Pop Hairston was close to legend in this part of South Carolina for his smithy works. He kept at the craft past the time when it was necessary, perhaps, but he had a sense that the art would still be desired. Maybe he just wasn't inclined to practice another trade. Old stylings in the houses along the Battery in Charleston from the colonial era, early federal period, historic homes with the iron works and railings that were rusted or were in need of repair, Pop was there to replace them. Heating and stoking the fire in his forge with his old bellows, he did things the old way, turning the iron with his mallets on the anvil.
He’d be in greater demand now, it was true, with the new money pouring into Charleston to revive old properties. Pop’d have to bring on apprentices, something he never felt inclined to do. That was a fatal flaw in Pop’s worldview. You should always leave something of yourself behind, if you’ve got something worth leaving behind, by teaching somebody else. But Pop started his own fires, and kept them burning, and swept up his own floors, and turned the red-hot metal, hammering his designs alone. When he went there was no one left to carry on.
The old sign was still there with the palmetto tree and the sea bird outside Hairston’s Blacksmith Arts, the shop that was on the same grounds as Pop’s old house off the Maybank Highway not far from Angel Oak. Pop’s sister lived here with Pop’s ancient old mother. Cynthia supported them there; they didn’t wish to move anyplace. This was their place. They could get groceries from the Piggly Wiggly nearby, shop for things they needed at the Family Dollar. Liquor store there too when they ran out. Gram Nettie enjoyed two shots of rye whiskey every night since she was 68. Her daughter Grace had a more refined taste. For Remy Martin.
Gram Nettie was sitting there in a rocking chair on the porch of the house when Cynthia and Robby approached. Robby figured she might be nearing an appearance on Willard Scott anytime now, if he was still doing that Today Show gig now and then, but Gram Nettie didn’t look as old as she probably was. She wore glasses that pinched into her nose. She was a light-skinned woman, much like Cynthia. Her hair was white. Robby watched as Cynthia bent down and gave her Gram a kiss on the cheek. She chewed gum and had a slight shake to her. Didn’t seem to recognize or want to recognize Cynthia. She had her eyes on Robby.
Is this how Cynthia would look down the years, another whole lifetime from now? It made him shiver a bit just thinking on it.
Cynthia stood and made way for Robby. He bent down on his knee and held Gram’s hand. “How are you today?” he asked.
“Just fine.”
“Gram, this is Robby Cochran, the baseball player. Do you remember him? He’s an old friend of mine.”
“Yes,” she answered.
Robby didn’t know what the fuck to say to the woman. Do you talk about the past? You can’t talk about the future, when there is no future, except death. You can’t say, “So, you looking forward to dyin’?” Though, come to think about it, that might be the most appropriate topic to discuss with an old woman. Get her thoughts on the prospects of death. What her expectations were and whether she’d differ any now in her interpretations from what she’d accepted her entire life.
Hell. That’s too complicated a subject to lay on the old bird. Sticking to the present tense, or thereabouts, would be more appropriate.
“What are you going to do?” he asked. Gram was obviously confused. She heard what Robby said, because he said it loudly enough in that way you talk to some old people.
“When?”
“Today,” he said. “What are you going to do today?”
Gram Nettie looked up at Cynthia and then back at Robby like he was crazy. “I’m gonna set here...what do you think I’m gonna do?”
Robby smiled and let out a short, hearty laugh. Cynthia smiled too at the absurdity of Robby’s question, though sweet and naïve, and the blunt reality of Gram Nettie’s response.
Robby thought he might should say something about Pop. How sorry he was to hear about his death, the death of her son. But he resisted the temptation fearing it could be a hard thing for her to have to relive in her mind, burying her child, outliving him. The worst possible thing that can happen in a life, no matter what your age or circumstance. To lose a child.
Besides, he thought it might be ridiculous to offer condolences a half a decade too late. Robby has had people come up to him and say they were sorry to hear about his mom dying, and he’s felt like saying, “She’s been dead for ten years, don’t you think I’m over it now?”
But what’s worse perhaps is not acknowledging it at all, pretending not to notice that the person has left the planet never to return.
Robby chose instead to deal with Pop’s absence by reflecting on his offspring. “Nice to have your granddaughter and grandson around to take care of you...”
Gram had been nodding, but she stopped and looked confused at Robby. She squinted her eyes, then looked up at Cynthia.
“Did I say something wrong?” Robby whispered to Cynthia, but she just shook her head slightly and touched Gram Nettie’s shoulder. Gram Nettie looked at Robby and chewed her lip.
“Grandson,” she said and went back to rocking. Robby tapped her bony, wrinkled pale hands, leaned in and kissed her cheek, scratching his own cheek on her sharp glasses. She smiled and squeezed his hands repeatedly until he stood over her and she let go.
Inside the blacksmith shop there were still the remnants of materials that Pop had created. Fireplace tools, an unfinished gate, grill work for windows. A black and white photo on the wall, the frame tilted, glass cracked. Robby adjusted it and it nearly fell off the joist it was hung on. He studied the image in the frame. It was Pop Hairston sitting on a step with his arm around Cynthia. She was a teenager there, right before Robby noticed her and they began seeing each other in secret at first, in secret for awhile. She wore a tank top T-shirt and she was smiling for the picture, but wary at the same time. Hair was long and straight; she was awkward looking a bit and too thin.
On the other side of the picture was a young boy. Pop didn’t have his arm around him, but the boy leaned against Pop’s knee anyway.
“Doesn’t look anything like him does it?” Robby said.
Cynthia was fiddling with the old bellows, distracted, “Huh? Who?”
“Mateen,” Robby said. “He’s changed his looks more than Michael Jackson, hasn’t he?”
Cynthia looked at the picture, just a glance before turning away and saying, “I guess. He’s seen a lot. Lived a lot. Experienced too much.”
Robby just shrugged. He picked up an iron chimney tool, a poker. Cynthia saw it. “That’s what killed him.”
Robby looked at the poker in his hands, the handle, the point. He placed it down, leaning against a cabinet, but it slid off and clanged on the floor with an awful sound. He bent down and was about to put it back where he found it, but Cynthia said, “Leave it.” He looked up at her. “Leave it, it’s okay.”
Robby stood. “You kept it here?”
Cynthia approached. She stood over the poker and wrapped her hand into Robby’s. “He made it,” she said. “It was a thing that he created, and it killed him. I think keeping it here...” and she started and she stopped, trying to find what she meant to say, instead of just saying anything. “It’s my way of remembering,” she paused and then looked up into Robby’s eyes and said, “And moving on.”
Okay. She’s fucked up, isn’t she? Death. Killing. It all changed her. Dulled her pain. She faced her father’s death like it had been caused by a cancer, something that was inside him that she couldn’t prevent. Though this was different, a murder had been committed, by a killer or killers. You always think it’s more than one man, though it’s usually only one who does it. You think of a killing like this in a blacksmith’s shop and you think maybe it was a robbery gone bad. You don’t immediately think vengeance or hate. Cynthia seemed to have buried it, moved on. What did dwelling on it get her? Dwelling on the mystery of who killed her father. The killer or killers still out there.
Would this be her experience or posture again when Carrington died, given how she felt about her father’s death? Would it matter how Carrington died? Would it matter if he died at all?
Look at her. Stop what you are doing and look at her. Her lips are so smooth, painted a wet mocha. That birthmark above her lip. She kept herself so well-groomed. Had she ever had anyone better? Anyone who could make her reach ecstasy the way I could?
Robby began to picture a life here, without Carrington. A life with her without Carrington. Could he get there if he just took her right now and kissed her?
Could he get it any other way than by killing her husband?
(Read Chapters Nineteen and Twenty-One of Blacksmith's Girl.)