Catfish Alley

by Lynne Bryant

  "Challenging because?" she asks, dumping artificial sweetener in her tea and stirring. She's not going to let me off the hook easily.

  Okay, I tell myself. Settle down. Don't be so frazzled. It feels like this woman can see right through me. I take a deep breath and make myself stop fiddling with my napkin. After all, I initiated this lunch. I've come this far. Why not try honesty for a change? Dammit, just the bald-faced truth.

  "Here's the thing, Rita," I say, taking a sip of my own tea and looking her in the eye. "There are no African-American owners of antebellum homes in Clarksville — except for Grace Clark, that is. And I'm still not sure about her story. You would be the first to actually purchase one." She nods. "And the women who are on the committee ... well, let me just say that they are less than enthusiastic about your becoming a member."

  "And you?"

  She just doesn't let up! How do I feel? I'm staring at her, knowing she's waiting for an answer, and I realize that I honestly don't have one. A few weeks ago this conversation would not have even taken place. Instead, I'd have done everything in my power to avoid Rita Baldwin until she gave up. I decide to try my strategy of keeping the conversation off of me.

  "I guess what I don't understand is why. Why would you want to own a home that was built by slaves? Believe me, I love the whole antebellum era. I've spent years learning how to restore these places to their former grandeur. Plus, I know everything from how many petticoats they wore under those hoopskirts to what type of food they served at parties. People around here pride themselves on being able to tell stories of their great-great-grandfathers and the battles they fought during the Civil War. They talk about how these houses have been in their families for generations. Or, as in the case of people like the Humboldts, who moved here from Connecticut, they have an intense fascination with the Civil War and they're just thrilled to be part of the whole thing. But why would you —"

  She interrupts. "Why would a black woman want to be part of all of that?"

  "Exactly. Especially when it's all so connected with slavery. The black women I've met through working on this African-American tour don't have anything good to say about the pilgrimage. They seem to think it paints this overly romantic picture of the Old South."

  "I agree."

  "Then why do you want to be a part of it?"

  "The same reason you're putting together this African-American tour. There's another history here. One that's untold."

  With a twinge of guilt it occurs to me that she must think this whole African-American tour was my idea, instead of something I'm doing to get a lucrative restoration contract. It's also beginning to dawn on me what she's trying to do. In my naiveté, I thought she simply wanted to be like us.... Like them? I'm so confused. Did I think she wanted to be like white people? Is she not like white people now? She must see my confusion as I ask, "Rita, what is it that you do? For a living, I mean? Elsie Spencer mentioned that you did something with community service?"

  Rita's smile is polite but there's an edge to her voice. "Ah, yes, Elsie Spencer. I met her at a bank employee barbecue a couple of weeks ago. She couldn't extricate herself from me fast enough after I mentioned the pilgrimage. I got the impression the only black women she's ever had conversation with were holding a dust rag at the time."

  I find myself feeling a little defensive. Of Elsie Spencer? Am I crazy? "Well, I don't know about that —"

  "Come on, Roxanne," she interrupts. "Are you going to tell me that this little town's social register looks any different from any other small town in the South?"

  I'm at a loss here. She's right. The pilgrimage is mainly about social status — white social status. She's still talking, and I have to admit, I'm drawn to her confidence.

  "When I met Jack I was running a nonprofit center for kids in Atlanta. I loved it, but I fell into it accidentally. After Owen, my first husband, died, I needed to do something with my time. Our girls were in college, so they didn't need me. Owen was a pediatrician, so I knew a lot of people in organizations that worked with kids. It was easy to get involved. But I was a history major in college and what I've always wanted to do is start a museum...."

  At first I feel a twinge of excitement to finally meet another woman with a similar educational background. However, that's immediately followed by fear. She's black, after all, and that changes everything. Doesn't it?

  "My great-great-grandmother was a slave," Rita continues. "I grew up in a poor family on the black side of the tracks in Macon, Georgia. I got to college on a United Negro College Fund scholarship, and my mama couldn't have been more proud. This isn't about me trying to be like white folks. Jack and I are in a financial position to buy this kind of house and maybe, just maybe, by doing that, we can tell the other side of the story."

  "What does Jack think about all of this?" I ask.

  "I'm Jack's second wife, you know. We had both lost our spouses when we met. His first wife died three years ago. She was born and raised here and, although she was lovely and smart, she stayed within the expectations of this community. So, Jack thinks I'm a little crazy, but he loves me enough to let me try it. I know I'll get flak from blacks. Half of them will say I'm selling out to the white man and the other half will be proud of Jack and me for what we're trying to do. In the end, we have to do this the way that's right for us."

  I shake my head. I'm impressed with her passion and it's obvious she's prepared herself for this decision. It's just that she's talking about shaking up everything. Here I am caught between a white woman from Connecticut who wants us to tell the history of the black community and a black woman from Atlanta who wants to be part of what has been an all-white event for sixty years. I'm not so sure I'm ready for this. Isn't this new tour enough? Where will it end?

  "You know, people around here don't usually talk this openly about ... race," I say carefully. "I'm just not sure how it will be received. Not that it matters, of course." I hurry to say this last part. For some reason I like that she believes I'm more open than most people in town.

  Rita nods and leans forward. "I know it's complicated. But if we spend our lives staying within the limits of the black community — limits, I might add, that are made by white people — how is it any different from before desegregation?" She's very matter-of-fact about this. I'm not sensing anger from her. No ... it's pride, actually ... and determination.

  "I'm no political activist, but I do want young people, like my new stepchildren and my own daughters, to see me mix with whites. Not because I'm trying to 'act white,' but because I can do anything I want to do."

  I have to ask the question. It seems shallow, but I have to know. "Do you plan to wear a costume and give tours of the home you buy?"

  "You mean, how the hell are you going to pull off having a black woman in a hoopskirt?"

  "Well ... yes," I answer, grateful for the interruption of the waitress to fill our tea glasses. When I look up at Rita again, I find that she's laughing so hard her shoulders are shaking. It's contagious and I find myself laughing, too, not sure whether to be relieved or more confused. Is she laughing at me?

  She catches her breath and dabs at her eyes with her napkin. "If I put on a hoopskirt and stays, my grandmother would roll over in her grave. Not to mention, can you see this figure in one of those getups?" She motions toward her full curves. "To tell you the truth, Roxanne, I haven't figured out that part yet. Do I recruit young black girls to dress as slaves, while the young white girls are out front on the lawn being belles and waving their fans? I don't know how to present what it really was like and deal with this race issue, but I'm damn sure going to try to figure it out."

  I find myself suddenly seeing the Pilgrimage Tour from a different perspective. One I've never considered before. Maybe instead of an elite social status event it could truly be about history — all of the history. Maybe Rita and I can figure this out together. Maybe it's time for something new in Clarksville. Most of all, maybe it's time for something new for me. I feel more hop
eful than I have in a long time. Rita grew up poor and she just admitted that to me as if she wasn't ashamed of it. Where did I go wrong? Why have I thought it necessary all of these years to hide my background? Mrs. Stanley's words echo through my mind again ... "A woman can't afford to reveal her flaws ... They will be held against her." Maybe Mrs. Stanley was mistaken.

  "I want to help you," I say, realizing that my hands are shaking. "I do know of a property that will probably come on the market next spring. And I think it might be perfect for what you have in mind. It's one of the few properties around here that's kept some of the slave quarters intact."

  "Good," she says, smiling at me. "I would appreciate that." She looks down at her plate, then back up at me. I'm uncomfortable with the silence; something is hanging unsaid between us. She's the first to break it.

  "I want you to know that I realize this ... relationship with me probably puts you in a difficult position ... with your friends, that is."

  Right now, I am so tempted to blurt out, What friends? I've spent the past twenty years focused on building an image, not relationships. But I'm not sure I can trust this woman. What if she laughs at me? I feel a strong pull to share my story with her, to finally tell someone who might actually understand. But what if she doesn't? What if, instead, she's repulsed by my lies, by my total focus on appearing to be from a pedigreed Southern family? No, I decide the risk is too great. I actually think I might want this woman to be my friend. How can I ever unravel this web of lies I've made without unraveling my whole life? But then, isn't it unraveling already?

  "Oh, don't worry about that," I reply, trying to appear nonchalant as I change the subject to my own agenda. "Since we're talking about history, have you heard of the Queen City Hotel?"

  Today Grace and I are going down to Catfish Alley to the site of the Penny Savings Bank, where young Zero was headed that day with his nickel when he got waylaid by Ray Tanner and his gang. I fell asleep last night reading Ellen Davenport's diary and picturing Zero Clark standing out under the balcony at Riverview in the middle of the night. Zero must have been around twenty years old then. Funny, I'm beginning to feel more familiar with these people than with my own family. As a matter of fact, I don't know this much about my own parents' histories.

  I've decided not to mention the diary to Grace yet. For some reason, she seems very private about her brother. When I arrive at Pecan Cottage, she is ready and waiting for me at the door.

  "Hello, Grace. No coffee today?"

  "We'll have coffee," she says as she walks toward my car. "Just not here."

  It turns out she's made arrangements for us to meet the man who owns the buildings that were once home to several African-American businesses on Catfish Alley. This includes Jones's Cafe, where, according to

  Grace, the catfish was fried that gave the street its name.

  As we turn onto Fourth Street South, Grace points to a row of brick buildings on the right that don't appear to be in use now. The windows in two of them are boarded up and there's some kind of gang graffiti on one of the walls. Another building still shows what's left of an old 1940s advertisement for RC Cola. I remember noticing the sign before, because RC is my favorite, but I never really paid attention to this part of town. This street, or alley as it used to be called, is usually only a thoroughfare for me to get to other parts of town.

  We stop in front of a small barbershop that appears to be still open for business. A red candy-striped barber pole stands outside and the sign in the window says Jones Barbershop — Haircuts $5.00. Through the wide plate-glass window, I see three chairs, two of which are occupied by black men. Once again, I'm feeling very uncomfortable. I'm not accustomed to being around black men, except when they're doing lawn maintenance or service work of some kind for me. There is a black man who bags my groceries at the Piggly Wiggly, but I don't really talk to any of those people.

  Grace, of course, is serene, as usual. I take a deep breath. If an eighty-nine-year-old woman is not nervous, why should I be? But then, these are her people, not mine.

  When we open the barbershop door, a cowbell clanks over our heads, announcing our arrival. The shop is small, but very clean. It smells of shaving soap and Old Spice cologne. I recognize the smell from Daddy's shaving mug that always sat on the bathroom shelf. A baseball game plays on a small TV that is mounted on the wall in the corner of the shop. The volume is up so loud it's a wonder anybody hears us walk in.

  There is one middle-aged, very clean-cut-looking man in the back barber chair, draped with a white cape. Behind him stands a tall lean man with graying hair and mustache, a pair of scissors poised over the head of his customer, while he looks intently at the small television screen. The third man, younger and dressed in baggy shorts and a T-shirt, sits on an old sofa nearby.

  As the wooden door slams shut behind us, the barber looks up and smiles.

  "Well, look who's here!" He excuses himself from the other two men, who both bland up and nod politely in our direction. I am impressed with their courtesy and I begin to relax a little. The barber comes over and warmly shakes Grace's hand.

  "Gracie, it's so good to see you again." He turns to the other two and says, "Fellas, y'all remember Miss Grace Clark, the best teacher the Clarksville Union School ever had. Miss Clark, this here is Jack Baldwin."

  The older man who was getting the haircut nods politely and says, "Union School, fourth and fifth grades."

  "Yes, I remember you," Grace says. "Jackie Baldwin. You were quite a cutup in school. I was always proud to see you do so well. And I heard at church last Sunday that you had moved back from Tupelo." Grace turns to the younger man. "And you must be Jack, Jr. I remember you from Clarksville Elementary, too."

  "Yes, ma'am," he says.

  I stand behind Grace, trying to be unobtrusive. I'm wondering if I should mention to Jack Baldwin that I had lunch with his wife. Would she have told him? Grace moves to stand beside me.

  "Gentlemen, I would like to introduce Mrs. Roxanne Reeves. She is putting together an African-American historical tour for Clarksville. Roxanne, this is Mr. Clarence Jones. He owns this barbershop and most of this block of buildings," she says. She motions proudly to Mr. Baldwin. "Jack

  Baldwin here has recently been appointed as a loan officer at the First National Bank of Clarksville. He was one of my last students at Union before we integrated with Clarksville Schools in 1971. And this is his son, Jack, Jr."

  Jack and Jack, Jr., both shake my hand, and the older Jack says, "Rita told me about meeting with you the other day, Mrs. Reeves. She said y'all had a mighty fine conversation."

  "Yes, it was good to visit with her," I say, wondering what he thinks a "mighty fine" conversation entails.

  Jack turns to Grace. "My new wife has got her heart set on us buying one of those old houses — the ones like yours, built back before the Civil War. She's got it in her head that she wants to do some history thing." He shakes his head. "I surely don't understand it."

  "Well, how about that!" says Grace. "She'll fit right in with what Roxanne here is trying to do."

  "Yes, ma'am," Jack answers, and there's an awkward silence as we all try to figure out what to say next.

  Grace pats the younger man on the shoulder and asks, "What are you doing these days, Jack, Jr.?"

  "I'm going to Mississippi State, Miss Clark. I'm a senior there, studying business."

  The older Mr. Baldwin glows with pride as his son speaks. "He's going to come work with me at the bank when he finishes school. Keep it in the family, you know?"

  "That's just wonderful," Grace replies.

  Grace spends a few more minutes chatting with the men about common acquaintances, while Mr. Jones finishes Jack Baldwin's haircut. When he's finished, Mr. Jones escorts us back to the kitchen of his home, which adjoins the back of the barbershop. The other men open up Cokes and keep right on watching the ball game, as if they were home in their own family rooms.

  We sit down at an antique red Formica table in Mr.
Jones's spotless kitchen. I can't help but admire the vintage 1940s fixtures. There are cookies in a jar on the table and coffee cups are set out for us on the counter near the coffeepot. A set of double windows looks out over the alley, and I can see a small vegetable garden in the back. This little apartment has such a homey feel. It's all so cozy and comforting that I find myself starting to relax.

  "What a lovely place," I say. Frankly, I'm surprised at how well kept it is. "Mr. Jones, are you married?" I'm thinking that there has to be a woman to keep a place as neat as this.

  "I'm a widower, ma'am. My Ernestine died about ten years ago." He has a look of deep sadness in his eyes. He must have loved her very much. Grace reaches up and pats his arm.

  "We all miss Ernestine," she says, turning to me. "I went to the Union School with her. And Clarence was a good friend of my brother Zero's back in our young days. He grew up on a cotton farm just outside of town. He started cutting hair when he was a teenager and opened this shop when he was in his twenties. He's been cutting hair here for more than sixty years."

  "So y'all are about the same age?" I am still incredulous at how long-lived these people are. I can never tell their ages by looking at them.

  "That's right. Clarence will be ninety next year, if I'm not mistaken." She looks to Clarence for affirmation and he nods.

  "Yes, ma'am," answers Clarence. He walks slowly to the counter and pours coffee. He moves well for his age. He lowers himself into a kitchen chair, looks directly at me, and smiles. I get a sense of quiet confidence from this man. He seems completely at ease with himself, a quality I always envy.

  "So how can I help you ladies?"

  "I was hoping you could tell Mrs. Reeves here about some of the businesses black folks had down here on Catfish Alley over the years. I know most of them are closed now, but since you own a lot of this block, I figure you know the history best," Grace says.