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

and bit back the recrimination that came to her lips. What was the use, she thought. Her mouth closed in a grim, straight line.
    When Charles’s hair began to grow, Mrs. Taylor brushed it endlessly. But the texture had changed to the soft fuzz of beginning kinkiness. She firmly believed that it had been the shaving of his skull that had changed its texture, ft hurt her deeply to know he wouldn’t have straight hair. She felt he’d been deprived of his birthright. Until her death she considered it one of the tragedies of his life.
    One evening as she was reading to the children before putting them to bed, Charles said suddenly, “I got wool hair, Mama, just like the black sheep.”
    Professor Taylor laughed. But tears came to Mrs. Taylor’s eyes.
    “Yes, darling,” she choked, trying to smile. “Just like the little black sheep.”
    They were sitting about the living room fireplace, the children sprawled upon the hearth rug, and she and Professor Taylor in the easy chairs. Professor Taylor leaned down and rubbed Charles’s fuzzy head. Mrs. Taylor gave him a look of venom. Charles laughed delightedly.
    “Rub mine too, Daddy,” William cried, inching toward his father.
    Mrs. Taylor stood up. “It’s time for bed, children,” she said harshly.
    When she returned from putting the children to bed she gave her husband a look of infinite contempt. He squirmed guiltily.
    “I suppose you’re satisfied,” she accused.
    “Yes, I’m glad it’s turning nappy, if that’s what you mean,” he blustered defiantly. “The boy has to be what he is.”
    “And what is that, pray?”
    “Just a Negro, that’s all; just a Negro. Did you think he’d be white?”
    “Must he have kinky hair to be a Negro?”
    “I want my children to look like me,” he muttered.
    “So they can grow up handicapped and despised?”
    “Despised!” His face took on a lowering look. “What do you mean, despised? I suppose you think I’m handicapped and despised?”
    “Aren’t you?” The question startled him. “Can’t you see,” she went on, “I want the children to have it better, not just be common pickaninnies.”
    “Pickaninnies!” Her thoughtless remark cut him to the quick. “That’s better than being white men’s leavings.”
    She whitened with fury. It was the second time he’d slurred her parents but this time was all the more hurting because they were dead, and she revered their memory. Striking back, she said witheringly, “You’re nothing but a shanty nigger and never will be anything else. And you would love nothing better than to have my children turn out to be as low and common as yourself.”
    He jumped to his feet, shouting with rage and frustration, “And you’re a yellow bitch who thinks she’s better than God Himself!”
    Upstairs the children lay quiet and listened, scarcely breathing. They trembled with fear and hurt.
    Mrs. Taylor looked up at her husband scornfully. “Better than you at least. You don’t even want it better for your own children. What kind of father are you?”
    “Confound it, woman, I’ve taken your nagging and bickering for twelve years, and I’m through!”
    “Then get out! I’m sick of the sight of you. Go! Get out! Go to your Mrs. Douglas. That’s where you’ve been going with whatever money you can beg and scrape together!”
    “That’s a lie!” he shouted. “That’s a foul, vicious lie!”
    The blood came up hot in her face. “Don’t you call me a liar!” she cried, standing to confront him. “You black devil! You’re the most depraved, despicable liar that was ever born.”
    They were leaning forward toward each other with their faces jutting and their hands clenched. Their eyes were hot with hatred and their voices screamed and lashed back and forth. The listening children shuddered and prayed for them to stop.
    “Woman, take that back!” he demanded threateningly. “If you don’t take back that dirty lie FU—”
    “You yellow cur. If you touch me