Free Black Boy by Richard Wright Page A

odor. My forehead was damp and my heart thumped heavily.
    “I want to get out,” I said.
    “What’s the matter?” he asked.
    “I want to get out!”
    “We’re back on land now, boy.”
    “Naw! Stop! I want to get out!”
    He did not stop the buggy; he did not even turn his head to look at me; he did not understand. I wrenched my leg free with a lunge and leaped headlong out of the buggy, landing in the dust of the road, unhurt. He stopped the buggy.
    “Are you really that scared?” he asked softly.
    I did not answer; I could not speak. My fear was gone now and he loomed before me like a stranger, like a man I had never seen before, a man with whom I could never share a moment of intimate living.
    “Come on, Richard, and get back into the buggy,” he said. “I’ll take you home now.”
    I shook my head and began to cry.
    “Listen, son, don’t you trust me?” he asked. “I was born on that old river. I know that river. There’s stone and brick way down under that water. You could wade out for half a mile and it would not come over your head.”
    His words meant nothing and I would not re-enter the buggy.
    “I’d better take you home,” he said soberly.
    I started down the dusty road. He got out of the buggy and walked beside me. He did not do his shopping that day and when he tried to explain to me what he had been trying to do in frightening me I would not listen or speak to him. I never trusted him after that. Whenever I saw his face the memory of my terror upon the river would come back, vivid and strong, and it stood as a barrier between us.
    Each day Uncle Hoskins went to his saloon in the evening and did not return home until the early hours of the morning. Like my father, he slept in the daytime, but noise never seemed to bother Uncle Hoskins. My brother and I shouted and banged as much as we liked. Often I would creep into his room while he slept and stare at the big shining revolver that lay near his head, within quick reach of his hand. I asked Aunt Maggie why he kept the gun so close to him and she told me that men had threatened to kill him, white men…
    One morning I awakened to learn that Uncle Hoskins had not come home from the saloon. Aunt Maggie fretted and worried. She wanted to visit the saloon and find out what had happened, but Uncle Hoskins had forbidden her to come to the place. The day wore on and dinnertime came.
    “I’m going to find out if anything’s happened,” Aunt Maggie said.
    “Maybe you oughtn’t,” my mother said. “Maybe it’s dangerous.”
    The food was kept hot on the stove and Aunt Maggie stood on the front porch staring into the deepening dusk. Again she declared that she was going to the saloon, but my mother dissuaded her once more. It grew dark and still he had not come. Aunt Maggie was silent and restless.
    “I hope to God the white people didn’t bother him,” she said.
    Later she went into the bedroom and when she came out she whimpered:
    “He didn’t take his gun. I wonder what could have happened?”
    We ate in silence. An hour later there was the sound of heavy footsteps on the front porch and a loud knock came. Aunt Maggie ran to the door and flung it open. A tall black boy stood sweating, panting, and shaking his head. He pulled off his cap.
    “Mr. Hoskins…he done been shot. Done been shot by a white man,” the boy gasped. “Mrs. Hoskins, he dead.”
    Aunt Maggie screamed and rushed off the porch and down the dusty road into the night.
    “Maggie!” my mother screamed.
    “Don’t you-all go to that saloon,” the boy called.
    “Maggie!” my mother called, running after Aunt Maggie.
    “They’ll kill you if you go there!” the boy yelled. “White folks say they’ll kill all his kinfolks!”
    My mother pulled Aunt Maggie back to the house. Fear drowned out grief and that night we packed clothes and dishes and loaded them into a farmer’s wagon. Before dawn we were rolling away, fleeing for our lives. I learned afterwards that