BLACKWATER:The Mysterious Saga of the Caskey Family (68 page)

He wondered what he would have done if there had been no marriageable daughter in the family; by what subterfuge he would have remained in Per-dido and in the Caskey circle. As it was, there were— in theory, at any rate—three such prospects in the household: Frances, Miriam, and Lucille. Lucille was out; even his limited exposure to women had taught Billy enough to know to stay away from that type. When it came to Miriam and Frances, so unlike each other considering that they were sisters, Billy had chosen Frances. He had made this choice not because he believed that Frances would make the better wife, but because he had thought her more likely to accept an offer of marriage. His principal aim had been to join the Caskey clan; the means by which he accomplished this was a matter of secondary importance.

So Billy wooed Frances as best he knew how—in a simple, straightforward manner. He had made it clear from the beginning that he intended sooner or later to ask her to marry him; no other method ever occurred to him. And despite his less than romantic intentions, he discovered in the course of this courtship that he actually did love Frances. He couldn't point to any particular physical, emotional, or mental attributes that made him fall in love with her; it had simply happened. And he could pinpoint the very moment. It was late one afternoon in the spring of 1943. He and Frances were walking around the house looking at the buds on the azaleas, and she was talking about the three years she had spent in bed with crippling arthritis. Suddenly he saw Frances with different eyes, as if a changed sun poured down a new quality of light upon her face and form. Interrupting her casual tale, he said, "Frances, you know what?"

"What?"

"I'm in love with you, that's what."

"You are?" she laughed, blushing. "Well, you know what? I'm in love with you, and now you and me and the whole town know it."

"The whole town?"

Frances nodded. "Every morning Queenie comes over here and she says, 'Frances, when is that boy going to ask you to marry him?'" She stopped, and laughed again. "Oh, Lord! I guess I shouldn't say that, should I? 'Cause it sounds like I'm sort of asking you to ask me."

They were in back of the house now, strolling among the slender trunks of the water oaks. They sat down on the plank seat between two of the trees.

"You want me to ask you?" Billy said.

"Well, of course I do," said Frances. "But not if you don't want to. I mean"—she stopped, and tried to look serious and upset—"I really shouldn't say this. Sister would kill me. Mama would probably kill me, too. I mean, if you don't want to marry me, then I'm embarrassing you, right? You'll feel sort of obligated to ask, and there won't be any way for you to get out of it. And anyway, the girl's never supposed to mention it before the boy does. But the trouble is, I'm always thinking about it, and I'm always sort of assuming it's going to happen, but I guess I shouldn't, should I? I mean, if you want to turn around and drive right back to Eglin and pretend I never said—"

"Frances, are you gone marry me or not?"

"Of course I am!" she giggled. She looked around the yard and was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "Is that it? Does that take care of everything?" Coyness, it was evident, was not to be found in Frances's repertoire of behavior.

"For the time being."

"What else is there?" asked Frances.

"Well, for one thing, we have to decide when we're going to tell your family."

"My family already knows. I told you, they keep wanting to know if you've asked me yet."

"Then we have to decide when."

"When what?"

"When we get married. I imagine your mama will want to do a little something in the way of a wedding. You're graduating from Sacred Heart in May, and we ought to wait for that. It might even be best to wait till after the war. I could be transferred out of Eglin any day."

"I don't care," said Frances. "One way or the other. I'm just glad it's all settled so I don't have to think about it anymore, and everybody will shut up about it."

"And the most important thing..."

"What?"

"What we're going to do after we are married."

Frances looked at him blankly.

"I mean," said Billy, "where we're going to live and all that."

"Oh," said Frances, as if she had not considered this before. "I don't think Mama's gone want me to move out. I think she's just gone want you to move in. Mama and Daddy would want everything to be the same except that you and I would be sleeping in the same room." A thought suddenly occured to her. She looked at Billy earnestly, and spoke with a tremor in her voice, "Billy, promise me one thing."

"What?"

"After we're married, you sleep in my room. Promise me you won't make me sleep in the front room."

He smiled. "Do you have nightmares in that room, too?"

She nodded. Then her expression changed and she said, "But wait, where do you want to live after we're married? I guess, if you made me, I'd go away with you."

"No, I'm not gone make you do anything you don't want to do. Besides, I want to live here. I want to move in with your mama and daddy. You know," he said, leaning over and kissing her, "that the only reason I'm marrying you is so that I can become a Caskey, too."

"I know that. I'm just lucky you didn't choose Miriam..."

They sat on the bench and stared at the levee. Suddenly, after so many weeks together in which neither had had the least difficulty with speech, both were tongue-tied.

"Let's go up there," said Frances suddenly, pointing.

"Up on the levee?"

"Yes. Haven't you ever been up at the top?"

Billy shook his head. "I didn't know you could get up there."

"Over behind James's house there are steps. The kudzu's pretty much covered them, but they're still there." She took his hand and led him across the yards to the base of the steps. They were hidden, but she had no difficulty in finding them. "Be careful," she said, "Daddy always said there're snakes living in this kudzu, even though I've never seen any."

Wading up through the kudzu as they might have maneuvered an unfamiliar staircase in the dark, they climbed to the top of the levee. In the twenty years since these clay banks had been built, the sides had been completely grown over with the rampaging vine; it had choked out everything else. But at the level top of the levee were oak and pine saplings that had taken root. Wild verbena also grew here, as well as Indian paintbrush, pale petunias, and degenerate phlox, all wind-seeded from some Perdido garden. In two decades the levee had grown almost invisible to the inhabitants of the town, even to those who lived within its very shadow. Children, to whom it was no novelty, felt no desire to play on it, and were no longer warned against its dangers. The rivers that flowed behind the levees had become even less familiar to those who lived in the town. Who ever thought of the Perdido and the Blackwater? One saw them only when crossing the bridge below the Os-ceola Hotel, and the new concrete sides to that bridge cut off most of that view.

At the top, Billy Bronze was surprised by the aspect of the river on the other side. "It looks so wild!" he exclaimed. The Perdido was swift, the water swirling, muddy, red. Its movement was urgent, insistent, inexorable. "It looks dangerous. No wonder they put these levees up."

Frances chuckled. "I love this river! Let's walk down toward the junction." She took his hand and led him on. To their right were the houses that had once belonged to the DeBordenaves and the Turks. One was shut up with the windows boarded over, and the other had been taken over by the undertaker. "You know," said Frances, "Mama loves the river even more than I do. From about March till November, she swims in it every day."

"In that!?"

Frances nodded. "She's done it for as long as I can remember. Mama's about the best swimmer I ever met. I'm pretty good myself. Sometimes," Frances added with pride, "I go swimming with her."

"But it's so swift! How can you swim in it?"

Frances shrugged. "I don't know, I just do. When I was so sick," she said, with an effort to remember, "Mama bathed me every day in Perdido water and that's what finally made me well."

"How could that cure you?"

"I don't know. Mama says I was baptized in Perdido water and that's why it cured me. Maybe that was it."

They had reached the junction. Behind them was the town hall. The bus from the Pensacola shipyards was just then letting out the women workers in the parking lot; some of their husbands waited in automobiles. In front of the newly affianced couple the swift red water of the Perdido and the black water of the smaller Blackwater spiraled together and sank in a swirling vortex down toward the muddy bottom.

"When you go swimming, aren't you afraid of that?" Billy asked, pointing down.

Frances didn't answer. She stared at the whirlpool, again as if trying to remember something.

"What if you got sucked down in it? You'd be drowned for sure."

"No..." said Frances absently. "Not really."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm trying to remember..."

"Remember what?"

"I have been down there," she said at last, and looked at her fiance with a puzzled expression. "I think I remember going down in it."

Billy looked at it again. "You'd remember that," he said.

Frances shook her head. "No... it's just vague."

"Then tell me what's down there?" Billy asked, as if it were all a tease.

"Mama..."

"What?"

"Mama's down there."

"Frances, are you all right, you look so..."

Frances shook herself, and closed her eyes tightly. She opened them and said, "Billy, I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

"Nothing. Let's go back, all right?"

They retraced their steps along the levee, and spoke no more of Frances's memory of the vortex at the junction of the rivers. They walked carefully down the steps through the kudzu. At the bottom, Billy said, "Oh, Frances, you never really went down that whirlpool. You couldn't have, you'd have been drowned for sure."

Frances wasted no time in telling her family of her engagement. Elinor kissed her daughter and then kissed Billy Bronze, and said, "Billy, I hope there's not going to be any nonsense about the two of you going away anywhere once you're married. I hope that you and Frances are going to want to stay on here just like you always have. What would Oscar and I do without our little girl? What would we do without you for that matter?"

"Elinor," said her husband, "you know who you sound like? You sound just like Mama when you and I wanted to get married. She didn't want us to go off—and you know what kind of trouble that caused."

"Oscar, I am nothing in the world like Mary-Love, and I don't appreciate your saying I am."

"Miz Caskey," said Billy, "Frances and I aren't going anywhere. One big reason I'm marrying her in the first place is so that I can stay on here with you and Oscar."

Elinor nodded her approval of this sentiment, and Oscar looked pleased.

They sat on the upstairs porch until suppertime, talking over plans for the couple's future. One by one the other Caskeys wandered over and received the news with only slightly varying degrees of enthusiasm.

Sister's congratulations were effusive for her niece, though strangely commingled with some dismal predictions for the marriage itself. "Are you sure you know what you're getting into? I'll bet you don't. I'll bet you discover on the inside of six months that it was all a big mistake." Everyone—including Frances and Billy—understood that Sister was talking about her own marriage more than anything else, and so accepted the comments in good part.

"What about your daddy?" asked Queenie Strickland, who always found the one question no one else had thought of.

"Why, yes," said Elinor, "you think he'll come down for the wedding?"

Billy shook his head doubtfully. "No, ma'am, I don't believe he will."

"You don't think he'd approve of your marrying our little gitchee-gumee?" asked Oscar gleefully.

"Daddy, I wish you wouldn't call me that. I'm twenty-one years old. I'm not a baby, and you don't read me poems out of books anymore."

"My father," said Billy, "is pretty much bound to object to anything I do."

"That's too bad," said Sister sympathetically, recalling the similar aspects of her childhood.

"Is that going to stop you?" asked Elinor. "He could disinherit you."

"He could, but I don't think he'd do that. Even if he did, it wouldn't stop me."

Frances looked around the porch with pride, as if to say, Look what this man would do for me...

"You want me to call him up and speak to him?" asked Elinor. "I don't mind explaining things to him."

Billy shook his head. "Better let me do that. He's not going to like it—and there's no reason for you to have to listen to what he's going to say."

"I don't know why some people don't just up and die," said Queenie pointedly. "It would sure make some other people real happy."

"Queenie," said James, "you are talking about Billy's daddy!"

"That's all right, Mr. James," said Billy. "Mrs. Strickland's not saying any worse then I've said once or twice in my life."

"How children survive their parents," sighed Sister, "is a thing I will never understand."

Miriam, who through all this had sat on the glider reading the afternoon Mobile paper in the fading sunlight, folded the paper, dropped it on the floor, and said, "When is the wedding? If I'm supposed to be in it, then somebody tell me now so that I can get Sister to start thinking about getting me a dress and shoes and whatever else it takes."

"Miriam," cried Sister, "you're not supposed to ask somebody if you're going to be in their wedding, they're supposed to ask you!"

"Miriam, would you be my maid of honor?" asked Frances timidly, glancing at her mother for approval.

Elinor nodded.

"If you want me to," said Miriam. "If you don't want me to, Frances, then say so and ask somebody else. It's not going to hurt my feelings."

"No," said Frances. "I want you. You're my sister."

"All right, then," said Miriam. "It's settled. Sister, are you gone see about getting me a dress or something to wear?"