by Lynne Bryant
Grandma always says, "Y'all got to take this opportunity now and make something of yourselves. Can't nobody keep you down if you got an education. Don't you worry about what white people say about you. You just smile and keep on reading. Read every book you can get your hands on."
We don't dare let Grandma down. Mama went to school here, too. She made it through high school before she had Tom. Tom and I want to make it all the way through high school, too.
Tom calls me and motions toward a desk at the front of the room. "You sit here on account of you being a first-grader. I'm a third-grader, so I sit two rows back. You'll be close to teacher, so she can help you a lot."
He makes sure I'm settled into the desk before he hurries back to greet a boy I don't recognize. This boy is dressed in the finest clothes I've ever seen on a colored boy. He and Tom start to whisper and push each other, making eyes at the girls who are huddled in a group in the back of the room, whispering.
I jump when Miss Wilson taps on the desk with her ruler. "Class, come to order now."
Everyone quickly settles down. It gets so quiet I can hear my heart beat.
"We have a new pupil today," teacher says, "Miss Grace Clark. She will be starting first grade. Stand up and say hello, Grace."
This is terrifying. I stand and nod, and stare at everybody's feet. I notice that Tom and I, along with the boy Tom was talking to and one other girl, are the only ones besides teacher who are wearing shoes. I think that I must be pretty lucky to have shoes for school. I'm so distracted by all those dusty feet, I don't hear Miss Wilson tell me to sit down. Miss Wilson nudges my shoulder.
"Grace? You may sit down now."
Everyone laughs and I still can't look up so I plunk myself into my desk, fold my hands, and wait to see what will happen next. It's not what I expect. From the back of the room, there's a loud scream. I turn around just in time to see a big old green bullfrog jump from the desk of one of the prettiest girls in the group I was watching earlier. Tom and his friend have their heads down on their desks turned toward each other, and they're trying to keep from laughing.
"What in the world?" Miss Wilson says. She still hasn't seen the frog. He's sitting on the sill of the only window in the room. He looks like he's saying, "Let me out, please, let me out."
"It was a big old bullfrog in my desk, Miss Wilson. When I opened my desk to get my pencil, it jumped out at me. I'm sorry I screamed." The pretty girl looks worried, like she thinks teacher might blame her for the frog being there.
All of a sudden I remember hearing an odd sound coming from Tom's lunch bucket this morning. And he was carrying it awful careful-like. Maybe he was hunting for more than squirrels this morning. He's sitting up straight now, still smirking around the mouth. No one else moves. From the window, the frog lets out a loud croak. That's when giggles spread across the room. Miss Wilson stops them with one look. She walks real slow back to where Tom is sitting. I don't know how Miss Wilson knows it was Tom, but she does.
"Thomas Clark, would you accompany me over to the window, please."
"Yes'm."
I can tell he's trying to look humble, but he still has that smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth. Tom follows Miss Wilson to the window, and when her back is to him, he turns around, raises his eyebrows, and gives his friend a big grin. At least that other boy has the good sense not to smile back.
Teacher gets to the window where that frog is just sitting there and says, "Thomas, would you please retrieve the frog and carry him to the front of the room."
Tom looks like he's not quite sure what "retrieve" means, but he goes ahead and picks up the frog. It squirms and croaks and tries to wiggle free.
"You want me to take him outside, teacher?"
"Oh, no, Thomas. Since he has decided to visit our classroom today, I want you to make him feel right at home. So you just hold him tight while you write your numbers on the blackboard."
Miss Bessie Wilson is a smart teacher. She knows the trouble Tom will get into with Mama when that frog pees on his only school shirt is worse than any punishment she could dole out. Poor Tom stands at the chalkboard, holding that squirming, long-legged, croaking frog under his arm, and writes his numbers. When he gets to fifty, teacher lets him stop. She walks to the left side of the board, where Tom started with number one. I am really proud of myself, because I recognize the first ten of those numbers. Mama's been teaching me at the kitchen table at night.
Miss Wilson points with a long stick to the number one. "Thomas, what number have you left out that comes before this number?"
Poor Tom wrestles with the frog, and the class tries to stifle another round of giggles as he looks down at the stream of yellow on his shirt. "Um, there ain't no ... I mean there isn't a number before one."
"That is correct, Mr. Clark. And how do we symbolize that amount?"
More wrestling. Finally, Tom shoves the frog under his arm, and writes a big zero on the board in front of the one. "It's a zero, Miss Wilson."
"That is correct. And do you know what zero means, Mr. Clark?"
"Yes'm, zero means none." Tom looks like he's fixing to cry when that frog adds some brown to the yellow streaks on his shirt. The girls in the back of the room are making disgusted noises. I am mortified. What is he going to tell Mama? How long is teacher going to make him hold that frog?
Miss Wilson gets right up in Tom's face and peers down at him over her glasses. "Please remember this, Thomas Clark. Zero is how much tolerance I have for your antics. Do you understand me?"
"Yes'm."
"And another thing ..." She pauses and Tom and the frog squirm some more. "Zero is how much progress you will make in your life if you continue to make a joke of this school and everything we have worked to provide for you."
"Yes'm."
"Now, go put that poor creature outside and get back to your desk."
By the time I finish my story about my first day at the Union School, Roxanne has long since finished her pie and coffee. She sits staring at me, seemingly asking for more.
"And after that," I say, as I finish the last bite of my apple pie, "everyone started calling him Zero. Except for Mama and Miss Wilson, of course. It just sort of stuck. And Zero was different after that day. He started talking about making something of himself, getting out of Clarksville, maybe even becoming a lawyer or a doctor."
"And did he?" Roxanne asks.
"Well, now, that's a story for another day." I suddenly realize my old heart can't take any more memories today. "I reckon you'd better get me home. I'll be needing my nap soon."
Roxanne looks a little taken aback, but she gathers her things and looks around the cafe again while she's helping me up. I'm thinking she's remembered how strange this is, and she's wondering if folks have been watching us. On the way out I stop to speak to another one of my students, who's come in while we were talking, and Roxanne stands patiently behind me waiting. I wonder again how this is going to work out. I can already tell she likes a good story, but how quickly will she tire of mine?
Chapter 3
Roxanne
I turn into the long driveway leading to Pecan Cottage. It is already Tuesday again. The week has flown by. I'm not sure why, but I have felt uneasy all week. Maybe it's because I have so much work to do and here I am, taking another day to meet with Grace Clark. Last week certainly got us nowhere. Del Tanner was just about as rude as a man can be.
Would it have been so difficult for Del to let us take a quick look at his warehouse? You'd think he would be happy to be involved in the pilgrimage. It's not going to hurt him any. All it involves is a historical marker and a few brochures. But he sure doesn't see it that way. He acts like if people know the first black school was on his property, he'll lose business.
I wonder what it must have been like for a six-year-old girl to walk all the way from Pecan Cottage to Clarksville every day. I know she and her brother went through the woods, but I clocked the distance on my odometer from my house in town and
it came to a little over six miles. Amazing. A lot of those children had even farther to go, and without shoes. I remember getting on the school bus in the bayou before the sun was up and riding for an hour each way, but at least I didn't have to walk.
Grace has coffee waiting for me again.
"Where are we going today?" I ask.
"I have something special planned for us. We're going to visit my old friend Adelle Jackson. Adelle lives downtown on Fifth Avenue North. Her father was the first black doctor in town, Dr. Albert Jackson."
Good. Now we're getting somewhere. This has got to be better than some warehouse full of lumber. People might actually want to see a house. I try to remember the location. It seems like I dropped Ola Mae off at her cousin's in that area a few times.
"Let's see now ... Fifth Avenue North ... I know that street. Isn't there a church on that street, too?"
"Yes, the Missionary Union Baptist Church."
Our drive into Clarksville is quiet, as usual. Grace always seems to be lost in her own thoughts. I wonder if that's the case for most people her age. My mama didn't live much past sixty and I never knew my grandmother, so I don't have much experience with the elderly. Well, except for Mrs. Stanley, but that was so long ago. And then there's delivering the church food boxes. But most of those people are on death's doorstep. Grace Clark's memories always seem as fresh as today's bread. I'm surprised by the number of details she can remember. I decide to break the silence with a question.
"Was this man your doctor when you were a child?"
"You might say that, although I don't remember needing a doctor much as a child. Dr. Jackson and his wife, Anna Lee, lived in the back of his mother's house on Catfish Alley for years. During that time he and one helper built the house you'll see today. Then he opened up his medical practice there." She pauses and stares out the window. "Gracious, the black folks were proud of that man."
Following Grace's directions, I turn on Fifth Avenue North. We drive past an old clapboard church, several nondescript cottages, and finally pull up in front of a redbrick Queen Anne-style house with white gingerbread trim. Wide brick steps lead to a deep front porch that runs the entire width of the house. The porch extends out around a large bay window and three baskets stuffed full of trailing pink petunias hang overhead. The front door is wide and I think it's probably mahogany. It looks hand-hewn.
The house seems a little neglected. The shutters are loose in some places and the paint is chipping. The shrubs are overgrown and the flower beds need weeding. But I am pleased with the potential. With a little care, this place could be beautiful. Funny, in all of my years in Clarksville, I have never noticed this house before.
As I get out of the car, I see two black women and several children watching me from the porch of the house across the street. They are probably curious about why I'm visiting in this part of town. It still feels odd to me to be chauffeuring a black woman around. Whites and blacks don't mix socially in Clarksville. I remember when my school in the bayou was integrated. I was in the sixth grade. Even then, I had goals for myself and I knew better than to mix with blacks. By then I had been going to the Stanleys' during the summers with Mama for a couple of years. Mama would pile us into the old blue truck and we'd rattle down the River Road before sunup when everything was still misted over with fog from the river. We never drove in the main driveway of the plantation. We took the back road and parked behind the barn with the rest of the help.
Everyone except Mama was black. Mama chatted and gossiped with the maid and the gardener like they were old friends. I guess they were, since they'd all been working for the family for years. The black people didn't get to bring their kids, though. I remember one time I asked Mama why. She said the lady of the house was not about to have a bunch of pickaninnies running around the place looking like the Stanleys were still keeping slaves. I was different. I had manners and I needed to learn how to cook.
When I asked Mama why, she was shocked. "Why, because every woman needs to know how to cook, Chere! How a girl gone catch a man if she can't cook?"
But I didn't have much interest in cooking. I was too busy taking in every possible detail I could about how wealthy people lived, ate, moved, and talked. I made it my mission to be as visible as I could to Mrs. Stanley. I wanted her to see that I could be different. Mama let me bring her things like coffee and muffins in the morning. As I got older, Mrs. Stanley started asking me to help her with her correspondence or to bring her things. I copied the way she talked and her manners with other people. She was a lonely person. Her sons had both died in World War II and so she never had any grandchildren. I decided I would become the granddaughter she'd never had.
I refocus my thoughts on the present, go around to help Grace out of the car, and we start up the steps. Before we reach the top, the door opens and a tall black woman, who looks about the same age as Grace, comes out onto the porch. She wipes her hands on her apron as she hurries to meet us. It's surprising how agile she is for her age. When she reaches us she laughs and throws her arms around Grace.
"Grade! It's so good to see you. This is quite a treat, getting to visit with you twice in one week!"
Grace returns the hug and gives her a big kiss on the cheek. These two old women act like girls with their hugging and chatter.
"Adelle, I would like you to meet my new friend, Roxanne Reeves," Grace says as she gestures toward me. Adelle extends her hand and I shake it. She has a powerful grip for an old lady.
"I'm happy to meet you, Mrs. Reeves," Adelle says. "Y'all come on in the house."
As we follow Adelle, I notice that the wicker furniture on the porch is antique, and in a style popular in the early 1900s. Other than needing some minor recaning, it's in good shape. The windows that I can see as we cross the porch still have their original wavy glass. Good. At least she hasn't replaced them with those ghastly aluminum windows.
The entrance hall is wide with rooms on either side. Adelle brings us into the room off to the left. "We'll sit in here for now and y'all can tell me how I can help you," she says.
We sit at a small oak table laid with china in a pattern I recognize as late-nineteenth- century Appalachian Rose from Tennessee. I can't help but get excited. What other treasures does this woman have in this house? She probably doesn't know what a gold mine of antiques she's sitting on. People might actually want to see this. The room is a little stuffy; those old gold velvet drapes are looking a little threadbare, but they're passable.
"I don't use this room very often anymore, since I don't have many visitors," Adelle says."Is this where your father saw patients?" I ask.
"Oh, no. This was where we received guests. Papa saw his patients in the room across the hall. I'll show you when we've finished our coffee. Grace, I have a surprise for you." Adelle removes the cover from a lovely cake plate — probably made in the early 1900s — to reveal a delicious-looking cake.
"Oh, Addie! My favorite." Grace turns to me. "Addie makes the best coconut cake in Mississippi."
"Many more of these Tuesday mornings and I'm going to be as big as the side of a barn!" I say. "I've had more good food since I've been meeting with you than I've had in years."
"Addie's grandmother created this recipe. She worked for Mr. A. W. Spencer over there on College Street. This was his favorite cake."
I put my fork down. "Arvis Spencer, the bank president?"
"No, his daddy, A. W. Spencer the First," Adelle says. "She was his cook and housekeeper."
I feel as though I've stepped back into Mama's world. I never imagined myself having cake and coffee with black service people — or their relatives. Growing up, they were Mama's only friends. I feel a pang of guilt again, remembering her response when I asked her why she was so friendly with blacks.
"You think you better than these people I work with? You think you better than me? You just look out that you don't reach too far, Chere. You might think you can be somebody else, leave behind your family and your roots, but you c
an't. You as Cajun as your daddy and me and you might as well get proud of it."
But I didn't get proud of it. I did everything in my power to erase it. I kept going to the Stanleys' with Mama all through high school. When I was a junior, we lost Daddy to emphysema. I still remember the rattle of his breathing coming from their tiny bedroom in our house on the bayou. That's the way Mama and I knew he was still alive at the end of the day when we'd come back home. We could hear him waging his battle for oxygen when we walked in the back door.
One day when we returned, the house was quiet. All we could hear was the regular puff of his oxygen tank. We both froze. I followed Mama into the room and we found him sitting there in their bed. He was wearing a cap and a camouflage jacket. His boots were on and still wet. In spite of Mama's insistence that he stay in bed, we knew he had been out on his pirogue for one last ride.
That was the only time I remember Mama not going to work. Daddy died on Wednesday, we buried him on Friday, and Mama was back to work by Saturday morning. And I was there with her. By this point I had gotten close enough to Mrs. Stanley that she had started to let me help her with her restoration projects. She had done everything she could to Oak Grove, and now she and Mr. Stanley had bought a second plantation home, also on the River Road, to restore.
Mrs. Stanley helped me understand that it could undermine a woman's ambition to reveal her poor background. Men could use childhood poverty to show how they had risen out of their humble beginnings and made something of themselves, but "Not so for a woman," said Mrs. Stanley, smoking her long thin cigarette. "A woman can't afford to reveal her flaws. They will always be held against her. She will always be classified as trying to be more than she is. A woman should never expose her soft underbelly."
