Catfish Alley

by Lynne Bryant

  I sigh. "Crazy, isn't it? I mean, really. Here I am in Chicago, doing just fine. I have a great life, a great job. ..." I motion with my glass toward Travis. "Great friends. And I go and find myself attracted to some backwoods preacher in Clarksville, Mississippi. I must be losing my mind!"

  "Hold on now, Billy. I know you. You've turned down more men in the ten years we've been friends than most women ever get an opportunity to meet. So there must be something special about this guy. Tell me about him." Travis stubs out his cigarette and motions for the waitress. "But first, let's get another drink."

  Over more drinks, with a great jazz ensemble playing in the background, I tell Travis about meeting Daniel Mason, about his interest in jazz, and the way his passion for his work shows through. I tell him about the irony of Daniel being from Chicago and moving to Mississippi. Then I remember what I was going to ask Travis about.

  "By the way, Gran and her friends mentioned a piano player from Mississippi who traveled with Louis Armstrong and possibly ended up in Chicago back in the thirties. He would be ancient now, maybe ninety, if he's still alive. His name is Albert Jackson, Jr.; they call him Junior. Ever heard of him?"

  Travis looks thoughtful, turning the name over in his mind. "Jackson," he murmurs. "I know of a Slider Jackson." He brightens. "I bet it's the same guy. He's a legend. One of the best slide piano players I've ever heard. I got to hear him about ten years ago. He agreed to do a show for a fund-raiser I went to. I don't think he plays anymore. Retired. Even then he had some pretty wicked arthritis in his hands. Maybe he's your guy."

  "Maybe so. Wouldn't that be crazy? Junior Jackson grew up in Clarksville and is the brother of one of Gran's best friends. Do you think we could find him? I'd like to talk to him. Maybe see if he would consider coming to the Queen City for some kind of start-of-the-renovation ribbon cutting or something."

  "Wow, you really are getting into this, aren't you?"

  "You know me. If I do something, I don't do it halfway."

  Travis grins. "Let me see what I can do. I'll talk to some friends of mine and see if I can find out any more about our friend Slider Jackson."

  "That would be great. Gran would be so excited." What I'm really thinking is how pleased Daniel would be. The whole time the second set of music is playing, I'm imagining his excitement when I tell him that I've found Junior Jackson. He'll wrap his arms around me and pull me close. Between the music and another martini, I forget for a little while how far I am from Clarksville, Mississippi.

  Chapter 17

  Roxanne

  Ola Mae and I are getting the house ready for the Junior League meeting later today. She usually comes on Tuesdays to clean, but the extra money it will cost for her to help me today is so worth it. I've got ten leaguers coming over to make magnolia Christmas wreaths for the Holiday Tour and I'm not near ready. Plus, I decided at the last minute to invite Rita Baldwin. I've got a knot in my stomach over that spontaneous decision. Spontaneity is certainly not my strong suit, and today I'm remembering why. I'm mad at myself for not being better prepared since I've known for months that this was my year to host the wreath-making party — but with everything else going on, I'm not my usual organized self.

  I feel really good about this project, though, since the money goes to buy Christmas presents for the kids at Children's Hospital in Jackson. And everyone relaxes and has a good time. Usually they do anyway. Even though Rita is a member of the Junior League in Atlanta and it's perfectly acceptable for me to invite her as a guest, I know there will be plenty of raised eyebrows. Of course, that's how Louisa Humboldt got in with the group. Elsie brought her as a guest. But she's white. Why do I keep running headlong into these black-white issues? I can't ruminate on all of this right now. I remember that I need to check the liquor cabinet to make sure I have enough Grand Marnier for the cranberry punch recipe I'm trying this year.

  As I walk into the dining room and open the liquor cabinet, I hear the kitchen door open and close and the sound of keys being tossed on the table. It must be Milly. Oh, my word! I really don't have time for this today.

  "Hello! Where is everybody? Mama?"

  "I'm in the dining room," I call. "Come on in."

  "Oh, hey, Ola Mae," I hear her say. "What are you doing here today?"

  "Wreath-making party," Ola Mae answers, probably knowing that's all she needs to say and Milly will understand.

  "Is it time for that already? My goodness, this year has gone by so fast! I can't believe I've been married five months already."

  "No, ma'am," Ola Mae answers. My guess is Ola Mae's not up for much chatting, either. But then, with her usual easy grace, Milly asks, "How's that grandbaby of yours?"

  I can practically hear the glow in Ola Mae's voice as I listen to bits and pieces of their conversation. Milly has never known a time without Ola Mae, and, unlike me, Milly keeps up with Ola Mae's family and when her kids are having babies and whatnot. I realize how comfortable my daughter is with the order of things between herself and a black housekeeper, something I've never quite grasped. It occurs to me that I've spent many years trying to create a barrier, make myself somehow above Ola Mae. Milly hasn't had to do that. She just takes her social status for granted.

  "Hey, Mama," Milly says, strolling into the dining room, eating a cheese straw and bending to kiss my cheek. "I see you're getting ready for a party." She plops down at the table and watches as I pull out bottles of liquor, searching for the right one. "I guess you had to run Daddy off for the evening."

  I almost drop the bottle of Grand Marnier.

  Does she know? Did Ola Mae whisper something I couldn't hear? "Yes, sometimes these parties do run late." I'm hoping I don't sound as nervous as I feel. "What are you up to today?" I ask as I put the bottle of liquor down on the sideboard and start digging for napkins in the drawer.

  "Just a little shopping downtown. I have to go to some stupid law school fund-raiser with Bobby and I don't have a dress that fits." She reaches down and pinches what is probably a quarter inch of skin at her waist. "I think I'm getting fat since I got married. Bobby and I must be eating out too much."

  It occurs to me that, like me, she's never really learned to cook, but fat? "Milly, you are not fat. If you were any thinner, I'd be worried about you."

  "Mama, you always say that," she says, finishing the cheese straw and brushing the crumbs from her fingers onto her jeans. "What's Daddy going to do tonight? I was hoping to catch both of you at home. Doesn't he usually come home early on Mondays?"

  Is now the time to tell her? Why does everything always happen at once? My heart is racing and I'm already nervous about this party and inviting Rita Baldwin, and now this. "Would you look at the time!" I say.

  "I'm sorry I can't chat today, darling. I'm so far behind on getting ready."

  "Okay, okay," she says, following me into the front parlor. Ola Mae comes in to light the bayberry-scented candles I like so much. "Do you think Daddy's at the university?" Milly asks.

  I suddenly get a vivid picture of Dudley in his office sitting in that big leather chair with a blond graduate student, probably only about two years older than my own daughter, straddled across his lap. A wave of nausea and anger hits my stomach like a fist, and I stop in the middle of the room, not remembering why I came in here. When I turn I find Milly and Ola Mae both watching me. Ola Mae turns away and starts fiddling with a lamp, but Milly continues to look at me expectantly.

  "Mama, are you okay? You look really pale. Ola Mae, don't you think she looks pale?"

  Ola Mae looks up from the lamp. "You might be a little peaked, Miz Reeves. You want me to get you an RC?"

  "No, no, Ola Mae. Thank you, but I'm fine."

  "All right, then. I'm going back out to the kitchen to check them pecans I got in the oven."

  I take a deep breath and sit down in the nearest chair, trying to keep my voice even. "Things are a little different with your daddy and me these days, darling. He's ... um ... not living here right now."
/>   "What? Not living here? You mean he's moved out? What happened? Why? Did you ask him to leave?" I imagine I hear an accusing tone in her voice, whether it's really there or not.

  "Milly, I really can't get into it all right now. I have so much to do and ... well ... your daddy and I ... we just needed some time apart. That happens sometimes, you know." I realize that my words probably sound like lame excuses to her. I stand up and square my shoulders, remembering to stay in mother mode. "I really don't want to talk about it right now," I say, going over to Milly and putting my arm around her shoulders, nudging her gently toward the kitchen. "I'm sure everything is going to be fine. Just give your daddy a call. He'll be thrilled to hear from you." As we walk into the kitchen, Ola Mae glances up from the oven, where she's pulling out toasted pecans, and frowns at me. I ignore her stare, picking up Milly's keys and handing them to her. "Let's have lunch one day next week and we'll talk."

  "But, Mama...."

  I can't believe I'm practically shoving my daughter out the door, but if I have to talk about this anymore I'll burst into tears. She must see the determination in my face, because she stops arguing.

  "All right." She sighs, picking up her purse. "I don't get it, but I guess it's none of my business, since I'm just your only daughter and all...."

  I bite my lip, hard, and decide not to respond to her barb. She turns the doorknob and looks back over her shoulder. I'm frozen in my spot and I can see Ola Mae out of the corner of my eye standing there holding the pan of pecans. We're both watching Milly.

  "I'm grown-up now, Mama. I can handle it ... whatever's going on. You just need to talk to me."

  I nod, unable to say anything as my daughter yanks open the door in frustration and leaves, slamming the door behind her. I can't stop the tears now, even though I'm embarrassed to be crying in front of Ola Mae. I sit down at the kitchen table, unable to set aside the flood of mixed emotions whirling inside me. As I sit there with my head in my hands, watching tears drip onto the tablecloth, I hear Ola Mae set the pan on the cooling rack. The refrigerator door opens, and I look up between my fingers to see her work-roughened hand set an RC in front of me and pop the top. "I'll be in the butler's pantry if you need me," she says as she leaves the kitchen.

  I look up, grateful for her kindness, wanting desperately to talk to her, but immediately realizing that I can't do that. Has it come to this? I've got all of these things going on and the only person I can talk to is my maid?

  I struggle to get everything into perspective. I'm going to be entertaining in a few hours. At least I won't have to give a report today on the African-American tour, although I'm sure Louisa Humboldt will ask me about it. On top of what's just happened with Milly, and not knowing what to do about Dudley, I've just been so sad all weekend thinking about Adelle Jackson being raped. Saturday afternoon, after we dropped off Adelle, I asked Grace how in the world Adelle was able to live and work in the same town as Ray Tanner all those years. I knew things hadn't worked out for her and Zero, since he apparently left Clarksville, but why in the world would she stay here?

  "That's just the sort of person Adelle Jackson is," Grace said. "She finished her nurse's training at Tuskegee, came back home, and worked in the colored hospital until they closed it in 1969. Then she transferred to the Clarksville Hospital. Worked there until she retired in 1978."

  "Didn't she ever run into him? You know, see him on the street?"

  "White folks didn't mix much with colored then, and Adelle didn't go to the places where they did mix — like the speakeasies or the dance halls." Grace was quiet for a while, then spoke again. "Funny thing was, she nursed him when he was dying from emphysema."

  I can't believe this! "That can't be! Couldn't they get someone else? Couldn't she refuse to take care of him?"

  "Roxanne, there wasn't anybody else to do it. Adelle said they were lucky to have one nurse to twenty patients on the night shift in those days. And she always worked the night shift. What's more, if she'd refused, she'd have lost her job."

  I get mad all over again, remembering that conversation. The injustice makes me sick inside. I'm having a hard time with everything I've learned about the lives of the black women I've met. I don't know what to do with the feelings — guilt, anger, sadness, and even some envy of their closeness and the way they look out for each other. I try to put it out of my mind and focus on this party. I realize it's cold in the house and I'll need to build a fire in the dining room fireplace. Dudley usually did that. Damn him again for what he did! I wonder if Ola Mae knows how to lay a fire. I blow my nose and go looking for her.

  Ola Mae is up on a stool in the butler's pantry searching for the punch bowl and cups, and I start digging around in a drawer trying to find the silver ladle. I start to talk ninety miles an hour about everything we need to get done, like I always do when I get nervous. I've never really noticed before, but it hits me today that Ola Mae never has anything to say. She just says "uh-huh," or "yes'm," or "no'm," but she never participates in the conversation. I'm realizing that the reason she doesn't is probably because I've never really wanted to hear anything she has to say.

  As I'm rummaging through the drawer, I glance over at her knobby old brown knees with her rolled-down stockings just below and say to them, "Ola Mae, do you go to church?"

  I see her knees relax from the strain to reach the top cabinet. "Ma'am?"

  "I said, do you go to church?" I repeat louder. I think she's getting hard of hearing.

  "Why, yes'm, I go to the Missionary Union Baptist," she says. I can feel her looking down at me, but I keep focused on the silver drawer.

  "Then you know Reverend Daniel Mason?"

  "Yes, ma'am." I can tell she's not going to offer anything without me asking, but then what should I expect? We've never had a conversation before, other than what needs to be done around the house. She pulls out the punch bowl and backs down the steps of the stool with the bowl balanced in one hand. She's watching me now, probably suspicious as to why I'm asking her questions.

  "I was just curious," I say. "I've been working with Grace Clark, you know, on an African-American tour, and she introduced me to the reverend. He seems real nice." I finally find the ladle and turn to find her staring at me, the punch bowl still in her hands, her mouth open slightly.

  "What?" I ask.

  She looks away. "I'm going to put this bowl in the kitchen, and I'll come back for the cups." I see her shaking her head as she walks toward the kitchen. I decide to follow her.

  "I suppose you know Grace Clark, and maybe Adelle Jackson?"

  She sets the bowl down carefully beside the sink and looks at me. "Yes, ma'am. I've known those ladies all my life. They're fine women, both of them."

  I pick up the freshly pressed tablecloth draped across the kitchen chairs. "Help me with this, will you?" Ola Mae and I spread the green linen cloth over the dining room table, and I smile to myself, thinking about the wreath-making process. At least that will go as planned. Each of the ladies will bring different items to add to the wreaths. Our magnolia wreaths have become famous around here. Every year we sell out, long before Thanksgiving. This year we'll be doubling our production, so we have two sessions planned.

  "Your church will probably be on the tour, you know," I say as we smooth out the cloth. I rattle on about what I learned about the history of the church and how nice I think Reverend Mason is.

  "Uh-huh," she says.

  I'm getting frustrated, realizing she's not willing to have a conversation with me. I try to put her more at ease. "I'm interested in your perspective on this.... What do you think about the Pilgrimage Committee planning an African-American tour?" I'm still busy pulling napkin rings out of a drawer in the sideboard, and when she doesn't answer, I assume she's still thinking, so I keep talking. "I mean ... is that something you think you ... or your friends might be interested in?" When she still doesn't answer, I look up. She's turned, facing away from me, and her shoulders are shaking. I realize she's laughing. I'm c
onfused.

  "What's so funny?"

  "I'm sorry, Miz Reeves," she says. "But you and I ain't had two words of conversation other than about what you need me to do around here in the last fifteen years I been working for you, and now you want to chat me up like I's one of them Junior League ladies. And then you want to know what I think about the African-American tour. ... It just struck me as right comical, that's all."

  "I fail to see why this is so funny, Ola Mae," I say, feeling defensive. "After all, I'm trying to help the black community...."

  She's laughing harder now — the kind of laughing you do when you're in church and you know you shouldn't, but you can't stop yourself. She doesn't make any noise when she laughs, but her eyes are tearing up and her whole body is shaking. I find myself smiling, even though I'm still upset with her.

  "Would you please stop laughing at me and tell me why this is so funny?"

  She puts her hand over her mouth and pulls her lips down, trying to stop her laughter, and takes a deep breath. "I just got to picturing all those white ladies sitting around one of these fine mahogany dining room tables talking about whether folks should tour our little church before that big old Catholic cathedral, or maybe after, and I just got tickled. Then I thought about the way they do up the young white girls in those hoopskirt dresses for the pilgrimage, and I got to thinking about them asking some of the young black girls I know to dress up like black folk did back in the day, and I got tickled by the thought of that, too."

  I plop down into a dining room chair, exasperated. "I know ... I know ... you're right. This is exactly what Rita Baldwin said. By the way, do you know Rita, too? I've invited her today."

  I stop counting out napkin rings and look up at Ola Mae. She's shaking her head. "Okay, what is it now? You can't believe I invited a black woman to the Junior League meeting, right?"

  Ola Mae nods. "Things are sure getting more and more peculiar around here, Miz Reeves."