BLACKWATER:The Mysterious Saga of the Caskey Family (54 page)

As the train began to slow, the children grew restive until Danjo pointed and cried out, "I see Bray!"

"There's Miz Benquith!" cried Lucille.

"Daddy!" whispered Frances.

At the very end of the line, Sister peered through the open door of the compartment and out the window on the opposite side of the car. In the parking lot of the station she saw Oscar's automobile, Florida Benquith's car, and the Packard. Wired to the grille of the Packard was a black wreath.

As the train pulled into the station the children covered their ears at the shrill whistle.

But it wasn't a whistle, it was Sister's high-pitched wail of anguish, rising behind them, pushing them all out of the corridor, down the metal steps, and into the burning Alabama sun. As they stood bewildered on the platform before the station with Sister still wailing behind them, Bray and Oscar stepped forward with bands of mourning crape around their arms.

A black wreath had been hung on the door of each of the Caskey houses and over the gate of the Caskey mill. Mary-Love lay in a great white wicker casket, which resembled nothing so much as a oversized bassinet lined with a cushion of deep purple satin.

After Elinor had discovered the body the previous morning, Mary-Love had been taken away by the undertaker and brought back in only a few hours, clad in the dress she had worn the previous Easter. The furniture had been moved around in Elinor's front parlor and the casket placed beneath the stained-glass windows. In the colored light, the undertaker explained, the unavoidable alterations in skin color would be less noticeable. Mounds of lilies and heavily scented gardenias in tubs covered with gold foil surrounded the casket. They masked the disagreeable odor of corruption, which came quickly to the dead in an Alabama July.

When Bray and Oscar and Florida Benquith had gone off to fetch the unsuspecting Caskeys from the Atmore station, the casual Perdido mourners were quietly ushered out of the house by Elinor, and the wreath was temporarily removed from the door to discourage others. Elinor sat in the parlor, quietly leafing through magazines, just as she had done when Mary-Love had lain, dying, in the room directly above this; Zaddie and Roxie were in the kitchen preparing food. A great deal of food had been brought by the townspeople, for nothing—everyone knew—makes one hungrier than grief.

At last Elinor heard the approach of the three automobiles. She went out onto the porch and stood silently.

Frances jumped out of the first car, and, weeping bitterly, ran toward her mother.

All the others emerged more slowly. They struggled with luggage and packages, talked in low voices, and wouldn't look at the house. No one seemed to know what to do first.

"Leave your things there," said Elinor in a low voice heard by everyone. "And come inside."

The family trooped silently onto the porch. Florida Benquith, having done her part, drove slowly away, as quietly as possible.

"Where'd you put her, Elinor?" asked James.

"In the front parlor."

Zaddie stood just inside the screen door. She pulled it open and stood back, nodding to everyone who came in. She spoke in a low voice. "How you, Miss Queenie? Hey, Danjo, you have a good time at Chicken-in-the-car-and-the-car-won't-go-Chicago?"

At last, only Elinor and her estranged daughter Miriam were left on the porch. The sixteen-year-old looked up at her mother, and said, "Why is Grand-mama over here?"

"Because we couldn't leave her next door. There was no one to sit up with her. There was no one to receive visitors. And because she died in this house."

"She hated it over here," remarked Miriam as she went inside to survey the remains of her dead grandmother.

"She never looked prettier," was the general comment, but the actual thought was that Mary-Love had never looked worse. Her face was wasted, drawn tight over the bones in some places, slack in others. Her folded hands seemed twisted in frustration. She looked anything but sleeping, anything but natural.

"Can she hear us?" Danjo whispered. James shook his head.

Miriam stood at the end of the coffin and peered into it for half a minute or so. Her eyes were dry. "Where are her rings?" she asked at last.

That night, Sister sat up with the body, joined in the first part of the night by James, then later by Oscar. In that room, under those circumstances, the Caskeys seemed all at once to have grown old. It had been a long time since any important member of the family had died. James and Mary-Love had been of an exact age, and James's sixty-six years now made him appear an old man—to his family as well as to himself. Oscar was forty-one, and in the presence of his mother's corpse, he looked every year of it. Sister was three years older, and that difference now appeared even greater. In the darkest hours, the brother and sister sat on the couch that faced the casket and talked about everything in the world but their mother. At last, as dawn approached and the first light glowed in through the panes of the colored glass over the casket, Sister said, "She wasn't old. Sixty-six isn't old."

"She was very sick. Sister, you didn't see her in that room up there."

"What was wrong with her?"

"We don't know. After Bray and I brought her back here from Atmore, she didn't speak a single word to anybody. And she wasn't left alone for a minute."

"She must have been," Sister pointed out. "Nobody was with her when she died."

"Elinor went downstairs for two seconds, and when she came back, Mama was gone."

"As long as there wasn't any pain..."

"Sister, I wish I could say for sure that there wasn't, but I don't know. Maybe I'm just not used to being around the mortally ill, but I never saw anything like it."

"Like what?"

"Like what happened in that front room up there."

"What do you mean? What happened?"

"Nothing happened. That's what I mean. She was in that room all the while you were gone. She didn't move, she didn't speak, she didn't close her eyes. Either Elinor or Zaddie was with her all the time. Elinor slept on a rollaway at the foot of the bed. I just don't know whether Mama was in pain or not. All I know is that Elinor took care of her like she was her own mama, and had loved her every day of her life. If Mama had lived, I suppose they would gone back to their old ways, but while Mama was sick, Elinor was always there. That must have made Mama feel good, if she knew it..."

"I'm not so sure about that, Oscar."

As the sun rose over the pecan orchard opposite the house, the stained-glass windows were suddenly flooded with bright light. The wicker casket sprang to prominence before them, and Mary-Love's ringless fingers were stained a bright blue.

Visitors began arriving at seven-thirty that morning for a last respectful view of the corpse. An endless round of breakfasts and an inexhaustible supply of coffee were set in the dining room by Zaddie, Ivey, and Roxie.

The funeral service was held in the parlor with only the family present. Early Haskew had been alerted the morning of Mary-Love's death, and he arrived with only an hour to spare. Grace couldn't be found because she was off on some sort of expedition to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park with her friend who taught English literature.

While the funeral in the parlor was private, the service at the cemetery was open, and almost the entire town showed up. The mill had been closed for the day, and all the workers wandered about at a distance among the other graves, reading epitaphs aloud, toeing rocks out of the sandy earth, and slapping their thighs with the brims of their hats. Mary-Love's coffin was lowered into the earth next to Genevieve's. James, Sister, and Queenie wept.

After the graveside service, all the citizens of Per-dido seemed to disperse themselves for the remainder of the afternoon. Little business was done. The Caskeys retired to their separate houses and grieved alone.

Elinor and Oscar had a houseful of food. Zaddie and Bray made a number of trips that quiet afternoon, delivering casseroles and hams and messes of peas and the like to the other Caskeys, who for certain didn't yet feel like cooking anything.

Elinor, Oscar, and Frances sat on the porch upstairs. The day had turned even hotter than usual, and unpleasantly damp. Even the kudzu on the levee appeared to wilt beneath the atmospheric oppression. The creaking chains of the swing seemed muted, and downstairs Zaddie was working barefoot.

"Are you sad?" Oscar asked his daughter.

Frances nodded. She sat on the swing beside her mother, holding Elinor's hand.

"It was a shock, wasn't it?"

Frances nodded again.

"Elinor," remarked Oscar, "Sister asked me this morning why we didn't tell them all to come home when Mary-Love was so sick."

"You know why we didn't, Oscar."

"Why?"

"Because it wouldn't have done any good to have everybody here. In fact, it would have done your mama harm. All those people traipsing in and out all day. She would never have gotten a minute's rest."

"But she died anyway," Frances pointed out. "And nobody got to see her."

"Frances is right," said her father. "When everybody got back, there was Mama in her casket. I don't blame them for feeling as bad as they do. James said it's horrible to think that while they were all having such a good time in Chicago and St. Louis and New Orleans, Mama was lying in the front room, suffering and dying, and they didn't know a thing about it."

"Oscar, that's the point. Even if they had known anything, they couldn't have helped."

"Mama would have wanted everybody at home."

"Yes!" said Frances.

"Well," said Elinor, "your mama wasn't running the show. I was."

Oscar said nothing more, but continued to fan himself diligently with a paper fan bearing an advertisement for the undertaker. After a bit he stood up, went over to the edge of the porch and looked out at his mother's house. He turned, appeared about to say something, then changed his mind and remarked suddenly, "Did you notice that Early was chewing tobacco?"

"At the funeral?"

"Yes!" cried Frances. "Miriam saw him spit into a camellia bush, and after that she wouldn't speak to him. She said he was too country for words."

"How long do you suppose Early's gone stay around?" asked Oscar.

"How should I know?" Elinor said.

"You might have spoken to him."

"Well, I didn't," said Elinor. "What difference does it make?"

"Because Sister will probably go back with him, that's why."

"And?"

"And then what becomes of Miriam?"

"Miriam," said Elinor definitely, "comes home to us."

"Home?" echoed Oscar. "Miriam's never lived here. I don't imagine she's stepped foot in this house more than six times in her entire life."

"You think she really might move over here?" asked Frances with suppressed excitement.

"Where else would she go?" returned Elinor. "In a day or so I'll send Zaddie over to pack up her clothes."

"Mama," said Frances hesitantly, "are you gone give Miriam my room?"

"Of course not! We'll put Miriam in the front room."

"She cain't sleep in there!" cried Oscar.

"Why not?"

"Mama died in there! Mama died in that bed!"

"Well, Oscar, that's not going to hurt Miriam. Miss Mary-Love herself slept for twenty years in that bed your daddy died in. In fact, she probably slept in it the very night your daddy died, didn't she?"

Oscar nodded.

"I don't think Miriam will be scared," said Frances quietly. "If she is, she can sleep with me."

Elinor smiled at her daughter. "Aren't you a little old to be sharing your bed?"

"Was Miriam good to you on your trip?" Oscar asked.

"Yes, sir..." replied Frances slowly.

"Really and truly?" her mother prompted.

"Well; she was a little short with me now and then, but I didn't care. She was probably just worried about Grandmama."

Oscar and Elinor exchanged glances.

"Miriam," said Miriam's father, "may need a little talking to."

"Miriam wants to know where Grandmama's rings are, Mama."

"She said something about that to you?"

"At the funeral."

"What did you say?"

Frances hesitated.

"Frances, what did Miriam say about the rings?"

"She said they were hers and that you stole them. She said Grandmama gave them to her for her safety-deposit box in Mobile."

Elinor said nothing, but her expression was hard.

"Elinor, Miriam's bound to be upset. You know how she loved Mama. Lord, she lived with Mama all her life, she—"

"It's all right, Oscar. I'm not upset. One way or another, Miriam and I will be able to work things out."

CHAPTER 41
Mary-Love's Heir

With Mary-Love dead, the complexion of the Caskey family was greatly altered. Mary-Love had been its head, its guiding force, its principal source of rebuke, and the measure by which all its achievements, delights, and unhappinesses were judged. She was gone, and the Caskeys looked uneasily about them to see who might move into the vacant position. James was eldest, but frail, retiring, and without a calling to leadership. Oscar was Mary-Love's male heir, but the Caskeys were used to a woman at the helm, and Oscar might well have to prove himself fit for such a place. Sister lived away; Grace was completely involved with her life at the Spartanburg girls' school. Queenie wasn't really a Caskey. The burden seemed to be poised above Elinor.

Because the Caskeys began to look upon her as the intuitive choice, they now sought reasons to make her the logical choice as well. She was wife to the man who ran the mill, source of all the Caskey power and prestige. She had status of her own in Perdido. She kept up the largest house in town. She had proved her worth by a willingness to do battle with Mary-Love. Who else had done that except when they hadn't been driven to it in absolute desperation?

It was odd, but Elinor seemed to have changed in recent years. The change had been slower but no less radical than the transformation that James underwent on the day that Mary-Love had died. James Caskey had received more than an intimation of his own mortality: he had seen its very pattern in the wicker casket bathed in colored light. Frances's three-year illness seemed to have accomplished something similar with Elinor. Her single-minded and constant nursing of Frances had almost seemed to suggest that Elinor felt she was capable, alone, of curing her child. As those days of nursing had lengthened into weeks, and the weeks into months, Elinor's resolve to prove her healing prowess had grown. When Frances was finally well again, after three years of suffering, it had been impossible for anyone to say whether the cure had been effected by Elinor's baths, Dr. Benquith's medicine, or by some stray trigger accidentally pulled in Frances's system. Elinor seemed to have been humbled by her daughter's bout with the crippling disease and by her own failure to cure it easily and quickly. During the course of Frances's illness, Elinor had not fought with her mother-in-law. Now that Mary-Love was dead, a chastened Elinor Caskey stood before the family, solemnly prepared to receive the Caskey crown.