Catfish Alley

by Lynne Bryant

  It took her a while to get the words out, but she told me that a colored man was found dead this morning hanging from a tree near the river. A tree on our property! Clarence Jones saw him from his boat when he put into the river to fish this morning right after sunrise. It was Zero Clark! Sarah Jane is devastated. I asked her if they knew who did it and she said no, that whoever hung him was long gone by the time Clarence found him and cut him down.

  I have a feeling I know who it was. Who had it in for Zero? Who was it Zero left town to escape from? Ray Tanner, that's who. I can't help but wonder if I'm part of the reason this happened. After all, I did insist that Daddy sack Ray from his job at the mill. If Daddy did fire him yesterday, Ray probably blamed Zero and went after him. Dear God, how can I live with this?

  The RC is halfway to my mouth and I've gone numb with disbelief. All this time I thought Zero Clark left Clarksville. I thought he decided to go somewhere else to practice medicine. How did I get that idea? Grace never told me that exactly, but she didn't tell me this, either. No wonder she's so hesitant to talk about her brother! I feel hot tears burning my eyes. I can't do this anymore. I can't hear one more tragic story. I can't visualize one more horrible scene of white brutality. I get up, drop the diary on the kitchen table, and pick up the phone. I'm canceling everything — my time with Grace today, the appointment with Del Tanner, the whole damn African-American tour! They can find someone else to do it.

  I'm done. As a matter of fact, I'm done with all of it — the antebellum dresses, the Pilgrimage Tour, the home restorations, the pretending to be a pedigreed Southerner. No more.

  As I stand there sobbing, the phone in my hand, the off-the-hook tone bleating in my ear, I feel lonelier and more confused than I ever have. I don't know what matters anymore. And, worse, I don't know who I am anymore. I hang up the phone and sink to the floor. I'm sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, feeling the cold tile through my robe, and I honestly don't know what to do next.

  I pull myself to my feet and see my open address book lying on the counter. A sticky note with Rita Baldwin's phone number floats toward me like a life preserver to a drowning shipwreck victim. I pick up the sticky note, and my hands are shaking as I dial Rita's number.

  I'm still amazed that Rita was willing to drop everything and come to my house. I tried to insist that I was okay, since I realized as soon as she picked up the phone that I had no idea how to begin to tell her why I called. I even attempted to pull myself together, giving some empty excuse about following up on the antebellum home prospect, but she must have sensed something, because she asked, "Roxanne, are you all right? You don't sound too good."

  That was all it took to cause me to completely lose my composure again, and as I blubbered about finding out something horrible and various other phrases that probably sounded like nonsense, she stopped me to tell me she'd be right over.

  So here we are, sitting at my kitchen table, and I'm thinking how I've never sat at my own kitchen table with a friend for one of those intimate conversations like Mama used to have when I was growing up. How could that have happened? I must have drifted off in my thoughts again, because I have to ask Rita to repeat her last question.

  "So this was Miss Grace's brother?"

  "Yes, and she never even hinted to me that something this horrible happened to him," I say, taking yet another tissue from the box. "Why wouldn't she tell me?"

  "Maybe she's ashamed," Rita speculates. "Or maybe she's trying to protect you."

  "That's absurd! Protect me from what? Believing that absolutely nothing in hers or her brother's life went the way they planned? I was already there, Rita," I say, realizing how angry I feel. "This whole thing already feels like a complete nightmare."

  "Stop it, Roxanne," she says, and I'm taken back by the anger in her voice. "Stop seeing these women as victims. They don't see themselves that way. Yes, they've been through some horrible history. But they didn't let it change their whole view of the world. They've learned to live with the sadness and move on."

  "But why?" I can't help but ask. "It all seems so hopeless."

  "Roxanne, wake up and take a look around you. My husband works with Elsie Spencer's husband at the bank. You and I are having coffee together at your kitchen table. Do you think those things would have happened in 1931?"

  I look up at her, and her expression is so intense I have to look back down. "No, I guess not, but I feel like such a hypocrite. I didn't take on this tour because I'm interested in black history. I did it because I wanted to get Louisa Humboldt off my back and get the contract to do the restoration at Riverview. I thought this was going to be some simple little list of places that Grace would come up with and we'd be done. I never thought I'd get so pulled into their lives ... their history."

  "And how do you feel now?" she asks, taking a sip of coffee.

  I pause for a minute to think about the answer to that. "Everything's different now. Somewhere along the way it started to matter. And now I'm totally confused. I don't think I'm the right person for this job. Maybe you should take over."

  "Why? Because I'm black? Don't you think Grace Clark had a reason for doing this the way she did?"

  I think about it and suddenly realize that Grace probably knew all along that if I'd known about Zero from the beginning I would have bailed on the whole project before we even got started. "Yes, I suppose she did."

  Right now I feel completely bewildered. My marriage is falling apart, my daughter is upset with me, I truly believe most of the women on the Pilgrimage Committee think I've lost my mind, I'm depressed over the injustice to a man I never even knew, and I think I'm developing my first real adult friendship with a black woman ... maybe. Her next comment reminds me that Rita Baldwin does not tiptoe softly around any topic, and I'm stung.

  "I think Grace Clark knows that the white women who join the Pilgrimage Committee or the Junior League are 'to the manor born,' so to speak, and most of you have spent a tremendous amount of time ignoring what goes on around you between blacks and whites every day. She used this opportunity to let you in ... to let you see, if you were willing, into her world ... our world."

  I can see that if I want a friendship with this woman, I'm going to have to be as honest and direct as she is. No more pretending. No more hiding behind Dudley's family, or money, or my own little pathetic created story. "I wasn't born to the manor," I say. "I was born to a poor family on the bayou in south Louisiana." I sigh, thinking this is probably going to be the quick demise of an almost friendship. "Rita, I'm probably the biggest impostor you'll ever meet."

  She listens to my whole story, one I've never told anyone before. When I'm finished, I'm surprised by how relieved I feel. She doesn't show much of a reaction one way or the other. I can't tell if she's appalled, or uninterested, or just generally thinks I'm pitiful.

  "Sounds like we have a lot more in common than I thought," she says, and her smile is warm. I start to feel a glimmer of hope ... maybe see a little squeak of light down in the hole I've dug for myself.

  "There's one big difference between us, however," she says.

  "What's that?"

  "You could choose your path because of the color of your skin. I had to choose mine in spite of it." She says this gently, looking at me with a clarity I envy. I'm still struggling to understand. My glimmer fades a little. What now?

  She stands up and rinses out her coffee cup, places it in the dish drainer. "I think you'd better go wash your face and put on some makeup," she says, reaching for my cup.

  I look at her, puzzled. I'm still reeling from our conversation.

  "You and I are going to go meet Grace and Clarence. We need to hear the rest of this story."

  Chapter 21

  Grace

  I knew the time was coming soon when I would have to talk to Roxanne about Zero, but I didn't think it would happen this way. I expected her at nine o'clock this morning, but she showed up an hour late, her eyes red and puffy like she'd been crying, and she
was having a hard time putting a coherent sentence together. The other surprise was that she brought Jack Baldwin's wife, Rita, with her. She's a real nice woman, and even though I can't see it happening, I think she would make a good friend for Roxanne.

  All Roxanne was able to say before we left my house for town was, "I've got to talk to you about Zero, but I want to wait until we get to Clarence's."

  Now we're all sitting at Clarence's kitchen table, and she pulls a leather-bound book out of her purse and lays it on the table.

  The book looks to be old; its pages are brittle and yellowed. I notice she's trembling as she pulls her hand away.

  "What's this?" I ask, wondering if I really want to know.

  "This is Ellen Davenport's diary," she says, and she takes a deep breath. "Louisa Humboldt found it in her attic at Riverview. I was reading it to see if it contained any history about Riverview." She reaches in her purse for a tissue, like she's worried she'll start crying again.

  I'm trying to piece this together. Why has Ellen Davenport's diary got her so upset? Then it dawns on me, and I look at Clarence.

  "Sarah Jane," Clarence says, and I nod. Clarence and I are both remembering that Sarah Jane Weathers worked for the Davenports. She was there the morning Clarence found Zero. Clarence later told me she was hysterical that day. We both knew she was sweet on Zero, and she was as close as a sister to Ellen Davenport.

  Roxanne is watching us. "So you know, then?" she asks. Her eyes are wide, almost accusing, as she looks back and forth between Clarence and me.

  I look at Clarence again and back at Roxanne. "Why don't you tell us what you read, sugar? I never knew Ellen Davenport was writing in a diary about things that happened back then." I'm wondering if Ellen and Sarah Jane knew something we don't. All these years of wondering what happened that night, and here I am, hearing a white woman's version of it.

  Roxanne is crying again now, and Rita reaches over and pats her shoulder. "Go on," she says. "Tell them what Ellen wrote."

  Roxanne stares into her coffee cup and shakes her head. She tells us in a halting way about the very first time she read the diary, and how Ellen described Zero delivering Andy Benton's engagement ring. "And then you confirmed that part the next time we talked," she says. "To tell you the truth, the main reason I was interested in the diary at all was because Louisa mentioned Zero's name being in it."

  "How come you didn't tell me about this diary?" I ask.

  "I decided not to mention it to you because you were always so private about Zero. I guess now I know why," she says. "I read far enough in the diary to know that Ellen's elopement didn't work out, that Ray stopped it, and she was brought back here ... that her heart was broken. Again, your stories confirmed all of that. So for a while, I forgot all about the diary."

  "So Ellen wrote about Zero in her diary?" I ask. I want to pick it up and look at it, find out if there was something she knew, something to explain what happened, but my hands don't seem to obey my mind. I can't bring myself to touch that diary.

  Roxanne reaches for it and pulls it across the table toward her. She leafs through the pages until she gets to the one she's looking for. She smoothes the pages out flat, then hands the diary to me. Now my hands are the ones shaking as I set it down between Clarence and me. Together, we read Ellen's entries for December fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth, 1931.

  I can't find my voice to respond. Reading young Ellen Davenport's words about my dear brother has torn that old wound in my heart wide open. This confirms what I always thought: Ray Tanner was at the center of this. It had to be him — especially since Ellen got her daddy to fire him over what happened to Sarah Jane.

  Clarence reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief to blow his nose. How much pain can a body bear? The four of us are so quiet I can hear the clock over the refrigerator ticking. That old saying crosses my mind — time heals all wounds. Not this one. It's been seventy years since Zero was murdered, and right now, reading this diary, it feels like yesterday.

  Roxanne breaks the silence. "Grace, was I that blind?" she asks. "Did you tell me Zero died and I just ignored it?" Roxanne has got such a pained expression on her face, it cuts right through me.

  I finally find my voice. "No, sugar," I say. "I never told you what happened. When you acted like you believed he left Clarksville, I just didn't correct you. I didn't have it in me to talk about his death yet." She nods like she understands.

  "I've never seen the point in talking about things you can't do nothing about," Clarence says, and I can hear that old anger in his voice. He gets up from the table and walks to the window, looking out over his little garden. "Talking won't bring him back, or change what happened."

  "Clarence," I say. He still won't look at me. "I think it's time. You and I both have been holding on to this story for too long. I don't know about you, but there are some things in that diary that I didn't know." He turns and looks at me, and I can't read his expression. Did he know more about Ray Tanner than he let on? I can't bring myself to ask him right now, and Roxanne and Rita are waiting to hear what happened.

  "I'll tell y'all what I remember about those two days," I say. "Then, maybe Clarence will fill in some more."

  December 1931

  A cat's scream wakes me from an exhausted sleep and I tell myself I'm just being silly for feeling afraid. I turn over, pull the quilt up close to my chin, and try to go back to sleep, but I keep replaying yesterday's events over and over in my mind and sleep won't come. Zero got in last night and Dr. Jackson and I went to pick him up at the bus station. Before Dr. Jackson brought Zero and me home, we went by the Jacksons' house and Zero tried to see Adelle. Mrs. Jackson said she was asleep and that she still refuses to talk to anyone but me. It broke my heart to see the look on Zero's face when Adelle wouldn't let him visit her. Of course, they all asked me what she told me about the attack, and I've never been so miserable as I was telling them the lies Adelle insisted on.

  After we got home, Zero and I sat up and talked for hours. He told me all about Alcorn State and I told him about Tougaloo. Zero's face lights up when he talks about college. And he's doing so well. I think we were both bragging a little bit, talking about our good grades. This was our first chance to talk about Gerald Calhoun's letter. As I told him the story of what happened to Mama, I watched him closely for his reaction.

  "So you half white, huh?" he said.

  "Yes, I reckon I am," I answered, looking down at his hands and mine on the table and feeling the same mixture of anger and shame all over again.

  "Grade, look at me."

  I looked up to meet his gaze. His warm brown eyes filled me with reassurance. "I love you anyway," he said with a sly grin. We both laughed as he reached across the table and took my hands in his.

  "You going to move up to the big house now?" he asked.

  "No, I'm not. I'm staying right here. The Calhouns have been good to us, but that letter doesn't mean I'm part of that family." I told him how when the Calhouns found out about Adelle, they offered to do anything they could to help.

  Every now and then as we were talking, Zero would stop and ask, "Now, are you sure Adelle didn't tell you anything else about what happened? Maybe something she remembered about the men who did it — what they looked like, how big they were?"

  I've never lied to my brother before. That's part of what's keeping me awake now. I feel the weight of Adelle's story like a stone in my chest. I decide to get up and go to the kitchen for some buttermilk. It always helps me sleep. When I pass Zero's door, I peer in and he's not there. His bed hasn't even been slept in. The stone in my chest gets heavier. Where could he be at this time of night? He's not the kind of man who sits on a barstool at Jones's pool hall. He always says he's got better things to do than carouse with a bunch of men looking for trouble.

  The kitchen clock says four a.m. He couldn't have gone to see Adelle this early. I realize that sleep will be impossible now, so I decide to make coffee instead of having buttermi
lk. I'm just pouring a cup when the back door opens and Zero comes in, looking weary and cold. He looks up at me as he's taking off his dirty boots and tries to smile.

  "Morning," he says.

  "Morning," I answer, pouring a second cup of coffee. "Where have you been?"

  Zero hangs his coat on the hook by the door and reaches for the cup I hand him. He sits down heavily in the same chair where I left him last night when I thought he was going to bed right after me.

  "I got to thinking last night that maybe I could retrace Adelle's steps from the house to the bus stop. I thought I might find something ... you know, something that would help me figure out what happened ... maybe some clue. So I walked into town and I started behind the Jackson house and tried the different streets she might have taken ..."

  "Did you find anything?"

  "Not at first, but then I remembered that she wasn't attacked right out in the open on the street, so I started looking in the alleys. That's when I found this." Zero holds up a small red pocketknife. It looks like one of those Swiss Army knives.

  I take the knife in my hands. When we were kids, every boy in school whose parents could afford it had one of these. It could be anybody's. It has no name on it, of course. "You don't think this is the knife that cut Adelle, do you?"

  "No. From what Dr. Jackson said, this one doesn't have the right kind of blade. But maybe, if I can figure out who it belongs to, it will help me find out who did this to Adelle."

  I stop myself from telling Zero he's grasping at straws. I'm suddenly panicked. I've been so focused on Adelle that I haven't thought about what Zero's reaction would be. Now I'm realizing he's going to do everything he can to find her attackers. Adelle was right: This could be dangerous for him. What if Ray Tanner finds out he's back in town?

  "Zero, why don't you take that to the sheriff? Maybe they could use it to ... to . . ."

  Zero turns on me like a rabid dog. "To what, Grace? Do you think they've done anything? Dr. Jackson reported the attack right away. He called Buford Culpepper at home and woke him up to tell him what happened. Do you know what our fat white sheriff said?" Zero is standing now, looking down at me. His eyes are bloodshot and fierce. "Do you?"