Catfish Alley (2 page)

Come
to think of it, I don't know any black folks who are much interested in a tour
of houses built before the War. If you're black and you grew up around here,
big white houses with names like Shadow Lawn or Riverview or Twelve Gables —
which is the one that Reeves woman owns — means someone in your family was
probably one of the slaves who helped build it, worked on the property, or did
domestic help after Reconstruction.

Now
this all-white committee has decided there should be a tour about the black
folks. I reckon they are probably trying to do the right thing. How did Mrs.
Reeves put it? Oh, yes. They want to "show the contributions of the black
members of the community by touring important African-American historical
locations."

I
can't help but smile while I place coffee cups and cream and sugar on a serving
tray. Is surviving a contribution? I wonder. Is doing everything in your power
to move yourself and your people forward in spite of white people blocking you
at every turn her idea of a contribution? One minute I'm smiling and then that
old bitter sadness is pulling down the corners of my mouth and I feel that
catch in my throat. Zero tried harder than any of us in those days to make
things different, but look what happened.

There
are places I can show her all right, although most of them are rundown or gone
by now. The problem is that every place I think of has so many stories
attached. Will this white woman want to hear those stories? Does she know what
she's getting herself into?

Roxanne

This
is just so strange. Black people do not live in houses like this. I am sitting
on a lovely antique settee in the parlor of Pecan Cottage trying to calm myself
down. It's still hot for September, and when I get this nervous I start to
perspire. I got distracted by the roses near the front porch steps; my
gardening man can never get mine to look that good. And suddenly, that big
black man came out of nowhere. There he was, towering over me. It flashed
through my mind that I could be attacked and left for dead way out here in the
country and no one would ever know. He had a shovel in his hand; he could have
buried me, too. Just when I thought I'd better get back in my car quick, the
door opened and the old woman stepped out.

"Afternoon,"
she said. "I see you've met Walter. You must be Mrs. Reeves." He just
looked at me then, never said one word, and lumbered off around the house
toward the back. Made me shiver. Meanwhile, Miss Clark invited me in. She has
very nice manners and she talks almost like a white person, good grammar and
all.

I
have scrutinized this room carefully. Grace Clark has certainly kept this place
up. I can smell reproduction furniture from the porch steps, but this house has
the genuine article. I've lost count of the number of pre-Civil War houses I
have helped restore in this area and I am certain these furnishings are
original to around 1852, when Davis Calhoun built the place.

Of
course, I've heard the stories about Grace Clark. But what I don't understand
is how an old black woman came to own an entire plantation. She is one of the
more educated black people around here, but she's always been private. And
since she retired from school teaching, the only time my acquaintances have
seen her is when her helper — I guess that must be Walter — drives her into
town to go to the grocery store or the bank.

I
got here right at two o'clock. I'm never late. Now she's shuffled off somewhere
to get coffee. So, here I sit, waiting. I hope she gets back soon; I have at
least two other meetings and several errands to run today. Then, I remember: I
don't have to rush home to make dinner, because Dudley's gone. When I insisted
he move out, I never realized how quiet our big old house would be. Still, I
have to keep up appearances. I can't have anyone knowing we're having problems.
Don't think about that now. Focus
on this meeting.
I glance at my watch and I get annoyed all over again, thinking about why I'm
doing this.

Last
Tuesday, we were having a perfectly lovely Pilgrimage Committee meeting when
Louisa Humboldt piped up and said, "I have a proposal to make. May I
address the committee?"

Thank
the Lord, I kept smiling. I can't stand it when people spring topics on me that
aren't on my agenda. But she's new to the committee, and frankly, the Humboldts
have more money than God, so I felt trapped into letting her talk. Everything
was fine until they blew into town from someplace up north — Connecticut, I
think. They bought Riverview — I heard they paid cash — which is probably the
most beautiful property in Clarksville.

"Of
course you can address the committee, Louisa," I said. I tried to sound
charming. I've been working on
charming
for years. I think I pulled it off. Besides, if I can get into Louisa
Humboldt's good graces, I stand a strong chance of getting the contract to
restore Riverview. That would be quite the feather in my cap, not to mention
the money.

I
remember being in Riverview several years back before the Humboldts bought it —
I must have been delivering a food box for the Women's Missionary Union — and I
was appalled. Back then that dried-up old spinster Ellen Davenport still lived
there. The house looked like something out of
Great Expectations.
Spooky.

"I
would like to propose that we create an African-American tour of
Clarksville," Louisa said. The whole room got really quiet after that. I
looked around, trying to figure out how to respond gracefully. But she didn't
stop there.

"I
believe that this part of our community is underrepresented in terms of
historical accuracy...."
Our
community? She's
only lived here six months. I've been clawing my way to the positions I have
now for twenty years, and in six months she thinks she can waltz in and upset
the entire order of things? She's probably one of those people born to money. I
still get annoyed with myself for letting her type intimidate me. Will I ever
get over feeling like I'm going to be found out? A memory floats by. Something
about Louisa Humboldt reminds me of the first summer I helped Mama with her job
at the Stanleys' house. I had just carried in a tray of canapes for Mrs.
Stanley and her garden club friends. Eight years old, and fascinated by those
wealthy women, I remember stopping to listen just outside the parlor door.

"Who
was that beautiful little raven-haired girl, Irene?" asked one of the
ladies.

"Oh,
that's my cook's little girl. She's helping her mama out this summer."

"She's
a pretty little thing. A little coonass, I guess."

"Now,
Rose, you know I don't like to refer to the Acadians that way."

"Yes,
yes, I know. But you don't seem to have the same sensibilities about your
colored help, Irene."

"Well,
that's different. They're black. This little girl is as white as you and
me."

"Yes,
but does she speak like you and me? Have you had a conversation with her?"

"Not
really. Just a word or two."

"And
does she use that thick Cajun dialect like her mama?"

"As
a matter of fact, I think she does. You know, I can hardly understand it when
they talk. Especially when they're talking to each other."

"See
what I mean? They choose to stay backward that way, talking that coonass
language that no one can understand."

"Oh,
let it go, Rose. She's just a pretty little girl who happened to be born into a
poor, backward family."

Just
then Mama stuck her head out of the kitchen looking for me. I know my face was
red and hot with shame. But when Mama asked me, "What's wrong,
Chere?" I couldn't answer. My world had suddenly shifted, and in those
short few minutes I realized I had a choice. I was white and I could choose to
be like those ladies in that dining room. But I had to learn to speak like they
did — and not only that, I had to learn everything I could about how refined
white people lived. I vowed to myself then and there that my life would be
different. I would not grow up and marry some Cajun boy and live on the bayou
cooking gumbo and having babies, like my brothers' wives and my mama.

Louisa
Humboldt's daddy was probably paying for her Ivy League education while I was
surviving on scholarships at the W. Granted, I married into Dudley's money, but
I learned how to act like I wasn't poor. Just thinking again about Louisa and
that meeting, I am so irritated I have to get off the settee and move around. I
peek around the parlor doorframe to see if Grace Clark is coming. Where did she
go?

Louisa
Humboldt then proceeded to tell the committee how she thought that someone
should research the important African-American historical landmarks in and around
Clarksville. And since I'm director of the Pilgrimage Committee, that someone
ended up being me. I was so mad I could spit. This was the last thing I needed
right now. But I smiled — more charm — and volunteered to interview Grace
Clark. I try to remind myself that if I can just get this tour started, the
Humboldts will most likely hire me to restore Riverview.

I
can feel that nervous twitch starting in my foot. I hope we can get right to
the point. I need Grace to be a consultant for this tour, but I just cannot
bear her droning on and on about slavery and civil rights and all of that.
That's the biggest drawback to planning this African-American tour, all of that
unpleasantness. I much prefer to focus on the finer aspects of Southern
culture.

What
could possibly be interesting about the black community in Clarksville? As far
as I can tell, there were no black people with homes or businesses of any
distinction. I'm sure Miss Clark will have some ideas. I'm certainly not going
to present a proposal to the committee, especially the Humboldts, without
something noteworthy to say.

Finally.
Here she comes. She's walking slowly and carrying a tray. Are those cookies?
There goes my diet. There's nothing worse than a fat woman in a hoopskirt. I've
spent years trying to make sure I don't end up looking like Aunt Pittypat.

"Here,
Miss Clark, let me help you with that." I move quickly to carry the tray
for her.

"Thank
you, Mrs. Reeves. I appreciate it. Seems like things are heavier than they used
to be."

"Please,
call me Roxanne."

"Come
on and sit over here, Roxanne. We'll put this on the table and we can sit and
visit."

"Yes,
ma'am." I place the tray on the table between two wingback chairs.

"Mrs.
Reeves, if this involves putting Pecan Cottage on your house tour, I'm still
not interested."

Although
I would love for this house to be on the tour, I have sent letters to this
woman for at least the last five years and she will not budge. I still don't
understand why. It is one of the best-preserved houses in the county. But I
have already decided not to push that anymore.

"No,
Miss Clark, I'm not here about that. Although I would love to have your house
on our tour, I accept your choice not to include it. I'm here for an entirely
different reason. It's been suggested that we add an African-American
historical tour to the events we host every year. I was thinking that since
you've been in this community for so long and, well ... since you live here at
Pecan Cottage, you'd have a lot of knowledge about the history of this area. We
thought you might be willing to suggest places we could put on the tour and
give us some information about them."

Grace
nods at me, then just stares across the room. When I turn to see what she's
looking at, she seems to be staring at the portrait of Davis and Marjory
Calhoun.

"What
kind of history are you interested in?" she asks.

I
take a cookie and put it on a napkin in my lap. "I'm not exactly sure. I
was hoping you could make some suggestions. My specialty is restoring
antebellum homes. I, um ... I..."

"Don't
know much about black folk?" she offers.

I
just hate being put in this position. How am I supposed to answer this woman
gracefully? After all, I don't want to be rude.

"No,
not really. Not the local history, anyway. I mean, I know the usual about the
slave trade here, and then, after the War, there was Reconstruction and no more
slavery. I know that black people had their businesses and churches mostly over
near

Catfish
Alley and that kind of thing. But I don't know about the places that black
people ...
um ...
I mean African-Americans would call
historical around here."

It
feels like this woman is watching me like a chicken hawk. What if I say the
wrong thing and offend her? I'm not even sure whether to say "black"
or "African-American." They are so particular these days. Sometimes
it seems like saying "colored people" like my parents did was easier.
My parents may have been poor, but they were careful to teach me never to say
"nigger." I'm proud of that. Although people do still use that word
around here; even the black people use it. That, I really don't understand.

"It
doesn't much matter to me whether you call me black or African-American,"
Grace says. "I would rather you just call me Grace. And it does sound like
you could use some help. Tell me, Mrs. Reeves ..." She leans forward and
looks over her glasses at me. "Why are you doing this? What reason do you
have for adding the history of black people to your tour of all those fine old
homes?"