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
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
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