“My name is Thomas,” said the boy.
“Oh, okay, Thomas. I hear you good at math.”
“I’m good at everything.”
“Like what?”
“Civics, geography, English …” His voice trailed off as though
he could have cited many more subjects he was good at.
“You’ll go far, son.”
“And I’ll go deep.”
Frank laughed at the impudence of the eleven-year-old.
“What sport you play?” he asked, thinking maybe the boy
needed a little humility. But Thomas gave him a look so cold
Frank was embarrassed. “I mean …”
“I know what you mean,” he said and, as a counterpoint or
afterthought, he looked Frank up and down and said, “You
shouldn’t drink.”
“Got that right.”
A short silence followed while Thomas placed a folded
blanket on top of a pillow, tucking both under his dead arm. At
the bedroom door he turned to Frank. “Were you in the war?”
“I was.”
“Did you kill anybody?”
“Had to.”
“How did it feel?”
“Bad. Real bad''
“That’s good. That it made you feel bad. I’m glad.”
“How come?”
“It means you’re not a liar.”
“You are deep, Thomas.” Frank smiled. “What you want to
be when you grow up?”
Thomas turned the knob with his left hand and opened the
door. “A man,” he said and left
An except from Home by Toni Morrison