“Malcolm and I are lonesome,” said Miriam. “Aren’t we, Malcolm?”
“We sure are,” said Malcolm obediently from his forgotten corner of the long table.
“You’ve had Lilah for thirteen years, Elinor. You ought to let me have her for a little while.”
“Lilah belongs to Billy,” Oscar pointed out from the end of the table opposite his wife.
“Lilah does what she wants,” sighed Billy, bowing out. “Or what Elinor wants.”
“Lilah,” said Queenie, “what do you want?”
“I don’t know,” said Lilah thoughtfully. “I’d just be moving next door, wouldn’t I?”
No one bothered to answer that question.
“Lilah?” said her grandmother. Nothing in Elinor’s tone gave the child any clue what she wanted to hear.
“Maybe if I just stayed for a few weeks… until spring vacation or something, so Miriam and Malcolm wouldn’t be so lonely. Then I could come back.”
The Caskeys all looked at one another, each with complete knowledge. Elinor had allowed Lilah to speak, and Lilah had proclaimed her doom. Caskey children, once given up, were never returned. Lilah Bronze, in that one heedless moment, was lost to Elinor forever.
Miriam smiled, and squeezed Lilah’s hand. “Just for a few weeks,” said Miriam. “And then I’ll let you go back. Elinor won’t rent out your room, I guess.”
No more was said of the matter at the table. Lilah, who thought herself prodigiously smart, understood nothing at all. The occasion—outside of Lilah’s own happiness at the prospect of more jewels—turned not somber, but solemn. Something momentous had happened, altogether unexpectedly, and everybody—except the child who would be most affected by it—knew it. Luvadia and Melva continued to bring out plates of hot rolls and to take away empty dishes, and there was talk still of renewed oil leases and proposed trips to Houston and New York. At one point Oscar sent Sammy out to start the car so that it would be warm by the time he wanted to drive up to the golf course in Brewton, but no one thought of anything but Lilah, who had been stolen away in the twinkling of Miriam’s acquisitive eye, more quickly and more cleanly than long-armed gypsies could have done it by reaching in an unlatched window and snatching her sleeping from her cradle.
Oscar didn’t wait for coffee; he and Tommy Lee and Sammy drove off to Brewton. Lucille and Queenie went to help Luvadia and Zaddie clean up the mess in the hallway. Grace and Billy started to pack the cars with all the gifts. Elinor remained at the head of the table, with her cold coffee before her. Miriam was on her third cup. She had an arm around Lilah, weary and happy in the chair next to her.
“You didn’t fight,” said Miriam.
“Fight about what?” asked Lilah.
“Shhh!” said Miriam.
Elinor slowly shook her head.
“Why not?” asked Miriam curiously. “You could have fought. You might even have won.”
Elinor paused a long time before answering. One hand was crossed over her breast, the other fingered the black pearls about her neck. “When I gave you Mary-Love’s wedding ring…”
“Yes?” said Miriam, holding up the hand that bore the ring.
“It wasn’t enough, was it?”
“No,” said Miriam, “it wasn’t.”
“Wasn’t enough for what?” asked Lilah.
“Be quiet,” said Miriam in a slow whisper, pinching Lilah’s arm as she did so.
“But now,” said Elinor, “we’re even.”
“Yes,” returned Miriam. “I guess we are. How’s that, Mama? After thirty-nine years, I forgive you.”
Elinor said nothing, she just sipped her cold coffee.
For the first time in her entire life, Miriam had called Elinor Mama.
CHAPTER 77
The Song of the Shepherdess
Lilah moved into one of the guest bedrooms of Miriam’s house later that Christmas day, “just for a few weeks.” Only Lilah herself—of all the Caskeys and most of Perdido—was deceived into thinking that she would soon return to her grandmother and her father.
Those few weeks passed, and Lilah said to her grandmother, “Miriam and Malcolm said they cain’t do without me. May I stay for just a little while longer?”
“I’ll send your things over,” said Elinor.
Lilah’s clothes went next door, and soon there was no thought whatsoever—even in Lilah’s mind—of her returning. She belonged to Miriam and Malcolm now, and though all the Caskeys atetlinner together at Elinor’s every evening, and Lilah saw almost as much of Billy as she had before, she was quite a different child. Miriam pampered her niece, oddly, by neglecting her. Elinor had always kept a tight rein on her granddaughter, for Lilah tended to be forward and precocious, protective of her prerogatives as a Caskey and the richest little girl in the entire county; she was apt to be imperious toward the servants. Elinor had kept these tendencies in check. Miriam did not even try to do so. In her niece, Miriam saw the child she had herself been. She trusted Lilah as she trusted herself. What Lilah wanted was what Lilah needed; what Lilah did was exactly what was required by the situation in question. Lilah, in short, grew unbearable. Yet Miriam saw nothing of this, or perhaps she chose to see nothing. For all the child’s arrogance, she was still dear to Miriam, and perhaps dearer to Miriam as she became less and less pleasant to others.
Oscar saw all this, and remonstrated with his wife and son-in-law. Elinor and Billy, he said, ought to step in before the child was completely ruined. Elinor and Billy, however, would do nothing. Lilah now belonged to Miriam and Miriam was raising her as she saw fit.
“It’s none of my business anymore,” said Billy. “It might be if Lilah still lived here, but she doesn’t.”
“Oscar,” Elinor pointed out, “Miriam is treating Lilah exactly the way Mary-Love treated Miriam. Lilah will be a carbon copy of Miriam. Everybody in town sees that. It probably would have happened anyway. There’s nothing that I can do about it—and even if there were, I probably wouldn’t do it.”
If Lilah was worse off from the move, then Miriam, at all events, was better. She now had someone besides herself to take care of. Malcolm didn’t count, for Miriam had managed him for a number of years already, and anyway Malcolm didn’t require much managing. Despite Miriam’s full days at the mill, she drove Lilah to school every morning, and picked her up after school every afternoon. The two of them shopped together in Pensacola for clothes—and sometimes for jewelry. Miriam took Lilah out of school for five days in February and, dragging Malcolm along for the express purpose of carrying packages, they went to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, and then in Lilah’s words, “bought the town out.” Miriam, as if she had in truth at last forgiven Elinor for having given her away as a baby nearly forty years before, now regularly called Elinor “Mama” and Oscar “Daddy.” Miriam allowed somewhat more familiarity among the households, for it was only she, now, of all the Caskeys, who had the perfect American family—father, mother, and child. Elinor’s house, Queenie’s house, and Lucille and Grace’s farm were all perverted and incomplete reflections of that perfect image. Elinor did not fight her, and Miriam gradually came to look upon herself as the pivot of the family. It was time, in her opinion, that Elinor abdicated.
This assumption of ultimate power in the family tended to make Miriam a bit easier in her manner. A usurper must maintain a cold and unyielding demeanor; a sovereign can afford to be gracious.
About this time, there was another significant change in the Caskeys’ way of life, and that had to do with servants. For decades, each of the households had got along with one woman apiece. Because of the sterility of the sandy yards that surrounded the Caskey houses, a single gardener had sufficed for all three. Once again, Miriam was the instrument for the change. When Ivey retired after Sister’s death, her niece Melva took her place. Melva was a fine cook, but an indifferent housekeeper. And rather than let Melva go just because she didn’t know how to clean rugs properly, Malcolm simply went around to the various Sapps and
inquired if there was a girl who did. He found one readily, and hired her to do cleaning in the house. Now Miriam had two servants, and that was thought sufficient in a house of only three persons, especially when Miriam was away so much and when so many of the family’s meals were taken next door anyway.
Queenie had hired one girl to cook breakfast for Tommy Lee, but this girl went to school directly afterward, and did not return until the late afternoon. Since Tommy Lee also was away in the middle of the day, Queenie hired another girl—a Sapp, of course—who wasn’t much good at anything, but who kept her excellent company, and that was really all that Queenie needed. She didn’t like to be in the house alone even in the daytime.
Zaddie Sapp was past fifty, but still very capable of keeping Elinor’s entire house going; she had done so for thirty years, and always completely to Elinor’s satisfaction. However, Elinor now considered that Zaddie had no need to work as hard as she did, so she sent Malcolm back around to the Sapps. Malcolm returned with a girl to help with the cooking, another girl who did nothing but clean, and a boy to run errands.
After Bray’s death, Oscar had borrowed various men from the mill to act as his chauffeur, but this was an unsatisfactory arrangement. Oscar declared that he just didn’t feel right unless there was a Sapp behind the wheel. Sammy Sapp had his driver’s license, but he was still in the eleventh grade over in Babylon. Oscar convinced Sammy that he had no need of graduating from high school, which wasn’t a very good school anyway, and promised to pay him more than he would ever get working at the mill. Sammy, already very attached to Mr. Oscar, didn’t need much convincing. Oscar got Sammy a uniform, and bought a new Lincoln Continental in Sammy’s honor. Oscar, whose eyes were growing dimmer all the time because of cataracts, had Sammy drive him out to San Antonio, where he consulted an esteemed eye specialist; he was told that an operation was dangerous, and might result in permanent blindness. Of this Oscar said nothing to his family. Sammy drove Oscar all over the countryside, through a dozen states, always on the lookout for new and untried golf courses. Sammy acted as Oscar’s caddy. The young black man grew adept at description, for Oscar, slouched in the back seat of the Continental, eyes shaded against the sun, now did not even bother to look out the windows.
Out at Gavin Pond Farm, Grace and Lucille still claimed that they got along with just Luvadia and Escue, but the fact was that Luvadia had three teenage children besides Sammy, and those three were in permanent requisition. Moreover, there were field workers who came to the farm every day, and men who maintained the heavy machinery, repaired the fences, filled the oil tanks, and doctored the livestock. Workers on the oil rigs south of the farm sometimes wandered up on some excuse or other, and rarely fewer than a dozen persons sat down to the midday meal at Gavin Pond Farm.
After so many years of appearing only a little above the other inhabitants of Perdido, the Caskeys had gradually put away their conservative coarse linen, and now appeared recklessly resplendent. They bought new cars every year; they flew on airplanes in the first-class compartments. When traveling they put up at the best hotels, and shopped in the most expensive stores. Elinor sent Malcolm down to New Orleans once a month and had him bring up a trunk-load of the finest wines and liquors. Elinor entertained businessmen and politicians by the score in the course of a year, and grew so adept at hospitality that she was thought a perfect hostess, because everything was accomplished so effortlessly and with such unconscious grace. Perdido was a small pond indeed, but the Caskeys would have made a very decent showing in a body of water of substantially greater dimensions.
The town might have grown resentful if these changes had not been so unconscious on the part of the Caskeys, if the family’s sphere had not enlarged itself so naturally and without their seeming aggressively to seek this upward climb. No change was perceived in their demeanor around the town, and they treated no individual differently from before. If the Caskeys gave a party—and they now did entertain more frequently than before—then the same people were invited this year that had been invited five years before. Only now Perdido was very likely to meet one, or even both, Alabama senators, not to mention a man from Texas who owned seventeen thousand head of cattle, and a woman who called the First Lady of the United States by her Christian name.
Tommy Lee, of all the family, was least affected by all these changes. He remained shy and retiring. When looked for, Tommy Lee was always found in a corner, as far out of the way as possible. His favorite corners were the river, on which he loved to fish; the woods, in which he loved to hunt; and Queenie’s bedroom, where he sat and talked to his grandmother for many hours on end. He wasn’t looked down upon, by any means, by most of the family, for his function in keeping Queenie occupied and happy was a noble one. Queenie had kept Sister company for many, many years; now Queenie was being repaid for that loyalty through the agency of her grandson. And God knew that Tommy Lee was not good for much else.
But Lilah was embarrassed by Tommy Lee. She wished that she had almost anybody else in the entire county for a cousin. He rendered her self-image imperfect. How sophisticated could she be when such a bumbling troglodyte as Tommy Lee was her only teen-aged relative? He wasn’t really her cousin, of course, but only her great-uncle’s great-nephew by marriage. Whenever anyone at school referred to Tommy Lee as Lilah’s cousin, she attempted to explain this rather complicated relationship, but it never did any good. Next day, Tommy Lee Burgess was again Lilah Bronze’s cousin. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he weren’t already getting fat, just like the Stricklands. Queenie was fat, and Lucille was fat. Malcolm was pretty big, but Miriam kept her husband on the go so much that he didn’t have time to eat as much as he wanted. Danjo had sent a photograph of himself and his wife Fred in Germany at Christmas, and he was fat, too. Danjo and Fred had two fat little boys, one of whom was already a graf.
Lilah alternated between spates of badgering Tommy Lee unmercifully and ignoring him completely. When she ignored him completely, he might as well not have existed. She wouldn’t speak to him, even when they sat next to each other at the dinner table; her eyes wouldn’t focus on him when she turned her head in his direction. When she did take notice of him, it was only to pound him relentlessly with questions she knew he couldn’t answer: “Why don’t you go on a diet?” “If you won’t go on a diet, why don’t you try out for football?” “Why don’t you ever go out on a date?” “Why don’t you ask Queenie if you can drive me down to New Orleans so I can go shopping?”
When Lilah was in the ninth grade—a mere freshman in the high school—Tommy Lee was a graduating senior. He asked her to go with him to the senior prom, but she refused. She would certainly not attend her first school dance on the arm of her cousin! Tommy Lee ended up going alone. Malcolm was a chaperon, and so Tommy Lee sat with his uncle at the side of the room all evening long. Malcolm saw how unhappy Tommy Lee was, and he surreptitiously poured bourbon into the boy’s punch.
It was Lilah who convinced Tommy Lee to go to college. “You have got to go, Tommy Lee, and that’s all there is to it.”
Tommy Lee was surprised by Lilah’s sudden interest in his future, and secretly suspected that her real motive was to get him out of town. He saw well enough how little Miriam liked having him around, but characteristically, he only admired her for the vehemence of her passion against him. But Tommy Lee still couldn’t see the need of college for himself.
“Look, Lilah, I’m not any good at all that business.”
“All what business?”
“You know, grades and junk. Besides, Grand-mama sort of needs me around here.”
“Queenie would like to keep you tied to the foot of her bed, that’s what Queenie would like to do with you,” snapped Lilah. “And if you let her keep you around here, I will never speak to you again.”
“Grandmama’s been real good to me,” Tommy Lee pointed out.
“If you went to college,” said Lilah, “you could join a fraternity.”
Tommy Lee glanced doubt
fully at his cousin. “You sure somebody’d ask me?”
“Sure,” said Lilah decisively. “You know why? ‘Cause you’re rich. They find out about things like that. Rich people always get asked to join fraternities, ‘cause they know rich people can pay their dues and buy beer for the parties. And rich people bring their cars to school and own beach houses to give parties in and all that.”
“How would people know I’m rich?” asked Tommy Lee, who never carried more than two dollars in his pocket, even when he went to Pensacola.
“They find out. They look up people’s names. There’s a big book and it tells if people are rich or not. A friend of mine saw one in a fraternity house one time,” Lilah went on confidently. “So if you went to college, you could join a fraternity, and then you could invite me to come up to all the parties they have. There’s a party every Friday night during football season, and then the rest of the year there’s one every other Saturday.”
“Would you come?”
“Of course I would come!”
“Where should I go?”
“You mean where should you apply?” asked Lilah, considering the question. “Alabama’s got more fraternities, but Auburn is closer.”
“I don’t care,” said Tommy Lee. “Whichever one you say, Lilah.” He understood now that his going away to college would serve a double purpose for Lilah. It would get him out of town, where he was merely an embarrassment to her, and it would secure her invitations to fraternity parties. To be able, as a mere high school sophomore, to put in an appearance at one of those much whispered-about orgies of drink and delectably loose behavior, would secure Lilah instant, exalted, and unapproachable stature among her peers.
“Well, until I learn how to drive, you’re gone have to come down here and pick me up on Friday afternoon and then bring me back on Saturday. Since Auburn’s closer, you better go to Auburn. After I get my driver’s license, then maybe you should transfer to Alabama.”
Thus it was that Tommy Lee Burgess decided to apply to Auburn; his application, though late, was accepted.
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