Catfish Alley (34 page)

Travis sets his cigarette down on the ashtray and
laughs. "This is getting good. The next to the last person I would think
of who could talk you into anything would be a preacher."

I pull the olive out of my drink and pop it into my
mouth. I grin at Travis. "This is not just any preacher."

Travis knows me well enough to catch the look and nods.
"I see. So what's so special about Mr. Preacher Man that he could make you
change your mind so quickly?"

I sigh. "Crazy, isn't it? I mean, really. Here I
am in Chicago, doing just fine. I have a great life, a great job. ..." I
motion with my glass toward Travis. "Great friends. And I go and find
myself attracted to some backwoods preacher in Clarksville, Mississippi. I must
be losing my mind!"

"Hold on now, Billy. I know you. You've turned
down more men in the ten years we've been friends than most women ever get an
opportunity to meet. So there must be something special about this guy. Tell me
about him." Travis stubs out his cigarette and motions for the waitress.
"But first, let's get another drink."

Over more drinks, with a great jazz ensemble playing in
the background, I tell Travis about meeting Daniel Mason, about his interest in
jazz, and the way his passion for his work shows through. I tell him about the
irony of Daniel being from Chicago and moving to Mississippi. Then I remember
what I was going to ask Travis about.

"By the way, Gran and her friends mentioned a
piano player from Mississippi who traveled with Louis Armstrong and possibly
ended up in Chicago back in the thirties. He would be ancient now, maybe
ninety, if he's still alive. His name is Albert Jackson, Jr.; they call him
Junior. Ever heard of him?"

Travis looks thoughtful, turning the name over in his
mind. "Jackson," he murmurs. "I know of a Slider Jackson."
He brightens. "I bet it's the same guy. He's a legend. One of the best
slide piano players I've ever heard. I got to hear him about ten years ago. He
agreed to do a show for a fund-raiser I went to. I don't think he plays
anymore. Retired. Even then he had some pretty wicked arthritis in his hands.
Maybe he's your guy."

"Maybe so. Wouldn't that be crazy? Junior Jackson
grew up in Clarksville and is the brother of one of Gran's best friends. Do you
think we could find him? I'd like to talk to him. Maybe see if he would
consider coming to the Queen City for some kind of start-of-the-renovation
ribbon cutting or something."

"Wow, you really are getting into this, aren't
you?"

"You know me. If I do something, I don't do it
halfway."

Travis grins. "Let me see what I can do. I'll talk
to some friends of mine and see if I can find out any more about our friend
Slider Jackson."

"That would be great. Gran would be so
excited." What I'm really thinking is how pleased Daniel would be. The
whole time the second set of music is playing, I'm imagining his excitement
when I tell him that I've found Junior Jackson. He'll wrap his arms around me
and pull me close. Between the music and another martini, I forget for a little
while how far I am from Clarksville, Mississippi.

Roxanne

Ola Mae and I are getting the house ready for the
Junior League meeting later today. She usually comes on Tuesdays to clean, but
the extra money it will cost for her to help me today is so worth it. I've got
ten leaguers coming over to make magnolia Christmas wreaths for the Holiday
Tour and I'm not near ready. Plus, I decided at the last minute to invite Rita
Baldwin. I've got a knot in my stomach over that spontaneous decision.
Spontaneity is certainly not my strong suit, and today I'm remembering why. I'm
mad at myself for not being better prepared since I've known for months that
this was my year to host the wreath-making party — but with everything else
going on, I'm not my usual organized self.

I feel really good about this project, though, since
the money goes to buy Christmas presents for the kids at Children's Hospital in
Jackson. And everyone relaxes and has a good time.
Usually
they do anyway. Even though Rita is a member of the Junior League in Atlanta
and it's perfectly acceptable for me to invite her as a guest, I know there
will be plenty of raised eyebrows. Of course, that's how Louisa Humboldt got in
with the group. Elsie brought her as a guest. But she's white. Why do I keep
running headlong into these black-white issues? I can't ruminate on all of this
right now. I remember that I need to check the liquor cabinet to make sure I
have enough Grand Marnier for the cranberry punch recipe I'm trying this year.

As I walk into the dining room and open the liquor
cabinet, I hear the kitchen door open and close and the sound of keys being tossed
on the table. It must be Milly. Oh, my word! I really don't have time for this
today.

"Hello! Where is everybody? Mama?"

"I'm in the dining room," I call. "Come
on in."

"Oh, hey, Ola Mae," I hear her say.
"What are you doing here today?"

"Wreath-making party," Ola Mae answers,
probably knowing that's all she needs to say and Milly will understand.

"Is it time for that already? My goodness, this
year has gone by so fast! I can't believe I've been married five months
already."

"No, ma'am," Ola Mae answers. My guess is Ola
Mae's not up for much chatting, either. But then, with her usual easy grace,
Milly asks, "How's that grandbaby of yours?"

I can practically hear the glow in Ola Mae's voice as I
listen to bits and pieces of their conversation. Milly has never known a time
without Ola Mae, and, unlike me, Milly keeps up with Ola Mae's family and when
her kids are having babies and whatnot. I realize how comfortable my daughter
is with the order of things between herself and a black housekeeper, something
I've never quite grasped. It occurs to me that I've spent many years trying to
create a barrier, make myself somehow above Ola Mae. Milly hasn't had to do
that. She just takes her social status for granted.

"Hey, Mama," Milly says, strolling into the
dining room, eating a cheese straw and bending to kiss my cheek. "I see
you're getting ready for a party." She plops down at the table and watches
as I pull out bottles of liquor, searching for the right one. "I guess you
had to run Daddy off for the evening."

I almost drop the bottle of Grand Marnier.

Does she know? Did Ola Mae whisper something I couldn't
hear? "Yes, sometimes these parties do run late." I'm hoping I don't
sound as nervous as I feel. "What are you up to today?" I ask as I
put the bottle of liquor down on the sideboard and start digging for napkins in
the drawer.

"Just a little shopping downtown. I have to go to
some stupid law school fund-raiser with Bobby and I don't have a dress that
fits." She reaches down and pinches what is probably a quarter inch of
skin at her waist. "I think I'm getting fat since I got married. Bobby and
I must be eating out too much."

It occurs to me that, like me, she's never really
learned to cook, but fat? "Milly, you are not fat. If you were any
thinner, I'd be worried about you."

"Mama, you always say that," she says,
finishing the cheese straw and brushing the crumbs from her fingers onto her
jeans. "What's Daddy going to do tonight? I was hoping to catch both of
you at home. Doesn't he usually come home early on Mondays?"

Is now the time to tell her? Why does everything always
happen at once? My heart is racing and I'm already nervous about this party and
inviting Rita Baldwin, and now this. "Would you look at the time!" I
say.

"I'm sorry I can't chat today, darling. I'm so far
behind on getting ready."

"Okay, okay," she says, following me into the
front parlor. Ola Mae comes in to light the bayberry-scented candles I like so
much. "Do you think Daddy's at the university?" Milly asks.

I suddenly get a vivid picture of Dudley in his office
sitting in that big leather chair with a blond graduate student, probably only
about two years older than my own daughter, straddled across his lap. A wave of
nausea and anger hits my stomach like a fist, and I stop in the middle of the
room, not remembering why I came in here. When I turn I find Milly and Ola Mae
both watching me. Ola Mae turns away and starts fiddling with a lamp, but Milly
continues to look at me expectantly.

"Mama, are you okay? You look really pale. Ola
Mae, don't you think she looks pale?"

Ola Mae looks up from the lamp. "You might be a
little peaked, Miz Reeves. You want me to get you an RC?"

"No, no, Ola Mae. Thank you, but I'm fine."

"All right, then. I'm going back out to the
kitchen to check them pecans I got in the oven."

I take a deep breath and sit down in the nearest chair,
trying to keep my voice even. "Things are a little different with your
daddy and me these days, darling. He's ... um ... not living here right
now."

"What? Not living here? You mean he's moved out?
What happened? Why? Did you ask him to leave?" I imagine I hear an
accusing tone in her voice, whether it's really there or not.

"Milly, I really can't get into it all right now.
I have so much to do and ... well ... your daddy and
I ...
we just needed
some time apart. That happens sometimes, you know." I realize that my
words probably sound like lame excuses to her. I stand up and square my
shoulders, remembering to stay in mother mode. "I really don't want to
talk about it right now," I say, going over to Milly and putting my arm
around her shoulders, nudging her gently toward the kitchen. "I'm sure
everything is going to be fine. Just give your daddy a call. He'll be thrilled
to hear from you." As we walk into the kitchen, Ola Mae glances up from
the oven, where she's pulling out toasted pecans, and frowns at me. I ignore
her stare, picking up Milly's keys and handing them to her. "Let's have
lunch one day next week and we'll talk."

"But, Mama...."

I can't believe I'm practically shoving my daughter out
the door, but if I have to talk about this anymore I'll burst into tears. She
must see the determination in my face, because she stops arguing.

"All right." She sighs, picking up her purse.
"I don't get it, but I guess it's none of my business, since I'm just your
only daughter and all...."

I bite my lip, hard, and decide not to respond to her
barb. She turns the doorknob and looks back over her shoulder. I'm frozen in my
spot and I can see Ola Mae out of the corner of my eye standing there holding
the pan of pecans. We're both watching Milly.

"I'm grown-up now, Mama. I can handle it ...
whatever's going on. You just need to talk to me."

I nod, unable to say anything as my daughter yanks open
the door in frustration and leaves, slamming the door behind her. I can't stop
the tears now, even though I'm embarrassed to be crying in front of Ola Mae. I
sit down at the kitchen table, unable to set aside the flood of mixed emotions
whirling inside me. As I sit there with my head in my hands, watching tears
drip onto the tablecloth, I hear Ola Mae set the pan on the cooling rack. The
refrigerator door opens, and I look up between my fingers to see her
work-roughened hand set an RC in front of me and pop the top. "I'll be in
the butler's pantry if you need me," she says as she leaves the kitchen.

I look up, grateful for her kindness, wanting
desperately to talk to her, but immediately realizing that I can't do that. Has
it come to this? I've got all of these things going on and the only person I
can talk to is my maid?

I struggle to get everything into perspective. I'm
going to be entertaining in a few hours. At least I won't have to give a report
today on the African-American tour, although I'm sure Louisa Humboldt will ask
me about it. On top of what's just happened with Milly, and not knowing what to
do about Dudley, I've just been so sad all weekend thinking about Adelle
Jackson being raped. Saturday afternoon, after we dropped off Adelle, I asked
Grace how in the world Adelle was able to live and work in the same town as Ray
Tanner all those years. I knew things hadn't worked out for her and Zero, since
he apparently left Clarksville, but why in the world would she stay here?

"That's just the sort of person Adelle Jackson
is," Grace said. "She finished her nurse's training at Tuskegee, came
back home, and worked in the colored hospital until they closed it in 1969.
Then she transferred to the Clarksville Hospital. Worked there until she
retired in 1978."

"Didn't she ever run into him? You know, see him on
the street?"