Terrence
July 14, 1942
Terrence traced the line he’d marked on the wall that morning. One line. One day. He knew without counting how many had passed so far; thought about it every hour of every day. Ninety-two since the judge sentenced him, drawn on the dingy wall next to his cot. How the hell was he going to make it another 638 days?
He stared at the ceiling, recalling the morning the judge had handed down the sentence that put him in prison for two years. Dozens of restless spectators watched and waited for him to punish the nigger. He guessed most figured a colored boy was a lower life form than a Jap. Or, maybe they were just hungry for whatever scrap was dangled in front of them.
Manslaughter. Mr. Blake said he was lucky to get off with two years plus probation, but he couldn’t help the anger that ripped at his gut every time he lay down on that cot and counted the lines on the wall.
The place was a hellhole. That scuffle in the shower hadn’t been the last time Peachie harassed Terrence. Matter of fact, things had gotten worse. And the deadbeat guards didn’t do anything to stop it. Peachie had friends, too. He rubbed the scars on his arm left by Peachie’s fingernails.
He thought about Daddy. Here in the cell, sometimes he could almost pretend his father was still alive in the world outside, doing what he always did. Just waiting for Terrence to get out so he could help with the chores. He pictured Daddy in the driveway, fixing Patty’s bike. Pushing Missy on the swing in the backyard. He smiled, remembering the way Daddy used to sneak up behind Momma while she was doing the dishes after supper. But the best memories were those of Daddy cheering at his ball games.
He’d have told Terrence how to handle Peachie. He’d had to deal with that kind of folk plenty of times in his life, even though he said things were a whole lot better in California than they were in Mississippi when him and Momma were growing up.
Must’ve been pretty bad in Mississippi, if it was worse than in California.
Terrence kept thinking about the Saturday when Daddy took him to a steak house to celebrate the team’s big win. He smelled smoked hickory as soon as he walked in, and his mouth watered just thinking about tasting a juicy piece of meat.
They had waited at the hostess desk for a long time. Terrence figured maybe they were busy. Some of the white folks sitting at white-clothed tables began to stare and whisper. Made his stomach queasy, his neck hot. But Daddy stood straight and tall. Look like he didn’t have a care in the world.
When the hostess finally approached them, Terrence noticed her red lipstick had smudged onto her teeth. She looked real nervous, fidgeting and twisting a pen in her hands.
She stopped behind a podium that held a reservation book. “May I help you?”
“Yes,” replied Daddy. “Table for two, please.”
She tucked a white-blonde curl behind her ear and flipped a few pages of the book. “Do you have a reservation?”
“No, sorry, ma’am. We sure don’t.” Daddy smiled and looked around. “But look like you got plenty a empty tables.”
Her eyes shifted and she flipped pages back and forth. “Then, I’m afraid we can’t accommodate you.”
“But … you got empty tables,” Daddy said, still polite.
She rolled her eyes. “Would you excuse me for a moment?”
“Yes ma’am.”
The hostess picked up the reservation book and walked toward the kitchen, fast as her skinny high heels would carry her. She pushed through the double-swinging doors like a wide receiver headed to the goal post. The patrons’ stares followed until she disappeared, then darted back to Daddy and Terrence. The whispering got louder than the sound of silverware clanking against dishes.
Something inside Terrence rumbled, and it wasn’t his stomach anymore. He wanted to yell at the unwanted audience, maybe even turn over a table or two, especially where those puckered-up old biddies with their flowered hats and uppity stares sat.
What the hell are you looking at?
He needed to get in their faces and change their snooty expressions, get them to show a little respect. Even if it was only ’cause they were afraid.
How the hell could Daddy just stand there, looking so calm? Terrence was boiling inside. But somehow he knew he best settle down.
“What’s going on, Daddy?”
“Just be patient, son.”
Finally, a tall, thin man in a black suit walked up to them. “Is there a problem?”
“No sir, we just want a table for two.”
The man huffed. “Follow me.”
Daddy winked. “Let’s have us a steak, son.”
They followed the man through the restaurant. As they walked by each table, backs stiffened and gazes turned away. Yeah, they were staring all right, even though they tried to look like they weren’t.
They passed the biddy with daisies on her hat. Terrence fought the urge to get in her face, though he couldn’t resist having a little fun. “Fine piece of meat you got there, ma’am,” he said, winking. He didn’t think a white person could get whiter, but she sure did.
Daddy tapped him on the shoulder and pushed him along.
The skinny-man-in-the-black-suit led them to the back of the restaurant. There weren’t any windows and it was dark, except for candles on a few of the tables.
“This’ll do just fine,” Daddy said. “I ’preciate it.”
The jerk had purposely seated them away from the rest of the patrons.
“I don’t get it, Daddy,” he said, placing the white cloth napkin on his lap. “Why do you put up with being treated like that?”
Daddy opened his menu. “Like I told you before, they treating us like that only ’cause we a different color. They don’t know the first thing about who I am on the inside. So it’s got nothing to do with me. It’s they problem.” He moved the menu closer to the candlelight. “Don’t do no good to fight it no how. You know when I was a boy in Mississippi, some colored folks fought against it and it didn’t do no good. Matter fact, I know of a couple stories where they was beat or even killed. Ain’t worth it, son.”
Sometimes Terrence didn’t understand his daddy’s logic. But he sure missed it anyway. He fluffed up his pillow and watched a spider in the corner above his cot. Back and forth it wove, building its web. What prey might drift into its lair?
If he tried real hard, maybe he could keep memories of Daddy long enough to get to sleep. Maybe he could even convince himself this was all a bad dream, and he’d wake up in the morning to find Daddy in the kitchen at home, smooching up behind Momma while she tried to cook breakfast.
But every night, as he waited for sleep to take him away from the four walls of the cell, inmates shouting ugly words instead of goodnight shattered the flimsy hold he had on his make-believe world. The return to reality was cold and hard, filled with emptiness so big it sucked the breath out of him. Then, he’d lie awake and stare again at the marks on the wall, wondering if there’d be room for the 730 lines he’d mark before waking from his nightmare and leaving for good.
Yeah, one day he’d be free. But dream or no dream, he’d never again wake to find Daddy at home.
“Hey, Harris.” Waking to the guard’s raspy voice was even worse than the sharp clang of the cursed alarm clock next to his bed at home. “You got a visitor. Says he’s your attorney.”
What time was it, anyway? And why was Mr. Blake coming to see him now? He smoothed his hair and waited by the door for the guard to lock handcuffs on his wrists.
In the visitors’ room, Blake sat behind a stack of books on the table. When Terrence walked in, he looked up over his reading glasses. “Morning,” he said, standing to greet him.
Terrence looked up at the clock on the opposite wall. Seven thirty. “Mr. Blake, what are you doing here? Everything okay?”
“Fine. Just fine. I wanted to stop by before going to the office this morning. How are you doing?”
“I get bored. Nothing to do but stare at the walls. Other than that, guess I’m as good as can be expected.”
“You guess?”
“Yessir. It’s just … I’m getting some harassing … but I’m dealing—” He stopped himself and held his breath.
Blake removed his glasses. “Who’s harassing you?”
“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. And don’t tell Momma.”
“I can speak to the warden, you know.”
“I said don’t worry about it. Please.”
Blake stared him down for several seconds. “You’ll tell me if it gets too bad?”
“Yeah. Just don’t say anything to Momma. I’ve given her enough to worry about as it is.” He pulled out a chair and sat across from Blake. “What are all those books for?”
Blake took one from the top of the pile, a worn edition of America Past and Present: History of a People and Nation, and pushed it toward Terrence.
“What’s that for?”
“It’ll give you something to do. You said you’re bored, right? Read it. Study it.”
“Ah, come on, Mr. Blake. I don’t wanna read a dumb history book. That’s one good thing about being in this place. No school and no Momma to hassle me about getting an education. Besides. History’s boring, too.”
Blake sat back and folded his arms over his big belly. “It’s good your Momma hassled you about getting educated. You made good grades in school before all this happened. She’s right. You don’t see it now but those grades—your education—it’s your ticket away from where your life is headed.”
Terrence slouched in his chair and rolled his eyes. “You right about one thing, Mr. Blake. I sure don’t see it now.”
“You will. One day you’ll look back on all this. And when you do, you can either be proud, or you can have regrets. Know what I mean?”
Terrence shrugged. “Maybe.”
“You can either get yourself educated while you’re in here, or you can sit around and be bored. But then, that’d be a big waste of a lot of good time. You know, there’s a good chance you can still go to college. Get a degree. Make something of yourself. Make a difference in this world.”
Terrence opened the book and turned the pages, not really looking at any of them.
“I’ll work with you, if you study. Prove yourself, and I’ll send you to college.”
What the …? He stopped flipping pages, frozen between disbelief and mistrust. Send me to college? Why in the world would Blake do that? For a black kid he doesn’t even know? A kid convicted of manslaughter? What did this guy want anyway?
Terrence slammed the book shut. “Why, Mr. Blake? Why would you do this for me?”