Catfish Alley

by Lynne Bryant

  When I get back home, I pull the diary back out to see if there's more to the story than Grace has told me. For some reason, I always feel like she's leaving something out. Is she afraid to tell me? Once again, it takes me what feels like hours to make out what Ellen Davenport wrote. What a sad story! All these years I never realized she was heartbroken.

  August 24, 2 p.m.

  My life is over. Daddy found us out. And it's all because of that horrible Ray Tanner. Right in the middle of our ceremony with the justice of the peace, he walks in and insists that Daddy would never approve of our marriage. He actually threatened that justice of the peace and Andy, too. He had both of them so scared that my wedding got stopped right then and there. I've never been so humiliated in all my life! And the hardest thing was that Andy didn't even protect me. He let Ray Tanner put me in the back of his car and drive me all the way back home. It was horrible. I don't even know where Andy went! Mama and Daddy were furious, especially Daddy.

  Mama just dragged me up to my room and told me to stay here. Sarah Jane brought me some supper a little while ago, but I can't eat. What will I do now? The man I love has been taken away from me and I'm destitute. I can't even write anymore.

  September 30, 8 p.m.

  It's been a long time since I wrote anything in this journal. My life is nothing but a series of long dull days. I've had no letters from Andy. Nothing. He might as well have never lived. Sarah Jane is no help, either. She heard that he might have gone to New Orleans. Our New Orleans! I'm trapped. I don't have any money of my own and Mama and Daddy watch me all the time like I'm some criminal escaped from Parchman Penitentiary. I guess I'll just live here and be an old maid. I don't want anyone else. Ray Tanner tries real hard to be nice to me, but he makes me sick. I just want to spit in his face. Mama says I have to be polite, that he was just trying to do what's best for me. She says they all are but they don't know what's best for me! They don't!

  Chapter 10

  Del Tanner

  Alice and I are poking around in this damn old dusty attic, trying to find those documents that banker Jack Baldwin said I have to have. We been up here looking for two hours and ain't found shit. Still chaps my ass to think I got to come up with the original deed to the lumberyard. What if there ain't one? Then what'll happen?

  "I'm going downstairs to fix some supper," Alice says. "I got to get out of this dust for a while. You come on down in a little bit, you hear me?"

  I grunt a reply as I sort through some old lumber brochures in a cardboard box. Nothing here. I'm in the last corner of the attic. We've been through everything and I'm trying to think where else I could look. But we put everything of Daddy's up here after he died. Didn't want to deal with it, had a business to run. Mean old bastard. Never would give me all the information I needed. He's probably laughing from his grave at me now.

  I'm fixing to give up and go downstairs to eat when I spot that old shoe trunk. I'm sixty years old, but seeing the trunk still gives me a start. That trunk used to sit in Daddy's room. It was always locked and I was always curious about it. I used to think Daddy probably hid his whiskey in there. I remember being around ten years old, sneaking into Daddy's room and trying to open it. Daddy caught me and pulled off his belt and beat me with the buckle. Said he'd teach me not to mess with things that didn't belong to me. Even now, I find myself looking around before I reach for the trunk.

  It's about two feet by three feet and about a foot deep. Daddy probably got the trunk from Granddaddy Rufus. That's how long I can remember it being around. Things weren't much better between me and Daddy when he died than they'd been all my life, so of course he never mentioned this trunk or wanting me to have it. Well, Daddy, as usual, you wouldn't want to do nothing to help old Del out, would you?

  I pull the trunk out from under the pile of old quilts and study the lock. It would be fairly easy to break, provided I can't find a key. I suddenly remember the handful of keys that black nurse at the hospital handed to me the night Daddy passed away.

  "He never let these out of his sight," she said.

  I'm trying to picture what I done with those keys. Damn if I can remember. I pick up the trunk — must not be much in it; it's not very heavy — and make my way down the attic stairs.

  "Alice, do you remember that set of Daddy's keys that the nurse gave me after he died?" I holler.

  "Yes, the ones she said he never let out of his sight?" she answers from the kitchen.

  "Yeah, what did we do with those?" I come into the kitchen, carrying the trunk.

  "I think you put them in your desk somewhere. God knows, you've got so much junk in there. Come on and eat." She's carrying a plate of corn bread to the table and stops. "What in the world is that?" she asks, pointing to the trunk.

  "I found this under some old quilts up there. It used to be Granddaddy's and then it was Daddy's. He always kept it locked. I'm thinking that maybe the key is with those we got after he died."

  I go into the little room where I keep my desk and business papers and set the trunk down. Alice is still hollering for me to come eat before the bread gets cold, so I decide to look for the keys after supper. Just as I'm finishing up, I get a call from one of my suppliers and I forget all about that trunk.

  Chapter 11

  Roxanne

  Grace and I are standing in the vestibule of the Missionary Union Baptist Church. The church is constructed of wood in a simple style. Three steps lead up to a narrow porch with a wider overhang over the front door. Just inside the door is a vestibule area that houses a row of coat hooks, an umbrella stand, and one of those boards with rows to slide in numbers that report last Sunday's attendance and the amount of the offering collected. I remember the thrill I got as a little girl when I was allowed to do that job in our church in the bayou.

  I can't help but notice the heart pine floors. They glow like Tupelo honey from years of foot traffic. I know what some people would give to have floors like this in their homes. Through the vestibule door is a small sanctuary with two sections of wooden pews worn to a satin patina from years of holding backsides clothed in Sunday best. The pews are stocked with hymnals, offering envelopes, and fans advertising the local black funeral home. I have attended the Clarksville First Baptist Church for decades, but I've never set foot in a black church in Clarksville before.

  I find myself beset with a memory of being about six years old and Mama taking me with her to visit the Baptist church of one of her black friends from the Stanley plantation. Details flood through my mind as I stand beside Grace in this little church. The same style pews, but filled with color — hats, dresses, men in suits in Easter egg hues. And the sounds! The organ and the deep, rich voices that seemed to soar to the ceilings and fill the whole building with melody. It was glorious and terrifying all at the same time. I remember the little black children wanted to touch my hair, and I wanted terribly to touch theirs, too, to feel I hat springy texture between my fingers, but instead we just stood and stared at each other from behind our mothers' skirts.

  This church has a similar small choir loft with a baptistery, a piano, an old organ, and lite pulpit. We are approaching the pulpit area when a black man crawls out from behind the first choir seat. I jump and let out a little squeal before I can control myself. I wasn't expecting to see anyone in the church on a Tuesday morning.

  Grace smiles calmly, in her usual way. The man is obviously just as surprised to see visitors, but his smile is wide and welcoming, and, I can't help but notice, very attractive. His skin is very dark and smooth and he is wearing a baseball cap, which he instantly pulls off. He looks young. I assume he's probably the church janitor. He approaches us and takes Grace's hand.

  "Miss Grace, how good to see you this morning! I'm sorry I didn't hear y'all come in. I was down there behind the choir seats looking for Eva Randall's earring. She called me this morning in a dither. Her deceased husband, Earl, gave her those pearl clip-ons for their fiftieth wedding anniversary, and she is just in a state abou
t losing one. Even said she might have to stop singing in the choir!"

  I'm still wondering who this handsome young man is. Maybe he's not the janitor; maybe he's a young deacon. Grace chuckles softly as he describes Eva's plight.

  "Eva gets herself stirred up, all right, Brother Daniel. I hope you find that earring. It would be a shame to lose that wonderful alto voice of hers from the choir."

  Grace turns to me and draws the man near her. "Reverend Daniel Mason, I would like for you to meet a friend of mine, Mrs. Roxanne Reeves."

  So this is the minister? I'm surprised. I thought he would be Grace and Adelle's age. I shake his outstretched hand, and I can't help but notice those gorgeous deep brown eyes and the way his forearm ripples with muscle.

  "I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. Reeves. How do you come to know our most important church member?"

  Grace squeezes Reverend Mason's arm and laughs. She is as excited as a schoolgirl around this man.

  "Oh, now, stop that. I'm one of the oldest, but certainly not the most important."

  I am impressed with their easy comfort with each other. I'm sure this minister has no problems winning the support of the ladies of the church. As my mama would have said, he is a sight for sore eyes, for a Mack man, that is.

  "Miss Clark is showing me around some of the African-American historical places in the community," I answer.

  He nods. "And, of course, she brought you here. This church has been around for a long time, Mrs. Reeves." He motions to the front pew. "Please, won't you have a seat?"

  Grace and I settle ourselves on the front pew and Reverend Mason pulls up the piano bench and sits facing us. I can't help but notice those muscular thighs and the supple ease of his movements. I have to shake myself. We're in church, for mercy's sake! The reverend is saying something.

  "Miss Grace knows the history of our church much better than I do, Mrs. Reeves. I'm afraid I'm still learning."

  Grace nods and rests her arms on her handbag in her lap. "Reverend Mason has only recently come to us from up in Chicago. This is his first time to pastor a Southern Baptist church."

  "Oh, really," I say. "I'm Southern Baptist, too. I am a member of the Clarksville First Baptist Church."

  "Yes, I know of it. I believe I met your minister at one of the interfaith meetings last month," he says.

  "What I meant to say," Grace says, "is that this is Reverend Mason's first time to pastor a church in the South. We're actually Missionary Baptist."

  "Yes, Miss Grace has been trying to help me with the ins and outs of the Southern black community," Reverend Mason says. "Unfortunately, I've trodden on several toes already." Reverend Mason and Grace share conspiratorial smiles.

  They spend the next half hour telling me the history of the Missionary Union Baptist Church. It's the oldest church in Mississippi, established as a meeting place during the days of slavery. Back then, they tell me, there was no church building. The church consisted of a collection of branches and underbrush gathered into an arbor-like semicircle. The slaves stood within the brush arbor to worship. Years later, after the War ended and during Reconstruction, this wooden structure was built. The church has survived since 1871 and there are many stories about obstacles the members have overcome.

  I listen to how the black people worked and scraped and volunteered in order to have a building for worship. Now, I'm an expert on the history of the local white churches and their white benefactors: the Catholic church on Fourth Street was built by a wealthy steamboat magnate because his only daughter decided to become a nun; the impressive First Methodist Church was built with slave labor by a famous white planter who moved his family here from New Orleans; and my own church, First Baptist, was built in 1853 by the ancestors of the current president of the Bank of Clarksville. But none of those stories match the endurance and spirit of the people who built this little church.

  I realize I've grown so accustomed to the grandeur and amenities of my church that I can't imagine sitting through Sunday service in one of these hard wooden pews with no padding or listening to the organ without an echoing sound system. Yet this church has the kind of warmth and peacefulness about it that makes me want to sit down and stay. I feel a lump in my throat remembering again that day so long ago with Mama. I've never had that kind of emotional experience in my own church. I tell myself, even before seeing any more, that this church has to be on the tour.

  Grace decides to remain in the pew and "have some quiet time with the Lord" while Reverend Mason takes me on a tour. There isn't much to see. Two or three small rooms behind the sanctuary were the original Sunday school rooms. Behind the sanctuary, a new fellowship hall was constructed in the 1950s. Reverend Mason says it's used for everything from choir practice to Sunday night socials. He points next door to a small bungalow-type cottage.

  "That's the parsonage over there. It was built in 1910 by the same man who helped Dr. Albert Jackson build his house."

  "Does your wife like Clarksville?" I ask, finding myself surprisingly curious about this man.

  Reverend Mason grins and shakes his head. "Oh, I'm not married. My house companions are a fourteen-year-old beagle named Ruby and an equally old cat named Harriet. Believe me, though," he says, laughing, "if the ladies in my church have anything to do with it, I'll be married off before I'm here much longer. They just can't believe that I don't have a woman to take care of me."

  I find myself liking this young man from Chicago who doesn't have one trace of a Southern accent, but the best manners and the friendliest, not to mention most handsome, smile I have seen in a while.

  "I recently met another of Grace's friends," I say. "Matilda Webster. She has a granddaughter living in Chicago. According to the ladies, she's in some powerful city position up there. Maybe you know her. I think Grace said her name was Billy ... Billy Webster?"

  He laughs softly. "I never met Billy Webster while I was living in Chicago, but I definitely know Mrs. Matilda Webster. She's an interesting woman. I visit her in the nursing home every week, and she is always talking about Billy."

  "I'm hoping to get to meet Billy myself," I say. "Are you familiar with the old Queen City Hotel?"

  "No ...," he says, looking puzzled. "Should I be?"

  "No, no," I answer. "I was just curious." I decide I'll keep my ideas to myself for now. Another thought occurs to me. "Does a man named Jack Baldwin attend your church?"

  "Yes, I do know Mr. Baldwin, and his wife, Rita. Real nice folks. He's a banker, I believe. Why do you ask?"

  My plan just might work, but I need to arrange a few more details first. "Oh, just wondering. I had lunch with Rita a couple of weeks ago and then I met Mr. Baldwin last week when Grace and I went down to visit Clarence Jones on Catfish Alley." I sound so casual talking about being social with blacks, I don't even recognize myself.

  Reverend Mason smiles. "Yes, I know Clarence — wonderful barber, but not much of a churchgoer."

  We end our tour and return to the sanctuary, where we find Grace dozing in the sunlight slanting through the stained glass window over the choir loft. I gently touch her arm and she wakes instantly.

  "Gracious, I must have dozed off. I was praying, and before you know it, I fell asleep."

  "We're done with our tour now," I say, feeling a little sad to be leaving this peaceful place.

  "Brother Daniel, thank you for showing Roxanne our little church," Grace says.

  I walk along behind them as we leave the church, noticing how attentive he is to her and how much she seems to enjoy it. Why did Grace never marry? Were there not other men after Junior? Did she wait all her life for him?

  I shake hands with Reverend Mason after he helps Miss Grace into the car. Closing the car door, he peers into the window and looks across at me.

  "Let me know if there's anything I can do to help with the tour, Mrs. Reeves. I'm just new enough in this community that I can get by with asking for things that some folks won't." He grins. "At least once anyway."

  I look in m
y rearview mirror and see him waving as we drive away. It hits me that my whole perspective on black men is changing. How strange.

  Billy Webster

  I love Chicago. I've got a great job and great friends. No man yet, but I'm still hopeful. Today is one of those beautiful, crisp fall days — at least it's not the dead of winter. I've never gotten accustomed to the cold, windy winter weather here. On those days just walking from the taxicab to the airport doors is enough to chill you to the bone. Even now, I'd rather be home in my cozy downtown apartment, sipping hot chocolate in front of a fire. Instead, I'm boarding a plane and headed to Mississippi to see Gran.

  It's the right thing to do, I tell myself for the thousandth time. It's just so depressing to go home. Gran sits in the Pineview Nursing Home day after day. Just sits there. Granted, she has her room fixed up nice and it's her choice to stay there. I've tried for years to convince her to come and live with me in Chicago, but Mrs. Matilda Webster wants nothing to do with it. So, every three or four months here I am on a plane to Mississippi.

  Yesterday, on the phone, Gran mentioned the old hotel again. This is the other bone of contention between us. I want to sell it and at least get the money for the land it's on, but Gran refuses. She says all of her memories are there and, as long as she's living, she will not sell it. Now Gran's talking about a tour. Says some white woman from Clarksville is organizing an African-American tour and wants the Queen City Hotel to be part of it. I snort at the thought of that, and the woman sitting next to me in the airport waiting area looks at me curiously.

  That place is so rundown it looks more like some of the projects on Chicago's South Side than a hotel. Daddy always said the Queen City was fine by comparison to where blacks usually had to stay back in those days. Of course I've heard all of the family stories about the heyday of the Queen City Hotel. It's all interesting and nice, but I don't have much interest in history. Why anybody would want to tour an old hotel that represented segregation at its worst is beyond me.