The Third Generation by Chester B. Himes Read Free Book Online

must feed him enough for himself and his tapeworm too.” At eleven he was taller than his mother, but rather thin. His face was narrow and his eyes set a little close together. He had his father’s large hooked nose and his mother’s thin mouth. Although he was the fairest of the children, his features were strongly Negroid.
    She sliced some bread and liverwurst. “The children have gotten themselves all messed up with the paint your father left out in the yard,” she informed him.
    He stood eating the sandwich rapidly. “How, Mother?” he asked with his mouth full of food.
    She’d warned him repeatedly against talking while chewing, but now she overlooked it. “Your father is so thoughtless. He will leave things about for the children to get into. Sometime he’s going to leave his shotgun out and the children are going to kill themselves.”
    All of the children loved her voice. It was a small and shallow voice but very pleasant. Often she played the piano and sang for them. But they were hurt and embarrassed by the strident tone it took whenever she spoke of their father.
    Tom wanted to know more about what had happened to his little brothers. But he wouldn’t ask. The intonation of her voice made him feel too ill at ease. He couldn’t understand her feelings for his father. It seemed so strange and wrong to him. He thought his father was the greatest man in all the world. He was awed and fascinated by the things his father did.
    He’d stop by the shop on his way home from school to watch his father at the forge, see him grip the white glowing metal with the long iron tongs and slam it on the anvil, and then quickly, before it cooled, pound and shape it with short deft strokes of his blacksmith’s hammer. Sparks flew harmlessly against his father’s leather apron. His black face would shine with sweat. The students stood about, frozen to attention.
    Tom watched his father work with open-mouthed wonder. He scarcely breathed as the white metal magically took shape and cooled to cherry red. His father would stick the metal back into the forge. A student would turn the handle of the bellows. His father would wipe the sweat from his eyes and see him standing there. He’d smile at him and Tom’s heart would turn over with pride. Again the glowing metal would be slapped upon the anvil and pounded into shape. Then his father would plunge the glowing shape into a pail of water to temper it. The water would hiss and bubble. And Tom would breathe again. Finally a student would plunge his hand into the pail and withdraw a plowshare. Tom believed his father could make anything.
    He knew his mother didn’t like his father. She called him “Mister Taylor.” But it was more than that. It was the way she spoke of him, always accusing him of doing something wrong, and the harsh tone of her voice. It hurt him to see his mother’s mouth get so hard and tight. She was so pretty and she had such a nice light way of laughing. It made him tingle inside when she was happy.
    He ran up to his room to change his clothes. His mother made him wear a Norfolk suit and long black stockings to school. But after school he could wear his corduroys and let them dangle down his legs.
    It was four o’clock when Professor Taylor returned with the children. At sight of their bald, square heads Mrs. Taylor went white. She hadn’t believed that Professor Taylor would go against her expressed wish. Then the blood rushed to her face. For a moment she was speechless with fury.
    The change was more pronounced in Charles. He looked like a wax doll before the wig has been attached. But he was not his mother’s beautiful long-haired boy.
    “I’ll never forgive you, Mr. Taylor,” she said. “You just did it to spite me.”
    “Now, honey, it’s going to grow back,” Professor Taylor said in his sugary, placating voice. “The world hasn’t come to an end. Our little boys have just had their hair cut, that’s all.”
    She turned her face away