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
“ 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
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