The Third Generation by Chester B. Himes Page B

night. But it had been the wrong thing. He should have built a kitchen fire. Finally he went upstairs and entered the empty room. His wife could have her own room if that was the way she wanted it. At least he had his sons.
    In her own room down the hall she heard him moving about. She was frightened and lonely. Had he come to her then she would have welcomed him. She needed him then. Her spirit was at its lowest ebb. She needed a husband to give her strength.
    But the bright sunshine of a new day streaming through the curtainless windows across her bed made quite a difference. Even at that early hour she felt its heat penetrating her skin like rays of energy. New life came into her weary bones; her spirits lifted. She heard the children yelling downstairs, and screeching excitedly in an orgy of discovery. She arose and washed in the basin. Then she dressed and went down to the primitive kitchen to prepare their breakfast. A fire was burning hotly and the grits were already cooking. A shy, young, very black girl was setting the table. At Mrs. Taylor’s entry she looked up and smiled. She had the long beautiful face with the full mouth, sloe eyes and classical symmetry of the pure African.
    “Good mawnin’, Miz Taylor. Fess Taylor got me tuh come in an’ hep. Ah woulda been heah las’ night but Ah din know when y’all wuz comin’.” Her voice was soft and melodic, humming-like, almost as if she was singing the words. Her large, strong hands with the long, spatulate fingers moved slightly in a gesture of reassurance, as if she knew what the older woman was experiencing and wished to comfort her. “You jes tell me w’ut you want done. Mah name is Lizzie,” she added.
    “Good morning, Lizzie,” Mrs. Taylor greeted in her light, precise voice, but it was warm with pleasure and she smiled gratefully. “I’m so happy you came.” She turned toward the stove. “What are you preparing?”
    “Fess Taylor thought you mout lak some grits an’ bacon. He got some new cane ‘lasses he thought the boys mout lak.”
    Mrs. Taylor looked at the huge, thick slabs of side meat just beginning to sizzle in the skillet. “Do we have any cereal and milk? The children have cereal with their breakfast. And it would be nice if we had some fruit.”
    “Yessum, Ah forgot,” Lizzie said, getting down a large box of corn flakes and a pitcher of milk. “Fess Taylor bought these ‘specially for them.” And then she fetched a bowl of fresh strawberries from the storeroom on the back porch. “Ah picked these ‘specially for you,” she said shyly.
    Tears brimmed in Mrs. Taylor’s eyes. She put her arms about the girl and hugged her spontaneously.
    Although the windows and door were opened, the heat from the wood-burning stove was stifling. Mrs. Taylor stood for a moment in the window. Flies buzzed outside the screen, drawn by the smell of frying.
    The backyard was a barren square of baked clay with here and there a thistle weed and tufts of Johnson grass. Beyond was a wire-enclosed chicken coop beside a row of wooden sheds. She recognized the outhouse by the half-moons in the doors. On the other side was a fieldstone circle of the top of a well with a bucket and pulley attached. She wondered if they got their water there. Several fat, lazy Plymouth Rock hens were busy burrowing dust holes in the hard, baked dirt.
    Behind the yard was a field sloping down to a point some distance away where a tall tree stood. Later she was to learn it was a pecan tree from which pecks of the fat greasy nuts were gathered in the fall. A man was plowing in the field and her two younger children ran along behind him, barefooted in the turned furrow.
    She withdrew from the window and stepped out onto the screened back porch. On the other side, she found a pump and cistern and breathed relief. While Lizzie was finishing breakfast she inspected the rest of the house. Across the front were two large, identical rooms, separated by the center hallway which led