by Lynne Bryant
I close my eyes and feel myself moving far away, moving to a place deep inside myself where no one can touch me.
Roxanne
The warm feeling of companionship I was experiencing before Adelle told her story is gone. All I can feel now is cold, sick anger. I want to hit something, or someone. Del Tanner's face comes to mind as I remember his gold-toothed snarl and the words he said that day Grace and I visited him a month ago. "My lumberyard is not going to be part of some trumped-up African-American tour." I wonder if Del Tanner knows that his father raped Adelle. Do men like that talk about such things to their sons? Brag about them?
I wonder if this hatred and violence toward black people is something inherited. Would Del Tanner be the same way today if there was no possibility of being prosecuted? I had been thinking that I'd approach him again about his warehouse being on the tour, since it did once house the original Union School for black children. I was hoping maybe he'd soften, reconsider letting us include it. But I can't imagine having anything more to do with him now. How could I stand to be in the same room with him, knowing what his father did? Knowing Del himself probably would have condoned it.
Everyone in the room has gone silent. Adelle's face is expressionless. It's as if she's frozen. Grace is holding her hand and they're staring off in the same direction. It's like they're looking into the same pool of memories. Mattie takes a long sip of her drink and shakes her head. Billy is blotting tears with a tissue. She's the first to speak.
"I hope somebody nailed that asshole's dick to a tree," she says. Startled by her Dutburst, we all turn to look at her. Personally, I agree with her. She's just expressed what I would say if I used that kind of language. I don't understand the expressions on Grace's and Adelle's faces, though. Adelle clears her throat.
"I'm so sorry for ruining this fine afternoon with that terrible story. I never should have dragged all that up," Adelle says.
"No, no," Billy says. "Please, don't apologize, Miss Addie...."
"I don't like to hear them, but I reckon those stories have to be told," says Mattie, setting her glass down with a thump. "We have to remember."
I'm wondering why you would need to remember something as horrible as that. What good could that possibly do?
"It's true," says Grace. "You can't let that stay inside you and fester."
"I suppose you're going to tell me that he was never prosecuted, that there was never anything done," says Billy, a bitter edge to her voice.
Grace and Adelle look at each other. Adelle looks down at her hands. Mattie looks up at me. Why is she looking at me that way? Suddenly, I'm very conscious of being white. I feel like I represent the enemy, and I want to crawl under my chair. Why am I feeling this way? I'm just as angry at Ray Tanner as they are!
"Baby girl," Mattie says, turning toward
Billy, "you know things were different back then."
Billy sighs and reaches up to rub her eyes. "I know, I know you always say that...." "It was my fault," says Adelle. "What the hell are you talking about?" Mattie asks. "That white man raped you, Addie! Have you lost your mind?"
"What I mean is ... I refused to say who did it."
"You're kidding," I say. This falls out of my mouth before I can stop it. And I had been doing so well at staying quiet until now.
"She had her reasons," says Grace. "I don't remember much about those days right after it happened," Adelle says. "I'll never forget them," Grace responds.
December 1931
Grace
From the minute I got the message from Mrs. Jackson yesterday, I've been in a panic to get to Adelle. Miss Crump released me from work early and Dr. Prosser herself helped me pack and drove me to the bus station. I got off the bus in Clarksville today and came straight to the Jacksons' house. Dr. Jackson answers the door looking exhausted and worried. "She won't speak to us, Grade," he says as he hugs me close. I can hear the anguish in his voice.
I look up as Mrs. Jackson rushes down the stairs to embrace me. "I'm so glad you've come, Grace," she says. I notice she looks tired, too, and older somehow.
"How is she?" I ask, taking off my coat and hat and hanging them on the hall tree.
"She won't eat anything. I've tried to coax her with all of her favorite foods, but she just sips a little tea or water and pushes the food away," Mrs. Jackson says as she takes me by the arm and we mount the stairs. "Every time I touch her, she trembles all over...."
"Anna Lee," Dr. Jackson calls, "I'm going out to check on Maylou Johnson. Her rheumatism is acting up again, but I'll be right back."
"All right, Albert," she calls over her shoulder.
"And I might check in town again to see if anybody's heard anything," he says, just before closing the door behind him.
"He's been beside himself since we found her on the back doorstep," Mrs. Jackson whispers. "He'll only leave for a little while at a time, and then he's right back here, pacing outside her door. She won't even let him come in the room. He just so desperately wants to do something, to find out who did this to her, but she won't talk to us. I'm hoping she'll talk to you."
Mrs. Jackson and I enter Addie's room quietly. The curtains are drawn and the room is dim in the late-afternoon winter light. I can see the glow of the gas heater and smell Addie's favorite tomato soup from the tray near the bed. Addie is lying on her side with her knees drawn up toward her chest, facing away from the door. I walk around the bed and pull up a chair beside her. Mrs. Jackson hovers behind me. In the shadowy light I can see the bandage across Addie's forehead and a dark bruise on her cheek.
"Addie," I say softly, clasping my hands together in my lap and leaning forward. Even though she's taller than me, she looks so thin and fragile right now. I want to wrap her up in my arms and hold her tight, but after what Mrs. Jackson said, I'm careful not to touch her.
Adelle opens her beautiful eyes. They're her best feature. Zero always says she has the eyes of a young doe. Today her eyes are glazed and dull. When she recognizes me, a depth of sadness crosses her face that breaks my heart. I instinctively reach for her and have to stop myself. Slowly she pulls her hand out from under the quilts and extends it toward me. I drop to my knees beside her bed and take her hand with its long graceful fingers, calloused from the hard work of nursing school, in both of mine and press it to my cheek. We're both crying now.
After a few minutes, Adelle tries to sit up.
"Let me help you," I say, carefully supporting her shoulders as I test her response to the physical contact. Adelle allows me to help her sit up, and she pats the bed beside her.
"Sit beside me, Gracie ... please," she says in a small, scratchy voice.
"Thanks be to Jesus!" Mrs. Jackson whispers. "She's talking to us, Grace! Baby girl, is there anything we can get for you? Are you hurting anywhere? Are you hungry?"
I sit quietly beside Addie, trying to keep myself calm, even though seeing her in pain makes me so angry at whoever hurt her, I want to scream. I'm hoping Mrs. Jackson will calm down, too. I think she's making Addie more anxious. I'm surprised when Addie's voice comes out stronger.
"Mama, I'm not hungry, and the medicine you gave me earlier is still helping. But I need for you to leave Grace and me alone for a little while." Mrs. Jackson looks crestfallen, but turns toward the door.
"And, Mama," Addie says softly as Mrs. Jackson looks back at her. "Thank you."
After the door closes behind her mother, Adelle takes a deep breath and sits up straighter. Although I'm full of questions, I'm silent, fearful of saying something that might cause her to go mute again. I can hear the hiss of the heater and the pinpoint tapping of the rain turning to sleet on the roof outside. Finally, Adelle speaks.
"I'm going to tell you what happened and then I don't want to talk about it anymore ...ever again."
"But, Addie ..."
"No, I mean it, Gracie...."
"All right," I say, thinking she doesn't really mean it. She just feels that way right now.
I listen a
s Adelle recounts her trip from the bus station, how she planned to surprise her parents. The walk from the station was just a few blocks. Her voice drops to a whisper and have to strain to hear her as she tells how Ray Tanner and Pete Hatfield came out of nowhere and dragged her into the alley. She hangs her head in shame as she describes how she tried to scream for help and how Pete held her at knifepoint. Her voice turns bitter and cold as she recalls what Ray Tanner said to her before he raped her.
"I thought they were going to kill me, Gracie. I remember thinking I'd never see any of you again." Adelle starts to weep quietly and can't talk. I hold her close, both of us crying. After a few minutes, she stiffens and pulls away from me.
"You don't have to talk anymore," I say to her.
"Yes, I do. I have to tell you this." I nod as she continues. "I tried to kick Ray Tanner in the groin, and that's when Pete cut me. After that, all of the fight went out of me. When it was over, they ran off, and all I could think about was getting home without anyone seeing me. So I kept to the alleys and stayed behind bushes the last few blocks. When I got to our back door, I think I must have fainted."
"Yes," I say. "Your mama told me you were facedown on the porch when she found you."
"I didn't even go to my own front door, Gracie," Adelle whispers. "I was too ashamed to go to the front door of my own house."
I can feel her shame as she looks down at her hands. My own anger seethes inside my belly like boiling water. I want to run screaming from this room and tell the whole town what Ray Tanner did. I want to see him tied up and dragged to the courthouse. I imagine Junior holding him while Zero punches him in the face and stomach. I never knew I was capable of such violent thoughts. It occurs to me that if I feel this way, how will Zero feel?
"Addie," I say. "Zero knows about the attack. When I found out, I called Alcorn State and got word to him. He'll be here today on the six o'clock bus."
Adelle's body begins to tremble and she turns and grasps both of my arms. I'm surprised at how strong her grip is. "He can't know what happened, Grace. We can't tell him about the ..." Adelle can't bring herself to say it.
"But we have to tell him! He loves you. He'll want to know the truth," I say.
"Don't you see, Grace? If he knows, he's going to feel like he has to do something. And there's nothing anyone can do. You and I both know that Ray Tanner will deny all of it. No one saw what happened. It would be my word against his, and who's going to listen to a colored girl?"
I don't want to believe this. I try to argue. "But ..."
"But nothing, Grace." Adelle is insistent, and I turn away from her fierce eyes. "Look at me!" she insists. "If Zero knows what happened, he'll go after Ray Tanner. And you know how long Ray Tanner has had it in for Zero. That's just what Ray wants him to do."
I nod and then try again. "Yes, you're right, but..."
This time Adelle shakes me. "I'm afraid, Gracie. I'm afraid if Zero finds out what really happened, he'll get himself killed!"
"What did you do?" Roxanne asks.
I look at Adelle. "I went to the bus station that night and picked up my brother and I told him the story that Addie made me promise to tell."
"What was that?" Billy asks, looking back and forth between Adelle and me.
Adelle raises her chin and tightens her mouth in a stubborn line, but doesn't respond. I answer, watching Adelle. "She made me promise to tell Zero and her parents that she was robbed. She made up this story that she had thirty dollars in her suitcase that she'd earned from doing independent nursing jobs on her days off from Tuskegee. She had me say the men who hurt her were colored men after her money. They pushed her down and she hit her head on a pipe and was knocked out. While she was out, they ransacked her suitcase and stole her money. She even said she didn't recognize them, that they weren't from around here."
"You made her say all of that?" Roxanne asks Adelle. She sounds shocked.
"I sure did," Adelle replies. "I knew what would happen if Zero knew the truth."
Chapter 16
Billy Webster
Monday morning and I'm back in Chicago, but my mind is still in Mississippi. I'm staring out of my tenth-floor office window in the City Planning Department. A light snow has begun to fall, driven sideways by gusts of wind off the lake. I just hung up the phone with Daniel Mason. He called to say that the contractor and a local black architect are going to draw up some plans to take to the bank. Jack Baldwin has agreed to take the idea forward to Mr. Spencer. Daniel's also started to generate some interest among the young men from the community to help with the work. I still feel the warmth in his voice when he talked about the boys.
"Some of them have actually heard of Louis Armstrong. I told them a little about the early days of jazz and the black men who were the first musicians to play the music that people all over the country eventually became crazy about. You know, Billy, at first they acted all tough and like they didn't care, but then they started to ask a few questions, and now I think they might actually be starting to get interested — realizing they have a heritage they can be proud of."
I'm impressed, once again, with Daniel Mason. He has a way with people. And although I'm the first to be skeptical of anyone's intentions, he seems to care about those kids and the black history of Clarksville. I still can't understand why he would leave a high-energy city like Chicago for a small town. I would absolutely dry up there. For one thing, there's nothing to do in Clarksville — no theater, no jazz clubs, no nice restaurants to speak of, unless you count the Catfish Cabin. But then, every Southerner can fry catfish.
I remember the fire in Daniel's eyes when he talked me into restoring the Queen City the night we had dinner together. I could use a little more of that fire. I certainly haven't met a man who sparks my interest the way Daniel Mason has. I shake myself and get up to pour a cup of coffee. What the hell am I thinking? When I left yesterday I told myself that I was leaving thoughts of Daniel Mason in Mississippi. Nothing can ever come of that, anyway. I need to get my mind off of him and back on my work.
I flip through the files on my desk. Permit requests, new trash route proposals, traffic light replacements, all the usual stuff. None of it seems very interesting today. Maybe I'll try to focus on one of the requests and get at least something done before the staff meeting at nine. The top file is a permit request for a new jazz club opening on the South Side. Once again, I find my thoughts drifting to my conversation with Daniel about the beginnings of jazz and how so many musicians from Mississippi and Louisiana migrated to the South Side of Chicago.
I also think about the conversation with Gran and her friends during Saturday's card game. They talked about how proud Junior Jackson would be of the Queen City Hotel. But they didn't finish telling me what happened to him. We got sidetracked into what happened to Miss Adelle. I shudder at how horrible that must have been for her, hiding what happened and living in the same town all of her life with the man who raped her.
We all got so sad and quiet after that conversation. I really had been enjoying myself playing cards with the ladies. I had even been getting a kick out of watching
Roxanne Reeves hanging out with Gran and her friends. But the fun went out of the day after they told those stories. When Miss Grace finished, I decided that I needed to get out of there for a while, and I think Roxanne was just waiting for a cue. She left to bring Grace and Adelle home. So we never got back to the story of Junior Jackson. Did he tour Chicago? Is he still alive? He'd have to be almost ninety by now, so probably not. As I gather up my papers for the meeting, I have an inspired thought.
My best friend, Travis Sprague, is a huge fan of jazz. He owns tons of old records and spends just about all of his spare time searching for classic jazz to add to his collection. He might know of a Chicago musician named Junior Jackson. I pick up the phone to call him. I can be a little late to the meeting.
Travis and I agreed to have a drink after work. Now we've drifted over to Andy's, our favorite jazz bar on Wilson S
treet, to catch the eight o'clock show.
"It's been too long since we caught a show, Billy," Travis says in his raspy voice as he lights a cigarette.
"Yeah, I know. I work too much sometimes," I reply, swirling the olive in my Martini.
"What you been doing with yourself? You been on vacation?"
"I've been down in Mississippi visiting Gran. I had to stay a little longer this time. Had to do some business with that old hotel that Grandpa used to run." "Did you finally talk her into selling it?" Travis asks, a note of disappointment in his voice. I told him about the Queen City Hotel several years ago when we first met. He's nagged me ever since not to sell it or let it be torn down. For years, he's been trying to convince me of its historical significance, but I just haven't been able to get interested.
"You'll be happy to know that I've been talked into restoring it. We may turn it into a community center," I reply with a sly smile. "Maybe even have a jazz program for kids."
"Well, how about that!" Travis grins. How did that happen?"
I stir my martini and take a sip. "There's this white woman down there trying to start
up an African-American tour of Clarksville—"
Travis interrupts, almost choking on his career. "Hold on a minute! You mean to tell me that a white woman talked you into restoring the Queen City?"
"Not so fast, Travis. I'm not done yet. One of Gran's old friends brought this woman over to the nursing home to meet Gran and they talked Gran into considering it. I wasn't there at the time, but when I got there to visit last week, it was all she could talk about. Plus, there was the preacher."
Travis sets his cigarette down on the ashtray and laughs. "This is getting good. The next to the last person I would think of who could talk you into anything would be a preacher."
I pull the olive out of my drink and pop it into my mouth. I grin at Travis. "This is not just any preacher."
Travis knows me well enough to catch the look and nods. "I see. So what's so special about Mr. Preacher Man that he could make you change your mind so quickly?"
