The Blacksmith's Daughter

Wasn’t much colored Atlanta talked about for the next few days but how they all missed the sound of the Blacksmith’s hammer in the morning. Rumors spread faster than storm winds but the truth beat it at every turn. William Brown the Second, Willie to his sister June, Brother to his family and a smattering of friends, was dying. His sister Rosa, the nurse, tried to take him to the hospital but he refused to go saying he wanted to be in his own bed. His sister June, the closest person to him in the whole world, never left his side. In fact one of the most popular rumors was about the red dress June wore the dawn the doctor came to see Willie. A red sparkly, shiny dress like the flappers wore that clung to her like hard earned sweat. Business was called off at the smithy. Gentleman callers didn’t come by the house at all. Only people allowed to cross the Blacksmith’s door were the minister and the doctor. And the Piano Man. Truth was Willie liked to lie in his bed and listen to the music the Piano Man played in the parlor. The music would fill the house with hope and the neighborhood with despair. Some said Willie was picking what song he wanted played at his funeral. And not some old Gospel song either. Something nice and fancy from Europe like the Piano Man played in the parlor night after night. The Blacksmith still woke at dawn and the family ate with him except for June. It was she who fed her brother each meal, she who changed his bed linens once the Blacksmith lifted him. She who washed him and cared for him night and day. Word spread that she slept on the floor beside his bed. Truth was she slept in the bed with him. Warming his chills, wiping his sweats and bathing herself just before dawn so that the dying boy would awake and see her with fresh skin and clean, brushed hair. Willie would tell her: “You look just like the dancing princess. Where did you dance last night?” She would smile and tell him: “Why, Willie, don’t you remember? We were dancing together in your dreams.” It took eight days for Willie to die. But it was eight days that his family belonged to him and him alone. The Blacksmith read to him from his many books occasionally carrying the boy into his big room with its healthy fire and sitting him in the most comfortable chair, the Blacksmith’s chair. June would sing to him accompanied by Rosa on the piano. The Piano Man would play tunes the boy had never heard on his Victrola. The rest of the family would do what they could to make things nice for him. Fawn brought him flowers from the garden and bushes outside that he could no longer sit near and smell, and Minnelsa told him about the bad little children in the school, which made him laugh. Jewel baked bread endlessly for he said the smell made him feel good, Rosa washed his hair in jasmine scented soap that she had purchased from a white owned store the Blacksmith didn’t like. When William Brown asked his daughter where she had gotten such an item, she boldly replied: “I got it for Willie.” June smiled at her sister for giving this treat to her brother. During those eight days June would not go near the Piano Man. And the Piano Man stayed in the house only long enough to play. He took each meal at Mrs. Maples (to her delight) and only spoke to the woman he courted when he was in her father’s presence. June would stay in the room when her father read to her brother. Not that she didn’t trust him, for the Blacksmith was showing a different side to his son. June would watch them as the old man read and the boy listened and asked questions. She had no idea her father had such patience. He had never shown any with her. The truth was she wished she had the courage and the strength to put her brother out of his suffering. She could hardly stand to watch him cough, to wince in pain when all she could do was change the bed clothes when he soiled himself. She held his hand for hours when he went on and on about things they had done as children. “Remember when. . .” He forgot some piece of the story of pulling themselves up into the tree by rope, or each eating 200 pecans one afternoon and vomiting all night. “Remember when. . .” She would remember for him and fill in the blanks. “Remember when. . .” What she couldn’t remember as she held his hand trying to give him her life force, she made up. Bira Brown sat on the floor in her son’s room and called on the Great Spirit to protect her son. June had never seen her mother do this but the older sisters remembered family deaths when Bira put aside any knowledge of the Christian faith and turned into a Blackfoot Indian and did what could only be called the most unchristian of things. She sang chants that only the spirits could understand. She burned leaves and bark in the room and the scent floated in and around the house. Those that passed the house would see the dark thin smoke and swore it was the Angel of Death taking residence until the boy was gone. Bira ground herbs and roots into poultices and said incantations as she rubbed them on her son’s chest. The boy never complained of the smell or the rubbing that left his pale skin reddened. He enjoyed his mother’s touch. No one said a word, not the minister, not the doctor, not the Blacksmith. For his mother’s humble and soft rumblings seemed to ease the coughing that came from deep in his chest. “There is nothing anyone can do,” the minister once said to the doctor, “but leave him to Jesus.” If the Blacksmith heard this or not, he didn’t say. Each night when he knew the rest of the family was sleep he would go to check on his son. To stand and watch him breathe, to hope he wouldn’t die. And from time to time, pray that he would. “I am old, Lord,” the Blacksmith would whisper to the night wind as if she were carrying his words to God. “I have a cripple son and five daughters. I have tried to do my best by them all, Lord. Where have I gone wrong?” Inside the house he could hear June singing sweetly to her brother: “I believe I’ll go back home And admit that I done wrong.” “Why have I never noticed the sweetness of the sound of her voice, Lord?” He brushed the old horse that had been his companion for so many years. A brisk, cold wind blew and the Blacksmith looked up at the house. “Why is she singing that song to him, Lord? I am sure she knows others. Others that I would not approve of.” He stopped brushing and looked up at the house. The wood would have to be chopped by someone else, he could hire a boy to come by and do it. “My son was strong, Lord, stronger than me. Why didn’t I see it?” He brushed until his old arms were sore. He went to his private room and picked a volume of Shakespeare, he had no idea what it was. He opened it but never saw the printed words. “My son should be with me, Lord. My son should be by my side.” He closed his eyes and rested for a while. When he awoke it was late and a quilt covered him. Bira, sweet Bira who cared for them all had covered him from the chill of the night. “Why did she never tell me about the strength of my son?”