Catfish Alley

by Lynne Bryant

  "It's all so complicated. I'm trying to do this right, and every time I turn around, I feel like I'm stepping on someone's toes. Louisa Humboldt is all fired up about this tour, but she's from Connecticut and has no clue what the other women on the committee, like Elsie Spencer and Dottie Lollar, are saying. And then there's the black women, who seem to think I'm just doing this out of some self-serving need to get another star in my crown or something...."

  Ola Mae just stands there. I can feel her uncertainty about how to handle me. "Miz Reeves, what you expect? You doing something that's gonna upset the way things been around here. People don't take to that too easy. Black folks don't want to be no charity cases, and white folks don't want to face the fact that black folks' history ain't pleasant to look at. So you done got yourself caught up in the middle."

  "So what do you think I should do, call the whole thing off?"

  Ola Mae doesn't respond as she heads back to the butler's pantry. I follow like a dog on her heels. She remains silent for a while as she pulls punch cups off the shelf and hands them to me. Finally she stops., climbs down off her stool, and looks me dead in the eye. "No'm, I don't think you should call it off. If Grace Clark and Adelle Jackson is behind this thing, then that's enough for me. I don't know Mrs. Baldwin very well, but she seems like a real nice lady. I got to admit, she's different from most of the black women around here. I don't think she's going to put up with much from your white ladies' club." She stops, contemplates again, and continues. "Yes'm, you need to see it through. There's gonna be black folks and white folks alike don't like what you doing, but hell with them ... I think you need to finish what you started and then step back and see what happens."

  I stare at the punch cups, thinking how I wish I had those pretty antique Waterford crystal ones that Louisa has; then my next thought is how spoiled and shallow I've become. Good grief!

  "I guess you're right. I have a feeling I won't be elected director of the pilgrimage again anyway, if Elsie Spencer has anything to do with it. So, I won't have to deal with this anymore after this year."

  "And would that be such a bad thing?"

  I think about that question for a minute and realize that maybe it wouldn't. I'm actually relieved. How surprising! I really don't care if I'm director or not ... I feel a burst of affection for Ola Mae and give her shoulders an affectionate squeeze. She almost drops the punch cup she's holding.

  "Hold on, now. Let's don't get carried away," she says.

  Now I'm embarrassed and I pull away. "We'd better get moving. The ladies will be here in two hours and we haven't even started the rest of the food."

  Chapter 18

  Del Tanner

  I probably had a little too much to drink last night, but driving to work this morning I tell myself I had to do something to calm my nerves. I feel like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Between trying to save the lumberyard, keeping Alice off my back about building a new house, and all that business with Daddy in the back of my mind all the time, I don't even want to get out of bed in the morning. Every time the phone rings, I jump, thinking it might be that banker calling to turn me down. When I took them papers to him last week, he was nice enough. Made me wait longer than a businessman should have to wait, but said he'd get back to me about the loan in a couple of weeks.

  Talking to Alice about Daddy ain't done no good, either. I don't think she wants to hear it. Hell, I don't want to know it, but now that I do, ain't nothing can change that. I think back over our conversation when I showed her the postcard.

  "You don't know that your daddy hung that man, Del," she said.

  "Alice, he's sitting there right in front of that dead boy's feet, big as you please, smiling like he's done got a trophy!"

  "He was young then — twenty or twenty-one years old. Maybe he just jumped in the picture. You know how young men are. They're always posing and such."

  "Then why did he get that postcard, and why did it have his name on it?"

  "I have no idea, but I'll tell you this, Del Tanner. You'd better let this thing go and stop nosing around. Folks around here don't want to talk about those old days. The black people got what they want now, so you don't need to go stirring things up. Your luck, one of these educated black folks around here, who's always hollering about equality, will get hold of this story and you'll be ruined. Not all your customers are white, you know. Those people won't stop at anything. They'll have some NAACP lawyer down here trying to put you in jail."

  "Now you're being ridiculous," I told her. But maybe she's right. I probably should leave the past alone. I should burn the damn postcard and those Klan robes, too. I'll be damned if I know why I can't let this thing go.

  My mind is as foggy as the weather today. There's such a thick mist hanging over the lumberyard, I can barely make out the office building when I turn into the lot. I'm here earlier than usual, but I couldn't sleep. I'm still having those hellish dreams. Just this morning I woke up in a cold sweat from dreaming that old black schoolteacher named Grace Clark was putting a rope around my neck and laughing. As I'm lying there, trying to go back to sleep, I start wondering, were there other lynchings? How many niggers did Daddy kill? Did he burn their houses? Rape their women? I finally had to go on and get up. I made myself some strong black coffee and came to work.

  I feel like if I could just find out a little more about what happened, I might be able to stop thinking about it. My visit with Purvis's son was worthless. Either that man is hiding something or he ain't got no idea that his daddy took lynching photographs. Looks to me like he just shut Purvis's old studio down and left it to sit for forty years. And now, he's trying to sell it. I sit and run the engine, listening to the radio for a weather report.

  I must be thickheaded this morning because I just now notice there's a silver Cadillac parked in front of the office door. What is somebody doing here at this hour? It can't be any later than seven o'clock. I switch off my engine, get slowly out of my truck, and walk over to the car. A young black girl who looks to be in her twenties is sleeping behind the wheel of the car. Got her head slumped over on the steering wheel looking like she's dead. In the backseat there's an old white woman pouring something steaming hot from a thermos into a china teacup. The old woman has a big fancy napkin spread across her knees. She's got gloves on and her hands are shaking so bad it's a wonder whatever she's pouring ain't got all over her.

  I tap on the driver's-side window, trying to rouse the girl. She jerks her head up, lets out a yelp; the old woman jumps, spills the hot drink in her lap and screams like a bobcat. The car door almost hits me in the nuts as the girl jumps out, opens up the back car door and starts mopping up the mess, apologizing all over the place to the woman she keeps calling Miss Purvis.

  "Miss Purvis, are you all right? Did that hot tea burn you?" The girl fusses and dabs at the old woman's dress.

  Miss Purvis pushes the girl's hands away; she's stronger than I thought she would be. "Stop fussing over me, Ava!" she says in a gravelly voice. "I'm fine. Now take this cup and thermos and get back in the car!"

  I move to stand at the front of the car and let these two women sort out the situation, wondering what in hell they're doing parked in my lot drinking tea at seven o'clock in the morning. The white woman turns and stares at me through big round Coke-bottle glasses. She has hair the color of weathered fence pickets that's fixed in a ball on the back of her head, and as she turns in the seat to put her feet on the ground, I notice that one of her legs is artificial. I automatically move to help her up, but she swats my hand away like I'm some mosquito about to bite her.

  Once again, I back up as she pulls herself to her full height, which is about the level of my elbow. "Ma'am," I try, "can I help you?"

  She takes a minute to steady herself before she replies. "No, Mr. Delbert Tanner. I am here to help you."

  I have no idea why this woman is here, but this is surely not the response I expected. I'm fixing to ask her what she means, but before I can get out a w
ord, she keeps talking.

  "My name is Jimalee Purvis. I am the daughter of the late J. R. Purvis, Sr. I have been made aware that you visited my brother, J. R. Purvis, Jr., in order to inquire about a photograph that our father might have taken."

  I'm so taken back that my mind goes blank. Then I realize she's staring at me and is waiting for me to say something. I recover myself. "Um ... yes ... yes'm. I was just there last week. But your brother said there weren't any records. Said he couldn't help me."

  The Purvis woman grunts in response. "That's because my brother is a stubborn ox." Miss Purvis states this as if it's a fact well known to anyone with half a brain. "He chooses to close his eyes to the darker aspects of our father's photography business. When our father stopped doing photography in 1960, we simply closed the doors of the studio and left if untouched. It wasn't until Daddy's death last year that my brother was willing to consider selling the place." Miss Purvis turns slowly and reaches inside the car for a cane. "Now, if you don't keep me standing out here in this damp air all day, I will endeavor to give you the information you require."

  I'm still trying to take all of this in, but out of old habit, I move again to help her, and once again she stiff-arms me. She taps on the window with the cane and says to the girl, "Ava, bring my tea and follow me in here with it."

  I decide my best move is to unlock the office door. I cross the short distance from the car to my office and fumble with my keys, unlocking the outer door and propping it open for Miss Purvis. I glance around at the office. It's a mess, as usual. I make a mental note to fire my secretary. I push papers into piles and clear the only available chair. I have no idea what this old woman is fixing to tell me, but I feel myself starting to sweat, even though there's a chill in the air today.

  The old Purvis woman is sitting in the chair across from my desk studying me through those Coke-bottle glasses of hers. She's got them pushed down on the end of her nose, and it's making me feel like I did when the schoolteacher caught me cutting up in the back of the room. She done made that little girl sit out there in the secretary's area and closed the door to my office like she wants to make sure the girl don't hear us. My mouth has gone dry and I'm wishing like hell for a cup of strong black coffee right about now.

  "So you're Ray Tanner's son, are you?" she asks.

  "Yes, ma'am, I am."

  "And why is it you're nosing around the Purvis studio trying to find out about a seventy-one-year-old postcard?"

  I'm thinking this old woman should have been the lawyer in the family. I feel like I might as well be sitting under a lightbulb down at the sheriff's office being questioned. "I found it in some of my daddy's things and I got curious. I ... I didn't know ... I didn't know how my daddy came to be in that picture, so I thought Mr. Purvis might have kept some kind of records."

  "Mr. Tanner, there were some terrible things that happened in the twenties and thirties around here. Shameful, unspeakable things. Do you understand that?"

  "Yes, ma'am ... I mean, no, ma'am ... I don't know what you're talking about, ma'am."

  "So your father did not apprise you of his white supremacist activities?"

  I don't know for sure, but I'm thinking she's talking about the Klan. "If you mean him being in the Klan and all that, no,

  ma'am, I never knew about all that. The only reason I know now is on account of finding that postcard and his ... you know ... the sheets ... and that hat thing."

  "You mean his Klansman robes and hood?"

  I shuffle some papers around on my desk, avoiding looking at her. "Yes, ma'am."

  All of a sudden she slams her cane down on the floor so hard the door rattles. I almost jump out of my chair and I jerk my head up to look at her.

  "Mr. Tanner, are you prepared to hear just what kind of man your father was?"

  She's done scared me so bad with that cane, I don't know if I'm ready to hear what she has to say or not, but I don't see no way to get out of it now. This woman's got me feeling so pussy-whipped I just nod my head and don't say nothing. Then she starts telling me a story about my daddy I wish I'd never heard.

  December 1931

  Jimalee Purvis

  I like to leave my bedroom door open at night so I can smell the Christmas tree. Daddy cut a cedar from the woods behind our house this afternoon and Brother and I helped him nail a stand to it. We brought it in and decorated it tonight, and now the whole house smells like cedar. I fell asleep dreaming of the green dress with the cut-lace collar I saw today in the window of Pott's Department Store. Tomorrow I'll beg Mama to let me have it for the Christmas dance.

  I can see the moon outside my window when Daddy shakes me awake, whispering, "Jimalee, Jimalee, get up, girl. I need your help."

  At first I think something must be wrong with Mama. She's got another baby coming and this one's been giving her trouble. "Is it Mama?" I ask, jumping out of bed and looking for my housecoat.

  "No, your mama's fine. But I need you to help me with some pictures tonight."

  "But, Daddy, it's the middle of the night," I say, trying to understand. "What kind of pictures are you going to take in the middle of the night?"

  "Never mind that, girl — just put these clothes on and hurry." He hands me what looks like my brother's pants and a long-sleeved shirt. My brother is usually the one to help Daddy when he takes photographs out around town. He knows just how to carry the camera and how to set up the tripod. Daddy has never let me help him before, so I'm confused.

  "Daddy, I don't understand," I whisper. "Where's J.R. and why do I have to wear his clothes?"

  "Jimalee, stop asking questions and do as I tell you," he says. "When you're dressed, come out to the car and help me load the equipment."

  I pull on J.R.'s pants and stuff my nightgown in them, hitching them up with the belt Daddy left on the bed. I button the shirt quickly and try to roll up the sleeves that hang below my hands. My thin thirteen-year-old body surely looks like a boy's in these clothes, but I still don't understand why Daddy is making me do this. I wonder again where J.R. is. He and Daddy haven't been getting along well for the past several months, and J.R. has taken to sleeping out in the barn just to get away from Daddy.

  I can see my breath tonight, it's turned so cold. I'm shivering as I close the back door behind me and walk toward the barn. As I approach, I can see the words "Purvis Photography" reflected from the moon shining on the side of Daddy's car. When I walk into the barn, I glance up at the loft, but I don't see any signs of J.R. Daddy is in his special room, laying out pieces of camera equipment. He turns as I walk in, looks me up and down, and grunts. He takes one of his own coats and a hat off a hook on the wall and thrusts them at me.

  "Here, put these on and carry this out and put it in the trunk. I'll be there in a minute."

  I slide myself into the warm jacket, thankful for its weight, and I can't help asking again, "What are we taking pictures of tonight, Daddy?"

  He ignores me and continues to move quickly around the room, gathering supplies. I carry the heavy tripod out, slide it into the trunk, and climb into the front seat, feeling nervous and excited to be the one to help Daddy with his pictures. I've always had to stay in the cramped little studio over Main Street. I get people seated just right, touch up the women's hair, try to keep the babies from screaming. A lot of times I have to help Daddy in his stuffy old darkroom, too. That's not much fun, but tonight feels like an adventure.

  Daddy gets into the car and still doesn't say a word. We drive fast toward town and turn off just after we cross the river bridge, flying down the gravel road that ends at the boat dock. Near as I can tell, we're close to the Davenports' place, Riverview. But we're not going toward the house. We pull off on what looks like an old hunting road. In the headlights, I can see the thick woods all around us. We bump over the deep ruts in the road for a few minutes; then Daddy pulls the car over in a grassy clearing, turns the headlights off, and looks at me.

  "Jimalee, you listen real good now."

&n
bsp; "Yessir," I say, feeling grown-up and important.

  "You keep your mouth shut and do as I tell you. What I'm fixing to take pictures of ain't gonna be pretty, but it's part of my job and something I got to do. We are gonna get in and out of here as quick as we can, but it's important you keep that hat down over your face and stay quiet. Do you understand me?"

  I nod my consent, my excitement quickly turning to fear of what's about to happen. We get out of the car and I hold my arms out as Daddy places the heavy tripod across them. While I'm waiting for Daddy to gather his camera and equipment, I look around. The light has changed to a pale gray and I realize that it's closer to sunrise than I thought. The moon is still bright and lights up the road through the woods. Daddy starts walking fast down the road and I struggle to keep up with him, shaking from the cold and not knowing what's happening.

  I wonder where my brother, J.R., is. Why was he not at home? Did he disappear so that he wouldn't have to do what I'm doing right now? Why is this job such a secret? Helping in the darkroom, I've seen a lot of Daddy's photographs — tent revivals, circus freak shows, baptisms. He even went out to the Dooleys' house and took pictures of little Johnny Dooley in his casket after he died of diphtheria. What could be so strange now that it requires all of this mysteriousness?

  As we move deeper into the woods, I realize we're going toward the river. I can smell the water and I hear it running fast from the recent rains. The air has gotten colder and wetter. Dogs barking in the distance and the muffled sounds of men's voices float toward us. I stumble as I set my foot down in a deep muddy hole in the road and I almost drop the tripod. Daddy reaches to help me and curses under his breath. I think I hear him say "your brother."

  We come out on a clearing at the edge of the woods, and I have to stop to set the heavy tripod down and catch my breath. I look over at Daddy and he's stopped, too. He's staring across toward the water. We're right at the banks of the Tombigbee River. I can hear the dogs and the men's voices louder now below us, but I can't see anything beyond where the steep bank drops to the water's edge.