BLACKWATER:The Mysterious Saga of the Caskey Family (98 page)

After the dinner was served, the mill workers took off their jackets, and quickly cleared away all the tables and chairs. The orchestra meanwhile tuned its instruments and began to play. Sammy Sapp and an army of black girls and boys raked the sand once again in preparation for the dancing. That was at nine o'clock, and Miriam declared that the music would play until the last couple dropped on their feet.

Miriam and Malcolm had the first dance, and were applauded and cheered for their expertise. Elinor and Queenie exchanged proud but slightly puzzled glances—neither of them had imagined that those two would have performed so creditably.

Oscar cut in, and danced off with Miriam. Malcolm bowed to Elinor, and brought her out onto the sand. Shortly thereafter, the dancing was general, and more than a thousand people waltzed in the sand among the water oaks.

Those who had lived in Perdido a long time marveled not at the splendor of the proceedings, for the Caskeys were very rich indeed, and could well afford this and much more besides, but rather that there was any party at all. No one could remember when any Caskey had been married off with any celebration whatsoever. Caskey weddings had always been simple if somewhat hugger-mugger affairs, and that Miriam of all people should have wanted—or even allowed—such an outlay as this was as astonishing a thing as Perdido was likely to see in a long while.

Because Miriam's house had been set aside for the ladies, there was throughout the evening a constant traipsing in and out the front door, in and out the back door, up and down the stairs, into and out of Miriam's room, the two guest rooms, and the two bathrooms. Before the party really got under way, Queenie had gone up and sat with Sister for a few minutes, thinking that she was paler and less responsive than ever. Queenie had also installed Lu-vadia's ten-year-old daughter, Versie, as a sort of guard for Sister, giving the child strict instructions to keep the door closed against all visitors. But Versie was a little country colored girl and no match for the ladies of Perdido, who knew Sister's room to be at the end of the hall. The ladies of Perdido were not slow in taking advantage of this unprecedented opportunity of peeking in and speaking to Sister Has-kew, who hadn't been seen on the streets of Perdido in over ten years. They came singly at first, brushing aside Versie and sitting at the side of the bed for a few moments, speaking volubly to Sister, lamenting her ill health, and finally growing constrained when it became apparent that Sister was not going to respond in any way. Soon it seemed impossible to shut the door, and the ladies of Perdido swarmed into the room and surrounded Sister's bed. That room, visited so rarely in the past decade, became a welter of silks and wools, powders, and perfumes, gabble and laughter. Sister lay immobile, propped up against her wall of goose-down pillows, her hands upturned and curled on the neatly turned coverlet.

Versie grew so demoralized by her inability to keep out these women that at last she gave up the fight altogether, and sneaked away, down the stairs, out the back door, and into the tent reserved for the colored people. She hid in a shadowed corner, drank punch, and ate chicken until she couldn't eat or drink any more. She wasn't discovered until an hour later, by Oscar, whose dimming eyesight caused him to trip over her on his way to the bathroom in Queenie's house.

"Who is that?" he asked.

"It's Versie, Mr. Oscar," the child replied, frightened.

"Is that Luvadia's Versie?"

"Yes, sir."

"What are you doing here? Queenie told me she had put you upstairs with Sister."

"She did, Mr. Oscar," Versie replied, terrified at being discovered in the neglect of her duty, "but they was so many ladies in there, they "bout drove me out!"

"What!" exclaimed Oscar. "You mean to say you let people get into that room?"

"I couldn't keep 'em out!"

"Versie, you go find Queenie and you get her up there and you get those women out of there, you hear me? Right now!"

Oscar went on to the bathroom, but when he was finished he went next door to Miriam's and went inside. The ladies screamed and laughed at a man in their midst, but Oscar paid no attention to them. He marched up the stairs and down the hall to Sister's room. Versie evidently hadn't found Queenie yet—or perhaps Versie was so afraid of Queenie's finding out what she had done that she had not sought her at all—for the room was still crowded with women. They sat in the chairs, they leaned against the furniture, they perched on the windowsill and the edge of the bed. There in their midst lay Sister, silent and unmoving.

"Out!" cried Oscar loudly. "Everybody out!"

There was an excited protest, for Oscar's tone was rude and peremptory. Yet Oscar said nothing else. He simply took hold of the arm of the woman nearest him—the wife of one of the new doctors in town— and shoved her none too gently out the door,

"Well!" she cried, and turned around to object, but by then Oscar had grabbed a second woman, the mill accountant's wife, and shoved both women out into the hallway.

Now Oscar had his hands on a third; he kept repeating over and over again, "Out! Out! All of you out!" Seeing that he meant business, there was a general retreat to the door, and in only a few seconds more, the room was cleared. Oscar slammed the door shut, whipped the curtains closed, and he and his sister were alone. Oscar pulled a chair up close to the bed.

"Sister," he said in a low voice, "have you got your eyes open? It's so dark in here, I cain't hardly see."

Sister didn't move that Oscar could tell.

"I got 'em all out. Queenie had no business leaving Luvadia's Versie up here. That child is too small to bar a door. But don't you worry, 'cause I'm gone sit up here with you. And there's not one of them that's gone get past that door, not while I'm in here."

So, waiting for Queenie, Oscar sat back in the chair, and told Sister about the reception—how many people were there, and who had said what, and how pretty Miriam was, and how handsome Malcolm looked. He could hear the orchestra playing from its stage at the edge of the woods, and when he knew the words of the songs, he'd sing along for a while and smile at Sister and straighten her covers. After a while, though, he grew serious, and said, "I'm gone say something you don't want to hear, Sister, but it's got to be said. And that's that you have treated Miriam badly about this whole business. Miriam didn't deserve to be treated badly, she has always been good to you. Miriam is sharp, but I don't believe that there was ever a human being on the face of this earth . more faithful than Miriam. She would do anything for you, and you have treated her badly. You have been acting the way Mama would have acted. There's no other way to put it. You are getting to be just like Mama, and it Jias just about killed me to watch it happen. But here you are, and it's not too late to change, 'cause when Miriam and Malcolm come back from New Orleans, they're gone be right down there at the other end of the hall, and you're gone have twenty opportunities a day to be nice to them. And you could do it, if you put your mind to it. I cain't speak for Miriam, whether she really loves Malcolm or not, and I cain't speak for Malcolm, whether he loves Miriam or not. But it looks that way, despite what any of us ever thought about either of them. And they deserve every chance in the world of being happy. I have never said this, Sister, I have never even said this to Elinor, but it hurt me, and it hurt me bad, when you and Mama took Miriam away from Elinor and me. I watched her grow up over here knowing that she was mine, knowing that she had been taken away from me and that she would never ever belong to me again. That hurt me bad, and even Frances couldn't make up for it. Billy doesn't make up for it, Lilah doesn't make up for it. When you took Miriam away from me, that was a loss that I have never gotten over, not to this very day, Sister. So you have an obligation—an obligation to me—to see to it that my little girl, my little girl who was taken away from me so many, many years ago, is happy. Sister," he said softly, "Sister, are you gone do it?"

He reached forward and grasped Sister's hands atop the coverlet, but they were already cold and stiff.

CHAPTER 75
Queenie Alone

Versie at last found Queenie in the crush of the reception and told her that Mr. Oscar wanted her upstairs in Sister's room. Queenie didn't pause even to try to figure out why the black girl was trembling so, but hurried into Miriam's house and up the stairs, past women who complained to her of Oscar's rudeness to them. Queenie tried the door of the room but discovered it locked. She pounded on the door.

"Oscar!" she called. "Is that you in there with Sister?"

In a moment, she heard Oscar's low voice on the other side. "Go away, Queenie," he said. "Sister and I are talking."

"Are you all right?"

"We're fine," returned Oscar. He unlocked the door, and opened it a crack. Queenie thrust her head inside and peered beyond Oscar to the bed. There lay sister, still and silent.

"Well," whispered Queenie, "I am glad you are up here to keep her company. I know all this noise must be driving her right out of her head."

"Queenie, listen to me. I'm gone stay up here and talk to Sister, but you got to do a couple of things for me." There was an urgent tone in Oscar's voice that puzzled Queenie, but she only nodded acquiescence and asked no questions. "See if you can get hold of Ivey or Zaddie or Luvadia and get one of them up here. Then tell Elinor to come up. But most important, tell Malcolm that he and Miriam are not to take off for New Orleans till they've seen me. And they are not to go till the last damn guest has gone home."

Oscar started to shut the door, but Queenie jammed her foot into the crack and pushed the door back a bit. She peered around the door again at Sister on the bed, shifted her gaze back at Oscar, and then said, "All right, Oscar."

Zaddie and Ivey arrived at Sister's room and were ensconced on chairs on either side of Sister's door for the rest of that evening; none of the ladies of Perdido got near enough even to knock. Elinor arrived, went into the room, and came out again a few minutes later. After that, Grace and Lucille did the same. Billy Bronze entered the room and remained with Oscar. A rumor began circulating around the party that Sister Haskew was fuming and uncontrollable, and that the Caskeys were desperately attempting to dissuade her from calling in a lawyer and disinheriting Miriam. People glanced sidewise at Miriam and wondered that she herself didn't go upstairs and try to pacify her aunt with outpourings of undimin-ished affection.

The reception began to wind down; by half past one the last few guests had wandered off to try to find their automobiles. The orchestra and the caterers packed up and headed back to Mobile and Pen-sacola, and the striped canvas tents drooped in the late night air. The old pungent smell of the Perdido returned and washed over the Caskey landscape, and the detritus of the party—the grandest celebration that Perdido had ever seen—seemed sad and bleak.

Miriam and Malcolm were led upstairs by Queenie, through the wreckage wrought by the ladies of Perdido; past Lucille and Grace and Tommy Lee, sitting next to one another on the edge of Miriam's bed and staring morosely out into the hallway; past Billy Bronze with his arm around Lilah, standing in the door of the guest room. As they went by, Billy grabbed Malcolm's hand and pulled him aside. Queenie and Miriam went on alone. They passed between Ivey and Zaddie—a black Gog and Magog—and into Sister's room. Oscar and Elinor sat on opposite sides of the bed, and Sister, propped against her palisade of pillows and with her hands curled and upturned on the neatly turned-down coverlet, lay cold and starkly dead.

Miriam and Billy didn't go on their honeymoon to New Orleans. It was announced the next day that Sister Haskew had died late in the night. Perdido was told that the anticipation of Miriam's wedding, and the splendid reception, had served to keep Sister alive for no one knew how many months. Sister had died a happy woman, with all her family at her side. She was buried on the twenty-ninth of December in the Caskey plot in the Perdido cemetery between James and Mary-Love.

Arriving home from the funeral, even before she had removed her veiled hat, Miriam marched down the hallway. Without even glancing inside, she pulled shut the door of Sister's room. Taking a key from her pocket she locked the door. Then she dropped the key to the floor, and kicked it through the crack under the door.

On the second of January, 1959, Miriam went to New Orleans. It was a business trip, but so that it would not appear that she and Malcolm were actually honeymooning so soon after Sister's death, Malcolm remained in Perdido. Billy went with her instead.

Ivey Sapp retired from service. She had stayed on, she said, only because Sister couldn't do without her. But her feet hurt her, and she forgot things. Besides, she was lonesome without Bray, and all she wanted to do was to sit at home and listen to the radio. Ivey had no money at all, but she was so confident that the Caskeys would provide for her, that she did not even bother to mention her needs when she spoke to Miriam. And she was right, for Miriam dropped by her humble home in Baptist Bottom the following week, ostensibly to fetch a recipe for fried corn for Melva, but actually to slip a substantial check under the corner of the tablecloth.

Miriam and Malcolm, tended by Melva, stayed on in the house, which was now considerably diminished in spirit by the departure of Sister and Ivey, who together had inhabited the place for more than a century. Miriam gave Malcolm the room directly across the hall from hers, also at the front of the house; but this was only where Malcolm kept his clothes and a few personal things. He slept with Miriam. After a week, Miriam declared that she didn't know why she hadn't got married before; sleeping with a man certainly was a great deal more fun than sleeping alone. "I don't know what it's gone be like in the summer, though. I guess we're gone have to get an air conditioner in here."

When Sister's will was probated late in the spring of 1959, it was found that with the exception of a substantial bequest to Ivey Sapp, all of Sister's property, holdings, stocks, and cash, went to Miriam. Miriam and Malcolm were now richer than ever. That appeared to make not one whit of difference to Miriam, and Malcolm had no conception of money beyond what Miriam had made plain to him: "Malcolm, you and I have got more than we would be able to spend in a thousand years."