Catfish Alley (22 page)

When I get back home, I pull the diary back out to see
if there's more to the story than Grace has told me. For some reason, I always
feel like she's leaving something out. Is she afraid to tell me? Once again, it
takes me what feels like hours to make out what Ellen Davenport wrote. What a
sad story! All these years I never realized she was heartbroken.

August 24, 2 p.m.

My life is over. Daddy found us out.
And it's all because of that horrible Ray Tanner. Right in the middle of our
ceremony with the justice of the peace, he walks in and insists that Daddy would
never approve of our marriage. He actually threatened that justice of the peace
and Andy, too. He had both of them so scared that my wedding got stopped right
then and there. I've never been so humiliated in all my life! And the hardest
thing was that Andy didn't even protect me. He let Ray Tanner put me in the
back of his car and drive me all the way back home. It was horrible. I don't
even know where Andy went! Mama and Daddy were furious, especially Daddy.

Mama just dragged me up to my room
and told me to stay here. Sarah Jane brought me some supper a little while ago,
but I can't eat. What will I do now? The man I love has been taken away from me
and I'm destitute. I can't even write anymore.

September 30, 8
p.m.

It's been a long time since I wrote
anything in this journal. My life is nothing but a series of long dull days.
I've had no letters from Andy. Nothing. He might as well have never lived.
Sarah Jane is no help, either. She heard that he might have gone to New
Orleans. Our New Orleans! I'm trapped. I don't have any money of my own and
Mama and Daddy watch me all the time like I'm some criminal escaped from
Parchman Penitentiary. I guess I'll just live here and be an old maid. I don't
want anyone else. Ray Tanner tries real hard to be nice to me, but he makes me
sick. I just want to spit in his face. Mama says I have to be polite, that he
was just trying to do what's best for me. She says they all are but they don't
know what's best for me! They don't!

Del Tanner

Alice and I are poking around in this damn old dusty
attic, trying to find those documents that banker Jack Baldwin said I have to
have. We been up here looking for two hours and ain't found shit. Still chaps
my ass to think I got to come up with the original deed to the lumberyard. What
if there ain't one? Then what'll happen?

"I'm going downstairs to fix some supper,"
Alice says. "I got to get out of this dust for a while. You come on down
in a little bit, you hear me?"

I grunt a reply as I sort through some old lumber brochures
in a cardboard box. Nothing here. I'm in the last corner of the attic. We've
been through everything and I'm trying to think where else I could look. But we
put everything of Daddy's up here after he died. Didn't want to deal with it,
had a business to run. Mean old bastard. Never would give me all the
information I needed. He's probably laughing from his grave at me now.

I'm fixing to give up and go downstairs to eat when I
spot that old shoe trunk. I'm sixty years old, but seeing the trunk still gives
me a start. That trunk used to sit in Daddy's room. It was always locked and I
was always curious about it. I used to think Daddy probably hid his whiskey in
there. I remember being around ten years old, sneaking into Daddy's room and
trying to open it. Daddy caught me and pulled off his belt and beat me with the
buckle. Said he'd teach me not to mess with things that didn't belong to me.
Even now, I find myself looking around before I reach for the trunk.

It's about two feet by three feet and about a foot
deep. Daddy probably got the trunk from Granddaddy Rufus. That's how long I can
remember it being around. Things weren't much better between me and Daddy when
he died than they'd been all my life, so of course he never mentioned this
trunk or wanting me to have it.
Well, Daddy, as usual, you wouldn't
want to do nothing to help old Del out, would you?

I pull the trunk out from under the pile of old quilts
and study the lock. It would be fairly easy to break, provided I can't find a
key. I suddenly remember the handful of keys that black nurse at the hospital
handed to me the night Daddy passed away.

"He never let these out of his sight," she
said.

I'm trying to picture what I done with those keys. Damn
if I can remember. I pick up the trunk — must not be much in it; it's not very
heavy — and make my way down the attic stairs.

"Alice, do you remember that set of Daddy's keys
that the nurse gave me after he died?" I holler.

"Yes, the ones she said he never let out of his
sight?" she answers from the kitchen.

"Yeah, what did we do with those?" I come
into the kitchen, carrying the trunk.

"I think you put them in your desk somewhere. God
knows, you've got so much junk in there. Come on and eat." She's carrying
a plate of corn bread to the table and stops. "What in the world is
that?" she asks, pointing to the trunk.

"I found this under some old quilts up there. It
used to be Granddaddy's and then it was Daddy's. He always kept it locked. I'm
thinking that maybe the key is with those we got after he died."

I go into the little room where I keep my desk and
business papers and set the trunk down. Alice is still hollering for me to come
eat before the bread gets cold, so I decide to look for the keys after supper.
Just as I'm finishing up, I get a call from one of my suppliers and I forget
all about that trunk.

Roxanne

Grace and I are standing in the vestibule of the
Missionary Union Baptist Church. The church is constructed of wood in a simple
style. Three steps lead up to a narrow porch with a wider overhang over the
front door. Just inside the door is a vestibule area that houses a row of coat
hooks, an umbrella stand, and one of those boards with rows to slide in numbers
that report last Sunday's attendance and the amount of the offering collected. I
remember the thrill I got as a little girl when I was allowed to do that job in
our church in the bayou.

I can't help but notice the heart pine floors. They
glow like Tupelo honey from years of foot traffic. I know what some people
would give to have floors like this in their homes. Through the vestibule door
is a small sanctuary with two sections of wooden pews worn to a satin patina
from years of holding backsides clothed in Sunday best. The pews are stocked
with hymnals, offering envelopes, and fans advertising the local black funeral
home. I have attended the Clarksville First Baptist Church for decades, but
I've never set foot in a black church in Clarksville before.

I find myself beset with a memory of being about six
years old and Mama taking me with her to visit the Baptist church of one of her
black friends from the Stanley plantation. Details flood through my mind as I
stand beside Grace in this little church. The same style pews, but filled with
color — hats, dresses, men in suits in Easter egg hues. And the sounds! The
organ and the deep, rich voices that seemed to soar to the ceilings and fill
the whole building with melody. It was glorious and terrifying all at the same
time. I remember the little black children wanted to touch my hair, and I wanted
terribly to touch theirs, too, to feel I hat springy texture between my
fingers, but instead we just stood and stared at each other from behind our
mothers' skirts.

This church has a similar small choir loft with a
baptistery, a piano, an old organ, and lite pulpit. We are approaching the
pulpit area when a black man crawls out from behind the first choir seat. I
jump and let out a little squeal before I can control myself. I wasn't
expecting to see anyone in the church on a Tuesday morning.

Grace smiles calmly, in her usual way. The man is
obviously just as surprised to see visitors, but his smile is wide and
welcoming, and, I can't help but notice, very attractive. His skin is very dark
and smooth and he is wearing a baseball cap, which he instantly pulls off. He
looks young. I assume he's probably the church janitor. He approaches us and
takes Grace's hand.

"Miss Grace, how good to see you this morning! I'm
sorry I didn't hear y'all come in. I was down there behind the choir seats
looking for Eva Randall's earring. She called me this morning in a dither. Her
deceased husband, Earl, gave her those pearl clip-ons for their fiftieth
wedding anniversary, and she is just in a state about losing one. Even said she
might have to stop singing in the choir!"

I'm still wondering who this handsome young man is.
Maybe he's not the janitor; maybe he's a young deacon. Grace chuckles softly as
he describes Eva's plight.

"Eva gets herself stirred up, all right, Brother
Daniel. I hope you find that earring. It would be a shame to lose that
wonderful alto voice of hers from the choir."

Grace turns to me and draws the man near her.
"Reverend Daniel Mason, I would like for you to meet a friend of mine,
Mrs. Roxanne Reeves."

So this is the
minister?
I'm surprised. I thought he would be Grace
and Adelle's age. I shake his outstretched hand, and I can't help but notice
those gorgeous deep brown eyes and the way his forearm ripples with muscle.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. Reeves. How do you
come to know our most important church member?"

Grace squeezes Reverend Mason's arm and laughs. She is
as excited as a schoolgirl around this man.

"Oh, now, stop that. I'm one of the oldest, but
certainly not the most important."

I am impressed with their easy comfort with each other.
I'm sure this minister has no problems winning the support of the ladies of the
church. As my mama would have said, he is a sight for sore eyes, for a Mack
man, that is.

"Miss Clark is showing me around some o
f
the African-American historical places in the community," I answer.

He nods. "And, of course, she brought you here.
This church has been around for a
long
time, Mrs.
Reeves." He motions to the front pew. "Please, won't you have a
seat?"

Grace and I settle ourselves on the front pew and
Reverend Mason pulls up the piano bench and sits facing us. I can't help but
notice those muscular thighs and the supple ease of his movements. I have to
shake myself.
We're in church, for mercy's
sake!
The reverend is saying something.

"Miss Grace knows the history of our church much
better than I do, Mrs. Reeves. I'm afraid I'm still learning."

Grace nods and rests her arms on her handbag in her
lap. "Reverend Mason has only recently come to us from up in Chicago. This
is his first time to pastor a Southern Baptist church."

"Oh, really," I say. "I'm Southern
Baptist, too. I am a member of the Clarksville First Baptist Church."

"Yes, I know of it. I believe I met your minister
at one of the interfaith meetings last month," he says.

"What I meant to say," Grace says, "is
that this is Reverend Mason's first time to pastor a church in the South. We're
actually Missionary Baptist."

"Yes, Miss Grace has been trying to help me with
the ins and outs of the Southern black community," Reverend Mason says.
"Unfortunately, I've trodden on several toes already." Reverend Mason
and Grace share conspiratorial smiles.

They spend the next half hour telling me the history of
the Missionary Union Baptist Church. It's the oldest church in Mississippi,
established as a meeting place during the days of slavery. Back then, they tell
me, there was no church building. The church consisted of a collection of
branches and underbrush gathered into an arbor-like semicircle. The slaves
stood within the brush arbor to worship. Years later, after the War ended and
during Reconstruction, this wooden structure was built. The church has survived
since 1871 and there are many stories about obstacles the members have
overcome.

I listen to how the black people worked and scraped and
volunteered in order to have a building for worship. Now, I'm an expert on the
history of the local white churches and their white benefactors: the Catholic
church on Fourth Street was built by a wealthy steamboat magnate because his
only daughter decided to become a nun; the impressive First Methodist Church
was built with slave labor by a famous white planter who moved his family here
from New Orleans; and my own church, First Baptist, was built in 1853 by the
ancestors of the current president of the Bank of Clarksville. But none of those
stories match the endurance and spirit of the people who built this little
church.