Catfish Alley (39 page)

"The years went by so fast I couldn't keep track.
I did everything I could to put Mississippi out of my mind. Between the
nightlife, the shows, the booze, and the women, I lost myself in a sea of slide
piano and Jack Daniel's. But things changed, music changed, and I got old. The
arthritis in my fingers keeps me from playing like I used to. Now I'm just
another dried-up old Chicago musician with no retirement, no savings, and
living on social security."

"You never went back to visit at all? Never had
contact with any of them?" I ask.

"No, ma'am, I didn't. Couldn't bring myself to go
back there. Looking back on it now, I think after a while, I was ashamed."
I realize now that there are tears running down his cheeks. He reaches into his
pocket and pulls out a worn handkerchief and wipes his eyes. "I never
could get over feeling guilty for living when Zero died. He'd have made a fine
doctor, you know," he says, looking at me. "Addie sent letters over
the years, telling me all about Mattie and Robert, Jr., and their kids, telling
me about Grace and her being such a fine teacher and all. But I never wrote
back. And I moved around so much, I reckon those letters stopped catching up to
me." He sighs. "I was pretty full of myself for a while. When Gracie
stopped writing, I figured she'd decided she was too good for me." He
looks at Travis now as if he'll understand. "There was always a woman
willing to cook my breakfast," he says with a slight grin. Travis nods and
smiles, and I bristle at their male bonding.

"Sounds to me like Miss Grace got her heart
broken," I say, barely able to hide the edge in my voice. Mr. Jackson
looks surprised, as if this possibility hasn't occurred to him.

"Don't you know that she's loved you all these
years? There was never another man for her," I say, realizing I'm probably
getting a little too defensive. Travis shoots me a look that says, "Back
off, Billy."

This starts a fresh round of quiet tears for Mr.
Jackson, and I almost feel guilty for adding to his obvious torment. He sets
his cigar on the ashtray and blows his nose.

"I done a lot of things wrong, Miss Billy,"
he says, and I start to feel like a jerk for being so confrontational.
"The last thing anybody down there needs now is for me to come dragging in
there acting like I've got something to offer anybody." He shakes his
head. "Too much water under the bridge. Too late for me," he says,
picking up the cigar again.

I think about the two women whose stories I listened to
just a couple of weeks ago. How both of their lives hinged on the decisions of
two men: the one sitting here in front of me now and the one I just found out
died brutally before he even got a chance to live his dream. I think about my
own fears, the way I've tried to run away from Mississippi and be someone
different, live a new life. Who am I to judge this man? And I realize then that
those women would take him back with open arms, just like they do me. Not
because we're perfect, but because of their capacity to love.

I reach over and lay my hand on his knee. I can see the
deep well of pain in his eyes

when he looks at me. "Think about it," I say.
"It's never too late to go back home."

Roxanne

The wreath-making party is going better than I
expected. Of course, when Rita walked in you could have knocked the rest of the
women in the room over with a feather. But they've all been extra courteous,
shaking her hand and asking her if she likes Clarksville. Southern women are
nothing if not polite. I'm fascinated by Rita's ability to get them to talk to
her. She's very comfortable with herself; she's even found things in common
with Elsie Spencer. Rita moves right past their awkward responses when she
makes reference to the "black community." As I move around the room,
surreptitiously catching bits of Rita's conversation and thankful to escape
into my role as hostess, I feel that same tug of conflict I keep having lately.
I'm probably the only other person in the room who knows what Rita means about
the black community. I'm still a little incredulous at how differently I see
things now. Will these women see me as a traitor? What, or who, would I be
betraying?

Everyone is talking and laughing and drinking my
cranberry punch. I'm actually enjoying myself for a change. Frankly, I'm good
at this kind of thing — much better than I am at playing Clarksville's African-American historian. If I can just manage to avoid Elsie Spencer's questions and
figure out how to tactfully get a response from Louisa Humboldt about her
restoration, I'll be home free.

As I pass around a fresh tray of canapes, I think about
Grace, Adelle, Mattie, and even Billy Webster. They have all been so accepting
of me over the past few weeks, so willing to bring me into their lives, tell me
their stories. Of course, after what I've learned, it's still beyond me why a
black woman, money or no money, would want to own a house that was built by
slaves. But then it occurs to me,
why not?
If she can pull it off, more power to her!

I'm carrying a tray of empty punch cups into the
kitchen when I look over my shoulder and realize Louisa is following me.

"Wonderful party, darling!" she says, trying
to drawl. "Y'all have such cute little soirees down here." She lowers
her voice as if we are in cahoots. "Great strategy, inviting a black
woman."

Strategy? Is that what I was doing? Strategizing? I set
the tray down on the kitchen counter, sneaking a glance at Ola Mae, who's
standing at the sink washing empty plates. She faces straight ahead, staring
out the kitchen window. I swear that's a smirk on her face.

"Imagine me, making a wreath out of magnolia
leaves. I've never been very crafty, you know," Louisa continues.
"Listen, Roxanne, I was wondering if you found anything in that old diary
of Ellen Davenport's that might help with our restoration plans?"

Uh-oh.
I've been so busy that I completely forgot about that diary. I tried to read
some more of it a couple of times after I found the parts about Zero Clark. But
after Ray Tanner managed to split up Ellen Davenport and her beau, Andy Benton,
it seemed her life was an endless series of empty days spent doing needlepoint
and reading romance novels. She did mention Ray Tanner, Del's father, a couple
of times — I think he must have been trying to court her — but she apparently
loathed him. Given what he did to Adelle, I can see why, although of course
Ellen never knew anything about that. I got so bored with her diary, I stopped
reading. The last time I remember seeing it, it was lying on the floor beside
my bed. I wonder if I accidentally kicked it underneath the dust ruffle.

"Funny you should mention that, Louisa," I
say, scrambling to make something up. "So far, Ellen Davenport doesn't say
much about the house, but I'm still hopeful. I have a little more to
read...." That might be a small white lie. "I'll get it back to you at
our next Pilgrimage Committee meeting."

"And your final estimate, too? For our
restoration? Ellery and I have decided we want you to manage the project."
She winks one of her false eyelashes at me.

"Absolutely," I say. "Thank you so
much." I'm caught completely off guard by this last pronouncement as
Louisa sashays out of the kitchen.

Ola Mae snorts. "Looks like you got yourself a
job."

I stand there, absently putting more toasted pecans in
a crystal bowl, wondering how I feel. I thought I'd be so excited. Instead,
what I'm feeling is ... pretty much nothing. Why do things keep changing?

I'm getting ready to collapse into bed, exhausted, when
I remember the diary. I get down on my hands and knees and look under the bed.
Sure enough, there it is, pushed underneath the edge of the bed frame just out
of sight. I retrieve the diary and crawl into bed with my robe still on. It's
cold tonight. I pull the covers up under my arms and prop the diary on my
stomach. I'm not sure where I left off, probably around October of 1931. I skim
the pages for details about Riverview, and I'm starting to nod off when I get
to December 1931. I'm pleased to see that Ellen writes about the removable wall
between the parlor and the dining room. Not many of the houses had those and this
is an architectural detail that, if restored, will make Riverview unique.
Louisa will be thrilled.

I start to close the diary when the name Ray Tanner
catches my eye. I sit up and read on.

December 14, 7 p.m.

Tonight is our Christmas party. Mama
and Daddy invited fifty people this year. They've opened up the wall between
the dining room and the parlor to make room for dancing. We've been getting
ready for this party for weeks and
I
've hated every minute of it. I have
a confession. I lied to

Mama and told her that I've come
down with one of my sick headaches so I won't be able to go to the party
tonight. She fussed over me for a bit, but she's so worried about having
everything perfect for the party that it wasn't long before she turned me over
to Sarah Jane and left my bedroom.

Sarah Jane's always so good to me
when I'm sick, even when I'm pretending to be. She and I have been getting
along better lately. Tonight I told her about how much I loathe Ray Tanner and
how Mama and Daddy act like they want me to let him court me. When I asked
Sarah Jane what she thought I ought to do, she got real quiet. I thought maybe
she was going to tell me, like Mama always does, that I'll be an old maid if I
keep being so choosy. Instead, she told me about something that happened last
summer.

Ray Tanner forced her to give him
the key to our summer kitchen so he could spy on Zero Clark delivering Andy's
package to me. So that's how he knew about us! But that wasn't the worst of it!
Sarah Jane also told me what Ray Tanner did to her. He's a loathsome beast and
I'm going to make sure Daddy fires him. I think when Daddy hears what Ray did
to Sarah Jane, he will. As soon as the party is over, I'm going downstairs and
tell Daddy what happened. I hate Ray Tanner.

Poor Sarah Jane. She's in love with
Zero Clark, but Zero loves that colored doctor's daughter, Adelle Jackson.
Sarah Jane and I are in the same situation. Neither one of us can have the man
we love. I feel so sorry for her. Zero Clark is a nice man. He tried to help
Andy and me. Sarah Jane says that after Ray Tanner stopped Andy and me from
getting married, he was going after Zero next, but Zero got wind of it and left
town to go off to Alcorn State. Sarah Jane says that's a college for coloreds.
I'm glad Zero's away from here and safe.

The page ends and I close the diary, realizing that Ray
Tanner must have raped Adelle Jackson around the same time that Ellen Davenport
was writing in her diary, December 1931. And it sounds like he did the same
thing to that poor Sarah Jane girl. Ellen was right: He was a loathsome beast!
Ellen must not have known that Zero was back in town that December. I make a
mental note to ask Grace tomorrow to tell me the rest of the story of what
happened that Christmas after Adelle was attacked.

Right now, I need to get some sleep because tomorrow is
Tuesday. Grace and I are scheduled to pick up Clarence Jones to accompany us to
the site where a man named Horace King, a freed slave who was apparently an
important bridge builder in the mid-1800s, built the first bridge over the
Tombigbee River. The bridge has since been torn down, like a lot of the
historical places she tells me about. At least the stories will be preserved,
even if the physical landmarks aren't.

What a strange turn of events this morning. I brought
Ellen's diary downstairs to the kitchen, planning to read some more of it
before I left to pick up Grace. I had just opened an RC and was trying to wake
up when the phone rang. It was Del Tanner, of all people. He asked me if I
still wanted to put his warehouse on my tour. I almost dropped the phone. Was
this the same Del Tanner who just a few weeks ago said it would ruin his
business to have his warehouse on an African-American historical tour?

He sounded nervous, very different from the swagger he
had the day Grace and I visited the lumberyard. I wasn't sure what to say. I'm
thinking surely there must be a catch. I agreed to bring Grace and come by the
lumberyard on Friday and hung up wondering if I should have just turned him
down flat. I don't trust Del Tanner, and I surely don't want to subject Grace
to any of his rudeness.

I'm still pondering Del's change of heart when I start
to read Ellen Davenport's diary entry dated December fifteenth, 1931. It's very
short.

December 15, 8 a.m.

I'm pleased with myself this
morning. Last night, after everyone left, I found Daddy in his den, smoking a
cigar and drinking brandy. I told him all about what Ray Tanner did to Sarah
Jane. I was embarrassed to talk to my own father about such things, but he had
to know. I demanded he fire Ray Tanner as soon as possible.