Ishmael Reed - The Terrible Threes

“You don’t have to talk about it,” his aunt said. She was peering over her glasses. “Your father’s death was very cruel.” First his mother and then his father, and now he was living with his aunt who was a widow. Her husband was killed because he was too busy preening. Tommy got up and had some seeds for breakfast. He cleaned himself and prepared to go to school. The breakfast made him feel better, and he waved to his aunt as he gathered his notebooks, crayons, pencils, and backpack.

School was not a pleasant experience for him. The other kids always razzed him. They made fun of his looks, especially. They felt that they were the best-looking creatures in the world. They were always strutting about, preening, and craning their necks. They wouldn’t talk to him nor would they play with him and at lunchtime nobody would eat with him. His teacher led the young peacocks in ridiculing turkeys, after which the peacocks would turn to him and laugh or tease him with gobbling sounds. All they taught in school was about peacocks, and how they were the handsomest birds on earth. That their proto-ancestor was a cross between a phoenix and a nightingale and that their shit was like angel food. Turkeys and peacocks were cousins but you wouldn’t know it from the way they treated him. It figures, though, if you think about it. Bears and dogs are cousins, too, but whenever you see a photo of them together the dogs are barking at the bears. Tommy Turkey wasn’t doing well in school. Not only was he grieving about his father’s death, the President and his family having had the tough old bird for dinner, but he was tired of hearing about peacocks. Reading books about ancient dead peacocks. Peacocks were beginning to think of themselves as too gorgeous for the supermarket freezer, in a time when California nurseries were cultivating flowers for adventurous tastes. Marigolds were being served with dinner in Japan. Peacocks could be next.

If it weren’t for his aunt reassuring him and giving him confidence, Tommy would have run away to the wild turkeys in the woods. The peacocks wouldn’t wander anywhere near them. One day the peacocks were strutting about as usual, being real pleased with themselves, their teacher telling them how great they were, when Black Peter entered. The peacocks cheered because they had seen Black Peter in all of the promotional ads for the department store. They thought that he was the impostor Peter. Some of them had bought Black Peter dolls. The teacher said something about his objecting to this intrusion, and Black Peter turned him into a plate of roasted peacock, commenced to sit down, tie a napkin to his neck, and dig in. Some of the peacocks threw up. Others fainted. One of them tried to run out of the classroom when Black Peter headed him off, and plucked out some of the peacock’s feathers. The peacocks were scared. They started making those sounds of peacocks when they get scared. Black Peter stood at the front of the class, slapping his hand with his rod. “Tommy Turkey, would you come to the front of the class?” Tommy Turkey pointed to himself, he was so surprised.

“Yes, you, Tommy.” Tommy walked to the front of the room.

“I don’t blame you for what you’ve done to Tommy Turkey, kids, it’s your teacher’s fault, and the educational system’s fault. You just don’t know what it means to be a turkey, how turkeys have provided a food supply for the poor over and over again, but I’m sure, Tommy, that you’d prefer that for the Thanksgiving meal soybeans be substituted for turkey.” Tommy smiled. Some of the other peacocks smiled. Black Peter opened a large book that he’d brought. The painting was by the black illustrator John James Audubon. It was a picture of a turkey. Not only was it beautiful, but Audubon had commented that the turkey was indigenous to North America. The peacocks had never seen a turkey who looked this beautiful, not in a gaudy way as they did, but understated and quiet. Turkeys subtly changed their colors to express their emotions, another fact that the peacocks had never learned.

“Also, did you know that Benjamin Franklin proposed that the turkey be made the symbol of this country? That Meleagris gallopavo is the Latin name for turkeys,” the peacocks looked at each other, impressed, “and that turkeys have been given names in many other languages as well, including pavo , the name given to turkeys by Christopher Columbus’s crew, and did you know that they were called guanajo by the Carib Indians, and guajolote by the Aztecs, and chumpe by the Mayans? Did you know that turkeys have great fight-back, and have survived regardless of their decimation by hunters, and with all of the nobility that the turkey is associated with you give Tommy here such a hard time.” The peacocks lowered their heads. “Ridiculing him and calling him derisive names just because some ignorant people have begun to identify the name turkey with Broadway flops and bad craftsmanship. And most of all, though your teacher never told you this,” the class looked over at their teacher, all of which was left were some bones on a plate. “Turkeys and peacocks are cousins. It’s possible that you have a common ancestor. Finally, before you ridicule Tommy Turkey, think of this. If they weren’t eating turkeys for Thanksgiving, they might start to eat peacocks. Don’t ever think that you are too pretty for the freezer.” The classroom was silent. Black Peter left the classroom. After a while the peacocks approached Tommy Turkey and offered him some of their corn and grain. Tommy smiled and from that day on Tommy never had any trouble at the school of peacocks.

Samantha came into her room the next morning. She held an ice pack to her head, and her eyes were bloodshot. She’d come to demand that Beechiko clean up the mess that her guests had made. Mr. Longsfellow would be arriving from upstate later in the morning. But Samantha took one look at her and grimaced, “I tole you not to be wearing any more of Mrs. Longsfellow’s belongings.” She went to the bed where Beechiko lay sleeping. All she saw was a heap of blonde hair sticking out from underneath the covers. She yanked at the hair and the sleeping person turned toward Samantha. Samantha sobered up real quick, and her hair stood straight up. “Samantha, who the hell do you think you’re talking to? Have you lost your mind? Go brush your teeth. Your breath reeks of whiskey,” the person said in a husky and hoarse voice. But Samantha didn’t hear all of the reply. She almost ran through the door, trying to get out of the bedroom. Beechiko tried to call out to her, but all she heard was a lot of commotion downstairs, followed by the slamming of a door. When she got downstairs, the Crawfords’ car was turning out of the driveway. She looked at them out of the window, and when Crawford saw her, his eyes bulged as though he were being strangled. He took another look. He rubbed his eyes. He took off toward Eighth Avenue doing about sixty. Beechiko turned to the mirror that stood in the living room. Her heart almost stopped. She threw her hand up to her face in horror. Just then she heard the key in the door. She tried to run upstairs. She tried to scream. Her thoughts couldn’t come together. Her body wouldn’t do what her brain wanted. She could not control what she said. She was imprisoned in another’s body. Mr. Longsfellow didn’t see her at first. He was shocked by the scene in his living room. Liquor bottles all over the place. Dirty plates with half-eaten food on the dining room tables. Cigarette butts and roaches everywhere. The downstairs toilet was stopped up. Longsfellow removed his overcoat and put down his copy of Salmagundi magazine. He brushed off the snow and hung his overcoat in the closet. “Crawford, Samantha, and Beechiko, what is the meaning of this?” he shouted upstairs.