Catfish

by Madelyn Bennett Edwards

  “It’s not what I want, Rod. It’s what has to be.” I whispered and I knew I wasn’t very convincing.

  “Please, Susie, let’s not go there, again. Laws are changing. Do you read current events?”

  “Yes, I know about integration and anti-miscegenation, but this is still Louisiana. Things change slowly here.”

  “How will I know where you are, at LSU?”

  “I have an address.” I reached in my pocket and removed a small, folded piece of paper I had prepared in case I had the nerve to give it to him. It fit in the palm of my hand and I passed it to Rodney by extending my hand to shake his. I wanted things to look platonic, like we were just friends. I didn’t want his dad to worry. Rodney took the note and after he released my hand, put it in his back pocket. I drove off.

  I watched through the review mirror and saw Rodney stand still and stare at the license plate on the back of the new white Camaro until it disappeared in a vapor of gas and heat and moisture that radiated from the blacktop. Other cars, pedestrians and heat fumes swallowed him up the further away I got, but I watched through the review mirror as he continued to stare, his arms by his side.

  That night Rodney said he sat at his desk with a tablet and pen and wrote.

  August 19, 1967

  Dear Susie.

  I saw you today for the first time in almost nine months. You are more beautiful than ever and I’m more in love with you than ever. We can do this on your terms.

  We can be friends and have coffee while we listen to beatniks recite poetry and play bongos.

  I can pretend to be your servant from the plantation. I’ll carry your bags and call you, “Miss Susie.”

  I’ll be your student, you can tutor me, call me illiterate, unfortunate, pitiful.

  I’ll be the yardman at your dorm and you can tell me to cut certain flowers, to trim the hedges, to mow the lawn.

  I’ll walk your dog, feed your cat, change the water for your goldfish. I’ll do or be whatever you’ll let me; just let me—Be, that is. Be in your life. In any role that works for you.

  This is my address at Southern University. I’ll be there August 30th

  Please say there will be a letter waiting for me when I arrive.

  I miss you.

  He signed it, Yours, Forever, Rod. He told me later that he put it in an envelope and wrote my name and address at LSU on the front and his return address at Southern on the top, left corner, without his name. He walked out of the front door and headed to the post office, about two miles away, in the center of town. It was dark. He didn’t notice his Dad and Mom on the front porch as he skipped down the steps.

  “Where do you think you’re going this time of night, Rod?”

  “Oh, I’m going to the post office to mail a letter.”

  “Do you have a stamp on that letter?”

  “No, Sir. I’ll buy one at the post office.”

  “The post office won’t be opened until eight in the morning. Are you planning on waiting outside the building until then?”

  “Uh, no. I guess not.”

  He stood in the lane in front of their house and fingered the letter. He walked slowly up the steps, through the screened door and made his way up the stairs to his room. He slept with the letter under his pillow. It was in the mail at 8:01 the next morning.

  Chapter Twelve

  College

  1968

  RODNEY SAID THAT SOUTHERN University in Baton Rouge seemed even larger than when he had visited with his parents the previous February. Nestled on Scott’s Bluff overlooking the banks of the Mississippi River on the North side of Baton Rouge it’s buildings and fields are situated on 500 acres with pecan groves and oak-draped walking paths that ended at a wooden pier jettisoned out into the massive river, and areas of forested land a person could get lost in. The most beautiful part of the campus, to Rodney, was The John B Cade Library—154,000 square feet holding over a million volumes, nearly 2,000 journal subscriptions, 600,000 microfish films and 1,800 recordings. On the third floor was the Camille Shade African American Heritage Collection where students could learn about their heritage and trace their ancestry back generations before slavery.

  Rodney was in awe.

  He said his dorm was hot, with a single fan in the window and four bunk beds, two on each wall plus one desk, one chest with four drawers and one small closet. Rodney edited the clothes and other items he’d brought and sent most of them home with his Mom and Dad. He said he and his three roommates worked out the logistics and he survived with three dress shirts, three pair of slacks, one navy T-shirt, one pair of jeans and a sports coat. He kept sneakers and dress shoes, socks, white T-shirts and a few ties in his one drawer. There were washers and dryers in the basement. He said he’d make do.

  The first evening at dorm orientation, the rector handed out mail. Rodney said he was one of the few called. I hadn’t put my name on top in the return-address area, but he knew. He told me later that he fingered it as if the finest calligraphy rested in his hand. He confessed that he didn’t hear much of what the rector said during the rest of the meeting. When the meeting adjourned he headed out the front door towards the library that was lit up across from the student union, looking for a place to be alone. He said he sat on a bench under a big live oak and opened the letter.

  August 31, 1968

  Dear Rod,

  Thanks for writing. It was really great to have a letter waiting for me when I got here. As much as I needed and wanted to get away from my family I wasn’t prepared for the loneliness. This summer there were fewer students and it was more of a family atmosphere. Now, not so much.

  You won’t believe this—I’ve met several girls in my dorm and they seem to like me. They actually want to be my friend. Amazing. I hope the same thing happens for Marianne if she gets to leave Jean Ville after she graduates next year. Some of us compared schedules and this girl, Becky, seemed elated to know we have the same English class. She said we can walk together. Other than Marianne, I’ve never had a girlfriend. This may take some getting used to.

  So far I haven’t noticed anyone with plantation servants, yardmen, illiterate students or pet-sitters. I’m not sure about having coffee with someone of another race, but I’m checking that out. What about on your campus? Have you seen any red-haired, blue-eyed white girls walking around?

  I hope you have time to write to me.

  Yours Truly,

  Susie

  Rodney told me that he read it again, folded it and put it in his pocket and that before morning, it was dog-eared, raveled on the edges and memorized. His reply was in the mail when the post office opened at 8:00 AM.

  September 3, 1968

  Dear Susie,

  Your letter! Yes, I got it. Thank you. You made my day, my week, my month, my year. I love you. More than ever. I will find a way to see you. I have to see you. We don’t have to touch. Just talk to me. Tell me about your life. Help me to catch up on who you are, what you’ve done, where you’ve been.

  I know. I’m not making sense. I’ll figure something out and let you know where to meet me. Give me a few days to get my bearings and talk to people.

  You know, they are attempting to integrate Jean Ville High School this year. Someone from the NAACP convinced my dad to send Jerry and my sisters to the white school. At the last minute Marianne decided to go, too. She and Jerry are both seniors and my sisters are in the seventh, ninth and tenth grades. Things are changing. I read where the US Supreme Court just passed a law that says anti-miscegenation laws are unconstitutional. Virginia cannot put the white man and Negro woman in jail or break them up. It’s probably not easy for them, but they are together, legally!

  Please don’t freak out. I’m not suggesting marriage, but the law says I can’t go to jail for talking to you. I know what you’ll say, “But this is Louisiana. We still have the Klan.” Yes it’s risky, but I can take care of myself, and you, too, by the way. I’ll figure it out
. Trust me.

  I love you.

  Forever, Yours,

  Rod

  September 4, 1968

  Dear Marianne,

  This campus is so big I haven’t seen half of it, yet. My classes are all over the place and it takes at least thirty-minutes to walk from my dorm to the nearest classroom building. This past summer all my classes were in one building across from my dorm, so I didn’t have to go far. Other than the student union and library, which were also close by, and church, I didn’t see three-fourths of the Campus during the summer, so I’m trying to learn my way around now.

  Tootsie said that you are at Jean Ville High School for your senior year. I hope you like it. Be aware that the white kids will be cruel and try to make you so miserable that you’ll want to go back to Adams. I know you didn’t have to leave friends at your old school, but it will still be lonely for you. I wish I was there to help. Only one year and you’ll be in Baton Rouge, too, I hope.

  You won’t believe college—girls here actually like me and want to be my friend. And I don’t have to pretend, or try to act like I think they want me to act. Some of them seem to fight for my attention. The same thing will happen to you when you get out of Jean Ville.

  I heard from Rodney. I’m not sure whether I’ll be able to see him, but at least we can write.

  Please give my love to Catfish and your mom. I miss all three of you so much.

  Write me.

  Your best friend,

  Susie

  *

  My first month at LSU flew by. I was overwhelmed by the size of the campus, almost ten times larger than the town of Jean Ville, in size and population. There was a lake on campus, with ducks and swans and blooming flowers that gave off a sweet fragrance, enticing students to spread quilts and blankets on the banks to picnic, study or nap under the canopy of pear, oak and pecan trees grouped in clusters around the water. Lily pads hinted of frogs and tadpoles that croaked at night and participated in a symphony with crickets and hoot owls and raccoons and foxes and other animals that guarded the entire campus. They made me think of Catfish and how much he’d love the sounds and smells.

  I loved the hundreds of moss-draped live oaks that lined every sidewalk, pathway and street on the campus. In the center of all that beauty stood the Bell Tower, in a huge grassy expanse of several acres where kids threw Frisbees, played intra-mural sports and sat on benches and in the thick St. Augustine grass to breathe in the filtered heat and warm breezes, welcomed relief from the oppressive heat.

  I wished I’d had a bicycle to get around, or a good pair of sneakers. I was ill prepared for walking the 2000-acre campus with a pair of loafers, one of Keds, knee-high white boots, and my coveted three inch black patten leather heels that I persuaded Mama to buy me for the prom I never attended—no date. Anyway, she said I was too young and that Daddy would have to chaperone which took the glamour out of the whole concept, and I was stuck with high-heels instead of sneakers and no money. My weekly allowance barely covered vending machine meals I grabbed on the run between classes when I couldn’t get to the cafeteria, and on weekends when I had no meal plan. This was the first time I experienced what it was like to choose between a meal and a pen when my Bic ran out of juice.

  I tried to get a job on-campus, but my dad’s income was too high. An older boy in my history class asked me if I’d like to be a model for a local department store where he worked. I was afraid it was a come-on, surely I wasn’t model material, and, anyway my dad would kill me. He wanted me to concentrate on my studies, but I needed the money, so I said I’d try.

  I walked the three miles to downtown Baton Rouge after my one o’clock class on Friday and found the department store called Gouchaux, named for the owners, an old Louisiana family. I took the elevator to the mezzanine and asked for Mr. Breaux, then sat and waited in one of the two chairs near the reception desk. A handsome man with a touch of grey at the temples came into the lobby and stood in front of me.

  “They didn’t tell me you had red hair,” he said. I just looked at him, puzzled, unsure how to respond. “The blue eyes are a nice touch, but these are black and white pictures. Come to think, your hair won’t show red. Come with me.” I followed the unidentified man to an office. He walked around to the back of his desk, picked up a phone and punched one number.

  “Margaret. Come in here.” I was standing just inside the office door. “Sit down Miss .... Uh ...?”

  “Burton,” I said. “Susanna Burton.” I took a few steps further into the office, but didn’t sit.

  “We’ll have to take some preliminary photos to see how the camera likes you,” he said. He shuffled papers and didn’t look at me. I was standing behind a chair, afraid to sit and have my skirt ride up too far. It was short and I wore my white boots and a jacket that matched my plaid skirt with a green knit shirt underneath. I felt conspicuous, even though the man didn’t look at me. There was a knock on the door and a lady with mousey brown hair and cat-eye glasses entered.

  “Yes, Mr. Breaux.” He looked up and seemed to stare right through the lady.

  “Margaret, this is Miss ... Uh ... What did you say your name was?

  “Susie. Susanna Burton.”

  “Right. Take Miss Burton to the media room and call Doug to come take some prototypes.” He looked at me and did a double take, as if it was the first time he’d seen me.

  “We’ll, uh, uhm, I’ll call you after we develop the film and take a look, Okay?” he said.

  “Sure,” I said. I turned towards Margaret who held the door open. Mr. Breaux was still staring at me.

  “Miss Burton?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Why don’t you come back in here after Doug takes the pictures?” I smiled but didn’t answer. I’d read Seventeen Magazine. I knew what he meant and I wasn’t falling for it. I followed his secretary to a dark room with lots of silver umbrellas clamped to tripods in various angles. She told me to stand on an X made with orange plastic tape on the concrete floor. She started to turn lights on behind the umbrellas. The room brightened and I stood on the X, clutching my book bag to my chest. Without saying a word, Margaret reached over and took my bag and placed it on a chair near the wall. A young guy entered, Margaret gave him curt instructions and left. He introduced himself as Doug, the photographer.

  Doug had a kind face and was about twenty years old, give or take. He had sandy brown hair, green eyes and a quick smile. He was only a few inches taller than me but had wide shoulders and a small waist. He wore Levis, black and white converse tennis shoes and a brown, short sleeve collarless shirt. He asked my name.

  “Susanna Burton. But everyone calls me Susie.”

  “Nice to know you, Susie,” he said. His warm smile helped me relax and soon we were chatting like old friends. He asked about LSU and my classes. He wanted me to tell him about my interests, whether I had a boyfriend, what about a sorority. I was so involved in our conversation I was surprised when he said, “All done.”

  “Did you take any pictures?”

  “I took a whole roll,” he said.

  “I didn’t know you were shooting.”

  “That’s the trick,” he said and smiled. “How bout having a beer with me. I get off at five.”

  “Sorry, I have homework and, really, I don’t drink.”

  “You’ll never make it at LSU,” he said and laughed. “Can I have you phone number?”

  “I don’t think so. Maybe after I know you better.” He tried to make a case for how I couldn’t get to know him if I wouldn’t go out with him, but I wiggled out of that conversation as we walked toward the elevators. He stood in front of the doors and stared at me when they closed. I let out a sigh of relief. When Mr. Breaux called to tell me my pictures were wonderful and they wanted to hire me, I told him I’d have to call him back. Chalk it up to immaturity, but I was too afraid to deal with the likes of him or Doug. I never returned his call, never modeled for Gouchaux’s. It was
a learning experience, but it didn’t solve my money problems.

  I had a few dates, but when they discovered I was only sixteen and couldn’t go to bars, they quit calling. The older boys were crude and forward, their fraternities turned into orgies with vulgar, demeaning language. It was difficult to fight them off, especially when they drank too much, which was always. Disgusting.

  It should have been easy to forget about Rodney when there was so much to do, but I couldn’t. I knew there was no hope, no future, only sorrow and pain if I saw him and that the Klan was still alive and vibrant in Jean Ville and, I heard they were in Baton Rouge, too. But I was lonely and vulnerable.

  October 15, 1968

  Dear Beautiful,

  Here’s the deal. There are several girls on campus who see white guys. I haven’t met a guy here who is seeing a white girl, but, that’s beside the point. One of the girls with a white boyfriend is named Lucy. She’s a junior and has been dating a senior at LSU for almost two years. They meet at this place off Plank Road called, Sammy’s. They say the owner is a Negro who is sympathetic to this kind of thing.

  Here’s the address. I know it’s kind of far, so I’m enclosing cab fare. Just get there and I’ll get you back to the dorm. See you Friday night, after dark, about eight.

  I love you,

  Yours forever,

  Rod

  Oh God! Help me. I can’t do this. They’ll kill him.

  Two dollar bills fell out of the folded white paper onto the floor. It was Tuesday when I received his letter. I looked up Sammy’s in the phone book and calculated it was about twenty-minutes away, near Southern University on the north side of town. I tried to figure out how to do it, how to pull it off. I’d never hailed a cab. The only times I’d ever been in one was with Daddy when he took me on business trips to Chicago, Dallas, Houston, and my favorite, New York City. How do you get a cab? How do you tell the driver where to go? What would I do when I get to some strange bar in a colored neighborhood? Did Rodney really expect me to walk into a Negro bar alone? The weight of the whole situation seemed too heavy. I couldn’t do it.