by Lynne Bryant
Daddy always told me that I needed to grow up and make something of myself, leave the bayou and see what was beyond her waterlogged levees. Mama, on the other hand, said I was too big for my britches, that I thought I was too good for hard work. Thing is, she was probably right. I wanted nothing to do with the life they had. I wanted to get as far away from that swampy, gator-infested place as I could. Daddy's been gone now for more than twenty-five years and I haven't thought about him in a long time. The first time I met Delbert Tanner I wondered what Daddy would have thought of him. More often, these days, I wonder what Daddy would think of me.
Inside the office, a woman sits behind a large metal desk. She looks up as I walk in. She looks so familiar to me; I wrack my brain and finally place her. She was my checker at the Sunflower grocery store just last week. She is probably around my age, mid-forties. Her hair is a strange shade of red, somewhere between legitimate auburn and the color of a pumpkin pie. She is wearing a lavender knit sweater that, I must say, doesn't do much to hide her belly roll and a plaid skirt that looks like something from the sixties. She's friendly, though.
"Good morning, may I help you?"
"Yes. I was hoping to talk to Del. My name is Roxanne Reeves. I did some business with Mr. Tanner back in the spring. He might remember me. Is he in the office today?"
"Yes, ma'am. He is. I'll check with him. Please, have a seat."
While I wait, I wander over to the old black-and-white framed photos on the wall. They show the way the mill and lumberyard looked in the late 1920s. The Davenports still owned the mill then. The secretary tries in vain several times to use the telephone intercom to contact Mr. Tanner. Each time she buzzes through to him, she accidentally disconnects right after he answers. After the fourth try, the office door bursts open and Del Tanner springs into the reception area like a wild cat. He looks older than I remember, his weathered skin almost too tight for his angular frame and his slicked-back hair a yellowish gray.
"Dammit, Ruth! How many times are you going to push that thing? I must've answered you five times!"
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Tanner! I just can't seem to get the hang of it."
"Well, what is it? I've got work to do."
Ruth nods toward me. "This is Mrs. Reeves. She is here to see you."
Tanner looks up in surprise. Apparently, in his tirade, he hadn't noticed me. Now, of course, he is all smiles. He walks over to me with his hand out.
"Hello there, Mrs. Reeves. Good to see you again. Please, come in and tell me how I can help you today."
I follow him into his office and sit in the uncomfortable folding metal chair he offers me. Tanner slides into the chair behind his wide pine desk, leans forward and smiles broadly, showing a gold front tooth. "I remember doing business with you, Mrs. Reeves. You came in about those beams for the Dillard kitchen, didn't you?"
I nod. I bet you remember, I think to myself. That was quite a lucrative transaction for you. Personally, I thought the price was ridiculously high, but Rose Dillard was tenacious. Once she heard that the beams were milled locally in approximately the same year her summer kitchen was built, there was no stopping her. Of course, I'm comfortable negotiating for lumber to remodel a one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old structure, but I'm not sure how I'm going to get that little old black woman waiting for me in the car through the gates of Del Tanner's lumberyard.
"Mr. Tanner ..."
"Please, call me Del." Another flash of the gold tooth.
"Del ... You may not know that I am the director of the Clarksville Pilgrimage Tour of Antebellum Homes. We plan the annual spring Pilgrimage Tour, several events related to the history of the area, and the Holiday Home Tour."
"Yes, yes, I know the pilgrimage. Good for business in town, I hear. 'Course those tourists aren't buying lumber" — he laughs at his own humor — "but I support what's good for Clarksville. I didn't know you were the director, though. That must be a big job."
"Yes, it's a pretty big job...."
"Are you needing something for a restoration project? Because I just got in a load of beams from a torn-down house over in Yalobusha County. They'd be perfect for a restoration."
"No, Mr. Tan ... Del. What I'm interested in is the building you keep that lumber in."
"Come again?"
"It has been proposed to our committee that we include an African-American tour as part of the pilgrimage events."
Tanner rolls his chair back from the desk, crosses his arms, and stretches out his long legs. He looks puzzled. "What's that got to do with me?"
"Are you aware that your warehouse was once a school for black children?"
Tanner laughs and looks at his watch. "No, ma'am, I sure wasn't aware of that. This business has been in my family for more than sixty years and nobody ever said nothing about a school around here. All that building's ever been to me is a storage warehouse for old lumber. Listen, Mrs. Reeves, I hate to hurry you, but I've got a load of pine coming in here in about fifteen minutes ..."
It starts to dawn on me that this might not work out.
"I won't take much more of your time. What I'd like is for you to let me drive through the gate so that Miss Grace Clark, our consultant for the African-American tour, can show me that building."
"Consultant? You got you some educated nigger from up north to consult? How about you hire me as your consultant? You want to have an African-American tour in Clarksville, Mississippi? I'll tell you where you ought to be touring. Down there at the unemployment office is where you'll find 'em all. I hire them, but I can't keep one on the job. Drink up their paycheck, beat their wives, get thrown in jail, and don't show up on Monday morning."
I wasn't ready for this and I'm not sure how to react. He does have a point about the black people and the unemployment office, but still there are the Humboldts and their insistence on this tour.
"No, we don't have a consultant from the north. Grace Clark was a schoolteacher for many years at the black elementary school and then at Clarksville Elementary after they integrated. She knows a lot about the history of the area."
"Look, Mrs. Reeves, that's all well and good, but I don't have time this morning to escort you and this old black woman around the lumberyard. I'm sorry, but you're going to have to come back another time."
"So you're saying that if we make an appointment, you'll take us through the warehouse?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'll take you through it, or I'll get one of my boys to do it. But I'm going to tell you right now. My lumberyard is not going to be part of some trumped up African-American tour." He says African-American as if the words are sour in his mouth. "I do that and I'll be out of business in a year." He stands up and opens the door of his office. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Mrs. Reeves."
Grace
When I see the look on Roxanne's face as she comes out the door of the lumber office, I know it didn't go well. Mouth all set in a straight line, forehead all furrowed up. I can't say I'm surprised. I've known the Tanner family since I was a little girl. White folks think the Tanners are upstanding citizens in this community. But white folks are going to think what they want to think. Delbert's daddy, Ray Tanner, has been dead about twenty-five years now, as I recall. His son is just like him, though. Del Tanner might not be a Klansman, but he thinks like one. I wonder for the hundredth time why I'm putting myself through this.
Roxanne opens the car door, throws her purse down on the seat between us, and plops herself down. She grips the steering wheel and looks out through the windshield at that building like she can't figure out what just happened. She turns to me and starts to say something, stops, starts again, and finally just says, "Miss Clark, that didn't go very well."
I figure she might as well get used to it. If this white woman is going to try to head up an African-American tour in the town of Clarksville, she'd better get a little more realistic about what she's dealing with. Poor thing, all caught up in her romantic ideas about Scarlett O'Hara and how people loved their darkies. She's never seen what's
right under her nose.
"What happened?" I ask.
"He ... well, he ..."
I have a hunch Delbert Tanner probably used some strong words Roxanne is not accustomed to hearing. Her social set prides itself on their enlightened attitude toward black folk. But when it comes right down to it they're just as uncomfortable as Del Tanner's type.
Roxanne is talking now, trying to be tactful. "It sounds like he's very busy today. Something about a load of lumber coming in any minute now. He wants us to schedule an appointment to look at the warehouse ... Miss Clark, this is just one old building. Aren't there others? I mean, surely there are better-looking places than this?"
Bless her heart. "How about you drive me over to Sanders Cafe? We'll have a piece of pie and I'll tell you a story about that old warehouse."
Obviously Roxanne Reeves has been taught to respect her elders, even old black women. She doesn't argue.
"All right then, we'll go over to the cafe, if that's what you want. Did you want to show me anything else today?"
"No. We'll just start here for today."
Sanders Cafe is one of the few places in Clarksville where you see just about the same number of white folks as black. I figured Mrs. Reeves won't be too nervous about us coming here together. I don't get to town much these days, so I get stopped twice before we're in the door with folks speaking and asking after me. When we walk in, several of the black folk seated around nod and smile. Of course, I've got to chat for a minute with Mary Ellen.
"Hey, Miss Grace! It's so good to see you. What brings you to town today?" Mary Ellen comes around the counter to give me a big hug. She's a sweet girl — I believe she was one of my students sometime in the seventies. Making a good living for herself with this cafe. She has the place fixed up real nice, even got each room of the old house painted a different color, white curtains in the windows. I like it because it's homey, but mostly because the woman can cook. I've never known a white woman who could cook such good pies.
Mary Ellen glances past me to Mrs. Reeves, but I don't think she realizes we're here together. It occurs to me that I'm too old to be conducting my own little social experiment. But here we are. Roxanne is studying the pies in the case like she's in a museum or something. Probably wondering what I'm going to say.
"Mary Ellen, you know Mrs. Roxanne Reeves, I reckon," I say and look over at the back of her head, where she's still bent toward the pie case. She pops up then and gives Mary Ellen a stiff little smile.
"Hello, Mary Ellen," she says.
"Yes, ma'am, of course," says Mary Ellen, nodding at Roxanne. "How are you today?" Mary Ellen is looking at both of us like we're the strangest pair she's seen in a while.
"Fine, thank you," says Roxanne.
"Roxanne and I are doing some historical work together," I say. "She's looking into the places around here that were important to black folk years ago." Roxanne is looking all fidgety now, picking at something on her sleeve.
"Oh, I see," says Mary Ellen. It's pretty clear to me that she has no idea what I'm talking about, but she's too polite to ask. "Isn't that something?" She seems to not know what else to say, so she moves around behind the counter and adds, "What can I get for y'all today?"
I realize right then that in all my years of coming to the cafe, I've personally never arrived with a white person to sit down together to eat. They sit at their tables and we sit at ours. Nowadays, you see a mix every now and then, but not much. I wonder about myself. What was I thinking, asking her to bring me here?
We order pieces of Mary Ellen's apple pie and coffee and settle ourselves at a corner table. I think Roxanne is trying to ignore the looks from folks around the room and get this over with.
"So, you were going to tell me about the school," Roxanne says.
"When I was a little girl, my brother, Zero — his given name was Thomas — and I lived with my mother and my grandmother in a small house on the Calhoun plantation. I remember my first day at the Union School. I was so excited. That was also the day my brother got his nickname...."
Roxanne starts to relax around the shoulders a little bit, stops glancing around the room so much. I always could calm the children with my stories. Maybe it will work for her, too.
September 1919
"Grace! Thomas!" Mama hollers. "Y'all get on in here. Breakfast is ready. These biscuits get-tin' cold."
I run from the outhouse toward the kitchen, trying to twist one of my braids and pull my new dress into place at the same time. Mama stands in the kitchen doorway and laughs at how excited I am.
"Calm down, girl. You are going to wear yourself out before you even get to school. Go over there to the pump and wash your hands before you come eat. Where's your brother?"
"I don't know, Mama." I push down on the pump handle and shiver as the cold water pours over my hands. I rub on the lye soap, rinse off quick, and stop myself just in time from drying my hands on my clothes. Grandma worked hard on this school dress. I sure don't want to ruin it before I even get to wear it anywhere. Mama waits at the back door and folds me into her skirt for a big hug.
"Maybe Tom went hunting," I say. "Grandma told him she wanted him to get some squirrel for supper."
"Maybe so. Lord knows I can't keep that boy out of the woods. But he knew this was the first day of school. He better get back here soon, or we'll be having some words."
I climb into my chair at our old beat-up kitchen table and tie a dishcloth under my chin to protect my new dress while Mama fills my plate with biscuits, gravy, and sausage and fixes me a cup of milk coffee. Just as I'm about to eat, Tom comes busting in the back door, out of breath, carrying three squirrels upside down by the tails.
"Boy, get yourself in here and eat," Mama says. "School starts in an hour and a half and your sister is going with you today. Hang those squirrels up out back. Make sure the dog can't get to them. I'll skin and dress them after breakfast."
"Thanks, Mama." Tom slides into his chair and takes the plate she hands him. He looks across the table at me. "You excited about school, Grade?"
My mouth is stuffed full of biscuit, so I nod and smile big. Today is the first day I get to walk through the pine woods and over the creek with Tom. The Union School is the same school where Great-Grandma, Grandma, and
Mama went. I even have shoes.
Just as Tom and I are fixing to leave, Mama hands each of us a tin bucket that's got fried apple pies wrapped in wax paper, a piece of the leftover breakfast sausage, and a fat triangle of corn bread. Grandma Clark meets us as we're going out the back door. She's just coming in from picking the last of the tomatoes in the garden. A lot of them are still green, but Grandma'll put them on newspaper in the pantry and they'll get ripe all the way until Thanksgiving. Grandma hands her basket to Mama and then pulls us into her soft bosom.
"Y'all make me proud now."
"We will, Grandma," Tom and I say together.
"Come on, Grace, let's get going." Tom gives me a little push out the door.
I've never been this far from home on foot before. I've only been to town in the wagon twice that I can remember. Tom holds my hand and gives me the older brother speech about how to act at school. The sun is just starting to come up over the cotton fields when we reach the woods. I have to walk careful through the underbrush so that I don't snag my new dress.
It takes us about an hour to get to Clarksville. It's so exciting to see the town coming to life. People are outside on the sidewalks sweeping and wagons are being loaded in front of the feed store. I can even see a big black automobile parked way down the street in front of a tall building. Tom says it's the white folks' bank. We turn, cross the railroad tracks, and head for a long low building with a sign hanging over the wide door.
"There it is, Gracie," Tom says. "You see that sign up there? It says Union School."
Suddenly, all of the excitement I've been feeling all morning turns to lead in my stomach. What if I can't do it? What if I can't learn and I let Mama and Grandma do
wn? Tom must sense how scared I am, because he puts his arm around me and leads me toward the door.
"Come on. It's going to be fine. You're going to love it. Look, here's teacher." Tom points to the tallest colored woman I've ever seen. She looks like an angel. She's wearing a long blue calico dress with little white buttons down the back. I can see them when she turns to say hello to the other students piling into the school. Her dress has a white collar with real lace trim, and at her throat is a round pin with a picture of a face on it. She has smooth, not kinky, hair that is piled up on top of her head. As Tom pulls me close to her, I can smell her. She smells like roses and lemons. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
Tom plays his part as the man of the family.
He pushes me in front of him and grins at the teacher. "Miss Wilson, this is my sister, Grace Clark. She's just starting today."
Miss Bessie Wilson kneels down, takes my hand, and all of my worries slip away. I decide right then and there I will do anything it takes to please this woman.
"Welcome, Grace Clark," Miss Wilson says. Her voice reminds me of the gray doves that coo at twilight. "Are you happy to be going to school with your brother?"
I still can't find my voice, but nod my head real big and follow Tom and the others into the school. I look around, trying to see everything, while Tom takes my dinner bucket and lines it up on the shelf with all the others. The room is wide and bare except for three rows of desks in the middle and a large desk for the teacher at the front.
My grandma has told me our family history with this school so many times, but now it all seems so much more real to me. Grandma came to this school when it was the Freedman's school, the first colored school opened by the Freedman's Bureau after the War. The Calhoun family freed Great-Grandma and Great-Grandpa and they stayed on the Calhoun property to be cotton sharecroppers. Grandma was one of the first children to go to the school in this building. She says it was a hospital for the soldiers during the War.
