run? Why? You're free;
go... No? Well, wait... wait, little man ... If you
don't wanna wait, then go ...
"You're drunk, Mabel,” Fred said, winking at Er-
skine.
"Did I say I wasn't?” Mabel demanded. “And
whose business is it if I'm drunk? I'm drunk because
I'm blue-"
"All right,” Gloria said, "be blue, then”
"I gotta right to be blue,” Mabel said proudly.
Erskine was tensely squeezing the fingers of his
hands together, then he reached inside of his coat
and touched the tips of the four pencils clipped to
his pocket. Christ! His undershirt felt wet. The dense
smoke was stinging his eyes and cutting his lungs.
Disgust rolled through his veins. He longed to run


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
179
"I shouldn't let you do that,” Erskine said.
Erskine noticed that they all seemed fond of Ma-
bel, but in a detached, impersonal sort of way.
Before he came he had had the idea that he'd find
some man hellbent for her body, but this loose, al-
most neutral atmosphere soothed him as much as
it puzzled him.
Mabel stood, swaying drunkenly, her lips set in
lines of sullen anger. Fred rose and Mabel squeezed
past him and Erskine followed.
"Good night, everybody," he called self-con-
sciously.
**They smiled, waved, and said good night. Mabel
now came toward him, her eyes directly on his face,
her body veering uncertainly. He caught her arm
and led her toward the door. A spot on his back
seemed to burn red hot as he imagined many eyes
staring at him; he yearned to turn and look, but
dared not. On the sidewalk, he searched for a taxi,
feeling Mabel's arm unsteady under the pressure of
his hand.
"You didn't like my friends," she said.
He did not answer.
“Did you?" she insisted.
"I don't know, Mabel,” he said. "How can I tell?
I hardly know them "
“You don't like 'em,” she said with flat, drunken
obstinacy. "I could feel it.”
“I doubt if I've any feelings about them one way
or the other,” he lied cautiously.
“So, you're a snob, hunh?" she cut at him.
“Taxi!” he yelled. .
"All right. You didn't like 'em ... But they're damn
good friends of mine, seep” she said.
"I understand,” he said.
“You don't understand," she contradicted him.


180
RICHARD WRIGHT
A taxi swerved to the curb and they stepped in.
"Chinatown, Mott Street,” Erskine told the driver.
"They don't know Tony's dead," she said. “They
don't even know I've got a son... had a son... Poor
Tony! He's gone..."
Erskine was stunned.
"You never told them you had a son?"
"No."
"Why?"
“Why should I? It's none of their damned busi-
ness, is it?"
Erskine could not answer that. Somehow it pleased
him; it meant that she was really kind of pure. She
kept the sacred part of her free from the profane,
he tried to tell himself.
“Then, they're really not friends of yours, are
theypa
"Sure they are,” she said stoutly. “They'd do any-
thing for me."
“But they don't know anything about you and
you don't tell them anything-”
“I keep my life to myself,” she said. "They don't
- tell me their personal lives.
“Oh, then they're just pals,” he said.
Again he felt that she belonged to him. But she
should not drink so...
"Is a Chinese restaurant all right with you?” he
asked her.
“I don't care,” she said, closing her eyes and lean-
ing back in the taxi, her wan face an image of bleak-
ness. Then, suddenly, she leaned forward and opened
her eyes, staring downward at her feet.
"I'm no good, Erskine," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"We won't get along," she said. Tears began to


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
181
well in her eyes. “Let's be honest. Of course, I want
to marry, but I'm no fool. I'm not for you-
“Why do you say that?”
"You won't like me. You're lonely. You're retired.
I just excite you; that's all.” She sighed. “It 11 pass ..."
“But don't you want somebody to be excited about
you?” he asked.
"Yes. But not in the way you are"
“What's wrong with me?"
"I don't know.” She shot him a glance. "I didn't
say anything was wrong with you.”
“No; no," he insisted in a sudden frenzy, “tell
me, what's wrong!"
She stared at him. He saw a wisdom in her eyes
that frightened him.
"Do you really want me?" she asked him slowly.
He winced when she put it in words like that; it
offended him, made him feel that she was weighing
him and finding him wanting.
"Yes,” he said simply, but in the moment of his
saying it, he felt that she had begun to recede from
him again.
"Then why didn't you take me?" she asked him di-
rectly.
He was aghast. His projected emotions drained
suddenly from her and she was a strange woman, a
hostile one. So, that was why she had had that Mona
Lisa smile on her face when he had left her at her
door this afternoon ...
“Why didn't you?" she kept after him.
“I don't know,” he mumbled. She was beginning
to seem like an enemy. Hate for her was coming
to the surface again.
"You don't want me,” she said.
"That depends—"
“On what?”


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
185
wanted him to remain, but he went resolutely out.
This was the end. He knew exactly what to do to
terminate this farce.
In his living room, he placed a sheet of his personal
stationery on his desk, took out his fountain pen,
and wrote in a clear, flowing hand:
Dear Mabel:
You must realize now, as surely as I do, that
what has happened between us is a sad mistake.
This entire thing is a foolish case of mistaken
identity and, if we let it continue, it will only mean
misery for the both of us. Upon myself I willingly
take the full blame, and I only beg, with all my
heart, your indulgence and forgiveness. I freely
confess that I was wrong in my hot-headed scold-
ing of you; I had no right to do it. It was indefen-
sible on my part. But I ask you to understand under
what stress of emotion I was when I did it. Mabel,
it might just be that you see and know all of this
much more clearly than I do. In fact, from what
you said to me tonight, I think you do. So, please
try to forget and forgive what I was impulsive
enough to say to you this afternoon.
Believe me when I say that I do want, for the
sake of our common memory of dear little Tony, to
help you and be your staunch friend. But, beyond
that, I now realize that there is no place for me
in your life. And you are far, far from understand-
ing the kind of man I am.
I shall see you tomorrow afternoon at two-thirty
for the service. Don't hesitate to let me know if
you need anything. I shall be hurt if you want
my help and do not ask for it.
With all my best,
Sincerely,
ERSKINE


186
RICHARD WRIGHT
He folded it, stepped into the hallway and slipped
it under the sill of her door. A vast weight seemed
to lift itself from his tensed muscles, yet, as it did
so, he was conscious of a sense of looseness, of deso-
lation, a feeling of having been abandoned upon
some rocky ledge of some cold, bleak mountain. He
undressed and got into bed, assuring himself that he
had done the wisest thing, that he would have gone
crazy if he had kept running after that wild girl ...
She's just a plain tart...
But he couldn't sleep. What had he done? What
had be solved? Mabel, if she was determined, could
still make trouble for him with her story of the
"naked feet dangling” ... And there were those
bloody newspapers ... And who was that woman
who'd called him? And didn't he have a duty to let
Mabel know somehow just what harm she'd done to
little Tony? His mind wrestled with the question of
why he was constantly changing his attitude toward
her. Why did he love her one moment and hate her
the next? Slowly he began to realize that he hadn't
been honest with himself, that his motive in writing
that letter was to hurt Mabel, to jolt her loose from
whatever men she knew. Would it? Suppose she
agreed to what he had said in the letter? The thought
distressed him. He tossed restlessly on his bed in
the dark, his lips moving soundlessly as they followed
his thoughts. Ah, hell, why had he ever dared to
talk to her in the first place? If he had kept to him-
self after Tony had fallen, why everything would
have been all right...
The silence of the night hours weighed on him.
Had she found the letter? She'd gone to bed, no
doubt. The hell with it! He'd go to the police in the
morning and tell his story and then he'd leave New
York tomorrow night ... A good vacation was what


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
187
he needed; it'd get all of this churning rot out of his
system ... Yes; a good sea trip...
His phone rang. Ah, she was phoning him ... He'd
known that she would ... He'd bet that she was feel-
ing properly chastened ... A tight smile hovered on
his lips as he picked up the receiver.
"Hello," he said.
The line hummed softly and there was no response.
“Hello, hello, hello..."
He heard the receiver click and the line went dead.
Erskine stood, sweat coming again on his face. Had
that been Mabel or had it been the other woman
who'd called him twice before? Then he heard his
doorbell ring. He hesitated, debating. He had the
sensation that some huge, invisible trap was closing
slowly over him. Perhaps it was Mabel ... He opened
the door and it was Mabel, silent, solemn, her fea-
tures washed clean of rouge and powder; she was
wearing her rose-colored nylon robe.
"I want to talk to you, Erskine.” She snapped out
her words.
“Come in,” he said, tying his own robe tighter
about his waist.
She entered and he closed the door. She walked
slowly down the hallway, looking around. Finally she
entered his bedroom. He followed her, sat on the
edge of his bed, watched her, waited for her to
speak.
"Erskine, what in hell's the matter with you?"
she asked abruptly and in a tone of voice that he'd
never heard her use before.
"I think I expressed myself pretty clearly in my
letter," he said. In vain he tried to stifle a sense of
dread that was now seizing hold of him.
Mabel took her cigarettes from the pocket of her
robe and popped one of them into her mouth and


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
189
what? I'm all upset about Tony and you come to
me talking about love, love, love ... It was Tony I
was responsible for, not you ... I don't know what
happened to Tony. I've been pounding my brains
to find out what to do about it, and you start press-
ing me about loving me... Do you call that responsi-
bility?
Her attack was so frontal that his feelings shriveled.
My God, what a hell cat! If his emotions could have
been represented by an image of reality, that image
would have been of a pile of hunched muscles
crouched in self-defense, ready to spring and attack
that which was seeking to destroy it. Mabel's words
made leap to life in him two opposing sets of bars,
as it were: bars that had kept him propped to a
stance of religious rectitude, and bars that had shut
out all the past that his love and need of religion
had been designed to deny.
"Mabel, I'm jealous,” he confessed in a confused,
weak voice.
"But you don't know me, so how can you be jeal-
ous?” she asked him. “You don't know my friends,
and when you meet them, you don't like them. To-
night you sat like a lump on a log, itching to get
away
"I wasn't so much jealous of them," he muttered.
“Then what are you jealous of?”
"You!”
“But what have I doneº" she cried. “Ask me any-
thing you want to ... I'll tell you. I'm no angel, but
I'm not what you seem to be thinking. Oh, helll I
don't understand you."
"It's you," he told her again, his eyes fastened upon
her face.
“You don't want me to speak to my friends over the
phone? You want me to remain in your sight every


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
191
He dared not look at her and his nerves were taut
as he waited for her to answer.
"It's in everything you say and do ... When you're
with me, you're not thinking of me... What are you
thinking of?”
Panic rose in him. How much did she know or
suspect? Did she have someone waiting outside the
door? Or was she alone in this attack? The more
she tried to get at his heart, the more he hated
and feared her.
"Mabel, what are you getting at?" he tried to fence
her off.
She rose and stood looking down at him.
"Erskine, do you want to confess something to
me?" she asked gently, quietly.
His head jerked up and he stared at her, his lips
moving soundlessly.
"Confess? What?” he asked finally.
"If you want to confess, then only you would
know what=”.
"What do you think I want to say, Mabel?” he
asked her in a breathless sort of way. He knew that
there was but one thing that she could be thinking
of, and that was Tony. Really, he was wanting her to
bring it up; he was hungry for her to ask him. Her
asking him would release him from this nightmare . . *
She sighed; her face was concentrated; she sat on
the bed beside him. He could detect no anger in her
and it baffled him. She caught hold of his shoulder
and turned him round.
"Is it about Tony? It's about Tony, isn't it?" she
asked, nodding her head affirmatively.
He did not, could not answer; he could scarcely
breathe.


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
195
i
knew that something was happening, but I didn't
think it was serious ... And I didn't think you were
involved in it... I went back to sleep. I didn't see
Tony fall... I thought he was still on the balcony.
I was standing and looking out of my kitchen win-
dow. I was afraid that Tony's drum would keep
people awake. I waved at him to keep quiet; he
nodded to let me know that he'd obey... He kept
so quiet that a little later I went out into the hall-
way to see about 'im; he was all right... But the
next time I looked, I didn't see him; I was about to
leave the window when I saw two feet, naked feet,
dangling in air and they went up, up and out of
sight... I'd swear that it was your balcony. Erskine,
what on earth was that? Do you know?
Erskine buried his face in his hands. Yes; he should
have told his story before now. But, yes... Only
one person had seen him, only one person had phoned
him, only one person had known about that bloody
newspaper ... And that person was Mabel, and she
sat six inches from him...
"Why do you think I had anything to do with it?”
he asked her, lifting his head and speaking in a
whisper. He had hoped that his question would be
defiant but, as he spoke, he realized that it was al-
most a confession.
"Because nobody else wants to speak to me about
it,” she said promptly. “They accepted the police
story; they think that Tony just fell, that I neglected
him ... Only you kept hanging around me, accusing
me..." She frowned. “Did that person whose feet
I saw ...? Did he go into your apartment, Erskine?
What was happening?"
“Are you trying to say that I killed Tonyp” he
asked with rough anger.
"I'm asking you to tell me what happened, if


200
RICHARD WRIGHT
TONY! How? Like this ... You had let Tony see you
naked many times, naked and making love to men,
many men... Tony told me sol I swear it! That poor
child couldn't understand what he saw. You were
so careless, so stupid, so inhuman, so brutal that you
thought that a child could look right at such as that
without its influencing him! How could you do that?
Tony didn't understand what was happening when
you let him see you making love to men ... Maybe
you were too drunk to care I don't know. But-Tony
thought the men were fighting you ... And you'll
never understand how scared he was of that ... He
thought of it night and day; he dreamed about it; he
tried to find out what it meant; he lived in terror
of it... He couldn't interpret it in terms that made
sense to him. It was just a picture of violence, vio-
lence for no reason that he could accept or under-
stand ... I swear to you that this is true, Mabel.
Your son was terrified of naked people, naked men
in particular ... You made him feel that if he ever
saw a naked man, he had to run for his life ... for
he didn't want that violence, that fighting to happen
to him ... Tony told me that he didn't even want to
grow up to be a man, because he felt that he'd have
to fight-he called it fightingl-women like his mother
... Mabel, you crushed that child; you killed him
even before he fell from that balcony... Aw, you
sneer at me, huh?
"But, listen ... That morning I tried to get my
Sunday paper from the hallway, see? I was naked.
I was about to take a shower. I opened my door to
pick up the paper and the door slammed shut in
my face and I was locked out. I didn't know what
to do. I was terrified, embarrassed ... Naked, I rode
down in the elevator to try to get hold of Wester-
man and ask him to unlock my door ... But there


204
RICHARD WRIGHT
"Sit down; sit down, Mabel,” he begged her. “I
won't hurt you..."
She edged toward a chair and sat. He backed off
till his legs touched his bed; then he sank upon it,
closed his eyes and rocked his head.
"Good God, Mabel," he groaned. “We're both at
fault in this ... Be calm and try to understand.
Please ... There's no sense in being wild. What's hap-
pened has happened... That's all. But we can try to
understand what happened." He lifted his eyes plead-
ingly to her. “The first thing to try to understand is
that I'm telling you the truth about what happened
to Tony ... All right; I'm a damn fool for not telling
what had happened in the first place... I was fool-
ish! But it was such a freakish accident, such a silly
accident that I was in a funk... I didn't want to
tell anybody about it. I-I thought t-they wouldn't
believe m-me... The last thing on earth I expected
was for my door to slam shut in my face and lock me
out, naked in that hallway..."
They both stared unseeingly toward each other
in silence.
"Your door slammed ...pshe asked at last in a
timid voice; she looked at him, then off, frowning.
“Yes; I was locked out, naked ... I couldn't even
break the door down—"
"Did your door slam very loud when it shut?"
she asked.
“Like a rifle shot-"
“What time was that?"
"A little after seven-thirty; nearly eight, I think_"
“Then that's what I heard,” she said wonderingly.
"I thought that was Tony... It woke me up."
The muscles of Erskine's face relaxed a little.
"Oh, thank God, you can understand maybe ...
Try to understand something ... Be honest with


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
205
yourself, Mabel. Look at this for what it simply is,
he begged her. “What killed poor Tony is what
both of us did to him ... Which of us is really re-
sponsible, who knows? All right; I am upon the bal-
cony... But how could I know that Tony would
react so?”
“Why didn't you knock at my door?" she asked,
her eyes round with the effort to comprehend.
His eyes grew sullen and he frowned. He bent for-
ward and rested his elbows on his knees and cupped
his chin in his hands.
"I didn't dare, Mabel,” he confessed. “I didn't
know you ... And I didn't think about it. I was try-
ing to dodge everybody ... And I was wild, crazy,
scared ... What does one do in situations like that?”
“Yes; you wouldn't think of doing a little simple
thing like that,” she said and even managed a slow,
rueful smile. "You're very moral..." She shook her
head. “You and Tony ... You say you talked to Tony
about this...pa
"He talked to me"
"Oh, God, it's all so sad and true it makes me
sick," she moaned.
“Be honest and try to understand..."
She lifted her head with a quick jerk.
“But why on earth didn't you call Tony and tell
him to get Westerman-?
A tremor went through Erskine. He doubled his
fists and jammed them against his eyes.
“Christ, I forgot that the child was on that bal-
cony!” he exclaimed in horror. “I heard 'im earlier,
then he got quiet and I forgot ’im.”
"Good God,” Mabel breathed. “Could such a thing
happen?"
“It happened!” he swore fervently. “I pray for you
to believe me; I beg you with all my heart ... What


206
RICHARD WRIGHT
do you want me to do to prove it? Look, Mabel, I'm
so glad that all of this is out in the open at last.
Keeping my mouth shut about this was like having
a hot poker rammed in my heart! Listen, Mabel,
let's you and I go right now to the police station
and tell them what happened ... Let's go and tell
them everything. Right now!"
Mabel moaned and closed her eyes.
"God, Erskine, what good on earth would that do
now?” she asked in a hopeless whisper. "I'd die on
the spot if you told the police what you told me
tonight ... I'd die of shame.” She choked.
"But what ought we to do?” Erskine asked.
"Tony's gone,” she wailed. “What did I do to my
baby ...?”
She caught hold of the hem of her robe and
pressed it against her mouth in a gesture of convul-
sive grief, then she leaned forward in her chair. Her
dark eyes were pits of fear as she lifted them slowly
to Erskine's face.
“D-do you t-think that he w-was scared of...
scared of that, Erskine?” she asked in a broken voice.
“Yes, Mabel,” he told her. “Tony was alone, alone
in a world he didn't understand. He saw danger
everywhere, even where there was no danger ... Did
you know that he was even afraid to play with his
toys?”
“Afraid of his toys?” She gulped. “Oh, God, Mrs.
Westerman told me something about that once, but
I didn't believe her... I thought she was trying to
insult me. Jesus, I shouldn't have had a child ... I'm
no mother..." She keened: "He was scared of his
little toys..."
"He could hardly play with them, Mabel,” Er-
skine explained sadly and gently. “He'd get scared


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
207
and run off... Oh, I can't explain it all, Mabel. Tony
was obsessed with fear about everything. He didn't
understand what he saw you do, and he got it mixed
up with things that didn't have anything to do with
it... Even his little airplanes were men and women
fighting to make babies ... At times he was so
frightened of them that he couldn't touch them."
They were silent. Mabel sat, crushed. Beyond
the window it was black night and a slight wind
made the curtains tremble. The small clock on Er-
skine's night table ticked loudly in the still room.
"Mabel,” Erskine called plaintively to her.
She opened her eyes and stared at him; there was
only wonder, fear, pity, humility and a kind of dread
in her now. He felt that she was his, only his now ...
He rose and went slowly to her and touched her
shoulder. He thought that his breath would stop
when her hand lifted itself and, hesitantly and ten-
derly, covered his own. He took her in his arms; he
found himself weeping.
“I don't understand anything any more,” she whis-
pered through a dry throat. “What did I do to my
child?"
"May God help you," he told her. “Little Tony's
gone... I'll do anything on this earth to try to make
it up to you."
They clung together, weeping.
"Mabel?”
"Yes?”
"I still love you," he said. “Make any condition
you want. I'll accept it and abide by it. I'm in your
hands. We both must go to the police and tell them
about Tony ..."
“No; no; no," she cried, shutting her eyes.
"But I want to marry you, Mabel,” he said. “I
need you..."
RES


208
RICHARD WRIGHT
He felt her body shudder slightly in his arms.
“But I'm not for you, Erskine," she whispered
compassionately.
“Let me decide that,” he begged her.
"Are you sure you want me, Erskine??
"I'm sure,” he said, looking into her eyes with tears
in his own. “Are you engaged to anyone?"
"No."
“Then you'll marry me? There can be no question
of my hiding or covering up something now," he ar-
gued. "We both know what happened and now we're
free from that ... You'll marry me?”
“But, Erskine, we're so different," she protested
weakly, shaking her head.
“Look, I'll change some and you'll change some,"
he said, figuring it all out neatly. “Tell me: will you
marry me? Tell me now..."
"You really want it?”
"I do, with all my heart. Now, tell me ... Will
youps
She began weeping afresh.
“Tell me; tell me," he implored her, squeezing her
shoulders.
"Yes; yes, Erskine,” she sighed.
He crushed her to him. “We'll make up for little
Tony, won't we? We may have a son, hunh? We'll
have something around which to build a joyful and
solemn relationship, hunh? You understand?"
“Yes," she whispered. “And I need somebody).."
She threw her arms about him and clung to him.
"Erskine, teach me how to live, won't you?" she
asked him. “I'm through; I'm licked ... You'll teach
me, tell me what's right?” .
"Yes, yes,” he assured her.
She lowered her eyes and then started violently.
“What's the matter?” he asked.


210
RICHARD WRIGHT
Her eyes deepened with pity as she gazed at him.
A ghost of a sad smile fitted across her wan lips.
"You and Tony,” she said with a sigh. “Come here;
let me wash that blood off your hand..."
She caught his arm and led him to the bathroom
and washed his hand and bound it securely with
tape.
“I said that I needed somebody," she said. “But,
by God, I think you need somebody, too."
He caught her and kissed her for the first time.
"Mabel,” he murmured.
"Erskine,” she whispered. “You're really so silly,
like a boy..."
"We'll redeem everything, won't we, honey?"
“Yes.”
"Our love will be a monument to Tony ..."
"Yes.” She grew thoughtful. “Erskine, what about
your family and friends? Would you acknowledge
me before them?"
“I want you in spite of them," he said. "If they
don't accept you, they reject me. I'm with you; un-
derstand?"
"Yes."
The phone in Mabel's apartment began to ring,
the sound coming clear and sharp through the night
air, through Erskine's opened window. Mabel cocked
her head. .
"That's my phone,” she said in a voice that was
suddenly matter-of-fact, practical.
He hugged her closer, frantically.
"Mabel,” he whispered.
"My phone's ringing,” she said, trying to disengage
herself.
“Let it ring..."
“But that's Harry," she protested. “I must answer
that..."


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
211
His face went white. She pulled herself out of
his arms; his hand clutched involuntarily at the
sleeve of her robe and, as she went from him, the
robe slid from her body and she stood naked before
him.
“Give me my robe," she said with tense im-
patience. “I must answer the phone.”
The phone was still ringing.
"No; no ... Let it ring,” he insisted. He still held
her robe. “What do we care about who's calling?"
"But, Erskine?”
He seized her nude body and held her close to him.
The phone rang once more, then fell silent. She
turned and stared at him with a strange expression
on her face jealous," shtonefacedly..mages she asked
ws
“You are jealous," she said in amazement.
“Yes," he admitted shamefacedly.
"But how could we ever live together?" she asked
in open wonder.
“We'd be together,” he muttered.
"Not all the time," she said. "There are things that
you must do, and there are things that I must do.
We couldn't be together every minute ..."
“But you'd be faithful to me, wouldn't you?" he
asked her.
She stared, smiled a ghost of a smile, and looked
off.
"If I were married to you, yes,” she said cryptically.
"Why 'if,' Mabel?" His frown was dividing his fore-
head now.
"Listen, Erskine, if two people are married and
are satisfied with each other, they are faithful," she
explained.
Erskine was tortured. A moment ago he had felt
that he had her forever, and now he was not so sure.
She was fleeing from him again. He was feelin
abandoned, naked, lost...


SAVAGE HOLIDAY
217
he felt sick; he bent over the commode and vomited.
He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. Fi-
nally he washed the blood from his hands and dried
them. He paused in the bathroom door, staring
into the kitchen with a kind of sullen, stolid pride
at the nude, bloody body stretched on the table.
Huge, gleaming pools of red blood had now formed
on the tiled floor.
He dressed and stood glowering into space. He
went to the open window and looked out at New
York stretching glitteringly in the bright Tuesday
morning sunshine. He turned with sudden purpose
and went out of his door, rode down in the elevator,
and walked four blocks west and entered a police
station. He saw a policeman reading a newspaper
behind a tall black desk. He walked slowly up to
him and placed both of his hands on top of the
wooden railing.
"I want to see the officer in charge,” he said in a
clear, distinct voice.
“That's me. What can I do for youp" the police.
man asked, lowering his newspaper.
"I want to surrender,” Erskine said quietly.
“What? What's that?”
"I want to surrender," Erskine repeated.
"What's the matter, Mister?" the policeman asked,
leaning forward.
“I just killed a woman, Her body's in my apart-
ment.”
"All right, now. Just take it easy," the policeman
said, coming from behind the tall desk. “You're sure
that you're not drunk?”
“I'm not drunk.”
"Do you realize what you just said to me?"
"Yes. I do."
The policeman frowned and stared at Erskine.


220
RICHARD WRIGHT
memory-of_that battered doll was but the memory
of a dream he'd hadd
He'd never "killed" the doll, really! That memory
was but the recalling of a shameful daydream of re-
venge which he had pushed out of his mind! It was
what he had angrily daydreamed one day when
he'd been playing games with Gladys and her dolls;
they'd been coloring paper with colored pencils and
he'd drawn the image of a dead, broken doll and he
had imagined Gladys telling on him and his mother
branding him as bad ... He'd pictured vividly to him-
self what he'd wanted to do to his mother for having
gone off and left that night when he'd been ill...
He now understood the four pencils!
His lips parted in horror as his memory spanned
the void of time and revealed the reality of what he
had done. He stared about as though drugged, un-
aware of the policeman and the barred windows ...
“Don't you hear me talking to you the police-
man asked.
"Hunh?” Erskine grunted, struggling to orient
himself.
"Tell me what happened!" the policeman shouted
at him.
How could he ever explain that a daydream buried
under the rigorous fiats of duty had been called
forth from its thirty-six-year-old grave by a woman
called Mabel Blake, and that that taunting dream
had so overwhelmed him with a sense of guilt com-
pounded of a reality which was strange and alien and
which he loathed, but which, at the same time, was
astonishingly familiar to him: a guilty dream which
he had wanted to disown and forget, but which he
had had to reenact in order to make its memory and
reality clear to him! He closed his eyes in despair...
still touching the four colored pencils!.


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Only
RICHARD WRIGHT
renowned bestselling author of NATIVE
SON and BLACK BOY could have written a
novel that so vividly reveals the nameless
torments and quiet hungers of a man's soul
... a soul suddenly beset by a confluence of
humiliations in a hostile world and pushed
past the breaking point into a nightmare ...
SAVAGE HOLIDAY
"Wright's landscape was not merely
that of the Deep South, or of Chicago,
but that of the world, of the human
heart."
– James, Baldwin
USUPERB!
- Yale Review
PRINTED IN U.S.A.