The Kill-Off by Jim Thompson

sorry, unbearable state I have come. Chained to a Negro woman—and I am not responsible to her. Inflicted with a son who—who—well, at least he isn’t a Negro. Not really. If a Negro was only one-sixteenth white, would you call him a white man? Well, it’s the same proposition. It’s—
    It’s unbearable. Maddening. Completely unjust.
    I don’t know what I would do without the comfort of Hank Williams’ friendship. I spend much of my free time with him, and he spends much of his with me. We understand each other. He admires and respects me. He is glad that I have gotten ahead, even though his own success has been somewhat modest. True, he seems unaware that he hasn’t gotten on—he seems to have forgotten that he ever talked of being senator or governor. But, no matter. He is my friend, and he has proved it in many ways. If he wishes to be a little smug, boastful, I can bear with it easily. Never in any way do I let on that his “success” wears a striking resemblance to failure.
    We were talking the other night about our early days here. And he, as he is wont to do, passed some remark as to his progress since then. I said that his was a career to be proud of, that very few lawyers had risen so high in so brief a time. He beamed and smirked; and then with that earnest warmth which only he is capable of, he said that he owed his success to me.
    “Well,” I said. “I’ve certainly boosted you whenever I could, but I’m afraid I—”
    “Remember our first talk together? The day I was drawing up those papers for you?”
    “Why, yes,” I said. “Of course I remember. You set me straight here, saw that—”
    “Sure! Uh-hah. You sly old rascal you!” He threw back his head, and laughed. “I set you straight. A country bumpkin, a small town lawyer, set a big city doctor straight. He told him how to get on in the world!”
    I didn’t say anything. I was too bewildered. For I had told him nothing that day. Nothing until I had pretty well ascertained his own feelings.
    “Oh, I understood you, all right!” he laughed. “Naturally, you couldn’t come straight out with it; you had to spar around a little, make sure of how I felt first. But…”
    He winked at me, grinning. I stared at him, feeling my hands tighten on the arms of my chair; then, as the murderous hatred drained out of me, feeling them slowly relax and grow limp.
    He had done me no injury. His intelligence, his moral stamina, that vaguely concrete thing called character—all had been stunted at the outset. Perhaps they would have amounted to little, regardless; perhaps environment and heredity would have dwarfed them, without the withering assistance of our long-ago, initial conversation.
    At any rate, he had not harmed me; he had not changed me one whit from what I essentially was. Others, doubtless, many others, but not me.
    If anything, it was the other way around.
    He was frowning slightly, looking a little uncomfortable and puzzled. He repeated his phrase about my having had to spar around with him, until I was sure of how he felt.
    “And how did you feel, Hank?” I said. “Basically—deep down in your heart?”
    “Oh, well,” he shrugged. “You don’t need to ask that, Jim. You know how I stand on those things.”
    “But back then,” I insisted, “right back in the beginning. Tell me, Hank. I really want to know.”
    “We-el—” He hesitated, and spread his hands. “You know, Jim. About like most people, I guess. A lot of people, anyway. Kind of on the fence, and wishing I could stay there. But knowing I had to jump one way or the other, and knowing I was pretty well stuck on the side I jumped to. I—well, you know what I mean, Jim. It’s kind of hard to put into words.”
    “I see,” I said. “I hoped…I mean, I thought that was probably the way you felt.”
    “Well,” he said; and, after a moment, again, “Well.”
    He studied me a trifle nervously; then, unable to read my expression, he gave out with that