Without a goodbye to his wife, his lover, or either child, he drove away in his shiny Ford a rich man.
June bathed herself and dressed herself in the same blue dress she had arrived in. She combed her hair and put on her lipstick and left the house to call on lawyer Gibbs to get her money and be on her way. She didn’t even return to collect her things. Some say she made it big when she got back up north, some say she faded away in the background. And some say the Blacksmith’s daughter got on the train, pretending to be a white woman and disappeared from her people never to be heard from again.
Bira turned the baby over to Fawn and Jewel who took care of it like their own while deciding their fates, since Minnelsa screamed whenever the child was brought near her. Then Bira called Miss Fannie long distance on the new telephone that had been put in the parlor and told her everything that had happened and that when her daughter was stronger, she was going to bring Minnelsa down there for a rest.
A very long rest, with Ophelia but without the Piano Man’s baby.
And the Blacksmith? Reverend Chancey had heard the good news about the birth of the grandson and came over to the shop a bit before high noon with a mason jar full of their beloved ‘ice water’ tucked amidst the papers in his briefcase. He found the Blacksmith asleep in the old desk chair holding the framed picture of the shop Willie had drawn so many years ago.
“I hear it’s another boy for the man who has all those wonderful, beautiful daughters,” the Reverend said as he pulled the jar of potent drink out, ready to make a toast.
But the Blacksmith didn’t move.
The Blacksmith was dead. Somewhere between the birth of his grandson and his wife putting an end to his dream the pains had started again. Somewhere after a hearty breakfast, bigger than he usually ate (and that was a lot for he was a big man) the pains got stronger. Somewhere after he kissed his wife good bye for the day and crossed the town in the wagon, he had a heart attack.
The Blacksmith had come across the two miles to his shop slumped over his seat. No one took notice of a bent over colored man driving a wagon. There were too many men like that for anyone to care. The horse knew where it was going.
When the wagon stopped at the bottom of the hill, the Blacksmith sat up and said to the wind, for no one came there anymore: “I feel a little better.” He climbed out of the wagon slowly for his chest hurt. “Ate too much of that good ham,” he said to the horse who neighed in agreement. Then he walked slowly to the office to let the pains pass.
No cocks crowed, no bells rang. Life went on.
Thinking about his new grandson and his lost son, the Blacksmith died.
There were over thirteen million cars on the road that year in his great country. The Blacksmith had never driven one. People didn’t need his iron strength anymore. Soon the country would crash into economic depression. But the Blacksmith had done what they all said he’d never do-he still had land all over Atlanta and money in places other than banks. Maybe the silver and the china and the crystal wouldn’t come from France anymore, maybe the scandal would stop the daughters from being the talk of the town or being invited to all the right places, but poverty was something that his family would never know. Most people said the Blacksmith had a pretty good plan even if it went wrong somewhere along the way.
Those that know say that the moment the Blacksmith’s spirit left this earth, his wife screamed. She called his name: “William!” and fainted to the floor.
She knew even before the Reverend came to bring the news of his death that she was left alone with her daughters and her grandchildren in the Blacksmith’s house.
But that wasn’t Bira’s dream.
She waited a proper length of time. After the Blacksmith was buried, after the baby boy was baptized and after she was sure June and the Piano Man would never be heard from again, she prepared her daughters. Fawn and Jewel turned the baby boy over to his mother who finally accepted him and took her children home. Bira gave them six months to take over their own lives and go to their own homes-those pieces of property that were part of their dowries. Properties sold had been purchased again and given not to husbands who had deserted them but to daughters who were not sure how to live alone. Jewel thought about going to New York. Fawn thought about finding her reverend.
Then Bira packed a bag and took a train to Alabama where she stayed with Fannie and Ella for those six months. Sitting at the table on the lawn at lunchtime with toothless farmhands and people who talked with their mouths full, knitting on the porch at night with the ladies who had no men or men so long gone they didn’t care if they ever had any more, letting Millie brush her long, graying hair every night in exchange for letting her take a hot comb to Millie’s hair every two weeks so the girl could profess in front of all those who told her how nice her long straight pigtails looked: “I told you June said I got good hair.”
She stayed until she had the strength to come back to her own house and her own things and was ready to sit and eat at her table alone.
Never to have to rise and eat again before dawn.
The Wilful Daughter Page 40