Catfish Alley (38 page)

Travis is filling me in on brownstones and what the
Bronzeville community was like back in the thirties, when the door finally
creaks open three inches. An old black man's stubbly chin comes into view
behind the thick door chain, followed by a pair of full, unsmiling lips and a
long tipped-back nose with wide, flat nostrils. I can see the old man adjust
one side of a pair of black-rimmed glasses as he bends his head downward to
get a better look at me. I feel a surge of excitement. This man appears to be
the right age. Maybe we've finally located Slider Jackson.

"Help you?" he asks, stepping back from the
crack in the door and making eye contact with me. Travis steps up behind me and
the man looks wary. I'm getting the sense that a white man appearing on his
doorstep is making him nervous. I hurry to explain our visit.

"Hello, sir. My name is Billy Webster and this is
my friend Travis Sprague. We're looking for Albert Jackson, Jr., and we got
this address from a friend of his at the Chat Room."

"What business you got with him?" asks the
man. He takes a step back, still holding the door, and I can see his bony
profile in a faded flannel shirt and worn black pants that hang like curtains
from red suspenders on his thin body.

"My grandmother is Mattie Webster from
Clarksville, Mississippi. I was hoping he might remember her," I say, noticing
the ever-so-slight shift in the visible part of his face when I mention Gran's
name. Suddenly the heavy wood door slams shut and I hear the rattle of the
chain before the door is jerked open, revealing a slightly stooped but still
tall man, an expression of wary curiosity on his grizzled face. I notice the
tremor in his hand as he extends it toward me.

"I'm Albert Jackson, Jr., but most folks just call
me Junior. You mean to tell me Mattie Webster is still alive?"

My hand is lost inside his larger one as he shakes it
heartily and then continues to hold it. "Yessir," I answer.
"She's still alive and kicking. She'll be really happy to hear I found
you." I watch him closely as I add, "She still plays cards every week
with your sister, Miss Adelle, and their good friend, Miss Grace Clark."

"How about that?" he says. His smile looks
sad now and his expression becomes distant as he releases my hand to rub his
own across his head. He shakes his head slightly. "It's sho been a long
time since I talked to them folks down South." He looks me up and down and
I think of the charmer he must have been. "Miss Billy Webster, you are the
spitting image of Mattie Webster!"

He seems to suddenly remember that Travis is standing
behind me, and after I introduce Travis again, he asks us in.

We enter a front room that looks like it hasn't changed
since the 1930s. Faded patterned carpet covers the floor and the furniture is
spare, consisting mostly of a pair of worn wingback chairs near the small
fireplace, where a gas heater has been added. The heater glows with a low flame
filling the room with stuffy heat. There's a table between the chairs, and I
notice a stubbed-out cigar in an ashtray and a cup of black coffee beside it. A
beautiful antique upright piano sits in the corner, and beside it a drop-leaf
table holding several boxes of records and what looks to be an old turntable.
More boxes of records sit on the floor near the piano.

Mr. Jackson offers me the chair opposite him and Travis
sits on the piano stool, glancing longingly at the box of records. I know he's
dying to dig through them. Mr. Jackson eases slowly into his chair and is
offering us coffee, when he's seized by a paroxysm of coughing that seems to
leave him exhausted. When he's able to stop he reaches for his cup.

"Are you okay?" I ask. "Can I get you
anything?"

He shakes his head. "No, I'm all right. Just an
old man with bad habits. Doctor keeps trying to get me to give up cigars, but a
man can't give up everything, now, can he?" He notices Travis reaching
carefully down to flip through the box of records on the floor. "You a
jazz fan, Travis?"

Travis jumps like a little boy caught stealing candy
and straightens. "Yessir, I am. You've got an unbelievable collection
here. May I?" he asks, gesturing toward the boxes.

"Sure, help yourself," Mr. Jackson says.
"How 'bout you pick us out something? I always like a little music
playing." He turns back to me and smiles. "Now, what y'all want with
an old man like me? Both y'all live down there in Mississippi?"

"No, we both live here. I work for the Chicago
City Planning Division, but I grew up in Clarksville. I visit Gran every couple
of months or so, and last time I was home we were talking about restoring the
Queen City Hotel. Do you remember the place?"

Mr. Jackson sits back in his chair, extends his long
legs in front of him, and closes his eyes as Travis places the needle on the
record and the sweet, scratchy sounds of a trumpet begin to wend through the
room. I'm realizing that this is not going to be a quick process. I glance over
at Travis, who seems equally lost in the music. I stifle my impatience with the
two of them and wait.

"Duke Ellington," Mr. Jackson mumbles.

"Not many people have this one," Travis
answers.

"You know, I've got a solo on that one," Mr.
Jackson says, seeming to completely forget about me.

"No shit?" says Travis. "This is so
cool, Mr. Jackson. I've looked for this album for years."

Now, I like jazz, but these two are acting like
Pentecostals about to speak in tongues. When Mr. Jackson finally answers my
question, I don't even realize at first that he's talking to me.

"I got my start there, you know," he says.

"You mean at the Queen City Hotel?" I ask.

"Yep, I wasn't nothing but a boy. Mr. Louis
Armstrong took me on."

"Yessir, I've heard the story. That must have been
pretty incredible for you."

"The early days, when the Queen City was hopping,
was heaven for a young boy like me growing up dreaming about being a jazz
musician. Mr. Louis Armstrong gave me my first break."

"Gran showed me the picture of all of you that was
taken the first night you played for him," I say. "Y'all looked so
happy."

"Lord, but we was young," he says, laughing.
"I can still see Gracie's pretty face watching me so proud that night I
played with Louis for the first time. I went on the road with him that very
summer — 1931. We traveled all over the country. It weren't no life for a
woman. Although, I did try to get Gracie to marry me and come on the road with
us."

I nod. "She told us the story of how you came to
Tougaloo and found her, tried to convince her to run away with you. The last
part of the story I heard, she put you off until Christmas. I guess she must
have turned you down?" I can't read the expression on his face when I say
this, but it feels to me like something shut off. I want to know so much more,
but I'm afraid to push him.

"So the Queen City's not in such good shape no
more, huh?" he asks, clearly changing the subject. I glance over at
Travis, who raises his eyebrows and shrugs his shoulders, as if to say,
"Oh, well."

"No, sir. As a matter of fact, it's pretty sad.
But a couple of people in the restoration business who've been looking it over
seem to think that we can bring it back to its original condition. There's a
white woman down there who wants to put it on a new African-American tour
they're starting. They're thinking of maybe making it a community center —
maybe even offering a jazz program — you know, get young people
involved...."

"What's that you say?" He squints his eyes
and looks at me. "African-American what?"

"It's a tour ... you know ... for people to
take.... They see the places around Clarksville that were important historical
landmarks for blacks...."

He laughs, a wheezy sound that gets him coughing again,
and I can't help but laugh with him. Travis's looking at us like he can't
figure out what's going on.

"I don't get it," he says. "What's so
funny?"

Mr. Jackson winks at me and I turn to Travis.
"Just an inside joke," I say, noticing that Travis looks only briefly
like he feels left out before he returns to his fascination with the record
collection. "Seriously, Mr. Jackson, they want to put the Queen City Hotel
on the tour and Gran has agreed to it. I realize that this is none of my
business, but Gran and Miss Adelle and Miss Grace didn't mention that you were
still in Chicago. Then, when I was telling Travis the whole story, he
recognized your name and we've been looking for you ever since."

"Miss Mattie and them know you looking for
me?" he asks.

I'm suddenly feeling uncomfortable, like I might have
gotten into more than I bargained for. "Well ... no," I say, and then
hurry to add, "We think it would be great if you could come back for the
reopening of the Queen City. We were thinking maybe you could be like an artist
in residence. Maybe mentor some of the kids who are into jazz. And I'm sure my
grandmother would love to see you, and so would Adelle. ..." I watch for
his reaction as I add the next part. "And, of course, there's Miss Grace
Clark."

He looks away the instant I mention Grace's name. He
shakes his head. "I just don't know, young lady. I ain't been back to
Clarksville, Mississippi, in more than seventy years. I didn't even go back to
bury my mama and papa. There's a lot I regret, now that I'm sober," he
says, looking down into his coffee cup. "But I'm an old man now. Looks
like it's too late to be showing up there after all these years."

Travis has apparently been listening more than I
thought. He sets down the album he's holding, pushes his reading glasses up on
his head, and clears his throat. "Um ...could I ask you a question,
sir?"

"Yeah, I ain't got no secrets. Ask me anything you
want."

"Why didn't you ever go back? Was it that bad for
you there?"

Mr. Jackson leans back in his chair and takes a sip of
coffee. "No, son, it wasn't all bad." He pauses for so long I almost
think that's all he's going to say. Then he sighs heavily and continues.

"It was right about Christmastime, 1931. We was
playing in New York City the whole month of December that year. I remember I'd
never seen snow before and I was so excited to call home and tell them about
it. I was in a phone booth, putting in my nickels, and that snow was coming
down so hard I couldn't see the street. My mama answered the phone, and as soon
as she heard my voice, she started crying."

"I know," I say. "Miss Adelle told us
what happened to her."

"So I reckon you know what happened to Zero?"
he asks.

I'm puzzled. The ladies didn't mention anything about
Zero. I think for a second. "Oh, yes, Zero is Miss Grace's brother,
right?" He nods. "No, they didn't talk about Zero. Why? What
happened?"

Mr. Jackson pulls open a drawer in the table between us
and takes out a cigar and lighter. His hands tremble as he unwraps the cigar
and lights it. My stomach feels queasy from the smell and the hot, dry
closeness of the small room. When he's puffed the cigar alive he leans forward
in his chair and props his elbows on his knees, looking at the floor.
"White men hung him," he says, and the words are suspended, bitter in
the air.

"Pardon me?" I say. "Did you say
hung
him?"

"Yes, ma'am. Zero was lynched on December
sixteenth, 1931."

I'm filled with anger so intense that hot tears sting
my eyes. No wonder my gran and her friends wouldn't talk about this! I think of
dear old Grace Clark and Miss Adelle. The sadness of what they've endured
overtakes me. How did they do it? Why would anyone stay in Mississippi? I can't
even formulate a response. The three of us sit there silently watching the
smoke from Mr. Jackson's cigar float into the air. Finally, Travis breaks the
quiet.

"I can see why you wouldn't want to go back,"
he says softly.

"I'm not proud of what I done. Right after I found
out about Zero, I was so full of hate I walked around in a daze, going from one
gig to another, and pouring all of my anger into that piano. I'm ashamed to
admit it, but back then, I was afraid to go back. Afraid I'd end up like Zero.
Funny thing is, I woke up a few years down the road and found myself in demand.
Hot bands all over Chicago wanted me and the ladies flocked to me like chickens
to corn. Up here in Chicago I found myself steady work and black folks who
didn't live every day scared of whites. They weren't necessarily any better off
than the folks in Mississippi, but after what I'd seen and heard it sure seemed
better.