Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All (138 page)

All I’ll say is that she acted mighty mighty cold to me. Cas was eating block starch when I arrived and she barely stopped that long enough to take the sable out the box and try it on. The new coat looked, to my mind, just excellent on her—a perfect fit, which made it cost more, getting pelts aplenty to cover her with some to spare. “You done tried,” she said, but withdrawn-like. Then she took it off and tossed it on a chair. I’m talking “tossed.” You know how she gets.

It hurt me, though I saw what had been took away from her, and I sure wanted to understand. I’d hoped she’d see, child, it won’t
me
that did it—but too maybe it was, partway. That’s what kills you.

She come to the service but wearing no coat. And in November. I’d wanted the new one
on
her. I longed to hear others praise it. But she’d know that every compliment for
this
one meant it looked piles better than her last, her first, her real one.

THE BURIAL
was quiet for somebody so famous. Embarrassment maybe. “Died of a serious fall at home,” the Falls paper said. Most all my living kids turned up in black clothes, only Ned’s red-and-white cane adding color to our row. There were flowers from the Meltons’ barbecue place and civic clubs, and Lucas-Hedgepath Enterprises someway sent a huge batch of glads with a note: “An ever-faithful customer is gone and regretted.” The local chapter of the National Rifle Association sent a football-mum bouquet, the only one I refused to have at graveside. Tacky of them, if you ask me.

Castalia refused to take the first-row seat we saved her though Lou went over and asked Cas to join us, asked in a way few humans could refuse. Cas stood back there, her arms crossed, glaring at everybody. I had imagined sitting in the crook of her great arm, and that arm suddenly all sabled.
Nothing turns out quite like you expect, does it, sug? Fact is, for all my loving the woman, I’ve never really known her all that good.

NOT ONE
tear was shed at the grave, and though I couldn’t manage myself, I do wish somebody had.—It’s slavery, being middle class!

I never did get locked up for doing it. There was a type of hearing—so called—but nobody there truly heard me. You’d think I was having fantasies while I sat telling all, telling and retelling the stubborn truth. “Fine, fine,” said Billy Preston, handsome in black robes, “accidental death. Would you like some water, Mizz Lucy?”

I considered running a confession in the
Herald Traveler
. I got as far as calling their new young Yankee editor. He said, Was this another of these sick Southern jokes and who
was
this, and hung up on me. That did it. I tried relaxing. You’ve heard of the perfect crime? Usually takes months of preparation, honey. I had onto fifty years to get it right.

WE GOT
thirty-nine casseroles before, after, and during the funeral. A household record. We also got the modern kind, called quiche—the first I’d seen. History! Ned and Lou and the twins were perfect and Baby got home after the funeral but in the company of the best-looking young man anybody’d ever seen. She had more luggage than Barnum, but
good
luggage. And she was dressed like Jackie Kennedy did later. A picture.

Then everybody cleared out and it was me alone in the humongous house. I had bad dreams at first and slept on the living-room couch, nearer the door. But slowly it got to be tolerable and finally a silent joy. Some of the old folks in here talk like a side-street house, with just
you
in it, is a curse of Satan. I got to like it. I asked Castalia over for meals. She refused three weeks straight, then finally managed the porch steps. She’d gained still more weight and, next time we had supper, I had to go call on her. I did not feel all that welcome. For one thing, she’d pulled down all her front yard’s mink cages and those beasts left alive were living right in her home with her. Running free! Sanitary it was not—but I didn’t like to say nothing. The hem of her new sable coat had fallen half on the floor and one lucky mink was hiding back of it. I bit my lip, said nothing. The coat was
hers
. I tried eating the chicken and dumplings she’d made but you could see mink droppings along the wall’s edges. Minks scurried along the sides of Cassie’s rooms. I went to fetch something for her and them little things in one cardboard box just snarled at me. Mostly she sat here eating and—in the next three months—her body spread and it was ugly to see now. Seemed the more there was of Castalia Marsden, the less there was of her. Bits of food and stuff, I noted, silent, had dropped right on the sable near her table. Her face was graying up on her, started being sunken. The last of her beauty was lost to view, but one day I snapped my fingers. I stared at this shrinking wizened head of hers set atop the body, mammoth. “You’re looking like
your Auntie Reba. I never seen her in person but from what you’ve said … you are a dead ringer.”

“That a fact? Well, I can’t see it but could do worse, seem like.”

Then I got the inspiration. Her old coat was still in our garage uphill. I didn’t care to have it in our house but couldn’t throw it out. I had asked did she want it, or want it burned, or what? She wouldn’t react none. Now I said how we should bury it, proper, in the family plot—not next to Captain surely, but there under the old magnolias where Lady More Marsden rests along with famous others. “We’ll buy it the best child’s casket and put it in there proper with some balms and some sachets and we’ll say stuff over it and I’ll hire real gravediggers to lay it down there decent.”

She looked at me. She quoted me at me and it was the first sign of real life from her for many weeks. “Shows you you thinking, Lucy. Right good sign.” Then Castalia nodded. “That’s fitting. I accept.”

At
that
funeral, we wept.

Gravediggers didn’t know what was in the bronze baby casket and maybe wondered why no preacher man was present. The fellows lit cigarettes off to one side till Cassie hollered, “No smoking, clowns. We got a funeral going on over here, ever hear of one?” They stomped them Chesterfields but quick.

We held on to each other. Just us chickens. I looked around at granite markers. Already I knew most names on most stones. “So,” I thought, “Falls.”

November, Cas and me both shivering some. Oh but here I wished she’d worn her new fur coat today. It was back yonder on a kitchen chair catching crumbs and ferret breath. It’s tacky to talk prices but I’d asked for the best from Mr. Ekstein and I’d paid fifteen thousand dollars for it. Plus state sales tax. I will say that I could not exactly afford it, looking back. I don’t know if I blame myself or Ekstein but I wrote one check for it and the check went through and most of the ragtag inherited money I had on earth went with it. And so, it was vain of me, I know—but I wanted it
worn
this day at least, you know, at the other one’s funeral? Though I see this is my limit. I had learnt my limits, darling, and I am learning still.

Anyway, we were mourning the real coat and beside me this mammoth woman (I had to drive right up to the hole cut in sod and to then put out her folding chair), Cassie cried, “My babies. I never met one mink I liked.” And I heard this fond admiring in her tone. How strange, I decided, that this most basically likable person I’d ever met should put a premium on that, on keeping folks off, preventing anybody’s nearness and pleasure in her—but then I understood that this made sense for her, for Miss Castalia Marsden, what with history and all.

H
ERE WE GO
. Up. You feel it in your breastbone and your wrists.

It’s my first time on a aeroplane ever and me this scared and you here with me. I bet you been before. I thought so, these days. Of course I’ve
seen
them before, planes. Were you watching when that astronaut teacher blew up in that rocket? Her relations were right there watching from the ground. Don’t think about it. Since Jerome’s off in England with his friend seeing theater shows finally, I figured I’d have to do this by my lonesome. You’re the only one I phoned when good news came and here you are, big as life. Here
we
are, in the air where we’ve both always belonged.

How many times have I already showed you the letter? See, Agnes Scott Nursing School in Atlanta, it’s honoring “distinguished graduates living or dead.” And our Lou won one. You reckon her prize will be a plaque or a cup? Friends at Lanes’ End laid odds I’d wind up in Miami Beach, hijacked. Think there’s a chance?

Your taking time off and helping wheel my chair on here and your liking my impulse-bought jersey suit and your settling right beside me, it’s appreciated. Oh, here comes that stewardess again. Bet you she hennas. They do stand straight. How can they tolerate those heels all day?—Why yes, miss, I believe I
would
accept a compliment martini, I thank you kindly. (What’s in one, sug? You want it? It’s free.)

You reckon the awards banquet will expect me to make a speech? Sure hope not. I can’t put two words together, I mean not in public for strangers. Not chummy like us two together, hunh? Some joy it’s been for me. Way back, you just said, “yes?” The rest is history. Tell you what: On land, we’ve
sorted through
my
mess. Now we’re up here in the air, it’s your turn. Don’t get shy on me. All I got is time.

Mustn’t look now but the one on your left is smiling at you. He is so. I saw it. Businessman. Somewhat bald in front but kindly, cute. I
like
his looks. Decent Billy Preston kind of Southern boy, God love them. Oh, here’s our new friend with my first martini. So, so this is gin, hunh? Bet it’s silent but deadly. We’re vibrating some, that normal? I did see my mended rose-pattern valise come up the conveyor belt. At least my speech notes are aboard. I did prepare a little something. Taw helped. Look at those cars, the color of Easter eggs from this height, live and learn. You know? flying already feels natural. So much does when its time finally comes. I count on that.

Bet I already told you my one about The Man Who Loved His Wife Too Good. Uh-oh, did? Fine. Well, there’s still When the Shoe Fits.—That too?

Then it’s Lucy’s turn for pumping
you
. But first, scrunch over here close to my shotgun window seat, tell me what
that
is, darling. See yon two-toned stripe written all through the woods, how trees in one line only are a different color? You figure maybe acid rain did that? These Republicans look the other way while industry just poisons us. Or maybe a deep vein of potash or something. I wouldn’t mind napping now, but first I got to find out what that is. You know me. This gin ain’t half bad. Don’t let me embarrass myself, beyond the usual. You’re kind to let me hold your hand and all. You been so doggone loyal, coming back and back, I do love the idea of Loyal.

Look, Bill’s already dozing over his personal copy of
Business
(I
told
you he was a businessman). Appears to be married. We’ll ask him about that strange color brightening land down there. He’s from Georgia and should know.

See? It’s plainer again, like one lightning zigzag but with trees inside it of a changed color. Seems to go miles across in some spots, narrows at others. The mark keeps pushing southward under our plane’s crossed-shaped shadow yonder.
Is
that us? Thought so. Green inside the stain looks newer than what flanks it. And all this feels familiar, like I knew about it onct. Let’s wake young Bill. Don’t be chicken, just nudge him with your knee, he won’t mind, I know. The Bills of this world are wonderful. He just
drank
his too fast. If he wakes up mad, I’ll take full blame. Promise.

TO ALREADY
be pointing down there, eager to ask, when Bill goes, “See the stripe?” it freezes me, his guessing. I feel upset for no real reason I can name.

“Know what that is, Mrs.? They claim it’ll fade on us in a few years.”

I venture, maybe some mineral deposit livening the color of that land? But Bill tilts across you, apologizing, his nice face rests direct beside mine and I’m comforted by feeling heat drift from him. I like knowing I’m in air, plus semi-tipsy and about to learn something else new.

“Sherman’s path,” Bill says. “Still shows from way up here, imagine.
Ma’am, see how it changes at that river crossing? Going in at one spot, then wading out with the horses and torches downstream, there? Stretches clear to Atlanta, which he burned, you’ll remember. From your history books, I mean.” Bill thinks he’s made a joke about my advanced age, child. But I’m in no pranking mood, knowing how that Struggle still shows—to God’s eyeview and birds’.

I mash my forehead on the chilly plastic porthole here (half fretting for whoever’ll have to clean this grease spot later).