Catfish

by Madelyn Bennett Edwards

  “You’ll get used to it,” Daddy said.

  Besides being unbelievably smelly, it was noisy and filthy. Men cheered and hollered, drinking beer and pulling pint bottles of hooch from their back pockets. I watched those dirty, bearded men, with wads of tobacco in their jaws, drink from the same bottle. Gross!

  After my dad, brothers and I were settled in the stands, I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room. I tramped through the muck and the mess in my new brown leather penny loafers, still stiff, and tried to avoid animal waste. I walked slowly, watching my feet and planning my steps carefully.

  When I reached the entrance to the concession area, the concrete floor was a welcomed relief from the muddy surface inside the arena. I grabbed a couple of napkins from the concession counter and bent to clean my shoes. I walked slowly and continued to swipe at mud and straw attached to my pants and sweater in various places.

  I wasn’t looking where I was going, but I knew I was moving towards the restrooms under the staircase. I could see the feet of people as they went around me. Just before I reached the door to the ladies room I bumped into someone. It was inevitable, I wasn’t looking where I was going.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. Or that’s what I think I said, then I looked at the brown boots that were toe-to-toe with my loafers, and at the creases in the legs of the blue jeans. My eyes traveled slowly up to the light green oxford shirt tucked in behind a brown leather belt, to the full lips and amber eyes of, guess who? Rodney!

  I’d run right into Rodney Thibault.

  I froze. I couldn’t speak or breathe. I barely felt my body stiffen and my mouth fall open. Rodney’s arms rose in slow motion and rested on my shoulders. His touch sent shivers down my back and landed in my crotch where I could feel the prickly beginnings of wetness. I stared at him and tried to speak but I only stuttered and stammered.

  I had relived our time in the Quarters hundreds of times over the past two years and felt his strong arm across my shoulder, his humming in my ear. Each time I saw him at the gas station I remembered, and re-enacted it in my mind again, but there was always a barrier between us—the car. This time, at the cow palace, there was no physical barrier, and I forgot, for a minute, that there was an audience.

  Something came alive inside me—something that had been dormant for two years. I stood under the staircase in a trance and stared at him. Neither of us spoke, at first. All the questioning I had done about whether he felt the same about me, whether he loved me, whether he remembered, whether his kiss meant as much to him as it did to me—all of those questions were answered by looking at him, and those fears fell away because I saw, in his face, a look I’ve never forgotten—complete love and submission.

  I noticed for the first time how tall he was—he towered over me by at least a head. He was taller than James, who was a little over six-feet.

  And gorgeous. Oh, God, Rodney Thibault was gorgeous.

  He said, “Hi. ”

  “Hi.” I think I said, and I swallowed, hard.

  I felt a sinking feeling in my tummy and the moisture in my panties. I tingled all over.

  Later I was unable to remember our exchange.

  *

  Rodney and Marianne said that Adams High School was a dump, but it had dedicated teachers, football and a gym where kids could shoot hoops. Marianne told me that Rodney’s coach said he was a natural leader, that’s why he was such a good Quartersback. Rodney told Marianne he didn’t play football because he loved the game, or because he needed the fraternity of other guys, he played because it kept him going, made him want to get up in the morning, helped him to forget, for a time, that he was colored and all the limitations that put on him. He said he never thought about the drawbacks of being Negro until he met me—like the fact that he couldn’t go to the white school that had a library and where all the kids were given textbooks they could take home, or that he only had two choices for college. But he told Marianne that the thing that made him the maddest was that he wasn’t even allowed to love who he wanted to love. How could anyone make a law about love, he asked her? She said she didn’t have an answer.

  Rodney said his limitations made him more determined to rise above what his race told him he could be. He told me that he was going to be a lawyer, to become respected, show the world that, just because he was a Negro didn’t mean he couldn’t do and be everything a white man could. Marianne said he was a serious student, that he studied hard and made good grades and that his teachers told him he had, “potential.” That he could make something of himself.

  He later told me that the biggest problem he had in high school was that he couldn’t stop thinking about me. And we both knew that was a dead-end street. He said he was no longer interested in other girls, so he just quit dating. I’m not sure I believed him because Marianne would tell me, every chance she got, about how all the girls loved him and chased him. She did tell me, in an off-moment, that his friends on the football team teased him and called him a faggot, because he no longer paid attention to the pretty girls who tried to get his attention.

  That was the closest Marianne ever came to telling me Rodney loved me. I asked her whether Rodney’s friends really believed he was gay, and she laughed and said he was too macho for that, especially on the football field, but that the guys couldn’t understand why he quit taking advantage of the girls who were willing to let him have whatever he wanted.

  One thing Rodney and I had in common was our love for books and the library. When I’d go to the Esso station he’d tell me about a recent trip there and some of the things he’d read. Even though he wasn’t allowed to check out books at the public library because he was colored, there was a section in the back where he could read current events and articles on the micro fish reader. He said there were rarely any people in the coloreds section so he didn’t have to hide the materials he read. He told me that he researched laws that prevented coloreds from marrying whites, especially in the South and that he read about a case that might go to the Supreme Court—a mixed race couple from Virginia who sued for the right to be married. He was eager for the decision in that case and told me about the progress from time-to-time.

  Marianne said he was obsessed with Loving v The Commonwealth of Virginia case and even wrote a term paper about it. He told her that the decision in that case would give him some idea about his future. He really believed a law to legalize mix-race marriage would change our circumstances. We were both naive back then.

  Rodney told me he just wanted to be able to talk to me, like he said in one of his notes.

  Susie,

  I’ve been thinking about how unjust it is that we can’t even be friends, can’t talk to each other without worrying someone will see us. What kind of laws do we have in this country that can legislate how a person feels and who he loves? Have you thought about that?

  I think about you all the time. I’m not sure what can or will happen between us, but I can’t give up on you, on us.

  I miss you,

  R

  Rod,

  I’ve thought about it a lot—all the things that would have to change if you and I are ever going to be able to do simple things, like have a burger together, or take a ride, or go to a movie. It makes me sad. I feel helpless.

  Yours truly,

  S

  Susie,

  I went to mass with my family this morning and I prayed for you. Somehow I feel like you need prayers. Are you okay? Are you in trouble?

  Something inside me says you are struggling with something. I want to protect you, to take care of you. I feel helpless.

  I miss you,

  R

  Rod,

  I wonder if, when you love someone, you have an inner voice that tells you things about them? It’s just a thought. Are you okay? I’ve worried that something will happen to you since I saw you at the Cow Palace.

  Yours truly,

  S

  *

  Rodney wa
s always more hopeful than I was that things could work out between us. I lived on the white side of the law, so I saw things differently. Rodney was ever the optimist. Even though he didn’t know for sure how I felt about him, he never gave up. He said he read and re-read the short notes I wrote him until they were frayed, torn and the pencil marks were smudged. For all he knew, I could have had a white boyfriend, but he hung in, believing that one day we’d be together. I didn’t, anyway—have a boyfriend, that is. How could I when I was in love with him?

  The last time I went to the Esso station his dad was inside and I was the only customer. Rodney asked me if he could see me alone sometime, maybe in the Quarters. I looked around to see if someone was hiding and could hear.

  “I’m afraid, Rodney. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “If we get caught, I’m not sure what will happen.”

  “Will someone hurt you?”

  “Maybe, but what’s worse, someone will hurt you.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t say. I’ve got to go.” I drove off before he could say anything more and I cried for an hour on my bed when I got home.

  I never thought we’d see each other outside of the gas station. Then we literally ran into each other at the Cow Palace. Of all places. He didn’t think before he put his hands on my shoulders and spoke.

  “I love you Susie. You are all I think about.” I stepped back and looked at him. Time hung in the air like a thick fog that shielded the sun from the earth—and it shielded us from the rest of the world, temporarily.

  I came to my senses when I heard his voice and realized where we were, who we were, and the consequences if anyone saw us together. I turned and hurried away, into the ladies’ room. It just happened so fast neither of us could have predicted what might happen next.

  *

  Rodney later told me that he was in a stupor when his dad and brother approached him under the stairs, waiting to go up to the colored section to watch the fight. He didn’t hear Jerry when he asked, “Who was that white girl I saw you talking to? You touched her. You could get arrested for that.”

  Rodney said he looked from his brother to his dad, who had perspiration on his forehead and a red face. That jerked Rodney back to reality.

  This is what Marianne told me happened next.

  “Let’s go, boys,” his dad said.

  “We just got here,” Jerry said. Rodney knew they had to leave when he looked around and saw twenty or more white men staring at him.

  “I said, ‘Let’s go.’ Now!” His dad led the way and the boys followed him out the double doors, into the parking lot and to their car. Jerry had two cokes in his hands and their dad had one. Rodney’s hands were deep in the pockets of his jeans, toying with the tickets. His fingertips tingled.

  They drove home in silence with Rodney in the backseat, alone.

  When they pulled up to their house, his dad put the car in park but didn’t turn off the ignition. He put his arm across the back of the front seat and twisted his body to look at Rodney. Jerry stared through the front windshield, trying to be invisible.

  “What were you thinking, Rodney?”

  “I’m not sure I was thinking.”

  “That’s Bob Burton’s girl.”

  “I know.”

  “Bob’s my friend.”

  “I know, Dad.”

  “If this gets back to him ... well, I don’t know what will happen.”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “I’ll say! Not thinking!” Jerry said. “Shoots, the Klan could come calling if they find out.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You don’t have to do anything. I’ve told you and your brother a hundred times—don’t even look at a white person in the eye. And never, and I mean never, look at a white female. Don’t look at the hem of her skirt. Don’t tip your hat, don’t say, ‘Hi, Miss,’ nothing. If you see one coming towards you, go to the other side of the street. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m not sure how to handle this until I see what the fallout is. Let’s just go inside. Don’t mention this to your mother or sisters. Don’t ever mention it again, not to anyone. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jerry said.

  “Yes, sir,” Rodney said.

  When they got out of the car, Rodney’s dad hung back and let Jerry get ahead of them. He took Rodney aside and whispered.

  “What’s this all about, Rod?”

  “It’s nothing, Dad.”

  “Oh, it’s something, all right; and we are going to stay outside in this heat and get eaten by mosquitoes until you tell me.”

  “I. I. Uh, I. Dad, I’m in love with her.” He looked at his feet.

  “You’re what?”

  “I can’t help it. I just am.”

  “Oh, God, Son. You can’t be. This can’t be. You get that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. I get it.” Rodney was sobbing as he glared into his dad’s eyes. “But I don’t have to like it.” Ray Thibault put his arm around Rodney’s shoulder and pulled him close. At six-feet, three-inches, Rodney was a few inches taller than his dad, so he bent his head and rested his cheek on his dad’s shoulder. The tears rushed out. He couldn’t stop them.

  “Does she love you?”

  “No. Well, I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “What’s the history?”

  “We talked. I held her hand and kissed her cheek. That’s all.”

  “Oh, God! When? Where? I don’t want to know. You just have to let this go. It’s an impossible situation. This is Louisiana. It’s 1966. You could go to prison for talking to her. I read in the newspaper that just last week, the KKK hung a boy in Natchitoches because he carried a white girl’s books for her.”

  “I know, Dad. It’s just that I ...” he couldn’t stop crying.

  “It’s going to be okay, Son. Just cry it out, then accept it. And let’s hope no one important saw you touch her.”

  They stayed outside a while, then went into the house and Rodney went to the bedroom he shared with Jerry who was on his bed reading a book and drinking his coke. Rodney picked up the extra coke off the table between the two twin beds. The ice was melted and it was watered down, but he sipped it anyway. He and Jerry didn’t talk. Rodney told Marianne he didn’t think a 15-year-old could understand, then he remembered that he was fifteen when he fell in love with me. Maybe Jerry would understand about loving a girl, but no one could understand about loving a white girl.

  He hated his life, the South, the situation. It was so unfair.

  A couple days after the night at the Cow Palace Rodney went to visit Marianne in the Quarters. She told me that he asked her if she had seen me, and she told him I hadn’t been there in two or three months. Rodney told Marianne that the few times he saw me at the gas station, I was distant and acted like I hardly knew him.

  “I mean, she smiles and makes small talk, but nothing personal. It’s like she forgot about that day.”

  “Maybe she has a boyfriend,” Marianne told me she said. “A WHITE boyfriend.” But, she said, he wasn’t buying that.

  “Hummm. Maybe so... . but what would that have to do with her not coming to see you ... or Catfish ?” Rodney asked her.

  “Not sure. There are things you don’t know. Things that she’s afraid of, that she should be afraid of.”

  “What? Tell me.” Marianne said he pleaded with her to tell him what she knew, but she refused.

  “I can’t tell you, Rodney. But her life is not what you think it is. Besides, I think she’s more worried about what might happen to you. You could be lynched for looking at her. You have to stop this, now! It’s insane.”

  Marianne said that Rodney knew she was right, but that he said he couldn’t give up. He told her that he just needed a plan. He went back to the library that week and discovered that interracial marriage was legal
in Washington, DC—there were a number of mixed-race couples in the north. It seemed people turned a blind eye up there, like it didn’t matter. It wasn’t legal or illegal. The case in Virginia was going to the Supreme Court soon. Rodney wondered whether the case would change things.

  *

  After I saw Rodney at the Cow Palace, I knew I had to go to the Quarters to talk to Marianne. I was worried sick about Rodney. A lot of people saw us talking, saw him touch me, saw him bend to whisper in my ear. Oh, God! What would happen to him? I could think of nothing else.

  Catfish looked so much older when I climbed the steps and woke him from his peaceful slumber in the rocking chair. He seemed glad to see me and returned my hug more forcefully than usual. I kissed his cheek and sat in the other chair as if I had all the time in the world, while inside, a clock was ticking. I needed to talk to Marianne and find out if Rodney was okay.

  “Missy, I’m glad you’re here. I been thinking about telling you what happened after my daddy came to be free.”

  “I’d love to hear that story, Cat. We are studying the Civil War in Social Studies this year. Anyway I want to write about you and all your stories one day. I told you that I’m going to be an author. I’m going to make sure everyone knows how badly they treated your people.”

  “That’s good, Missy. I want people, especially my family, to remember where we come from. It’s important. Keeps you grounded.

  *

  Sharecroppers

  “When the slaves were freed after the war ended in 1865, my granddaddy, Samuel, was fifteen,” Catfish said. “This is ‘fore he married and had children. He didn’t want to leave Shadowland, where would he go? So he became a sharecropper.

  “Mr. Van let my daddy move into an empty one-room cabin, next to George’s house—that’s the one burned several years ago when the Klan came. You remember?”

  “I remember, Cat,” I said.

  “Now, George stayed on to take care of the livestock and help with planting and picking when he was needed, but he was paid wages, five dollars a week plus room and board for him and Audrey. Most of the other slaves left the plantation for the north or for wages on larger plantations. Freedom meant they could go wherever they chose and work for who-so-ever they pleased.