Catfish Alley (24 page)

He smiles, and, of course, Gran looks extremely pleased
with herself. "Would this evening work for you? I have a church meeting at
five, but I'll be done around six."

We settle on six thirty for me to pick him up at the
parsonage. I assure him that I know where it is. It's been a long time since I
was in church, but not long enough to forget its location. He kisses Gran on
the cheek and says he will see her in a few days, politely shakes my hand, and
makes his exit.

I turn from walking the preacher to the door and Gran
is watching me with a wicked gleam in her eye. "Enough to make you want to
move back to Mississippi, isn't he?" she says.

I act nonchalant, waving my hand. "Oh, Gran."

"You have to admit, baby girl, that is one
good-looking preacher."

Some things, as hard as I try, I cannot hide from Gran.
Interest in a man is one of them. I don't know what I'm worried about anyway.
It's not like Gran is going to have a chance to interfere much in my life. I'll
be gone in a couple of days and I probably won't see the preacher again for a
year.

It
's
starting to drizzle when I ring the doorbell at the parsonage behind the
Missionary Union Baptist Church. Standing on I he porch looking over at the old
church, I remember all of the Sundays and Wednesday nights I spent there as a
child. There was always some activity — Sunday school, choir practice,
dinner-on-the-ground, singings. It was such a big part of my life growing up.
Next to the hotel, it was the place where I spent most of my time. But then,
everything changed. When I was a senior in high school I lost both my parents
in a car crash. I think I walked around in a fog for that entire year. It was
Gran who saved my life, helped me decide on a college, was my rock when I
started working in the Clarksville City Council office, and finally encouraged
me to take the job I was offered in Chicago.

College changed my view of the world, opened me up to
new possibilities. Moving to Chicago was the best decision of my life, I'm not
hampered there by being the same small-town girl, the granddaughter of Robert
Webster, the girl who grew up at the Queen City Hotel. I'm just Billy Webster,
an intelligent, well-educated administrator for the city of Chicago. It suits
me. But every now and then I get a longing. I just can't quite put my finger on
what it is.

When Daniel Mason opens the door, I decide I have that
longing figured out. It's sex. He stands there in a pair of faded jeans that
fit just right, a soft corduroy shirt, and a smile that does that thing with my
breath again.
Dammit!
I find my voice to respond vaguely to his
invitation to come in. I stand in the doorway watching as he gently herds an
ancient-looking dog away from the door.

Now I have to add "loves animals" to the
growing list of reasons why I like this man.
Will it ever end?

"You'll have to excuse Ruby," he says.
"She's half blind and so she tends to want to stand and sniff everyone who
comes to the door."

"No problem," I say with a laugh. "I
love dogs. I would have one if I could, but I'm never home."

He smiles as he nudges Ruby toward a well-worn dog bed
in the corner. "I can't imagine life without Ruby. She and I have been
together fourteen years now."

"No wife?" I ask, then immediately wish I
hadn't. Of course, I want to know, but, as usual, I probably could have found a
more tactful way to ask.

"Almost," he replies, not seeming to mind the
question. "I came close back in Chicago, but it didn't work out. You? A
husband, I mean." I feel my knees go a little weak when he looks at me.

"No, too busy, I guess. My hours are long and
..." I realize I don't have much of an answer. "Well, anyway ... are
you ready?"

We chat about Chicago as we drive the short distance to
the Queen City Hotel. I ask Daniel how he ended up in Mississippi after living
in Chicago all his life.

"My father is the reason I'm here," he says
with a smile. "He was the minister of a small church in our neighborhood,
so I grew up playing with my Matchbox cars under the church pews and helping
him and my mother every Sunday get the church ready for service."

I smile at the thought of Daniel as a small boy on his
belly on the cold floor of some Chicago church, pushing toy cars through a city
made of the underside of wooden benches. I turn up the windshield wipers to
deal with the heavier rain.

"...
so I guess I came naturally to the ministry. But the reason I'm so drawn to the
South is Saturday nights in our basement. That's when my father became a different
man. Daddy and his cronies were all transplants from Mississippi or Louisiana,
and they put together a small jazz band. As far back as I can remember, I would
sit on the basement steps and listen to them play records of the jazz greats
like Louis Armstrong or Miles Davis on this ancient turntable and then try to
copy them. Daddy played the trumpet, and he had friends on the sax, the
trombone, and the piano." He laughs. I think I could listen to the sound
of his laugh every day and never get tired of it.

"During college, after my father died, I made a
road trip through the Mississippi Delta with some friends. We saw the towns and
places where the blues were born and we visited the small churches along the
way...." He drifts off, caught up in his memories. "Anyway, I knew
then that I would pastor a church in Mississippi someday. And when this
opportunity came up, I had no ties to keep me in Chicago. It seemed like the
right time."

I shake my head.
How can an intelligent,
well-educated — not to mention single — black man want to move from Chicago to
Mississippi?
"What about the racism, and the
poverty, and just the general backwardness of things down here?" I ask,
realizing my incredulity at his decision is probably showing.

"Billy, I know about all of that." I'm
thinking how I love the sound of my name when he says it. "But you and I
both know there's racism everywhere. And being poor sure doesn't keep folks
from coming to church around here. I've met several church members who are
really proud of this community."

"That I know," I say, sounding more sarcastic
than I intend to.

He leans forward to look as we turn on to Seventh
Avenue. "Take this tour, for example. If this hotel was on the African-American tour, just think how exciting that would be for folks around
here." His enthusiasm is almost contagious, but not quite. He hasn't seen
the hotel yet. But I'm pleased to find him open and surprisingly normal. I
realize I'm talking to him like a real person, not like a minister at all.

When we arrive at the hotel, the drizzle has turned to
steady rain. We sit in the car looking at the old dilapidated building. The
wide front porch is sagging, as are the steps leading up to it. The boarded-up
windows look bleak. I realize the rain is probably pouring in through leaks in
the roof in several places.

I reach over into the backseat and pull out an
umbrella. "I'll come around to your side of the car and get you."

"No, no, that's okay," he says, studying the
hotel. "I'll just run for it."

I find myself disappointed. I had been entertaining a
brief fantasy about being under the umbrella with him. "All right, but be
careful — those steps are caving in."

I climb the treacherous porch steps just behind Daniel
and dig in my bag for the keys to the hotel. I unlock the door and we step
inside, shivering from the chill that's settled in. The dim light of the rainy
afternoon casts long shadows across the wide lobby. I notice immediately that
there is a new leak near the counter. I retrieve one of the buckets that I keep
in the closet by the front door and place it strategically under the drip.

"Looks like you've done that before," Daniel
observes.

"Yes, I don't know why we keep trying to hold this
old place together. Gran won't let me sell it. Even though I want to get rid of
it, I just can't stand to see these old wood floors get destroyed. Every time I
come home, I come over here and empty the buckets and set out new ones."

"Sounds like you've got some attachment to the
place?" Daniel asks.

"Well, I do have some good memories here of my
father and my grandfather. But my life isn't here anymore. It's in
Chicago."

Daniel nods as if he understands. "Will you show
me around?"

We go through the first floor, starting with the lobby
and ending with the kitchen and the bar with the small stage. He stands for
several minutes on the stage, looking around, completely engrossed in some
picture that seems to be playing in his mind. I wander around the room I have
seen so many times before. Occasionally I steal glances at Daniel. He seems to
be completely at ease, no pretense, no attempt to impress me. This both
disappoints and pleases me. He's probably just imagining the famous jazz and
blues musicians who once graced this stage.

"Let's do this, Billy," he says suddenly.

This man has no idea where my thoughts went just then!
Quickly I realize he's referring to something about the hotel.

"What do you mean? Do what?"

"Let's turn this place into a community center. It
could be great," he says as he starts pacing around the old lobby,
pointing. "We could put meeting rooms over here, maybe a little coffee
shop ...I'm sure we could find some funding. And I'll work in my spare time.
Maybe I'll get some of the teenage boys in the community to help me. It will be
good for them. We could get this place back in shape, fix the roof, replace
those doors...." He seems lost again in his thoughts and his excitement
about the possibilities for the old hotel.

I can't find any words. I never in my wildest dreams
expected the preacher to offer to fix up my old hotel. This is crazy.

"Oh, I don't know, Daniel. I couldn't let you do
that. There's so much work to be done, and then who's going to take care of the
place? I'm in Chicago and Gran's at Pineview...."

He steps close to me and interrupts me by taking my
hand. Suddenly, I can't breathe. "Don't worry, Billy — it will be great.
Don't you see? We could get the community involved and we could save this
place. It would be great to have it on a tour. Just think what kind of boost
that could be for the black community." He's even more handsome when he's
excited.
What is happening to me?
I have to get out
more often.

"Okay, okay," I say, pulling my hand away.
"We'll talk about it. I still don't see how you're going to salvage this
place, but we can talk."

"I tell you what," he says. "Let me buy
you dinner over at the catfish place, and we'll talk about it some more before
we approach your grandmother."

I agree. I have to eat, right? After a quick tour of
the upstairs rooms, we're on our way to the Catfish Cabin. What am I getting
myself into?

Grace

We finally have ourselves one of those cool fall days.
I think how nice that is because Halloween is usually so hot around here.
I
'm having my second
cup of coffee on the front porch so I can look at the pecan trees that line the
road up to my house. Those old trees are glowing gold today and the ground is
just covered up with pecans. I'm going to have to get Brother Daniel to make an
announcement down at the church for folks to come out here and pick them up. It
would be a shame for them to go to waste, but Walter can't keep up with all of
them.

The pecan pie for the cake walk at the church Harvest
Festival this afternoon is in the oven, and I've sent Walter out to cut some
flowers. I didn't really get to enjoy my first cup of coffee this morning like
usual because Mattie Webster was calling me on the telephone before the sun was
even up good, all excited about her granddaughter Billy and Brother Daniel.

"Grade, you ain't going to believe what happened
yesterday," she said.

"What's that?" I said, a little irritated
because I usually don't like to talk that early in the morning.

"Brother Daniel was here visiting me when Billy
got in from Chicago, and you should have seen the eyes she was making at that
man! And him studying her, too, like she was the finest thing he'd seen in a
very long time."

"Now, Mattie, that's the preacher you're talking
about."

"Well, he's a man, ain't he? And you know how
good-looking my Billy is. Anyway, Brother Daniel and I talked her into showing
him the Queen City Hotel."