Catfish Alley (26 page)

This last thought makes me feel a little better and I
decide to stop in to the cafe downtown for lunch. I have my usual fried
chicken, butterbeans, and corn bread, followed by a big piece of apple pie. I'm
just coming out of the cafe, finishing a conversation with two of my buddies
from the county extension office, when a sign catches my eye. I realize I ain't
really noticed it before. I say my good-byes to the two men and stand there
looking at this sign that hangs over the door to an upstairs office. The office
is one of those small places on the second floor. There's a hardware store on
the first floor and you get to this office by one of them narrow staircases
from the street.

The sign says
Purvis Photography.
I know

I've seen that before somewhere, but I can't place it.
Then I remember.
Purvis Photography
was on that postcard of Daddy's I
found. But there's something familiar about this place, too. Could this be the
same place I went to get that high school senior picture Mama insisted on? I
walk closer to the door and read the sign painted on the upper glass window of
the door.
Purvis Photography Serving Clarksville Since 1922.
I'm pretty sure this is the same place I came to get my picture taken. I try
the door, but it's locked.

Then I notice the sign says
For Sale by Owner, Tours by
Appointment Only.
I pull a small pad of paper out of
my shirt pocket and write down the phone number. I'm not sure why I'm doing
this. I ain't going to call these people. Hell, they ain't going to remember a
postcard from 1931. But then, they might keep records. I shake off that sick
feeling again. I got work to do.

I'm late for supper again this evening. Alice ain't
happy. When I open the back door into the kitchen, she's standing at the sink
washing dishes. She don't even look up. I try coming up behind her and kissing
the back of her neck. She likes that. But she pushes me away with her elbow.

"Where have you been?" she asks, never taking
her eyes off the casserole dish she's washing.

"Last minute, some of the boys making a delivery
today from over in Alabama wanted to go over to J.T.'s for a beer. We got to
talking and one thing led to another, and ... well ... the time got away from
me," I say. What I don't say is that I was trying to get that picture
postcard out of my mind. It's like some ghost keeps creeping up behind me. I
needed a few beers just to stop my hands from shaking. This whole thing has me
all out of sorts.

"Supper's in the oven if you want it. Just be sure
you don't leave dishes for me to wash. I'm going to bed." And with that
Alice walks out of the kitchen, leaving me standing by the sink.

I pull the plate of food out of the oven, pour myself a
glass of tea, and take both back to my office. I have got to make myself look
for that deed. I sit down at the small desk and stare at Daddy's trunk sitting
across the room from me. I left the postcard in there, and I didn't look at
anything else the other night because I just had to stop. That postcard was
enough for one night. I try to eat, but I just can't seem to bring the fork to
my mouth. I push the plate away and dig in my pocket for the key to the trunk.

This time when I open the trunk, I set that envelope
with the postcard in it aside real quick and keep on looking through the rest
of the papers in the tray. I breathe a sigh of relief when I find the old file
folder labeled
Tanner Lumber.
The file contains the documents
I've been searching for. I turn back to my cold supper and take a couple bites
of corn and meat loaf. At least Daddy kept something useful. I'm still
wondering what else is in that trunk. I smile to myself, thinking he's dead now
and he can't do a damn thing about me looking through the whole thing.

I pull out the shallow tray to see what's underneath in
the larger hollow of the interior. I set the tray on the floor next to the
trunk and look inside. What appears like a set of sheets or maybe a tablecloth
is folded up real neat on top. I reach in and touch the fabric and it feels
like rough cotton. I take a side of it and pick it up. As it falls open, I
notice that it has two openings cut in the front for eyes and it's sewn like a
hat with a sharp point. I look in the trunk again and pull out a long white
robe. The robe has a big red cross on the front of it. All of a sudden I
realize that what I'm holding in my hands is a Ku Klux Klan hood and the robe
that goes with it.

I can't move. I just sit there staring at the robe. I
know about the Klan. A man can't grow up in Mississippi without knowing about
the Ku Klux Klan. But I've always steered clear of anything to do with them. I
figure I got enough to worry about without trying to terrorize a bunch of
niggers or Jews. As long as my boys do what they're told and turn out a good
day's work, I'm fine with that.

So my daddy was a member of the Klan. That explains
that postcard. Only he wasn't wearing this getup in that picture. I wonder what
else he might have done. I'm getting that sick feeling again and I have to
drink some tea. I think about Daddy lying in that hospital bed, still smoking
like a chimney through that tube in his throat, cussing any black nurse who
came in his room.

Them nurses was real patient with him, too. I remember
one in particular. She was black as night and tall and skinny, but she was a
kind woman. She just ignored the old bastard when he cussed her and called her
nigger to her face. It was her who washed Daddy's body and got him ready for
the funeral home. I remember how her being so calm helped me when Daddy's
hatefulness made me want to get the hell out of that room and never come back.

Why had he hated them so much? What happened that night
when the black man in the postcard was lynched? I put my hands on my head and
squeeze. I've got to get these questions out of my mind. Without thinking any
more, I pull the notepad out of my shirt pocket and pick up the phone. I dial
the number I wrote down earlier for Purvis Photography. The phone rings several
times, and I'm fixing to hang up when a man's quivery voice answers.

"J. R. Purvis. May I help you?"

I ain't prepared with what to say. "Uh, yessir ...
I'm calling about an old photograph I
found ...
It was, uh ... a
postcard of my father's ..."

"The photography business closed more than forty
years ago, sir," the old voice answers.

"I was, um,
well ...
I was wondering if
you keep
records ...
if I could talk to somebody ..."

I hear the person on the other end of the line clear
his throat. Then in a much stronger voice, he asks, "What's your
name?"

"Delbert ... Delbert Tanner."

It's quiet for a few seconds and then he says,
"Tanner ... hm ... my father knew some Tanners. Are you related to Ray
Tanner?"

"Yessir. He was my father."

"And he's dead now?"

"Yessir, he is. About those records ...," I
start to say.

"What few records my father kept are stored at the
old studio on Main Street. I will see what I can find. Come by tomorrow
afternoon at one o'clock sharp. I'll be waiting for you."

I'm fixing to tell him I can't come tomorrow because
I've got work, but he's already hung up.

I decide to park down the street at the old feed store.
Folks around here know my Ford, and this way I have less chance of someone
seeing it parked right in front of Purvis's place. I ain't ever felt no reason
to care about who sees my comings and goings, but today I find myself looking
around to make sure I ain't going to meet somebody I know. I just want to get
in and out of Purvis's studio as quick as I can. Daddy died more than twenty
years ago, but he was only in his sixties when he passed. There are still
people alive in this town who knew him, who probably even knew about the things
he did. But I sure as hell don't want to talk to anybody about this.

It all seems so shameful now. I ain't no nigger lover,
but I sure don't want it known around town that my own daddy lynched one.
That's why I got to get my hands on the negative of that photograph and make
sure it gets burned.

When I'm sure there ain't nobody watching me, I go in
the glass street door and climb the skinny stairs that lead up to the studio.
At the top there's a small landing and a wooden door with faded lettering that
says
Purvis Photography, J. R. Purvis, Photography for All Seasons
painted on the door. I have this crazy thought in my head to wonder what the
lynching season was.

I open the door and come into a barely lit reception
area with a small wood desk that's bare except for an old black rotary dial
phone and a black hat, the kind the old men around here wear. A waiting area
has a sagging floral settee and two old worn-out wingback chairs. There's a
little table under the wide window that overlooks the street. It's got a vase
of them artificial flowers on it that are coated with so much dust you can
hardly tell what color they are. This place looks exactly the same as it did
when I came here for my high school portrait. I'm looking out to see the view
to the street, when I hear footsteps coming from the back and someone clearing
his throat.

The man who comes in is tall, about my height, and a
big man. He fills out his black suit coat like one of them blown-up balloons
you see on TV at Thanksgiving. He's got a thick shock of wavy white hair, and
when he gets near me, I realize he's pretty old — at least eighty, I'd say.
That must be his hat on the desk.

His voice is deep and he acts real stiff. "Mr.
Tanner?" he asks. I nod and he holds out his right hand. "I am J. R.
Purvis, Jr.," he says, giving me a quick handshake. I notice his hands are
dead cold and soft like a woman's. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I'm going
to be able to help you. My father was an atrocious record keeper." He
don't smile. He just stands there with both his hands folded in front of him
and waiting for me to answer. He screws up his face into a frown and looks up
at my cap.

I reach up and quick pull off my John Deere cap.
"Yessir," I say. I shuffle my feet, feeling nervous.

"Have a seat, Mr. Tanner."

I sit down in one of the old chairs, trying to place
this man. I know I've seen him somewhere before. Purvis don't sit down, and now
I'm feeling like a schoolboy with the teacher standing over me. He still ain't
said nothing. Not much for shooting the shit, I reckon, so I figure I might as
well get this over with. I'm starting to wish I never came here.

"Mr. Purvis, I was sure hoping you'd have some
records or negatives of pictures your daddy took back in the early
thirties."

Purvis responds real fast, like he had his answer all
planned out before this meeting. "My father was not a very efficient
record keeper, Mr. Tanner. We have a few files on the marriage, graduation, and
baby photographs, but that is the extent of it. I'm afraid that if you want
reproductions, you'll need to see a professional photography restoration
specialist. What type of family photograph were you interested in
investigating?"

All of a sudden, I realize why he looks familiar. I've
seen his picture in the
Clarksville Dispatch.
This man is that
big-ass lawyer in town who tried that murder case up in Tupelo with all the
hype back in the seventies. No wonder he acts like he's got a rod up his ass.
I'm trying to remember the details of the case. Something about a black man
killing an old white woman. He was the lawyer for the black man. Then I realize
Purvis has just asked me a question.

I look down at my green and yellow cap, twisting it in
my hands. "This ain't exactly a family photograph, Mr.
Purvis ... I
mean ... my daddy
was in it, but ..." I'm not sure where to go from here. Has this guy
looked at old J. R. Purvis's photographs? Does he know that his daddy
photographed lynchings along with all them weddings and high school graduations
and baby pictures? I reach in my shirt pocket and pull out the postcard.
"This is the picture I'm interested in."

Purvis barely glances at the postcard I'm holding out
for him to see. He clears his throat again and says, "I'm sorry, Mr.
Tanner. There seems to have been a mistake. My father did not take that
photograph, nor do we have any records of any such photographs." He turns
around, walks to the desk, picks up that black hat and sticks it on his head.
Before I can say hello or kiss my ass, he's opening the door, saying, "Now
if you'll excuse me, I have clients to see."