The Third Generation

by Chester B Himes

  His parents had been notified of his arrest. But by the time his mother arrived late Monday afternoon, he’d been bound over to the grand jury and transferred to the county jail. There was nothing she could do. His bail had been set at fifteen hundred dollars. She couldn’t raise it. She sat across from him at the wooden table in the visiting room along with the other mothers and fathers and relatives of the prisoners and cried as one or two of the other mothers did.

  “You’ll just have to stay here until your trial comes up.”

  “That’s all right,” he said.

  He felt sorry for her, but underneath it all he was glad he wouldn’t have to testify at her divorce. Now no one could make him.

  “I’ll engage an attorney for you. There’s a friend of my sister Gert who’s practising here. I’ll ask him to take your case.”

  “I haven’t been indicted yet.”

  “You’ll have to pay him out of your compensation. Your mother doesn’t have any money now.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “You’ll have to tell him the truth, son, if he’s going to be able to help you.”

  “There isn’t anything to tell. I just forged some checks, that’s all. I needed some money and forged some checks.”

  Her face hardened into the grim, bitter mold. “If you had listened to me and saved your money—” she began in her harsh nagging voice, but he cut her off:

  “You had me arrested for forgery once. Only this time I’m guilty.”

  They tore at each other until it was time for her to go.

  His father came down the next day and brought him a package of cigarettes.

  “You keep them, Dad,” he said. “I have some money and they let me buy what I want.”

  “I’ll see if I can make bail for you, son.”

  “Don’t bother, Dad, I’m all right.”

  “If there is anything you need, son—”

  “I don’t need anything, Dad.”

  Neither of his parents visited him again. They were embroiled in their action for divorce. His father contested her plea for alimony on the grounds that she had destroyed his earning capacity by refusing to live in the South where his profession would take him. She contended that he resigned every teaching post he’d held without consulting her and that he hadn’t returned South for the simple reason he could no longer get a teaching post.

  His father’s relatives testified for him, and all the old bitterness of color that had smoldered for years between the families was brought out in their testimony. His wife had ruined his life because she hated black people, they swore. William was called from school to testify for his mother.

  It was a bitter, vicious action filled with abuse and recrimination and colored with disorder as the contestants screamed at one another. His mother pictured his father as a debased and spineless scoundrel who had tried to kill her on more than several occasions. She brought out the whole long, sordid story of Charles’s behavior in an effort to prove her husband incapable of parental discipline. He countered that she had ruined her son’s life by nagging him beyond endurance. She reiterated that he had destroyed Charles’s life to hurt her. Although he was absent, Charles became the bone of their contention as his mother fought to have him given in her custody.

  The proceedings dragged on and on, bleeding them both. Charles read his mother’s letters and was glad he wasn’t there. At first it was just the relief of having escaped that torture. But after a time he came to like it in the jail. He’d been assigned to a single cell in a row that faced an identical row across a wide corridor called the “bull pen.” Colored prisoners celled on one side, white prisoners on the other. They were let out into the bull pen between meals. They shot dice and played cards. During mealtimes they were locked up and their meals brought around in tin plates and shoved beneath the doors. There were many fights between the white and colored prisoners and something exciting was always happening.

  At night a short black prisoner with a barrel chest sang “lowdown” blues in a bull-tone voice. Some nights he’d sing:

  Ah’m blue

  But Ah won’t be blue always

  Cause de sun’s gonna shine

  In my back do’ some day….

  And other nights:

  Ah feel like layin’ mah head

  On some railroad line

  An’ let dat midnight special

  Pacify mah mind….

  From over on the other side of the jail came the sound of women screaming, “Sing it, lover!”

  It was the first time in Charles’s life he’d been completely without responsibility or obligation. He didn’t have to worry about what he did or what his mother thought or what he thought himself. He didn’t have to think at all. All his thinking was done for him. He didn’t care what happened to him. And there was nothing else to worry about. He felt completely safe at last.

  Mr. Baker, the attorney his mother had engaged, came over to see him once. He had a tic on one side of his face and Charles thought he couldn’t be a very good attorney.

  “What did you do with the money?” Mr. Baker wanted to know.

  “The police took it. I guess they’re keeping it somewhere.”

  “Is it all there?”

  “Yes, and the things I bought too.”

  “Good, we’ll offer to make restitution if they reduce the charges. How many checks were there?”

  “I’ve forgotten. Eleven or twelve.”

  “So many?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, I’ll get the names and addresses and drive out and talk to the people. You know, I was engaged to your mother’s sister once.”

  “Is that so?”

  “That was before you were born.” He stood up. “Your mother says this is your first offense. That’s in your favor.”

  His mother came down at Christmas and brought him a box of food. He had never seen her so nervous. She sat across from him tearing her handkerchief into shreds.

  “Your father and I are now divorced,” she said.

  Although he was prepared for it, he felt a sense of shock.

  “Your mother is a single woman now.” Her attempt to be casual was pathetic.

  He was stricken with guilt. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  She reached across the table and took his hand. It was against the rules but no one reproached her. The skin on her hands was rough and reddened and laced with tiny cracks and the knuckles of her fingers were swollen. Her hands were burning hot. He could feel them trembling as they clasped his. The trembling went into his own hand and traveled up his arm and he could feel his legs begin to tremble.

  “You must come and live with Mother, son. The court has awarded me fifteen dollars a week alimony.” She was trying desperately to be matter-of-fact. “You are eighteen now and it was left up to you to decide which parent you want to live with.”

  “I want to live with you, Mama,” he choked.

  “I talked to Mr. Baker and he said your case will come up sometime next month. He hopes to have you placed on probation.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mama. Everything’ll come out all right.”

  “Be a good boy and do as Mr. Baker says. Mother will pray for you.”

  When it came time for her to go he said, “I’ll be home soon, Mama. You take care of yourself.”

  She laughed. “Your mother has been taking care of herself so long now she’s used to it. If I had depended on your father I’d have been dead a long time ago.”

  He winced. She sounded like a stranger. He didn’t know her at all.

  For a long time he lay across his bunk, trying to adjust his mind to the thought that never again would his parents live together. What would his mother do, who would she have to nag, how would she live? The questions turned over and over in his mind, hypnotically, and he went into a trance. He felt his body swaying from side to side as if he were riding on a train. He heard the wheels clacking over the section joints. The lulling motion of the
train and the monotonous clacking of the wheels were ineffably soothing. Then he realized they were going somewhere again. He felt himself crying all down inside. Finally he turned his head to ask his mother where they were going. The chain by which his bunk was suspended from the wall angled down across his vision, breaking his trance. He got up and drank a cup of water.

  “Well, I guess that’s gone too,” he said without realizing he had spoken.

  Later on he lay down in his clothes and went to sleep. When he awakened he was stiff and cold and his head ached. By morning he had a severe cold and laryngitis. He didn’t report it because it kept his brain fuzzy and he couldn’t think. He’d rather feel bad than be able to think.

  The first week in January he received a letter from his mother:

  Dear Son,

  We have sold the house and most of the furniture. Most of the money has gone to pay the cost of court and lawyer’s fees. I was able to hang on to my silver and a few of my dishes. I want you and William to have my silver, some of it has been in my family since my childhood. I have moved with a family on Emmett Street, but the lady puts mice in my room at night and I have to find another place. I also want a separate room for you and William. I don’t know where your father is living and I don’t care. I suppose he has written to you. I have your things with me. Mr. Baker says your case will come up soon. I will try to be there. You must pray and put your trust in God.

  Your loving mother.

  It made him sad to think of her living alone and feeling persecuted again. But by then he had let his cold get to the point where his eyes were swollen almost shut and his head ached constantly; and nothing mattered very much.

  He was still sick when his trial came up the following week. It was quite different from what he had expected. The courtroom was practically deserted save for the court officials, his attorney and himself. He wondered why his mother hadn’t come but he wouldn’t ask. He hadn’t heard from his father since the divorce so he hadn’t expected him.

  Mr. Baker stood beside him at the bar while the clerk read the indictment.

  “How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?” a voice droned.

  Mr. Baker pleaded guilty for him and placed him on the mercy of the court. He stated that full restitution of the money had been made. And due to the tragic background of the defendant, his injury and subsequent illness which had contributed so greatly to his delinquency, and now his broken home, the prosecuting witnesses had agreed not to appear against him. He asked that sentence be suspended.

  The prosecuting attorney said he would raise no objection.

  The judge looked down at Charles. “I am inclined to let you go home,” he said, “but I want your promise that you will keep out of trouble.”

  Home! Charles thought. He tried to meet the judge’s eyes but his gaze turned away. From outside came the clear, hard sound of an automobile horn, bringing a sharp, vivid memory of the night ride down from Cleveland, and he wondered momentarily if the car had been found. “Yes, sir, I promise.” His throat was still inflamed and he could barely whisper.

  He was given a bench parole with directions to send the court written reports monthly. And then he was placed in the custody of his father.

  Mr. Baker requested the court to parole him to his mother. “Mrs. Taylor has always exerted stronger discipline over this son than his father,” he contended. “And she has already prepared a home for him.”

  Charles thought suddenly of a line from his mother’s last letter: “…but the lady puts mice in my room at night…” He wanted to tell the judge she needed him.

  But the judge wouldn’t change his ruling. “No, the boy needs a strong hand to discipline him.”

  Mr. Baker accompanied him back to the county jail where he got his overcoat and hat. “Your mother will be very disappointed,” he said.

  Charles didn’t reply. While Mr. Baker was driving him to the station he realized that he didn’t know his father’s address. He thought perhaps Mr. Baker knew, but he wouldn’t ask. He didn’t want Mr. Baker to know his father hadn’t written.

  “I’ll mail you the money from my compensation,” he promised.

  “Don’t worry about my fee, son. Just be a good boy and make your mother happy.”

  He bought Charles a ticket and stayed with him until he boarded the train.

  Charles dreaded the ride. He wished he could have stayed in jail. The dreary winter landscape passing by his window reminded him of his trip home from college the year before. Only this time he didn’t know where he was going.

  He had a box of bitter brown quinine tablets he had been given for his cold. He’d been instructed to take one every hour, followed by a glass of water. Instead, he chewed them, one after another, letting the dark, bitter taste spread out in his mouth. Somehow it was comforting. He chewed the bitter tablets and tried not to think.

  26

  IT WAS SNOWING IN CLEVELAND. A cold, biting wind, coming across the lake, whistled through the smoke-blackened rafters of the old wooden station and slanted the snow into Charles’s face. He turned up the collar of his overcoat and climbed the rickety stairs to the gloomy waiting room. He began coughing again. His throat felt raw and inflamed. The unutterable dreariness of the surrounding scene matched his mood. He felt a strong desire to sit there among the shivering, bundled-up foreign-born travelers and never move again. He dreaded having to talk to anyone.

  Finally he telephoned his Aunt Lou and asked for his father’s address.

  “Is that you, Charles?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m at the station.”

  She wanted to ask about the outcome of his trial but he didn’t give her any opening. She told him that his father lived at an address on 100th Street off Cedar Avenue. He thanked her and went outside through the smoke and sludge and caught a streetcar. It was already dark. He huddled over the coal-burning stove at the rear of the streetcar and shook the grate. Someone had placed orange peelings on the lid to kill the smell of garlic. He opened the door and added a shovelful of coal.

  Beyond the flats falling away behind the municipal buildings he saw the yellow lights of the bridges across the river. He wondered if William had come home for Christmas. He hadn’t asked his mother. He looked out at the ugly city and tried not to think. It took ages to reach the house where his father lived.

  A middle-aged, dark-complexioned woman came to the door.

  “Oh, you’re Charles.” She gave him a close scrutiny. “Come on in, your father is expecting you.”

  He stepped inside.

  “Professor Taylor isn’t here right now, but you can go right on up to his room. You and him are gonna share the room.”

  “Well, I’ll come back,” he whispered. “I got to get some things anyway.”

  She gave him a suspicious look. “Now don’t you come in late waking up eve’ybody. We’re all working folks an’ got to get up early. An’ your father don’t sleep well as it is.”

  “I’ll be back shortly.”

  The house was only a half-block from The Avenue. As he was standing at the corner waiting for a streetcar he saw Poker come out of the pool hall diagonally across the street. He turned his back to keep Poker from recognizing him. Black faces drifted past, breathing out the smell of rotgut liquor. He felt the need of a drink, but he didn’t want his mother to smell it on his breath. Finally the streetcar came.

  She was living in a strange neighborhood off Kinsman Road, out near the city line, more than an hour’s ride away. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and as the slow streetcar plodded through the dismal night he felt himself filling up with tears. A soft droning sound filled his head, and his throat and chest burned as if on fire. He was grateful for the distraction.

  His mother was surprised to see him. She was clad in an old kimono and her hair was braided and her face cold-creamed for the night, and he thought of all the times she had come to the door of his room late at night, looking as she di
d then, to scold him.

  “Oh, why didn’t you let me know you were coming?” she said crossly, extending her cheek to be kissed. “You’re all alike. You never think of me. I haven’t made your bed or anything.”

  He kissed her, tasting the perfumed cream, and felt a sudden wave of nausea. “I didn’t know myself until this morning,” he whispered, and then added, “I have a cold.”

  “Are you free?” she asked anxiously. “Were you placed on probation?”

  “I was given a bench parole.”

  He took off his coat and she moved some clothes from the chair. She sat on the bed facing him, her hands nervous in her lap.

  “What are you taking for your cold?”

  “I got some pills.”

  They were embarrassed and constrained, as if they were strangers. Both found themselves unable at the moment to discuss what was uppermost in their thoughts. She wanted to know about his trial, why she hadn’t been notified, and all about his future plans. She wondered if he’d heard from his father, what his father was doing. He wanted to tell her he was sorry they had to sell the house, that he was sorry now about everything, about all the hurt and heartache he had caused her all his life. But there was a wall between them which neither could break through.

  “I’ve taken the room across the hall for you and William,” she said, “but I don’t know whether we’ll be able to stay. These people, the Morrows—he’s a waiter on the railroad—they have a twelve-year-old son who sneaks in here while I’m away and breaks stink bombs in my room.”

  He felt a chill run down his spine and it was a moment before he could speak. “Why don’t you tell his parents?”

  “I have, but Mrs. Morrow says he doesn’t do it. She’s just as bad as he is. Mr. Morrow promised to make him stop, but he’s away most of the time and his mother encourages him.”

  “Why don’t you leave?”

  “Oh, one place is as bad as another.” She laughed. “Your mother is used to people trying to hurt her. Maybe he’ll stop now that you’re here.”