“The swamp’s on fire!” Bo yelled again. He glanced around wildly and ran back up the aisle.

  By this time, people were heading for the doors. Jasper, the bride, who hadn’t quite reached the stage when Bo arrived, dropped his bouquet of baby’s breath into someone’s lap, yelled, “You-all come on!”, and charged up the aisle in Bo’s wake. This galvanized the rest of the wedding party, which, grabbing off wigs and pulling up skirts to expose hairy legs and feet shoved into high heels, stumbled after him.

  The casualties, totted up later, were not serious: several broken shoe heels, a bottle of bourbon smashed when it fell out of a flower arrangement, a sprained wrist, and a broken collarbone resulting from a fall off the stage. The stage was clear inside of ten minutes and the auditorium was half-empty. Somebody had the presence of mind to pull the curtain, and Cora Baker struck up the recessional.

  Lily had no trouble figuring out what had happened. Bo had discovered the fire at the family’s still, and—failing to rouse the volunteer fire department, or knowing in the first place nobody would be there—had come to the place where he could summon the most manpower the quickest.

  “Guess the Calhouns’ still blew up,” she said to Aubrey. From outside came the sound of tires screeching. A few remaining members of the wedding party milled about. The “country cousin” removed flaxen braids and scrubbed morosely at blacked-out front teeth, and one of the bridesmaids mopped his face with a lace hankie.

  “My Law,” said the woman sitting next to Lily. “It sure does look like to me they better do a minstrel show next time.”

  Lily stood up and beckoned to Aubrey. “We might as well go on home,” she said. “I reckon that does it for another Womanless Wedding.”

  A Proposal

  “What time is it?” asked Bo Calhoun.

  He was standing in the tiny cabin of Diana Landis’s boat in his undershorts. He was a powerfully built man with auburn hair, freckles across his nose and shoulders, and a bony face.

  It was two days after the Calhoun family moonshine operation had been destroyed by a fire that, the Calhouns agreed among themselves, had been started by dynamite. They had had enough stills dynamited by the law to know the signs. This time, though, it hadn’t been the law.

  “You hear me?” Bo said.

  The cabin had a bunk on one wall, a counter with fishing equipment strewn over it on the other. Diana Landis lay naked on the bunk, her elbow crooked over her eyes. “Oh my God,” she said.

  “Don’t start up,” said Bo. “I asked you a question.” Diana removed her elbow and turned her head toward him. “You want to know what time it is? I’ll tell you what time it is,” she said. “It’s time you did something about this situation, that’s what time it is.”

  “Didn’t I ask you not to start up?”

  “You don’t understand.” Diana sat up, huddled in a corner of the bunk. “I love you, Bo.”

  Bo didn’t move.

  “Things are different now. It’s a lot more important now,” she said. “There may be reasons why I have to get out of town.” Her voice shook on the last words, and she put her hand over her mouth.

  “What are you talking about?” Bo walked to the bunk and sat down.

  Diana slid near him. “I can’t tell you,” she said. “I just have to be with you. You told me how mean Sue Nell is, and how I make you happy. Now I need you, really bad.”

  Bo picked up cigarettes and matches from the floor beside the bunk and lit up, squinting against the smoke. “Have you done something?”

  She pounded the bunk with her fist. “What if I have? Why should you be with that ugly red-headed bitch and not with me?”

  His upraised hand moved swiftly toward her face, but in the end he simply grasped her chin and shoved it to one side. “Watch out,” he said.

  Diana’s eyes were red. “Please tell her, Bo.”

  “Tell me what you did.”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. Nothing. I just want to be with you so much.” She bent her head.

  Bo looked at her. His face changed. He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close. Minutes passed before he said, “I can’t do it, Miss Di.”

  She shuddered but said nothing. At last she said, “Not today. But soon.”

  He didn’t respond. Burying his hand in her hair, he said, “Did you write me another poem?”

  She nodded.

  “Read it to me while I get my clothes on?”

  While he put on khaki pants and buttoned his shirt, she read from a school composition book:

  The hot rain pounds the sandy shore,

  The gulls shriek in the sky.

  The smothering air can harm me less

  Than knowing I have to lie.

  “That’s real nice ” Bo began soothingly, but Diana cut him off:

  I have to share what can’t be shared

  Forget what ought to be.

  The gulls may scream for grief or loss—

  her voice choked—

  I think they scream for me.

  Diana sat swallowing and blinking, her eyes fixed on the book.

  “Now, that’s mighty pretty,” said Bo. “How you can make those rhymes I just don’t know.” He raised her face to his and kissed her. “I got to go.”

  Diana listened to his footsteps fade out along the dock. She sat on the bunk a long time before starting to get dressed.

  Labor Day

  By Labor Day, St. Elmo had almost stopped talking about Bo Calhoun’s interruption of the Womanless Wedding and the destruction of the Calhoun family still. The elections were taking a lot of attention. Snapper and Gospel Roy sniped at each other daily, and on the national scene St. Elmo was wondering whether to vote for Eisenhower or Stevenson.

  “I feel bound to warn you that you will have trouble getting votes down in this part of the country,” Lily Trulock wrote to Adlai Stevenson. “But it is still my belief that once a Democrat always a Democrat.” She enclosed two dollars in the envelope. Other St. Elmo citizens, however, planned a motorcade up to Birmingham to hear Ike speak on September third.

  When anyone did mention the Calhouns’ still, it was to wonder where they’d build it next time. The Calhouns had been making whiskey in the swamp for as long as anyone could remember. Each of the four Calhoun boys drove a late-model Oldsmobile, and before the tragedy they had been going to Georgia with a load once a week. Anyone who knew could spot them on the highway. Bo would be driving lead, Sonny with the load—a trunk and specially constructed back seat full of five-gallon demijohns (the Calhouns called them “jimmy johns”)—Lester on the tail, and Purvis on shotgun, to decoy the law. Purvis’s job was to drive erratically and fast, so that if the highway patrol was around they’d find him more interesting than his brothers, who observed the speed limit strictly. The system worked well, with only an occasional speeding ticket for Purvis.

  Although the law, including County Sheriff Woody Malone, had been out to fight the fire, and it was obvious that the barrels and cookers going up in flames were a setup for moonshine, nobody had felt it worthwhile to prosecute the Calhoun brothers. In the first place, the Calhouns were generous contributors to Sheriff Malone’s reelection campaigns, and also, if a deer happened to wander across their property and one of them shot it, the sheriff always got a quarter of it for his freezer.

  It was over a Labor Day dinner of barbecued venison that the sheriff confided to his wife’s parents, Lily and Aubrey Trulock, that Bo Calhoun suspected the still had been sabotaged. “It could of just exploded, of course,” he said, helping himself to more yams. “Bo was on his way there, but he said he heard it go boom, boom, boom, just like that and up she went. It was like dynamite was set at three different places. Stop that bubbling, Junior, or I’ll take a strap to you.”

  Junior Malone, eight years old, glanced at his father and momentarily stopped blowing into his tea with his drinking straw.

  “What do you plan to do about it?” asked Lily.

  Woody smirked. “There isn’t much I can do to somebody for destroying an illegal still, Mother Trulock. It’s what I would’ve done myself, if I’d found it first.”

  Lily hated to be called “Mother Trulock,” and she suspected Woody knew it. “I suppose the Calhouns are mad.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I reckon they are. Bo says if he catches who did it—”

  “Can’t we talk about something more suitable for a family dinner?” put in Wanda, the Trulocks’ daughter. “More venison, Daddy?”

  Lily ignored her. “He’ll what?”

  “Fill his rear full of buckshot, at the very least. Probably worse. Wanda, that was mighty fine. I’m full as a tick.”

  Lily cleared away the dishes while Wanda sliced lemon meringue pie. “Who would want to blow up the Calhouns’ still?” Lily asked Woody, who was picking his teeth with the corner of a cardboard matchbook.

  “I sure don’t know, Mother Trulock,” he said, his voice muffled. He removed the matchbook and continued, “I think maybe Bo was just upset. He flies off the handle easy.”

  Lily had just sold Bo Calhoun a new cast net. She had also persuaded him to buy a mold for making lead weights for the net. The mold was uneven, but he had taken it for only fifty cents off. Therefore, she was inclined to be sympathetic. “It’s a bad thing to have your livelihood taken away,” she said. “Not that I hold with drinking any kind of liquor.”

  “I should hope not,” came Wanda’s voice from the kitchen.

  “Did you ever taste moonshine, Aubrey?” asked Lily.

  Aubrey looked at the tablecloth. “Naw,” he said.

  “It ain’t that special,” said Woody. “But I tell you, since the liquor taxes went up last year they are purely selling a bunch of it. With that ten-fifty tax on a gallon of legal whiskey, the government thought they were going to get a whole mess of money. Instead, they just put the moonshiners in high cotton. The government is making less off liquor now that it did before taxes went up, because everybody’s buying moonshine instead.” He belched. “It don’t make my job any easier,” he added as a pious afterthought.

  “The government is working as well as it usually does,” said Lily. “Who do you like for president?”

  “Ike,” said Woody promptly.

  “No need to make up your mind right yet,” said Lily. “There’s still plenty of time till Election Day.

  “Pie and politics don’t mix,” said Wanda. “Sit up straight, Junior. It’s time for dessert.”

  On the Island

  On the evening of Labor Day, Joshua Burns was crossing the bay from the mainland to St. Elmo Island. He sat in the back of the open boat, his hand on the tiller of the outboard motor, while a sluggish breeze ballooned his sweat-stained shirt and lifted the dark hair from his forehead.

  Josh knew he could be picked out from shore, silhouetted in the reflection the setting sun cast on the water, but he felt reasonably sure nobody was interested. The grocery store at the landing was closed, and that was the only inhabited location for a couple of miles down the coast except for the summer cottages, which either were closed for the winter or housed outsiders who wouldn’t wonder.

  As the boat drew closer to the island, he could see the ruined hotel, the Elmo House, outlined against the dunes. He veered away from it. The north end of St. Elmo was not his destination. Not much of the island, he had gathered in his short acquaintance with it, had ever been inhabited. The few miles of white sand beach at the north end had drawn visitors, and it was near the beach that St. Elmo’s inhabitants still lived, in a cluster of concrete-block bungalows. Most of the island was untouched, with its thick pine woods and tangled undergrowth, its perimeters lined with sawgrass to the water’s edge.

  Josh guided his boat toward this less hospitable part of St. Elmo. Now, he easily recognized the features of the island’s coastline that were his signposts. Opening the throttle wide, he swung around the southern tip of the island. Seeing the wide-open Gulf gave him the lightheaded feeling he always got at that moment.

  His eyes swept the darkening shore, searching for the ragged, outsize clump of yucca that marked the entrance to the channel. The channel had been one of his tests. “Reckon you can maneuver a boat through there without knocking the bottom off it?” Murphy had asked.

  Josh had looked and said, “I reckon so,” and had taken the vibrating tiller when Murphy wordlessly handed it over. The temptation had been to show off, but that wasn’t Josh’s style. He carefully took the boat through the almost unnoticeable break in the vegetation and up the narrow channel under the pine boughs.

  Now that Josh thought of it, the episode hadn’t really been a test. By the time he and Murphy had gotten that far, they both knew he was going to go to work. The tricky part had been earlier, when he was pumping gas at the fuel station on the canal where Murphy came to gas up his cabin cruiser.

  “I ain’t seen you here before,” Murphy had said, drinking an R.C. while Josh hooked up the hose.

  “No sir,” Josh had said.

  “You from this part of the world?”

  Josh shook his head. “Close to Columbus.”

  “Georgia boy, eh? What you doing down here?”

  “Looking for something to make me some money—a job, I guess,”

  Murphy finished his drink and put it in the weathered wooden crate leaning against the boathouse. “You know anything about boats?”

  “Some. Pretty good bit.”

  That was all the conversation the first time. But Murphy had returned, and each visit Josh had been conscious of the man’s watching him with his small eyes, slapping the side of the gut his shirt would barely button over. His conversations with Josh always got around to two matters: the fact that Josh didn’t know many people in St. Elmo, and Josh’s need for money.

  “Got a girl, have you?” Murphy asked once, his lips sinking deeper in the flesh of his cheeks.

  “Sort of.”

  “Lives up there in Columbus?”

  “Yessir.”

  “What’s the matter with her, let a fine young man like you run off down here?”

  “Her mama don’t like poor boys.”

  “Ain’t that the way,” said Murphy, sounding satisfied.

  It was on Murphy’s next visit that he told Josh he might have a job for him. “I don’t know what you’re making, jockeying these here pumps, but I imagine I can do better. Are you interested?”

  “Sure I am,” said Josh.

  They arranged to meet that evening at Sal’s Roadhouse, and while Johnnie Ray sobbed “The Little White Cloud That Cried” on the jukebox, Murphy quizzed him. Why wasn’t he fighting in Korea? Why did he come to St. Elmo to look for work? What kind of jobs had he done before?

  Josh answered stolidly. He’d tried to sign up but had a heart murmur. He’d come to St. Elmo because he’d gotten a ride this far. He grew up on a farm, and had done a lot of jobs, but was best at mechanical things—working on boats, cars, and such.

  Murphy ran a thick forefinger down the side of his beer bottle and said, “What’s your feeling about corn liquor, son?”

  Josh shrugged, “One time when I was fifteen, my brother and I drank up some my daddy had, and he gave us a whipping for it.”

  Murphy grunted. “Making it’s against the law, you know.”

  “So is fishing without a license, but that ain’t stopped me from pulling in many a bream without paying no two dollars.”

  Murphy nodded, and the next day Josh quit his job and went to work for Murphy.

  The grass was still burnished by the setting sun, but once into the woods it was dimmer. He put-putted around the turns, waving once to a blond man wearing overalls who was leaning against a tree, a shotgun cradled in his arms. As Josh rounded a bend, he noticed a sourish smell that mingled with the scent of the water and the pines.

  A dock made of raw, unweathered lumber jutted into the water, hung with old tires to keep tied-up boats from scraping against it. Josh drifted in, picked up a string of fish from the bottom of the boat, jumped from the bow to the dock, and tied up. Murphy emerged from the underbrush and said, “Where you been, boy? We needed you an hour ago.”

  Josh held up the fish. “They started biting. Thought you might like some for supper.”

  Murphy nodded and led the way along a rudimentary path to a clearing. Here, the last rays of the sun revealed barrels, vats, copper tubing, kerosene cans. The smell hung in the unmoving air. A shed stood on one side of the clearing, and outside it a bristly-haired young man was lighting a lantern. He adjusted the wick and hung it from a nail outside the door, over a small makeshift shelf that held a camp stove. Josh held up his string of fish again. “Suppertime,” he said. “Time to get the grits on.” A few minutes later, the blond sentry Josh had passed on the way in arrived.

  After their meal, the smell of fried fish and hush puppies lingering, it was dark enough to begin the night’s work. Josh slipped on his headlamp, a light like a miner’s that was meant to be used for frogging, blinding frogs at night so you could stick them with a gig. It had the advantage of leaving the hands free to pass wooden cases and load them into the boat.

  When one boat was loaded and sitting low in the water, Josh and Murphy took the other down the channel. Josh’s headlight picked out the curves of the bank, occasionally flashing in the eyes of a possum or a raccoon. Once in the ocean, they could feel that the wind had picked up slightly, and it sent a sultry breath across the bow. Five minutes’ ride took them to the inlet, hidden to the casual passerby, where Murphy’s cabin cruiser was anchored. Murphy got aboard, started the engine, and followed Josh back to the mouth of the channel where the other two men were waiting with the loaded boat. Josh left Murphy and the blond sentry to transfer cartons while he and the bristly-haired man returned for another load. It took them an hour, rotating, to get the cruiser loaded.