Hats Off, Brownie

Katherine Butler graduated from the Danbury Normal School in 1906. According to the class yearbook, she excelled in drawing and the art of teaching. Her inscription in the yearbook read, “O blest with temper whose unclouded ray can make to-morrow cheerful as today.”

Fortyish and slightly stooped, Brownie steadied his box camera. The clip-on viewfinder was a vast improvement over the V-shaped sighting lines on the original Kodak he had bought the year before, in 1900, for a dollar.

He looked at the fire-wrecked building in front of him. Until last night, it had been a hat factory and his source of income. Although it was an overcast morning, he wanted a bright photograph devoid of human empathy. After fiddling with the levers for aperture and speed, he released the shutter.

“Aye,” he nodded. “Good shot.”

He was satisfied, but he was angry. Although his job was gone, a sense of accomplishment—documenting its death—mitigated his ire. He looked toward the Still River, lined with sweatshops. It ran whatever color the Danbury hat factories were dyeing that day.

He saw red. Orange, actually. The color of mercury nitrate. He looked from the river to his similarly stained hands. For twenty years, he handwashed animal pelts in mercury nitrate as a carroter, so named because of the hue the chemical bath turned animal fur—and skin.

The dye he could handle, but not the Danbury shakes, erethism mercurialis—mercury poisoning, Mad Hatter’s Disease.

Everyone knew about it. But as long as it didn’t affect the general public, nobody cared. That’s what made him angry. He already had the itching, burning, and peeling skin. And tremors. Mental confusion and hallucinations would soon follow.

“Ah dinnae know,” he said aloud, pounding one orange fist into the other. Born in the States to Scottish immigrants, he spoke with a thick brogue. His father, who wanted a way out of poverty, had moved to Danbury, where jobs were plentiful. It made more hats than any other city in the U.S.—five million, a quarter of all hats purchased in America.

Brownie looked again at his camera. At least film was cheap. Without a job, though, he couldn’t pay for it or his keep at the boardinghouse.

“Boggin,” he muttered, wiping his hands on his jacket.

“Excuse me, Mister?”

He swung around to see a dark-skinned woman with neatly coiffed hair framing a handsome oval face and clear ebony eyes.

“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No. No. That’s okay.” Wrapping his left hand around his right to quell the tremors, he looked at his hands. Then at his camera. Then at the rubble. Anything to avoid making eye contact with a young woman—a young Negro woman—who had spoken to him.

“Is that a camera?” she asked.

“Aye.”

“Pardon my manners.” The woman placed her packages on the sidewalk and dipped her chin. “I’m Katherine Butler. Live up on Clapboard Ridge. Nelson Butler’s my daddy.”

He knew of Mr. Butler, a free man of color who owned a few acres up on the ridge. Married a former slave. Had a dozen kids.

“Pleased to, eh, meet you,” Brownie stammered. I’m Brownie. Everyone thinks it’s because of this.” He pointed to his camera. “But truth be told, my màthair—rest in peace—nicknamed me on account of my red hair and darker skin.” He paused to notice how pale it was in comparison to Katherine’s.

“Pleased to meet you, Mister Brownie. If I’m not too presumptuous, can you show me how your camera makes pictures? I graduated from the Danbury Normal School, where I excelled in the art of making pictures.” Katherine paused and stood a little straighter.

Relieved to talk about the love of his life, Brownie went through the mechanics of his leatherette-covered cardboard box, not realizing how calm he had become.

“When I bring the film in to be processed, they print me pictures for 40 cents each. And then I get another roll of film for 15 cents.”

As Miss Butler hoisted her parcels, a ray of sunshine broke through the clouds. “O blest with temper,” she said, “Whose unclouded ray can make tomorrow cheerful as today.” Then she left.

Cheerful? The Scottish word was èibhinn, which also meant adventurous. Embracing èibhinn in that unclouded moment, Brownie vowed to never carrot again. But what would he do?

Walking toward his boarding house, he noticed a “Help Wanted” sign in the window of the newspaper office. Summoning all his strength, he applied for a job as a deliveryman. They hired him. It paid less than what he earned as a carroter, but it would cover his room, board, and film.

In time, his shakes calmed and his hands returned to their natural color.

Although he never saw Miss Butler again, he thought of her often. How ironic, that pictures of disasters made him cheerful. Maybe it had to do with sharing the burden of loss. Or because disaster gave him a new life. Or simply that he conveyed with an image what language never could.