In many ways, Tish and Fonny’s story in If Beale Street Could Talk is about their fight against time. Throughout the novel, they do what they can to cope with a tense feeling of anticipation, waiting all the while to discover what will happen during Fonny’s trial. This means finding ways to “get from one day to the next” without succumbing to despair. Although they both want Fonny’s trial to happen as soon as possible, they don’t want it to take place before they’ve built a strong defense. Because of this, they want Hayward—Fonny’s lawyer—to carefully put together a case, but every passing day is yet another day that Fonny suffers in prison, and Tish begins to worry about the dire psychological toll this time will exact on him. Fortunately, Tish’s pregnancy gives both her and Fonny something to hold onto and look forward to—but at the same time, Tish’s pregnancy makes it even harder to “get from one day to the next” without focusing too much on when—or if—Fonny will get out of prison. This struggle against the unyielding nature of time accentuates the profound effect that unjust incarceration has on a person’s life, since even if Fonny is released from prison, he’ll never get back the many precious moments he lost while waiting for the courts to make a decision. As each day brings out Tish and Fonny’s insecurities, fears, and impatience, Baldwin suggests that there’s nothing to do but simply let life unfold, grasping at whatever might give one a sense of agency in the otherwise inevitable, merciless march of time.
Early in the novel, Tish decides it’s best not to think about time, since the anticipation surrounding Fonny’s trial is too much to bear. After visiting Fonny in prison, she walks through the “corridors” of the building and thinks about how soul-crushing it must be for him to live in jail without knowing when—or even if—he’ll be set free. “Sometimes, I admit, I’m scared,” she notes, “because nobody can take the shit they throw on us forever. But, then, you just have to somehow fix your mind to get from one day to the next. If you think too far ahead, if you even try to think too far ahead, you’ll never make it.” In this moment, she recognizes that it’s impossible to know what will happen in the future. Given that her lover’s life is hanging in the balance, it’s unsurprising that confronting this unknowability only brings anxiety and despair. As such, she resolves to “fix [her] mind to get from one day to the next,” deciding that projecting herself into an uncertain future will do nothing but exacerbate her worries and make it even harder for her and Fonny to get through this difficult period.
At the same time, though, Tish can’t simply ignore the passage of time, since she’s pregnant. With each day, week, and month, her body changes, making it hard to focus on simply getting “from one day to the next.” In this sense, Baldwin uses Tish’s pregnancy as an internal clock, one that marks time and keeps her from ever forgetting that Fonny is in jail. Interestingly enough, though, her pregnancy also gives her a sense of agency in a situation in which she’s otherwise powerless. Although she can’t do much to influence Fonny’s trial and certainly can’t take her mind off the fact that he’s in prison, she can bring his child into the world, giving both of them something to latch onto. “You got that child beneath your heart and we’re all counting on you,” Tish’s mother tells her at one point, “Fonny’s counting on you, to bring that child here safe and well. You’re the only one who can do it. But you’re strong. Lean on your strength.” The idea that Tish is “the only one who can” give birth to her and Fonny’s child reminds her of her own tenacity, encouraging her to stop seeing herself as helpless against the passage of time. Instead of bearing this period passively by refusing to “think too far ahead,” she can concentrate on her pregnancy, thereby gaining a sense of control and agency, since the birth of her and Fonny’s child depends upon her and is the only thing they know for sure will make them happy.
Of course, Tish’s pregnancy doesn’t negate the fact that Fonny is missing out on his own life. As his unborn child develops, he’s forced to languish in prison, so it’s especially painful when Hayward talks about needing to “buy time” before Fonny’s trial. “Time: the word tolled like the bells of a church,” Tish observes. “Fonny was doing: time. In six months time, our baby would be here. Somewhere, in time, Fonny and I had met: somewhere, in time, we had loved […]. Somewhere in time, Fonny paced a prison cell, his hair growing—nappier and nappier. […] Time could not be bought. The only coin time accepted was life.” In this moment, it’s impossible for Tish to ignore the fact that Fonny’s life only gets harder as the days go by. Whereas she and her loved ones can distract themselves by working to get him out, he’s forced to “pace a prison cell” and think about his own helplessness. Joseph seems to recognize this, too, which is why he urges his daughter to quit her job so she can visit Fonny every single day. “You keep on like you going, you going to lose that baby,” he says. “You lose that baby, and Fonny won’t want to live no more, and you’ll be lost and then I’ll be lost, everything is lost.” Joseph reminds Tish once again that her pregnancy gives her and Fonny something to look forward to, and sure enough, when she starts seeing him every day, she recognizes how much her pregnancy uplifts him. “I understand [now] that the growth of the baby is connected with his determination to be free,” she writes, adding, “The baby wants out. Fonny wants out. And we are going to make it: in time.” As such, readers see that even though Fonny is losing out on precious moments of his life, he can still invest himself in Tish’s pregnancy, participating vicariously in the passage of time, which otherwise goes on without him.
Related Themes from Other Texts
Time and Anticipation ThemeTracker
Time and Anticipation Quotes in If Beale Street Could Talk
I hope that nobody has ever had to look at anybody they love through glass.
And I didn’t say it the way I meant to say it. I meant to say it in a very offhand way, so he wouldn’t be too upset, so he’d understand that I was saying it without any kind of accusation in my heart.
And I’m not ashamed of Fonny. If anything, I’m proud. He’s a man. You can tell by the way he’s taken all this shit that he’s a man. Sometimes, I admit, I’m scared—because nobody can take the shit they throw on us forever. But, then, you just have to somehow fix your mind to get from one day to the next. If you think too far ahead, if you even try to think too far ahead, you’ll never make it.
Tish […], when we was first brought here, the white man he didn’t give us no preachers to say words over us before we had our babies. And you and Fonny be together right now, married or not, wasn’t for that same damn white man. So, let me tell you what you got to do. You got to think about that baby. You got to hold on to that baby, don’t care what else happens or don’t happen. You got to do that. Can’t nobody else do that for you. And the rest of us, well, we going to hold on to you. And we going to get Fonny out. Don’t you worry. I know it’s hard —but don’t you worry. And that baby be the best thing that ever happened to Fonny. He needs that baby. It going to give him a whole lot of courage.
And Mrs. Hunt added, “These girls won’t be bringing me no bastards to feed, I can guarantee you that.”
“But the child that’s coming,” said Sharon, after a moment, “is your grandchild. I don’t understand you. It’s your grandchild. What difference does it make how it gets here? The child ain’t got nothing to do with that—don’t none of us have nothing to do with that!"
Time: the word tolled like the bells of a church. Fonny was doing: time. In six months time, our baby would be here. Somewhere, in time, Fonny and I had met: some where, in time, we had loved; somewhere, no longer in time, but, now, totally, at time’s mercy, we loved.
Somewhere in time, Fonny paced a prison cell, his hair growing—nappier and nappier. Somewhere, in time, he stroked his chin, itching for a shave, somewhere, in time, he scratched his armpits, aching for a bath. Somewhere in time he looked about him, knowing that he was being lied to, in time, with the connivance of time. In another time, he had feared life: now, he feared death—somewhere in time.
Man, it was bad. Very bad. And it’s bad now. Maybe I’d feel different if I had done something and got caught. But I didn’t do nothing. They were just playing with me, man, because they could. And I’m lucky it was only two years, you dig? Because they can do with you whatever they want. Whatever they want. And they dogs, man. I really found out, in the slammer, what Malcolm and them cats was talking about. The white man’s got to be the devil. He sure ain’t a man. Some of the things I saw, baby, I’ll be dreaming about until the day I die.
I know I can’t help you very much right now—God knows what I wouldn’t give if I could. But I know about suffering; if that helps. I know that it ends. I ain’t going to tell you no lies, like it always ends for the better. Some times it ends for the worse. You can suffer so bad that you can be driven to a place where you can’t ever suffer again: and that’s worse.
[…]
I don’t want to sound foolish. But, just remember, love brought you here. If you trusted love this far, don’t panic now.
We are certainly in it now, and it may get worse. It will, certainly—and now something almost as hard to catch as a whisper in a crowded place, as light and as definite as a spider’s web, strikes below my ribs, stunning and astonishing my heart—get worse. But that light tap, that kick, that signal, announces to me that what can get worse can get better. Yes. It will get worse. But the baby, turning for the first time in its incredible veil of water, announces its presence and claims me; tells me, in that instant, that what can get worse can get better; and that what can get better can get worse. In the meantime—forever—it is entirely up to me. The baby cannot get here without me.
It seems to me that if I quit my job, I’ll be making the six o’clock visit forever. I explain this to Fonny, and he says he understands, and, in fact, he does. But understanding doesn’t help him at six o’clock. No matter what you understand, you can’t help waiting: for your name to be called, to be taken from your cell and led downstairs. If you have visitors, or even if you have only one visitor, but that visitor is constant, it means that someone outside cares about you. And this can get you through the night, into the day. No matter what you may understand, and really understand, and no matter what you may tell yourself, if no one comes to see you, you are in very bad trouble. And trouble, here, means danger.
I know you worried about the money. But you let me worry about that. I got more experience. Anyway, you ain’t making no damn money. All you doing is wearing yourself out, and driving Fonny crazy. You keep on like you going, you going to lose that baby. You lose that baby, and Fonny won’t want to live no more, and you’ll be lost and then I’ll be lost, everything is lost.
My presence, which is of no practical value whatever, which can even be considered, from a practical point of view, as a betrayal, is vastly more important than any practical thing I might be doing. Every day, when he sees my face, he knows, again, that I love him—and God knows I do, more and more, deeper and deeper, with every hour. But it isn’t only that. It means that others love him, too, love him so much that they have set me free to be there. He is not alone; we are not alone.
He cannot tell what time it is, but it does not matter. The hours are all the same, the days are all the same. He looks at his shoes, which have no laces, on the floor beside the cot. […] He knows that he must do something to keep himself from drowning, in this place, and every day he tries. But he does not succeed. He can neither retreat into himself nor step out of himself. He is righteously suspended, he is still. He is still with fear.
I opened my mouth to say—I don’t know what. When I opened my mouth, I couldn’t catch my breath. Everything disappeared, except my mother’s eyes. An incredible intelligence charged the air between us. Then, all I could see was Fonny. And then I screamed, and my time had come.
Fonny is working on the wood, on the stone, whistling, smiling. And, from far away, but coming nearer, the baby cries and cries and cries and cries and cries and cries and cries and cries, cries like it means to wake the dead.
