The Wilful Daughter (6 page)

Once at the edge of the window he supported her with one hand, while she pulled herself in.

“
Thanks, Willie.” She threw herself in his powerful arms. Once standing she helped him back to his bed.

The room was small, a little bigger than the monks’ cells that he had read about in his father’s library. But it had its advantages. It was at the back of the house not far from the indoor bathroom and the kitchen. June’s room, just like it was right next door.

“
How was it tonight?” he asked taking pleasure in his sister’s beautiful pale brown face. Her hair hung tangled at her shoulders, leaves and grass in it just like when they had played in their father’s fields when they were younger. Willie had always had a companion in June and June had always had an audience in Willie.

“
Let me put on my nightgown and come right back. God forbid papa or mama catch me in this.” Willie smiled as she left the room in the bright red dress shimmying as she went. He opened the pocket watch he had received for his sixteenth birthday. Three Thirty in the morning. She must have left the house as soon as everyone was sleep, probably around ten, right after papa turned out the light from reading the last of his book.

She came back in the room in the white gown, bare foot and with her hairbrush. “Help me get this mess out of my hair.”

As they sat close together, Willie removing leaves, clovers and bits of flowers and grass and June brushing the long thick locks, she started talking.

“
Oh Willie tonight was wonderful. Just wonderful! I snuck down to the highway right after ten, bout a quarter past and Ross was down there with his car. We had to drive forever before we found the place. Little backwoods joint. A new one Ross found just yesterday. Ross’ buddies were already there drinking and with the Plato sisters.”

Willie laughed softly. “Two of the most ignorant women in Atlanta named after the brilliant Plato. Sister, there is no justice.”

“
Anyway,” June continued with her story but stopped working with her hair and handed the brush to him. Dutifully Willie continued the chore. A fair exchange he thought: her story about the outside world in exchange for a few strokes to her hair. “I told Ross if he got drunk he wouldn’t ever get anywhere with me or my father. That made him think and spend most of his time drinking plain old water. But it was too late. What I really was afraid of was that Ross would get drunk and not figure out how to get back home. It was so complicated getting there. I have no idea where it was.” She turned to her brother.

His eyes met hers and he thought how beautiful she was. Small and delicate, tiny hands almost like a child’s, the twinkling eyes that would belong to a fairy. Of all his sisters she was the most beautiful, the most delicate creature in the world.

But as if she were reading his thoughts she said: “God you are handsome, William Brown Jr. No man in that place looked as good as you do, with your slick hair and your whiter than white teeth. And your big barreled chest. Just like papa’s. Almost as big.”

“
I got no legs, June. Remember?” He made her turn her head so he could continue to brush. But as he did the tears welled up in his eyes. “Go on, Junie. Tell me what happened to keep you wherever you were till almost dawn.”

“
The Piano Man.” It was almost in a whisper. Willie’s strong strokes slowed and softened. He heard it in her voice, something he had never heard before.

“
Who’s the Piano Man?”

“
The most handsome colored man I’ve ever seen. Except of course for you. But he’s different from you. And he was playing the piano like nobody I’ve ever seen. Ross said he played like the devil himself. He has these long brown fingers. Really long and he could reach keys in places. . . Oh Willie, you should have been there.”

She jumped up and turned to her brother. “Legs or no legs, he can’t make you stay in this house forever. If the man who runs that art colony in Florida wants to pay good money for you to paint and for your paintings then you can get your own car and I can drive for you. And we can go out whenever you want.” She hugged him. “You’ll be my brother the famous artist. And I can dress as I please and do as I please and. . .”

“
And where would we live?” Willie asked trying not to become involved in the fantasy.

“
Somewhere,” she announced triumphantly. “I’d think of something. Besides,” she touched her brother’s face gently. “If you want you could see Lanney again. You painted your best when Lanney was around. We could take her with us. We could hire her to keep house for us, Willie. And she could be there for you whenever you wanted.”

She smiled but Willie didn’t speak. He handed her the brush and she took that as a cue that he was tired. That was the bad part. He did tire so easily, even though he was strong as Hercules. June kissed him. “I will see you in a few hours. Tomorrow night I’ll tell you about the piano man. Wait till you meet him.”

“
Why, how would I meet him?” Willie yawned.

“
He’s going to come here. I’m thinking of asking him to give me lessons. Wait and see.” She laughed a little and as she went off to bed she whispered to him: “One day I’ll play better than Fawn or Jewel. And one day I’ll make Ross take you down to his car and we’ll go to Miss Emma’s place . . .”

“
And what will papa say?” Willie leaned on his pillow wishing that what she was saying could come true.

“
Papa won’t ever need to know. You can lower yourself down that rope and we’ll leave our clothes in the hollow of that old tree out there so at dawn when its time to chop the wood we’ll already be outside doing it. They won’t ever know.”

She grinned at him. “We could do it, Willie. One day you could sit in that dirty little bar and paint like that man you told me about who didn’t have long legs but painted all those French dancers.”

He yawned again, “Lautrec. Toulouse Lautrec.”

“
Yes, that’s the one. You’ll paint all those people in Miss Emma’s like him. Only there aren’t any dancing girls. Just the Plato sisters wiggling their big butts and people slipping out in the dark to be alone.”

“
I’d like that,” Willie said. It would be nice to start a portfolio of sketches of people moving and dancing and being alive the way he couldn’t. He could take those sketches and bring them back to life with his paints. He stared at the empty easel in the corner. He hadn’t painted since papa had sent Lanney away. Yes, it would be nice.”

“
You need to get out. I don’t care what those old doctors say. You need sun and light and people. You’ll love my piano man. He is so wonderful. And Willie?”

He turned from his thoughts to her. “Yes?”

“
Willie, the Piano Man is going to marry me. Watch, Willie, just wait and see.” She kissed him and tiptoed off to her room.

Alone Willie pondered two things: the arrival of the Piano Man into his sister’s life and the exit of Lanney from his. But he had to laugh for although he loved his sister more than anything in the world he knew she was vain and wistful and in love with no one but herself. And maybe her brother. He knew she loved him, she watched over him and protected him from the hate and insults and even the envy of others. It was she who told papa it was cruel to force Willie to stay in Atlanta when the man from Florida had wanted to take the boy under his wing and make him a great artist. Over breakfast one morning when papa had said enough June had replied: “You’re just jealous cause you have no talent. Because all you can do is hit that metal with that hammer. You can’t paint pictures and you can’t sing. You don’t even tell good stories. But Willie does. Willie is good at all those things.”

The big hand had seemed to come out of nowhere and smacked so hard that when the tiny trickle of blood oozed from her lips the other daughters cringed in horror. Willie couldn’t move. He had been sixteen and she fifteen and for that moment time stood still.

Papa’s sun-burnt face was reddened with fury. He hurled his words at the last child he would ever father in this world. “I gave you life, I have given you everything. I do not need to be judged by a selfish fifteen year old girl who reads poorly, can barely understand numbers and throws herself like a whore at every man who thinks her almost white looks are a blessing to the race. I am not jealous of your brother. I am here to protect him from people who might use him wrongly. Your brother has no legs. If that white man decided to beat him in Florida who would be there to protect him? How could he run away from the abuse with no legs?”

Papa hadn’t meant for the question to be answered but June stood, her hands on her tiny hips, the taste of blood still on her lips, cocked her head to one side as she looked down on her father and boldly said loud enough for the entire family to hear: “He’d leave the same way he runs away from you. On his hands when your spiteful words knock the crutches from under him. Or have you been too busy to notice that that’s what you make him do? Drop the crutches from under him?”

Such silence Willie had never known. Papa hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. But wisely June had left the table, kicking the chair as she left. When she got to the door she turned. “One of these days, I’m going to get out of here. And Willie’s going to leave here sooner than you think.”

The Blacksmith rose, his might and weight rising with him as well as his anger. Bira spoke: “June, go to your room. This house has no use for disrespect.”

As June opened her mouth again Bira raised a hand and the girl gave her father one of her “looks” then was gone. The Blacksmith stood there only for a second before gaining control and retaking his seat. The other daughters shook in fear barely able to eat. Bira went back to her meal as did Willie.

The subject was never raised again but from that day forward he knew how much June loved him. She bore the print of papa’s hand on her face for five days. Willie never forgave him.

It was shortly after that that Lanney had come into their lives. She worked for Miz Patricia, the woman who made the dresses his sisters wore. Her only beauty was the most haunting eyes he had ever seen. A dark gentle woman, she would come to the house to take measurements and do fittings.

Bira hated the society of Auburn Avenue, as it was called by the well-off coloreds who went there to shop. A tailor, a corsetiere, three dress makers, a cobbler, as well as a printer, hair saloon and barber shop for the men inclined to get their hair cut by a professional. The Blacksmith saw to it that his family had accounts in all the stores and shops.

She had never enjoyed being the center of attention, but as the Blacksmith’s wife and the mother of five daughters that dressed better than any in Atlanta she would not deny her children the heights of fashion.

When Fawn was eighteen and excited about the Brotherhood of the Masons Annual Ball, Bira hired a carriage to take them all to Miz Patricia’s for the first fitting of her gown. Getting out of the car, Bira noticed the women who had nothing better to do than shop and then talk about those who could not afford to shop.

Fawn was standing in the fitting room with Miz Patricia and her assistant, Lanney, measuring and pinning lace and silk about her when a pretty brown girl came into the shop crying in her mother’s arms.

“
Bitches!” The mother entered angrily holding the girl to her chest. “Everyone of them. Daughters of slaves and drunkards. I know all about them. They just married well. But they are nothing more than bitches.”

Bira had tried to calm the mother who she knew only as the wife of a local mason by no means wealthy. It was the Mason’s ball and his daughter had the right to attend. What had transpired down the street had been mean spirited and evil: women telling her, in front of her child, that she could not afford the proper attire for the girl since the family had no money.

“
Why embarrass the child?” one of the snotty women had told her. “She’ll never be able to . . .” and the woman had laughed a bit as she said it, “Lighten up for the ball.”

“
Unless she uses that white makeup those traveling actors use,” another woman added. “Would make her look a little more white.”

“
Maybe,” the third one giggled. “But then only clowns and (she whispered) whores wear that type of powder on their faces. And the child is still a virgin. I mean you can never tell with one so dark. That’s why they have so many children.”

Once Bira heard the story rage sent her into the street. Nothing would stop the Blacksmith’s wife from quickly leaving Miz Patricia’s shop. Not the mother’s lament that she knew Bira was not like that. Not Miz Patricia’s request that she let the men folk handle it. Not Fawn pleading: “Mama, my dress.”

“
I’ll be back in a moment, daughter.” Almost immediately she was on the street. Outside, near the shop the trio was waiting to see how the woman was going to pay for the gown and what kind of gown it would be. Nothing, they knew, as expensive as the Blacksmith’s daughter’s.

The sweetest smile cleared Bira’s face as they greeted her and she returned the greeting with something they hadn’t expected.

“
Why Clara, I didn’t expect your Sara to be in the ball this year with the note your family owes the bank. What is it now, four months past due?

“
And Lottie? How’s your brothers syphilis? Is he still staying with you or did he go back to that New Orleans place of ill repute he was running? I haven’t seen him lately.

“
Now Doris, you must be very glad Hector is no longer seeing that girl from Macon you found out was your very own cousin. And glad she isn’t pregnant. What a scandal that would have been.”