The Third Generation

by Chester B Himes

  It had been different when she’d had her husband and her sons. Even when they’d opposed her, the fact of them belonging to her and her belonging to them gave her support. And now there was only herself in her lonely room.

  She felt an overwhelming need to talk to someone who loved her, someone who needed her, if just for a moment. From that love and need she would draw her strength.

  Her heart thought first of Charles. She knew how much he needed her; how much he loved her. But her mind rejected him. She knew that he was afraid to admit his need or any longer confess his love for her, that he was afraid of committing himself again to a way of life which had disappointed him in the past. Sometimes she had the feeling that since his release from jail and parole to his father instead of herself he was deliberately trying to destroy himself. She had nothing to go on, but at moments her heart was so filled with foreboding she could see him lying dead and neglected in some den of iniquity. There were times when she couldn’t bear to think of him. It was that which made her decision so hard to bear.

  So she went down to the college to see William. She did not mention his father’s proposal. She just sat and talked to him about his studies and himself. He took her out to dinner and was very cheerful. He was extremely well liked on the campus, and on every hand the students and professors came forward to meet his mother. She was immensely cheered by her visit.

  On the train returning to the city she felt a new growth of hope. She’d try to get Charles into the college. Perhaps William could steady him. Or perhaps she’d get William to talk to him first. The more she thought about it the more feasible it seemed, and by the time she let herself into her house she had convinced herself of its certainty. She felt suddenly happy for the first time in years. An old tune from her childhood came back to mind and she was humming it softly as she mounted the stairs.

  Hearing her footsteps, her landlord came from his room and told her of Charles’s visit. “I let him into your room. I don’t know what happened, but all of a sudden he jumped up and ran out of the house.”

  Her blood congealed, frozen by a premonition of disaster. “Was he ill?” Her voice was so thin from fear it was barely audible.

  “He didn’t seem so. But he was very drunk.”

  Now the whole sea of worry washed back over her and she felt the room tilt. She groped for a chair and sat down. Her landlord brought her a glass of water.

  “Do you want Mattie to help you to bed?”

  “No, thank you, I’m all right now.”

  When she had recovered she telephoned for a taxi and went immediately to his father’s room.

  Professor Taylor awakened, groggy and uncomprehending. “I haven’t seen him all day. Where has he gone?”

  “But doesn’t he work with you in the mornings?”

  He was muddled and defensive. “Now don’t start hounding the boy again. You don’t want to make a home for him, so let him alone. He’s getting along all right.”

  Her face took the old bitter cast. “God is going to punish you, Mr. Taylor, as sure as you’re alive,” she said harshly. “You just watch what I tell you. You’re going to burn in hell for what you’re doing to your son.”

  “The boy’s all right,” he muttered angrily, feeling for his paper sack of cigarettes.

  She left the room and walked down to Cedar Avenue in search of someone who knew where Charles could be found. But at that late hour the stores were closed and the houses dark and the street deserted of humanity. Snow sifted soundlessly on the broken pavement and her foreboding grew in the dead silence. She was assailed by the thought that he could be dead in one of those dark houses and she wouldn’t know. Then she saw a drunken couple stagger from a darkened areaway.

  She approached them hesitantly. “Pardon me, do you know a young man named Charles Taylor?”

  The man eyed her with greed and cunning, thinking she was white. “Now does I know Charles Taylor?” he began, instinctively clowning. “It seems as if I knows a boy named Charles. Is he a big boy or a medium-sized boy or is he a liddle boy?”

  The woman snatched his arm, red-rimmed eyes narrowing with animosity. “Come on an’ leave that white trash be. You know you doan know nobody by that name.”

  “But he’s my son,” Mrs. Taylor pleaded.

  The woman softened and took pity on her. “Then try that whiskey joint back there where we just come from. They’s a lot of young men in there an’ one of them might be yo’ boy. Just go round to the back there an’ knock at the door.”

  Mrs. Taylor thanked her and went up the dark walk between two buildings. She screwed up her courage and knocked at the door. A panel opened and two muddy eyes raked her suspiciously.

  “Pardon me, I’m looking for my son—” she began.

  The panel closed abruptly in her face. She heard a voice behind it saying, “Some white whore say she lookin’ for her son.

  The brutal inhumanity of the statement terrified her. Suddenly she was afraid for her safety. She felt her body trembling as she hurried back to the street. Now her foreboding grew out of control, sapping her strength. She felt lost, without friends or help, no way to turn, no one to turn to; and every fiber of her being felt exhausted. The dark dismal stretch of Cedar Avenue gave the impression of another world. For an instant she had the impression of reliving some horrible nightmare. She had to have help.

  So she returned to the man who’d been her husband and was the father of her children. She found him still awake, smoking his vile-smelling cigarette and staring at the ceiling. A butt smoldered in the saucer on the stand beside the bed. She made him get up and dress. His face was lined and haggard, creased with sleep wrinkles, his chin bristled with dirty gray whiskers; his eyes were runny and redlaced; his kinky hair matted in a peak. But he was Charles’s father and he had to help her find him. He dressed slowly, as if in a daze, his hands fumbling with the buttons.

  Her own face was white from fear and fatigue, and in the bright overhead light the rouge stood out like a mask, and her dyed red hair resembled a wig. Her eyes had dulled from the excessive strain and had receded into her head.

  They resembled derelicts. But for a brief moment their appearance meant nothing. They looked into one another’s eyes, all the regret and pity welling from their tortured souls, their twenty-six years of marriage come to this, knowing in that instant that neither could go it alone. For the first time in more than twelve years she wanted him to take her in his arms. But after her rejection of the previous afternoon, he could not try again. She couldn’t make a move to let him know she wanted him. The moment passed. He turned his eyes away. She was blinded by tears.

  “We must hurry,” she said in the harsh voice she’d always had for him.

  He turned and opened the door without speaking. They made an odd couple trudging through the snowdrifts on Cedar Avenue, the haggard white-faced woman with dark-circled eyes and the shabby little black man with his cringing walk. There was a quality of prayer about the woman, etchings of defeat in the man. The few drunks and late prostitutes whom they approached along the street eyed them curiously. Finally a taxi driver told them to try Dave’s in the Alley.

  Charles was lying across the bed in his shirt sleeves and stocking feet. He had the feeling of having been there for a long time, and of awakening suddenly from a strange dream which he could not remember. Something had drawn his attention. He raised his head and looked into the other room, trying to focus his vision. His mind was in a state of semi-stupor and his sense of perception dulled almost to blankness.

  As if seen through a dense gray fog he made out the blurred figures of two people in the outside doorway, barred by Dave’s bulk from entering.

  “You vile hoodlum, I know he’s here and I’m going to have you arrested for selling whiskey to a minor,” he heard a woman’s voice and when he recognized it as his mother’s, the first sense of shock penetrated his consciousness.

  He heard Dave’s bullying voice reply, “Goddammit, don’t argue with me,
lady,” and then Veeny say fearfully, “Just close the door.”

  He saw his mother push Dave aside and come quickly into the room, calling, “Charles!” He saw Dave clutch her arm and jerk her about.

  “You son of a bitch! That’s my mother!” he cried thickly, pushing to his feet. His legs buckled and he was trying to get his feet underneath him when he heard his mother say sharply, “Don’t you dare touch me,” and then he saw her slap Dave.

  Fury rent his heart as he saw the sudden pimp rise in Dave’s flushed face, the moronic bestiality in the character of men who murder women, and heard Veeny shriek, “Don’t hit her, hon!” He knew that Dave was going to strike her, and he groped for a weapon and tensed himself to leap even before Dave actually struck her, knocking her off balance. But the actual sight of his mother being struck by a depraved pimp cut his will loose from his mind, and turned his mind back thirteen years to its first impression of horror. He saw her hands grope desperately for the spokes of the first wheel, and then fall limply, jerking spasmodically in the dust as the hurt came overwhelmingly into her bulging eyes. The two scenes fused together and were sealed in transcendent horror. He felt the flood of brackish bile drenching him in shock. He was caught, anchored in paralysis, stripped to his naked soul in a sudden world of no values, no right, no wrong—his mother struck down by a sullen brute and himself helpless in the flood of brackish bile. He was standing half crouched in the doorway between the rooms, gripping the bedspread he had seized for a weapon.

  As he tried vainly to move, his will still severed from his mind, he saw his father strike Dave across the forehead with a chair. He saw Dave stagger back, the white cut over his eye not yet beginning to bleed, whip out his knife and loom above his father like an enraged monster, stabbing him in the chest. He saw his father grapple with the brute, struggling desperately to clutch his wrist, the knife rising again through the solid terror of Veeny’s screams. All happening in nightmare perspective, too rapidly for his mind to rationalize, too horrible to retain. And then he saw his mother rising from the floor, moving to his father’s aid, entering the area of ultimate danger. He tried to leap to her defense, to call out a warning. But he couldn’t move or cry or breathe. Then he felt himself going down-down-down into the cool dark valley of oblivion….

  They drove through a land that had no roads and parked on the crest of a hill without trees and scores of laughing brown men, seeing the shiny car, scrambled up the steep ascent and beckoned to him, their black eyes glittering and their white teeth flashing in the sun, saying, come on, we’ll get you some fine sexy girls, juicy as melons and sweet as honey, there are thousands of them down there just waiting to be had, pointing to the village of huts without doors that lay in the valley below. His mother said no, don’t go, my son, there’s only destruction and ruin down there, but he could see girls with thighs as firm as river banks and breasts as sharp as mountain peaks dancing on the rooftops, their red mouths smiling up at him like the sun rising from a sea of pearls as huge as cannon balls, and his desire was too great to withstand. He sprang from the car and left his mother sitting there on the pinnacle of the hill, turning away his gaze from the entreaty in her eyes, and followed the brown men down the precipitous slope. Like ravenous wolves they chased the girls through the dusty streets of the village and caught them and threw them down and ravished them in the sight of each other in the bright sunshine in the hot dry dust and their blood blazed with carnal lust and they chased still others and ravished them. Then he felt a burning pain pass down through his body like a bolt of fire from heaven and he looked to the sky to see from whence it came and he found himself in a narrow street of a city that was ancient before Rome was born where the crooked houses were seven stories high and men with satyrs’ heads were leaning from the upper windows shooting down at him with guns that made no sound and laughing insanely as he danced in agony. He ran headlong in blind panic, the terror eating at his loins, not knowing which way to turn, and the buildings grew higher and the streets narrower and darkness descended and men of all nations with bestial faces fought savagely with gleaming knives, cursing in a thousand tongues, gutting each other with inhuman ecstasy, while the screams of the women trampled underneath rose from the dark narrow crevices like anguished wails from hell. He was fighting desperately with no weapon?, with all his might and soul, swinging his own body like a broadax to cut a path through the bloody slaughter back to the pinnacle of the hill where he’d left his mother defenseless and alone, his heart caught in the grip of an unearthly fear. But when he came to the path that ascended to the pinnacle of the hill his way was blocked by an ancient hearse drawn by four black horses standing before the entrance of a crude stone temple and flanked by hundreds of very old women clad in long black gowns who were showering their heads with dust scooped from the ground and wailing lamentations to heaven. And twelve short black men with identical faces graven in grief, six on each side, bore a plain black coffin from the temple and lifted it into the hearse. His heart stopped beating, caught in a terrible presentiment. He pushed the old women aside and ran forward and leaped into the hearse and tore loose the lid of the coffin, but he knew it held the body of his mother even before he looked down and saw her face, the mouth opened and twisted in infinite agony and the marks of the brutality livid on the fair skin of her neck and body. It was as if by taking part in the carnival of lust and savagery he had ravished her himself. He was struck down with a bolt of guilt that burned like the fires of hell.

  “Oh God!” he cried aloud, the anguished cry torn from the very depths of his soul.

  “Easy, lad,” he heard a voice say.

  He opened his eyes and looked into the face of a policeman who bent over him, holding a bottle to his nose. He turned his head away. For a moment the dream seemed so real he thought his mother was dead. He felt the deepest, bitterest torment of all his life.

  Then he heard the policeman saying, “Better get up and get dressed. Your father’s been hurt. They’ve taken him to the hospital.”

  He looked about the room. There was only another policeman present. To one side was an overturned chair. Dark patches of blood made a grim arabesque on the floor, dots like macabre footsteps leading toward the door. Suddenly the horror returned.

  He heard his own voice, torn from the constriction of his heart, “My mother—”

  “She’s all right. She’s with your father.”

  Slowly he got to his feet and put on his shoes and coat. With the knowledge of his mother’s safety his mind had ceased to work. They drove him to the hospital in a police car. He was permitted into the operating room.

  At first he had eyes only for his mother. She stood beside the operating table with her back to the door, holding his father’s hand. Her small, worn body was immobile, held in a posture of absolute faith. He knew that whatever the outcome, she had placed her trust in God. Somehow, it was reassuring to see her thus.

  Then he looked at his father. His nude black body lay passively on the white stretcher, almost as if resigned. His eye were closed and the deep lines about his mouth and nose were relaxed. All of the signs of frustration and defeat had gone from his face and it was calm. There was a great dignity in his calm as if he had prepared himself to meet his Maker without excuses or deceit.

  Cotton swabs covering the wounds were stained with blood. Two doctors were rapidly tying a suture. Another, assisted by a nurse, was giving him a transfusion. Charles could not tell whether he was under anesthetic or not. He went forward slowly and stood beside his mother. He didn’t feel anything at all. His body was drained of all emotion. His head was light and empty and he was fearful he might topple and fall. His mother didn’t look about or give any sign that she was aware of him.

  But suddenly, as if sensing his presence, his father opened his eyes. He saw his father’s lips moving, the struggle to speak mirrored in his eyes. He leaned forward to hear.

  “Son, be a good boy,” his father whispered.

  One of the doctors
looked up, frowning. “You mustn’t talk, sir,” he cautioned.

  His father gave no sign that he had heard. “Take care of your mother, son,” he continued to whisper.

  Charles nodded and looked at his mother’s face. Its set composure was held in a complete and untouchable grief. She was looking at his father’s face. She didn’t see him.

  He felt a strange sense of rejection, as if he didn’t belong there, as if he were intruding on an intimate scene between the two of them.

  “Mama—” he began, but she didn’t hear him.

  “We—we all made mistakes,” his father was whispering. “Don’t—don’t let them—”

  He knew, even before the doctors exchanged glances, that his father had died. His mother leaned down and kissed his father’s lips. She didn’t speak or cry. The nurse covered the body with a sheet and wheeled it into another room. His mother walked along beside the stretcher. He reached down and took her hand but it was cold and did not respond and he felt that she was not aware of his touch.

  Suddenly he was too exhausted to stand any longer. “I’m going home and go to bed for a while, Mama,” he said.

  She did not reply. He waited a moment and then asked, “Are you coming?”

  “Mother will just stay here for a while,” she said without looking at him.

  He knew then, in that instant, that she had gone back to his father; that she would belong to his father now forever. He felt as if he had been cut in two; as if a part of himself had been severed from himself forever. But at that moment it did not hurt; the hurt had not come.

  He went quietly from the room and left her standing there, her small white hand with its swollen red knuckles resting atop the dark lifeless hand of his father which she had drawn from beneath the sheet. He walked slowly back to Cedar Avenue. When he passed a whiskey joint he felt an impulse to stop and buy a drink. But he knew he didn’t need a drink; he’d never need a drink again.