The Wilful Daughter Page 8

  Fannie had interrupted his confession. “I, well me and Leroy, want you to stay with us. Pretend to be our children until the robes, they from another county, believe they have killed all your father’s children.”

  His fists balled at his side Troy was screaming he wasn’t going to stay. Leroy was trying to talk some sense into him. The white man was walking away when Bira grabbed his arm. “Mister, my mama. You never said what happened to my mama.”

  He had eyed Fannie and Leroy who didn’t open their mouths. Then he looked down at the pretty girl. He knew her mother and she looked so much like her it was hard for him to speak. “She died in the fire.”

  Troy had cried like a baby and Bira had fainted for the first time in her life.

  When she woke she was in Miss Fannie’s house. “Where’s Troy?” she asked thinking of the only family she had left.

  “He gone. Took a horse and a gun and went looking for them robes, foolish boy.”

  Bira sat up in the bed and cried. “My brother is not foolish.”

  Fannie didn’t try to comfort her. “Unless our men find him, he’ll be dead by morning.”

  In the deepest dead of night Miss Fannie’s husband and some brave colored men snuck out to the farm to bury her family. They also buried Troy whose beaten body they found along the way.

  One day, weeks later, they took her out to the place. No dead bodies, no crops in the field, everything gone. Even the big tree was burned down. The only thing she had left was Slow and Slower. They had been her dowry when she had married the Blacksmith months later.

  * * *

  At fifteen she had lost her whole family, at fifteen she had gained a loving husband. And even though she could remember with crystal clarity everything that transpired in Tyson, Alabama, she longed to go back there. It was mostly colored now. Miss Fannie and the Blacksmith’s Aunt Ella had built themselves a nice little community of people who didn’t have a need for big city life.

  “Look at that, William,” she said as another car went by. When he didn’t answer she turned and saw he was sleeping in his chair. Soon there would be cars everywhere Fawn told her. Now Bira longed even more for the country but she never got to go there as long as her husband wanted, needed her in Atlanta. She looked at his sleeping face in the red glow of sunset. She was alive because of him. She would stay wherever he wanted her to stay with him, forever.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  As she sat at the bottom of the hill in back of the house with Willie, staring at the few clouds that floated by, June talked of her chance meeting that afternoon with the Piano Man. “I would have asked him to come over here but guess what? The minister is bringing him to meet papa tonight.”

  “How old is this man? It seems that if Fawn and Jewel are interested in him, he’s got to be pretty old. At least as old as Minnelsa. She hasn’t talked about a man since. . .”

  “She’s not interested in anything but writing those stupid poems and stories of hers. She just heard talk that’s all. She doesn’t want him. No one can have him. Don’t you understand, Willie? He’s got to be mine. We belong together.”

  Willie saw a pain on her face, but he didn’t understand. This man had woven some kind of spell over this tiny creature. Most men who fell in love with June felt that way. This was the first time June was smitten with someone else. Willie was not sure if it was right.

  “You in love, June?” he asked softly in case the wind might hear and take the word to Papa.

  “I don’t know, Willie, what being in love really feels like. Do you?” As she looked at his face she regretted she had ever said it. “I’m sorry, Willie. I forgot. I didn’t mean . . .”

  He smiled at his sister. “It’s all right, June. You know I was in love. I can tell you it felt bad and good all at the same time. I didn’t want to sleep because that meant I couldn’t think about her. Then when I was dreaming I didn’t want to wake up because the dream would go away.

  “I acted like a fool whenever she was around. I mean I said the stupidest things. And the worse part was I kept trying to be somebody else, just in case she didn’t like me like I was.” He looked at his legs.

  “But I remember how much she liked you. She liked you a lot before papa sent her away.”

  “Papa and mama said she wanted me for my money. Money she thought she’d get if she married me. Papa said that’s why he sent her away.” They were both silent for they had promised never to talk about it or about the times he had spent with the girl. They didn’t have to speak. They were thinking it all along.

  “I guess,” June spoke as she ran her hand through the grass, “I’m not in love yet. It’s just starting to feel like it because I think about him all the time.”

  “How old is he, June?” he asked again as he felt the cool grass beneath him.

  She sighed. “He’s thirty-five years old. But he doesn’t look it.”

  “Papa would never let you marry him. He’s an old man. You know you can’t marry him, Juney.” Willie tried to make her smile but she wouldn’t look at him.

  “We’ll see, Willie. We’ll see.”

  Fawn ran down the hill past the rose bushes, peach and pear trees, and the fig tree that sometimes bore fruits. Quite undignified for a twenty-eight year old Sunday school teacher Willie thought.

  “He’s here, June.” She was out of breath as she stopped holding her side.

  “Who’s here?” Willie asked.

  “The Piano Man, silly. The preacher brought him over to meet papa.” Her eyes widened. “June, he is so handsome, you should see him.”

  Without another word Fawn ran back again and June was not far behind her. She was almost to the fig tree when she turned to see that she had left her crippled brother alone. She turned and ran back to him.

  “Willie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you.”

  Willie laughed loudly as she helped him to his crutches. “Yes you did. You know you did. You want to see him and get your clutches into him before the others do. Go ahead.”

  “No.” June folded the blanket as he moved slowly along. “He can meet the whole family and that includes you. I’ll get to see him. Besides, he already knows me.”

  Willie hobbled along as fast as he could, sweating to get up to his basket so that he could pull himself up into the house instead of trying to make it up the hill. His sister loved him and would wait for him, but she was impatient to get to the man of her dreams. She didn’t leave his side until they reached the parlor of the house where the preacher sat next to their mother, and their father sat in his big chair while a handsome stranger played the piano.

  June squeezed Willie’s shoulder tighter than ever before as she watched her Piano Man. She led her brother to his chair, took his crutches as he sat, then stood dutifully behind him mesmerized, as was the rest of the family, by the music the man played.

  From the moment Willie laid eyes on the Piano Man he knew things were going to change. Never before had all his sisters been so infatuated with a figure of a man. Never had his mother’s attention been so drawn to the piano. And never, ever, had his father sat back and smiled so pleased.

  His music and his beauty filled the room. He was darker than all of them, and prettier (or was it handsomer?) than any man Willie had ever seen. His hands were not like the Blacksmith’s, hard, big and gnarled, but long and slender. His fingers played the keys with grace gliding back and forth without stretching as Rosa so often did when she tried to play a complicated piece. He did not look from the piano, did not notice the eyes of those watching him. Willie was sure this man and the piano were one the way the sound floated from his long hands into the air.

  Willie closed his eyes and listened for that was the only comfort he had left. This way he could enjoy what he heard without fearing what he saw. The look on his father’s face. Calculating, thinking. Willie kept his eyes closed for the music was so soothing, so beautiful. Like the gramophone he had. A present from papa when Willie had been so sick they thought he would die.
Lovely tunes full of recorded static had calmed his breathing during the crisis. Now the same music was alive before him and he didn’t want to see it. He wanted to listen to it and be lost in it as it lulled him to sleep.

  The Piano Man finished and the Blacksmith was the first to applaud: “Beautiful! Wonderful!” Mama joined in as did the Preacher and the sisters.

  The Piano Man turned and for the first time saw June standing behind her brother. Willie detected the faintest glimmer of recognition was in the man’s eyes and then it was gone. He looked up at June, saw her disappointment and then looked back at the musician who was still living down the praises of the Brown family.

  “I see,” the Piano Man said, “We have been joined by some more family members.”

  The Blacksmith stood as did the Piano Man. The older man was by far taller and bigger. “Indeed, indeed, Mr. Jenkins. My son William Brown the Second and my daughter June Brown.”

  The Piano Man came over and shook Willie’s hand. He had a firm grip for such thin fingers. Then with a swift gentlemanly motion he took June extended hand, kissed it and said: “Enchante, mam’selle.” June blushed.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Jenkins.” She spoke softly, not trying to be obvious. But Willie could see that this man was had an affect on her.

  “Peter, please. You must all call me Peter,” the Piano Man said.

  “Well, Peter,” the Blacksmith said walking over to the piano, “You have graced our home with the most wonderful music. Could we offer you some refreshment? Some of my wife’s delicious lemonade perhaps?”

  “Yes,” cried Fawn beaming. “Please stay and have some.”

  “I’ll get it,” sighed Rosa. “There’s some cake left from dinner that you might enjoy.”

  “I’ll get it,” Jewel grinned. “Rosa’s cake is a little dry, but we have some left over cobbler.”

  “Ladies, many thanks but lemonade will be just fine.” They all smiled and blushed and hurried off to get it. All except Minnelsa who was sitting next to her mother, and June who had no intention of leaving the Piano Man’s sight.

  The Blacksmith went back and sat in his favorite chair. He hinted for the Piano Man to sit down next to the minister. The reverend politely stood when Willie was sure his father winked. “Well, Mr. and Mrs. Brown, I must be going. I have few things left to do this evening. Must call on Sister King. Rheumatism got her down.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Bira said in her usual soft spoken voice. “Give her my regards and tell her I’ll come to check on her tomorrow.”

  The preacher nodded. “Certainly. Mr. Jenkins I trust you can find your way back to Mrs. Maples?”

  “I’m sure he can.” The Blacksmith chided. “If he can’t, Minnelsa will show him the way.”

  The Piano Man turned and smiled to Minnelsa and Willie felt something tight grab his shoulder. He looked up and saw one thin tear trickle down June’s cheek. He had known it all along. Papa and the preacher had conspired to bring this man into the house. A man to be Minnelsa’s husband. It was sad enough that June was about to die, her heart broken in two, but worse was the crushed look Willie saw on Minnelsa’s face as she realized what was happening to her.

  The moment the screen door slammed Minnelsa stood up: “I think I’d better hurry my sisters along with that lemonade.”

  ‘Nonsense,” said her father. “Stay here with us for a while. June,” he said without even turning to look at his daughter, “Go hurry your sisters along.”

  At first she was too shocked to move. Willie knew she wasn’t prepared for being taken away from her Piano Man. Papa was about to ask the musician something when he turned. “June, did you hear me?”

  She looked longingly at the Piano Man but he didn’t notice her for he was talking to her mother and older sister. Silently she turned and left the room.

  My God, was all Willie could think.

  The sisters returned with the lemonade in a crystal pitcher and sparkling crystal glasses. These were the ones reserved for special family occasions and special visitors like the minister and those people who were considered pillars of the community.

  Willie watched. It didn’t happen quickly. It happened cleverly and Willie witnessed it all.

  The Piano Man stood as Fawn poured the long fingered man a glass of lemonade and commented: “Someone has gone to great lengths to have the best of hand-blown French glass imported. Mr. Brown, Mrs. Brown, these glasses are some of the most exquisite I have ever seen.”

  Mama smiled politely. “They were a present on our twenty-fifth anniversary from my husband. One of his clients,” she began as Rosa served her and she watched with pride as Peter Jenkins looked over every inch of the beautiful glass, “was going to Europe and my dear husband asked him to bring these back. Along with some of the finest and loveliest China I have every laid eyes on.”

  The Blacksmith interceded examining his own glass. “I’m sure you have seen better in Paris. Even in New York.”

  “Not since the war.” The Piano Man took a seat on the sofa next to Minnelsa.

  “You were in the war?” she asked as John Wood’s ghost filled the room. Willie turned to Papa and read nothing on his face.

  “No, Miss Minnelsa, not in the war. In France at the time you were part of the war whether you liked it or not. I don’t want to dwell on such things.”

  “But,” Jewel asked sitting on the other side of the sofa near him, “what did you do in the war? If you weren’t a soldier.”

  The Piano Man’s face turned cold. So he really didn’t want to talk about it, Willie thought. He was beginning to think the man was a deserter or that he had sympathized with the wrong side. Perhaps he had been a servant of some rich white man who left him there to fend for himself.

  Softly he uttered: “I took care of some orphans.”

  The room was filled with a silence that Willie could not abide. He had been all set to hate Peter Jenkins.

  “Before the war, Mrs. Brown, there were so many homes with glasses and china like this as I am sure you have. Before the war I would play in the great saloons and houses of Paris after a dinner of the most exquisite food on the loveliest plates this side of heaven. Tables set with silver bowls and trays and goblets. Each table was like a painting. The wealthy French certainly knew how to entertain.” He raised the crystal goblet high to Willie’s parents. “As do you.”

  Papa shyly raised his. Mama did not move.

  The Piano Man sipped the lemonade. Minnelsa sat quietly holding her glass fingering each crevice. “The war took the china from the tables. It was blown up in the air. I used to walk by the homes of some of my acquaintances and find them gone. Many of them took just what they could carry and the looters got the rest. Sometimes you’d see a piece of a broken plate smashed on the sidewalk and you’d wonder what happened to the rest of the set of dishes.”

  “What of the orphans?” asked Jewel. “Were they the children of your white benefactors?”

  The Piano Man’s face became a blur of anger. It was obvious that she had said something wrong. He allowed it to soften before he spoke. “Miss Jewel, I had no benefactors in France. I was a musician equal to the whites there.” She blushed. He turned to the rest of the room to explain. “It is different there. An artist is appreciated for his talent, not the color of his skin. My colleagues were some of the finest in all Europe. I toured, I played, I even wrote music from time to time although that was not my forte. I went where I pleased without question. No, Miss Jewel, the orphans and I found each other.”

  The Piano Man brushed his hand over his curly black hair and Willie noticed dampness at his forehead. It wasn’t hot in the room, it was a cool evening. Even he was not sweating from his rush to get into the house. Was this was the kind of sweat you get from lying?

  “I was on my way to a party at Monsieur Reuon, a very dear friend, with a few friends. As I exited my coach a little man that I had seen at many of these gatherings came running up to the Reuon household and forced himself inside. Th
e Germans were coming he exclaimed and told us we needed to leave. We all laughed it off since we had heard this so many times before. Unfortunately our laughter was interrupted by not so distant gunfire.

  “Needless to say I attempted to leave immediately, but alas it was too late. Outside their house there was fighting. Then fires and more shooting. My coach was gone, there were no horses about. It was every man for himself.”

  He sipped his lemonade and Willie watched his family. They were glued to every word. “He’s lying,” he whispered. This was a story from a book, or a tale the Piano Man had heard while playing in some bar in New York. Willie believed this man did not have the makings of a hero, of someone so unselfish. But he kept silent and listened, because, unlike June, he did not want to change things.

  “While many of the guests had departed a few remained. Deciding perhaps they should hold up in the wine cellar until morning and then proceed to the countryside. I thought this a wise move, but it was not to be. Those who headed down to the wine cellar were killed instantly by Germans who were by that time in the house.

  “Madame and Monsieur Reuon had gone upstairs to get their children, two small boys and a little girl of about ten. With them was the children’s nanny, a black woman from the isle of Martinique and her own daughter. Because we were in this darkened part of the house we were not attacked. By the time the enemy reached the second floor, Monsieur had us all hidden in a secret room that his father had used to spy on people years before. We stayed in that tiny room in complete silence for two days.”

  “How did you escape?” Willie turned and saw June standing in the doorway.

  “It’s a tragic story. And I do not wish to change the mood of the evening with. . .”

  “Please,” Willie spoke boldly. “I would like to know how you escaped and became in charge of the orphans.” The tone of his voice was threatening and Peter Jenkins took it that way. He continued his tale keeping a watchful eye on Willie as he talked.