by Lynne Bryant
"It's a tour ... you know ... for people to take.... They see the places around Clarksville that were important historical landmarks for blacks...."
He laughs, a wheezy sound that gets him coughing again, and I can't help but laugh with him. Travis's looking at us like he can't figure out what's going on.
"I don't get it," he says. "What's so funny?"
Mr. Jackson winks at me and I turn to Travis. "Just an inside joke," I say, noticing that Travis looks only briefly like he feels left out before he returns to his fascination with the record collection. "Seriously, Mr. Jackson, they want to put the Queen City Hotel on the tour and Gran has agreed to it. I realize that this is none of my business, but Gran and Miss Adelle and Miss Grace didn't mention that you were still in Chicago. Then, when I was telling Travis the whole story, he recognized your name and we've been looking for you ever since."
"Miss Mattie and them know you looking for me?" he asks.
I'm suddenly feeling uncomfortable, like I might have gotten into more than I bargained for. "Well ... no," I say, and then hurry to add, "We think it would be great if you could come back for the reopening of the Queen City. We were thinking maybe you could be like an artist in residence. Maybe mentor some of the kids who are into jazz. And I'm sure my grandmother would love to see you, and so would Adelle. ..." I watch for his reaction as I add the next part. "And, of course, there's Miss Grace Clark."
He looks away the instant I mention Grace's name. He shakes his head. "I just don't know, young lady. I ain't been back to Clarksville, Mississippi, in more than seventy years. I didn't even go back to bury my mama and papa. There's a lot I regret, now that I'm sober," he says, looking down into his coffee cup. "But I'm an old man now. Looks like it's too late to be showing up there after all these years."
Travis has apparently been listening more than I thought. He sets down the album he's holding, pushes his reading glasses up on his head, and clears his throat. "Um ...could I ask you a question, sir?"
"Yeah, I ain't got no secrets. Ask me anything you want."
"Why didn't you ever go back? Was it that bad for you there?"
Mr. Jackson leans back in his chair and takes a sip of coffee. "No, son, it wasn't all bad." He pauses for so long I almost think that's all he's going to say. Then he sighs heavily and continues.
"It was right about Christmastime, 1931. We was playing in New York City the whole month of December that year. I remember I'd never seen snow before and I was so excited to call home and tell them about it. I was in a phone booth, putting in my nickels, and that snow was coming down so hard I couldn't see the street. My mama answered the phone, and as soon as she heard my voice, she started crying."
"I know," I say. "Miss Adelle told us what happened to her."
"So I reckon you know what happened to Zero?" he asks.
I'm puzzled. The ladies didn't mention anything about Zero. I think for a second. "Oh, yes, Zero is Miss Grace's brother, right?" He nods. "No, they didn't talk about Zero. Why? What happened?"
Mr. Jackson pulls open a drawer in the table between us and takes out a cigar and lighter. His hands tremble as he unwraps the cigar and lights it. My stomach feels queasy from the smell and the hot, dry closeness of the small room. When he's puffed the cigar alive he leans forward in his chair and props his elbows on his knees, looking at the floor. "White men hung him," he says, and the words are suspended, bitter in the air.
"Pardon me?" I say. "Did you say hung him?"
"Yes, ma'am. Zero was lynched on December sixteenth, 1931."
I'm filled with anger so intense that hot tears sting my eyes. No wonder my gran and her friends wouldn't talk about this! I think of dear old Grace Clark and Miss Adelle. The sadness of what they've endured overtakes me. How did they do it? Why would anyone stay in Mississippi? I can't even formulate a response. The three of us sit there silently watching the smoke from Mr. Jackson's cigar float into the air. Finally, Travis breaks the quiet.
"I can see why you wouldn't want to go back," he says softly.
"I'm not proud of what I done. Right after I found out about Zero, I was so full of hate I walked around in a daze, going from one gig to another, and pouring all of my anger into that piano. I'm ashamed to admit it, but back then, I was afraid to go back. Afraid I'd end up like Zero. Funny thing is, I woke up a few years down the road and found myself in demand. Hot bands all over Chicago wanted me and the ladies flocked to me like chickens to corn. Up here in Chicago I found myself steady work and black folks who didn't live every day scared of whites. They weren't necessarily any better off than the folks in Mississippi, but after what I'd seen and heard it sure seemed better.
"The years went by so fast I couldn't keep track. I did everything I could to put Mississippi out of my mind. Between the nightlife, the shows, the booze, and the women, I lost myself in a sea of slide piano and Jack Daniel's. But things changed, music changed, and I got old. The arthritis in my fingers keeps me from playing like I used to. Now I'm just another dried-up old Chicago musician with no retirement, no savings, and living on social security."
"You never went back to visit at all? Never had contact with any of them?" I ask.
"No, ma'am, I didn't. Couldn't bring myself to go back there. Looking back on it now, I think after a while, I was ashamed." I realize now that there are tears running down his cheeks. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a worn handkerchief and wipes his eyes. "I never could get over feeling guilty for living when Zero died. He'd have made a fine doctor, you know," he says, looking at me. "Addie sent letters over the years, telling me all about Mattie and Robert, Jr., and their kids, telling me about Grace and her being such a fine teacher and all. But I never wrote back. And I moved around so much, I reckon those letters stopped catching up to me." He sighs. "I was pretty full of myself for a while. When Gracie stopped writing, I figured she'd decided she was too good for me." He looks at Travis now as if he'll understand. "There was always a woman willing to cook my breakfast," he says with a slight grin. Travis nods and smiles, and I bristle at their male bonding.
"Sounds to me like Miss Grace got her heart broken," I say, barely able to hide the edge in my voice. Mr. Jackson looks surprised, as if this possibility hasn't occurred to him.
"Don't you know that she's loved you all these years? There was never another man for her," I say, realizing I'm probably getting a little too defensive. Travis shoots me a look that says, "Back off, Billy."
This starts a fresh round of quiet tears for Mr. Jackson, and I almost feel guilty for adding to his obvious torment. He sets his cigar on the ashtray and blows his nose.
"I done a lot of things wrong, Miss Billy," he says, and I start to feel like a jerk for being so confrontational. "The last thing anybody down there needs now is for me to come dragging in there acting like I've got something to offer anybody." He shakes his head. "Too much water under the bridge. Too late for me," he says, picking up the cigar again.
I think about the two women whose stories I listened to just a couple of weeks ago. How both of their lives hinged on the decisions of two men: the one sitting here in front of me now and the one I just found out died brutally before he even got a chance to live his dream. I think about my own fears, the way I've tried to run away from Mississippi and be someone different, live a new life. Who am I to judge this man? And I realize then that those women would take him back with open arms, just like they do me. Not because we're perfect, but because of their capacity to love.
I reach over and lay my hand on his knee. I can see the deep well of pain in his eyes
when he looks at me. "Think about it," I say. "It's never too late to go back home."
Chapter 20
Roxanne
The wreath-making party is going better than I expected. Of course, when Rita walked in you could have knocked the rest of the women in the room over with a feather. But they've all been extra courteous, shaking her hand and asking her if she likes Clarksville. Southern women are nothing if
not polite. I'm fascinated by Rita's ability to get them to talk to her. She's very comfortable with herself; she's even found things in common with Elsie Spencer. Rita moves right past their awkward responses when she makes reference to the "black community." As I move around the room, surreptitiously catching bits of Rita's conversation and thankful to escape into my role as hostess, I feel that same tug of conflict I keep having lately. I'm probably the only other person in the room who knows what Rita means about the black community. I'm still a little incredulous at how differently I see things now. Will these women see me as a traitor? What, or who, would I be betraying?
Everyone is talking and laughing and drinking my cranberry punch. I'm actually enjoying myself for a change. Frankly, I'm good at this kind of thing — much better than I am at playing Clarksville's African-American historian. If I can just manage to avoid Elsie Spencer's questions and figure out how to tactfully get a response from Louisa Humboldt about her restoration, I'll be home free.
As I pass around a fresh tray of canapes, I think about Grace, Adelle, Mattie, and even Billy Webster. They have all been so accepting of me over the past few weeks, so willing to bring me into their lives, tell me their stories. Of course, after what I've learned, it's still beyond me why a black woman, money or no money, would want to own a house that was built by slaves. But then it occurs to me, why not? If she can pull it off, more power to her!
I'm carrying a tray of empty punch cups into the kitchen when I look over my shoulder and realize Louisa is following me.
"Wonderful party, darling!" she says, trying to drawl. "Y'all have such cute little soirees down here." She lowers her voice as if we are in cahoots. "Great strategy, inviting a black woman."
Strategy? Is that what I was doing? Strategizing? I set the tray down on the kitchen counter, sneaking a glance at Ola Mae, who's standing at the sink washing empty plates. She faces straight ahead, staring out the kitchen window. I swear that's a smirk on her face.
"Imagine me, making a wreath out of magnolia leaves. I've never been very crafty, you know," Louisa continues. "Listen, Roxanne, I was wondering if you found anything in that old diary of Ellen Davenport's that might help with our restoration plans?"
Uh-oh. I've been so busy that I completely forgot about that diary. I tried to read some more of it a couple of times after I found the parts about Zero Clark. But after Ray Tanner managed to split up Ellen Davenport and her beau, Andy Benton, it seemed her life was an endless series of empty days spent doing needlepoint and reading romance novels. She did mention Ray Tanner, Del's father, a couple of times — I think he must have been trying to court her — but she apparently loathed him. Given what he did to Adelle, I can see why, although of course Ellen never knew anything about that. I got so bored with her diary, I stopped reading. The last time I remember seeing it, it was lying on the floor beside my bed. I wonder if I accidentally kicked it underneath the dust ruffle.
"Funny you should mention that, Louisa," I say, scrambling to make something up. "So far, Ellen Davenport doesn't say much about the house, but I'm still hopeful. I have a little more to read...." That might be a small white lie. "I'll get it back to you at our next Pilgrimage Committee meeting."
"And your final estimate, too? For our restoration? Ellery and I have decided we want you to manage the project." She winks one of her false eyelashes at me.
"Absolutely," I say. "Thank you so much." I'm caught completely off guard by this last pronouncement as Louisa sashays out of the kitchen.
Ola Mae snorts. "Looks like you got yourself a job."
I stand there, absently putting more toasted pecans in a crystal bowl, wondering how I feel. I thought I'd be so excited. Instead, what I'm feeling is ... pretty much nothing. Why do things keep changing?
I'm getting ready to collapse into bed, exhausted, when I remember the diary. I get down on my hands and knees and look under the bed. Sure enough, there it is, pushed underneath the edge of the bed frame just out of sight. I retrieve the diary and crawl into bed with my robe still on. It's cold tonight. I pull the covers up under my arms and prop the diary on my stomach. I'm not sure where I left off, probably around October of 1931. I skim the pages for details about Riverview, and I'm starting to nod off when I get to December 1931. I'm pleased to see that Ellen writes about the removable wall between the parlor and the dining room. Not many of the houses had those and this is an architectural detail that, if restored, will make Riverview unique. Louisa will be thrilled.
I start to close the diary when the name Ray Tanner catches my eye. I sit up and read on.
December 14, 7 p.m.
Tonight is our Christmas party. Mama and Daddy invited fifty people this year. They've opened up the wall between the dining room and the parlor to make room for dancing. We've been getting ready for this party for weeks and I've hated every minute of it. I have a confession. I lied to
Mama and told her that I've come down with one of my sick headaches so I won't be able to go to the party tonight. She fussed over me for a bit, but she's so worried about having everything perfect for the party that it wasn't long before she turned me over to Sarah Jane and left my bedroom.
Sarah Jane's always so good to me when I'm sick, even when I'm pretending to be. She and I have been getting along better lately. Tonight I told her about how much I loathe Ray Tanner and how Mama and Daddy act like they want me to let him court me. When I asked Sarah Jane what she thought I ought to do, she got real quiet. I thought maybe she was going to tell me, like Mama always does, that I'll be an old maid if I keep being so choosy. Instead, she told me about something that happened last summer.
Ray Tanner forced her to give him the key to our summer kitchen so he could spy on Zero Clark delivering Andy's package to me. So that's how he knew about us! But that wasn't the worst of it! Sarah Jane also told me what Ray Tanner did to her. He's a loathsome beast and I'm going to make sure Daddy fires him. I think when Daddy hears what Ray did to Sarah Jane, he will. As soon as the party is over, I'm going downstairs and tell Daddy what happened. I hate Ray Tanner.
Poor Sarah Jane. She's in love with Zero Clark, but Zero loves that colored doctor's daughter, Adelle Jackson. Sarah Jane and I are in the same situation. Neither one of us can have the man we love. I feel so sorry for her. Zero Clark is a nice man. He tried to help Andy and me. Sarah Jane says that after Ray Tanner stopped Andy and me from getting married, he was going after Zero next, but Zero got wind of it and left town to go off to Alcorn State. Sarah Jane says that's a college for coloreds. I'm glad Zero's away from here and safe.
The page ends and I close the diary, realizing that Ray Tanner must have raped Adelle Jackson around the same time that Ellen Davenport was writing in her diary, December 1931. And it sounds like he did the same thing to that poor Sarah Jane girl. Ellen was right: He was a loathsome beast! Ellen must not have known that Zero was back in town that December. I make a mental note to ask Grace tomorrow to tell me the rest of the story of what happened that Christmas after Adelle was attacked.
Right now, I need to get some sleep because tomorrow is Tuesday. Grace and I are scheduled to pick up Clarence Jones to accompany us to the site where a man named Horace King, a freed slave who was apparently an important bridge builder in the mid-1800s, built the first bridge over the Tombigbee River. The bridge has since been torn down, like a lot of the historical places she tells me about. At least the stories will be preserved, even if the physical landmarks aren't.
What a strange turn of events this morning. I brought Ellen's diary downstairs to the kitchen, planning to read some more of it before I left to pick up Grace. I had just opened an RC and was trying to wake up when the phone rang. It was Del Tanner, of all people. He asked me if I still wanted to put his warehouse on my tour. I almost dropped the phone. Was this the same Del Tanner who just a few weeks ago said it would ruin his business to have his warehouse on an African-American historical tour?
He sounded nervous, very different from the swagger he had th
e day Grace and I visited the lumberyard. I wasn't sure what to say. I'm thinking surely there must be a catch. I agreed to bring Grace and come by the lumberyard on Friday and hung up wondering if I should have just turned him down flat. I don't trust Del Tanner, and I surely don't want to subject Grace to any of his rudeness.
I'm still pondering Del's change of heart when I start to read Ellen Davenport's diary entry dated December fifteenth, 1931. It's very short.
December 15, 8 a.m.
I'm pleased with myself this morning. Last night, after everyone left, I found Daddy in his den, smoking a cigar and drinking brandy. I told him all about what Ray Tanner did to Sarah Jane. I was embarrassed to talk to my own father about such things, but he had to know. I demanded he fire Ray Tanner as soon as possible.
Daddy was quiet for a while, but I could tell he was angry. Daddy is fiercely protective of Josephine and Sarah Jane — almost as much as he is of Mama and me. He won't even let Mama scold them too much.
Daddy told me not to worry, that he would take care of it. That's all he would say, but I have a feeling that Ray Tanner will be looking for work after today. Serves him right.
December 16, 2 p.m.
I hardly slept at all last night. The dogs kept barking and barking from their pens, like they were trying desperately to get out. This morning I was trying to make myself get out of bed when Sarah Jane came bursting into my room. She didn't even knock. She slammed the door closed behind her and stood leaning against it, clutching her arms to her chest, and trembling all over. She had the most terrified look in her eyes, and she was breathing so fast I thought she'd faint.
I jumped up and went over to her, and just as I reached her she collapsed on the floor in a blubbering heap. I finally had to shake her to get her to tell me what was wrong.
