Read Catfish Alley Online

Authors: Lynne Bryant

Tags: #Mississippi, #Historic Sites, #Tour Guides (Persons), #Historic Buildings - Mississippi, #Mississippi - Race Relations, #Family Life, #African Americans - Mississippi, #Fiction, #General, #African American, #Historic Sites - Mississippi, #African Americans

Catfish Alley (3 page)

BOOK: Catfish Alley
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I
did not expect Grace's question and assumed she would be pleased to have her
people represented. Louisa Humboldt should be out here doing this blasted
interview!

"Since
I'm the director of the tour," I say, "the committee thought I should
be the one to talk to you so that when we take the idea to the city planning
people for a vote, I am able to answer all of their questions."

"I
see. And what do you think about this idea?"

What
difference does that make? Here I was thinking I would be the one asking the
questions. Just when I was cooling off, I'm starting to perspire again. I hear
a big thump outside and wonder if big black Walter comes in the house. I was so
sure Grace would be happy to help. I thought maybe she would suggest one of
their black churches, or maybe that nice house over on Third Street. I heard it
was owned by a black doctor at one point. We could add an extra half hour to
the end of the home tour for the handful of people who wanted to see a couple
of places that represented black people from the area who made something of
themselves. That would make everyone happy. I like that idea. I also like the
idea of restoring Riverview.

"I
thought this might be a good thing for the community. This way your people
won't feel left out." That didn't sound right. Somehow, it seems like
everything I say is coming out wrong.

Grace
doesn't speak for quite a while. I sip my coffee and eat another cookie — they
are so good — and try not to talk. I always talk too much when other people are
quiet.

Finally,
she says, "I'll help you, but I have a condition or two."

Oh,
no! What conditions is this old black woman going to insist upon? What have I
gotten myself into?

"What
conditions, Miss Clark?"

"I
want you to be my driver and my scribe."

"I'm
sorry, Miss Clark. I don't understand."

"I
want you to drive me around to the places that I think should be on this
African-American tour and I want you to write down the stories I tell
you."

"Well,
I can certainly drive you. I think I have an afternoon free next week." I
reach for my planner. Although I don't relish the thought of driving her
around, I would rather do that than be trapped in her car with Walter at the
wheel. "But I'm no writer. We have a retired English teacher on the
committee. Wouldn't it be better if you had her help you with the
stories?"

"No.
Those are my conditions. You find one morning a week and we'll go out and look
at some places. I get around better in the morning before I get too tired, and
I'm fond of my afternoon nap these days. Then, during the week, you can write
down the stories. You're going to need some stories that people can read so
they understand the history, aren't you?"

"Well,
yes, that's true ... but, really, I'm not a writer...."

"That's
all right. You'll do just fine."

She
has such kind eyes.

I
don't see how I could possibly have time for this, with all of my committee
meetings and church responsibilities. On the other hand, how hard can it be? A
couple of landmark signs and a paragraph or two about the history. Besides, I
can get someone to edit it. And if I leave without agreeing to do this, how
would that look?

"All
right. I can do that. When would you like to get started?"

"How
about next Tuesday morning? You can pick me up at nine o'clock. Tuesday would
have been Zero's ninety-first birthday."

"Zero?
Who's Zero?" I ask.

"My
brother."

"I
didn't realize you had a brother."

"That's
part of the story."

Chapter 2

Roxanne

 

As
promised, I arrive at Grace Clark's house promptly at nine o'clock to cart her
around and look at God knows what. This is Ola Mae's day to clean, and I
usually like to be there to be sure she does things the way I want, so having
to do this today is a little irritating. I know Ola Mae will be able to tell
that Dudley's things are missing. I just hope she doesn't talk about it to the
other maids. So far, no one knows we're separated. I can barely say that word
to myself. How could this have happened? Was it because I gained weight? Got
boring? Because I'm over forty?

I
think about last night's phone conversation with him and I get that little ache
in my chest. He wants to come by for more of his clothes. Funny, the things he
says he needs are the clothes he always wears when he wants to make a good
impression — that tweed sport coat, his favorite red tie.

"Who
are you trying to impress?" I asked him.

"What
are you talking about, Roxie? I just need the clothes for work."

"Are
you trying to impress your young girlfriend?" I hated myself for asking
that. I have been systematically trying to convince myself that what I saw that
day last spring couldn't have been what I thought it was. But when you walk into
an off-limits bedroom in your own house during a Pilgrimage Tour, hoping to get
a little privacy for a moment, and find your husband with a hoopskirted tour
guide pressed against the
wall ...
I clinch my teeth together as I remember her pretty face. She's one of his
graduate assistants, who oh-so-thoughtfully volunteered for our home tour. She
did have the good grace to gasp in horror.

"Oh,
Mrs. Reeves," she sputtered. "I'm so sorry ... uh ... Dr. Reeves was
just helping me get something out of my eye...." She saw pretty quickly I
wasn't buying it and rushed out of the room. "I'll just get back to the
tour now...."

"I've
told you over and over, Roxanne. That was nothing. You've blown it all out of
proportion." That's what Dudley said last night. He often says I make too
much of things. But then, he's never had to work for anything he has. That easy
charm is why I fell in love with him. He just plods along, taking for granted
that life will continue to be handed to him. I've always envied his easiness
that way. I thought I could ignore their affair, but after four months the
tension between us was so thick, he said he couldn't breathe in his own house.
He certainly jumped on that faculty apartment the minute it opened up.

When
I was young I was so proud of myself for snagging him. I was a graduate student
in those days and also struggling to establish myself in the restoration
business, desperately wanting to be part of his social class. He was the young,
handsome history professor who all the girls swooned over. Why did it have to
be a graduate student? Her youth is such a cliché. But then, Dudley never has
been very creative. Was I so attracted to him because he never challenged me or
my story? He was willing to swallow completely that I was an orphan adopted by
the Stanleys, the wealthy couple Mama cooked for. And I was willing to play the
role of the perfect faculty wife — the right social circle, the right clothes,
the right clubs.

I've
begun to wonder lately if all of the effort I've made over the years, not only
to
get
his attention but to keep it, has been worth the cost. I've spent the better
part of my adult life working hard to change the way I talk, to get an
education, to separate myself from anything related to the bayou, including my
brothers. That wasn't difficult after Mama and Daddy died. Monroe and Bill
aren't interested in anyone who's not drinking beer and fishing; besides, I'm
so much younger than them, I think they actually forget about me. At least
that's what I tell myself.

Mama always said, "You was my change-of-life
baby, Chere."

Maybe that's why I always felt like an afterthought. As
I look up and admire Pecan Cottage, I wonder again how Grace came to be living
in a home owned by wealthy whites for generations. I guess we're both usurpers
in a way.

I walk around to the back and enter through the
screened porch, just as Grace instructed. The smell that meets me takes me back
instantly to my mother's kitchen. I stand there for a minute and breathe in the
memories along with the scents of coffee, cinnamon, and apples. Then the door
to the house opens and Grace appears.

She looks so dignified. Even though she's a small
woman, she has a manner about her
that makes me think her students sat up and
paid attention.

"Good
morning, Roxanne. Come on in. I made us some coffee and an apple cake."

I
was not expecting to sit down for coffee and can't help wondering if Ola Mae
has found all of the instructions I left for her. I'd rather just get started,
but how can I hurry along this old woman who has gone to all this trouble?

The
kitchen really does remind me of Mama — the good part anyway. After all, it was
Mama's cooking that got her the job at the Stanleys' as their cook. If she
hadn't gotten that job and started taking me to work with her when I was eight,
I never would have had my little epiphany. After that I swore I would never be
like her: round and puffy, old and tired at fifty after too many years of
cooking for other people. But I do miss her kitchen. I suck in my stomach even
as I'm eyeing that apple cake.

"Shall
we talk about our plan for today?" Grace asks as she serves me a piece of
cake.

"Yes,
certainly. Where
do we start?"

"We'll
start at the first school for black children."

"Where
was that?"

"Over
on the south side of town, on Ninth Avenue."I'm trying to place the
street. I remember a lumberyard in that area. Delbert Tanner, the owner,
sometimes salvages old wood from buildings being torn down around Mississippi.
I was there a couple of years ago looking for old beams for Rose Dillard's summer
kitchen.

"All
I remember on Ninth Avenue South is Tanner's Lumber Yard."

"That's
the place. The first school for black children was in what is now a warehouse
on the property."

"How
do you suppose we're going to tour a place that is a business?"

Grace
takes a last sip of coffee, then picks up her purse and starts toward the door.
I grab my purse and follow her, moving quickly to keep up. "Miss Clark?
Did you hear what I asked?"

Grace
stops and turns, pulls a tissue from the sleeve of her sweater, and blots her
lipstick. "Yes, I heard. I reckon you will have to sort that out. I'll
just show you the places. This is the one we'll start with."

And
that's the end of conversation until we're well on the way to Clarksville. Of
course, I'm a little uncomfortable with the silence. It just doesn't seem
natural. As we drive the country roads back to town I try to make small talk
about how bright the sweet gum trees are this year. They really are gorgeous —
all reds, golds, and purples. But she doesn't say much, except
"mm-hm" or "yes," so I decide to be quiet. Besides, I need
to think through how I want to tackle the Humboldts' kitchen. Before she died,
that old maid Ellen Davenport actually covered that gorgeous heart pine floor
in indoor-outdoor carpet! Scandalous, if you ask me.

I
notice when we drive by the Visitors Center at the entrance to town that Louisa
Humboldt's car is parked out front. I can't help but wonder what she's doing
there. Probably more research. She's convinced that Tennessee Williams was a distant
cousin of hers. His daddy was a traveling salesman, so who knows? Maybe he made
it as far north as Connecticut. But I doubt it. Last year they moved the house
where Tennessee was born to Main Street and made it the Visitors Center. I've
tried to tell her there aren't any family records there, but she doesn't
listen. I think Louisa is just desperate to have some excuse to call herself a
Southerner.

When
we reach Tanner's Lumber Yard, I pull in beside a red Ford F350, probably Del
Tanner's. The gravel parking lot is full of beat-up trucks. This whole part of
town is mostly warehouses and construction supply businesses. I can't imagine
children going to school here. Two black men are sitting on the back of a
lumber truck just inside the high chain-link fence that circles the yard. They
stare at us as we sit in my car looking at the building; I'm feeling strangely
self-conscious right now.

I'm
not sure how to proceed. I'm fairly sure the particular warehouse where Del
keeps the salvaged wood is on the back of the property. It would be quite a
distance for Grace to walk. Plus, we would have to go past several large trucks
loading lumber. And all of those black men.

"Would
you like me to go in and talk to Mr. Tanner about going back to the warehouse?
Maybe he'll give us permission to drive back there so you won't have to walk so
far."

"I
would appreciate that. These old knees are not what they used to be."

As
I head toward the office door I smell cigarette smoke, the clean piney scent of
newly milled lumber, and the oily smell of old trucks. It's a strange morning
for memories. The smells here remind me of Daddy. How he hated working for the
oil refinery. Born and raised on the south Louisiana bayou, he would much
rather have spent his days in his pirogue fishing and hunting for whatever he
could put on the table. My thoughts of him are always bittersweet. His Cajun
patois was so thick most people couldn't believe he was speaking English. He
smoked like a chimney and drank like a fish, but he was a kind and gentle man.
And he loved me fiercely.

BOOK: Catfish Alley
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