by Lynne Bryant
Catfish Alley
Lynne Bryant
THORNDIKE PRESS
A part of Gale, Cengage Learning
GALE CENGAGE Learning
Detroit • New York • San Francisco • New Haven, Conn • Waterville, Maine • LondonCopyright © Lynne Bryant, 2011.
Thorndike Press, a part of Gale, Cengage Learning.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Thorndike Press® Large Print Core.
The text of this Large Print edition is unabridged.
Other aspects of the book may vary from the original edition.
Set in 16 pt. Plantin.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Bryant, Lynne, 1959-
Catfish alley By Lynne Bryant.span>
p. cm. — (Thorndike Press large print core) ISBN-13: 978-1-4104-3823-2 (hardcover) ISBN-10: 1-4104-3823-6 (hardcover) 1. Tour guides (Persons)—Fiction. 2. Historic sites—Mississippi—Fiction. 3. African Americans—Mississippi—Fiction. 4. Mississippi—Race relations—Fiction. 5. Large type books. I. Title. PS3602.R949C37 2011b
813.6—dc22 2011011201
Published in 2011 by arrangement with NAL Signet, a member of Penguin Group (USA), Inc.
Printed in the United States of America 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 15 14 13 12 If
For Annie Lorene Lancaster Bryant
Prologue
August 1931 Thomas "Zero" Clark
It's pitch-black dark. The buzz of crickets and tree frogs is so loud down by the river, I can barely hear myself think. I slip out of my boat and pull it up on the bank, feeling sweat run down my back as I get myself ready for the steep climb. The package is still tucked safe inside my shirt and the laces on my boots are tied tight. These old boots are so full of holes I can feel the black mud of the riverbank oozing in between my toes.
The moon is a fingernail tonight. A snake slithers across my foot and I almost squeal like a girl. The last thing I need is to get bit by a water moccasin. How would I ever explain that to Mama in the morning?
It takes some scrambling, pulling, and fierce scratches from wild blackberry bushes, but I finally make my way to the top of the riverbank. This is the side of the Tombigbee that to make sure nobody's outside. Riverview stands there in all her glory, a mansion with fourteen rooms. Even the kitchen out back is bigger than my house and barn put together.
This is where it gets tricky. I'll get paid good money once this package is delivered, or no money, and a lot of rope, if I get caught. Between the climb, the snake, and the cold fear of what Ellen Davenport's daddy or brothers might do if they find a black man under her bedroom window, I'm having a hard time catching my breath.
There's not a light on in any of the windows. Sarah Jane, the maid, told me that John W. and Marie Davenport go to bed early on Saturday evenings because of church on Sunday. Ellen's room is on the second floor at the back of the house with a balcony overlooking the river. The plan is for Ellen to light a candle so I know which window is hers. There's no candle lit. I stand in the tree line at the edge of the wide green yard and wonder if the dogs are locked up for the night. J. W. Davenport has the best coon dogs in the county. The dog pens are farther upriver toward the barn. That's why I put the boat in where I did, to stay away from the pens. If they start barking, this man's goose is good as cooked.
Maybe I'm a little early. The Delivery instructions said I'm supposed to get the package to Miss Ellen between midnight and one in the morning. I don't own a watch, but I hear the clock on the First Baptist Church, just three blocks away, strike the half hour. Mosquitoes swarm like black clouds and bite my ankles and bare arms. I don't slap at them for fear of waking the folks at Riverview or those dogs.
There it is! A tiny little flame in a window on the upper east side of the house. As I watch, the balcony door opens about a foot and a woman slips out. She glows like a ghost in that white nightgown. I shiver at the sight of her. Her long black hair hangs down around her shoulders and falls down her back. She holds a candle near her chin and it lights up her face. She's not much of a looker. I surely don't understand what all the fuss is about. But I'm getting paid good money, and Lord knows, I need it.
I study the yard for the hundredth time. I've been over and over my route from the riverbank to the window. Bank to gazebo, around the gazebo to the kitchen, past the kitchen to the rose arbor, around the rose arbor to the chairs, drop down there and crawl over to the house. There's a big set of windows in the sunroom right under her bedroom window. I have to be sure that room is empty, because once I step out, there'll be no hiding.
I take off running, my heart beating in my throat. I crouch behind a big lawn chair to catch my breath — so far, so good. It's so dark she didn't see me cross the yard. That's a good thing. She's still peering out over her candle, studying the night like I'm coming from the trees instead of the ground. I'm fixing to step out into the open when something brushes across my ankles and, again, that little girl scream is in my throat. As it is, I suck in my breath so loud, I see the candle flicker when she turns toward the sound.
A fat calico cat is winding around my leg, rubbing her head on my boot. She starts to meowing and I think that right about now, I could kick that damn cat from here to Christmas, but instead I scratch her behind the ears to get her to shut up her yowling. She starts purring and rolls over on her back so's I can rub her belly. Cat! I didn't count on a cat. I hear a whisper coming from the balcony.
"Who's there? Is that you, Andrew?"
Now what in the world is she doing calling for Andrew Benton? I reckon Andrew didn't tell her he's too much of a chicken shit to deliver this package himself. Next to finding a black man in his yard, finding the likes of Andrew Benton would be the next worst thing for J. W. Davenport. I step out from behind the chair and call to her as quiet as I can.
"Hey, Miss Ellen. It's me, Zero."
From where I stand, I can see the candle flame trembling. The girl is shaking like a leaf. "Zero? What are you doing here? Where's Andrew?"
Good question. Where the hell is Andrew Benton? Not risking his ass in the middle of the night to deliver some mystery package to a white girl. And not just any white girl, but the daughter of the richest man in Clarksville, Mississippi. The money. I got to remember the money. Money means college, and college means a way out. Out of Mississippi, out of working for the white man twelve hours a day. College means a profession, a real profession, like doctoring.
"Andrew asked me to deliver this package to you, Miss Ellen. I've got it here. Now, I'm going to toss it up to you and you make sure you catch it, all right?"
"A package? What kind of package? What did Andrew tell you?"
Sweet Jesus! I don't have time to stand here talking to this white girl about the woes of her love life with Andrew Benton. I got no interest in their secrets."He didn't tell me nothin', Miss Ellen. He said it was real important that I get this package to you tonight, but he didn't tell me nothin' else. I'm going to toss it up now. You ready?"
"I guess. I still don't understand why Andrew didn't come." She sets the candle down on the floor of the balcony and leans out over the rail, peering into the dark trying to see me. "Is it heavy?"
"No, ma'am, it's not heavy. It 'pears to be just a small box."
"A small box?" She sounds real excited now and holds her hands out. "I'm ready."
I toss the box as gentle as I can toward her
hands. She doesn't catch it. The box lands on the ground with a thud. I pick it up and try again. After three tries, she finally catches it. Thank the Lord.
"There now, Miss Ellen. You get back inside. I'll be going."
"Thank you, Zero, good night."
"Yes, ma'am." I nod, then turn and head for the river. I don't know it, but that calico cat has come up behind me again, and when I set my foot down, it lands square on her tail. She hollers like she is dying and I can't help but cuss. "Damn!"
That cat runs off like greased lightning and so do I. As the coon dogs bay at the cat's scream, I run for the riverbank as fast as my old mud-filled boots will carry me.
Chapter 1
September 2002
Grace
I'm moving slower than usual this morning. My joints ache like they do every year in the fall, but today it's the memories weighing me down, catching around my ankles like tall grass. That Reeves woman calling yesterday has me stirred up.
"Miss Clark," she said, "I'd like to visit with you about your knowledge of African-American history in this area. I was wondering if I could set up a time to drive out to Pecan Cottage and meet with you."
I still don't know what she's talking about. What knowledge? I taught third-and fourth-graders for forty years, but I'm no historian. White folks. Eighty-nine years, you'd think I'd be used to them by now. I said I'd meet with her, but I'd rather be out in the garden. The last of the tomatoes need to be gathered and this old house needs a few repairs before the frost comes.
I prefer for folks to just let me be. A long time ago, I made that promise to keep up Pecan Cottage and I do, with Walter's help, of course. I look out the window to see if he's still out there picking up pecans. Those trees are so old now that they're starting to take more work than he can keep up with. But, Lord have mercy, I'd hate to lose them. They line the whole quarter mile of the driveway, so that coming up on this house is almost a surprise when you pass the last one. It still galls me a little bit not to be able to do all the work myself, even though Walter's been with me a long time. He needed a job and I needed help, but I don't want some white woman poking her nose into my business, asking questions. Just when I think I've made my peace with those old hurts, her calling has got me to thinking about things I haven't thought about in a long time. No use in dwelling on the past.
For most of the years of my life I've focused on my grandma's advice, "Don't let nobody keep you down." I reckon this meeting today is probably what white folks would consider progress. Roxanne Reeves is the director of the Clarksville Pilgrimage Tour of Antebellum Homes. Apparently they now have some sort of new idea for an African-American historical tour and she wants to talk to me about it.
Funny thing is, I've lived in this town all my life, know its people and history better than I know what day of the week it is most days, and I've never toured any of those big old houses. Clarksville was a hospital town during the War Between the States, so most of the houses around here didn't get burned down. Sets my teeth on edge a little bit thinking about the show they put on every year. Those houses are pretty, all right, what with the big white columns and wide porches, big old Boston ferns and wicker furniture out front. I've heard people come from all over the country to see them. They call it a pilgrimage, a journey to a sacred place. Sacred? Can't do much but shake your head at that one.
Come to think of it, I don't know any black folks who are much interested in a tour of houses built before the War. If you're black and you grew up around here, big white houses with names like Shadow Lawn or Riverview or Twelve Gables — which is the one that Reeves woman owns — means someone in your family was probably one of the slaves who helped build it, worked on the property, or did domestic help after Reconstruction.
Now this all-white committee has decided there should be a tour about the black folks. I reckon they are probably trying to do the right thing. How did Mrs. Reeves put it? Oh, yes. They want to "show the contributions of the black members of the community by touring important African-American historical locations."
I can't help but smile while I place coffee cups and cream and sugar on a serving tray. Is surviving a contribution? I wonder. Is doing everything in your power to move yourself and your people forward in spite of white people blocking you at every turn her idea of a contribution? One minute I'm smiling and then that old bitter sadness is pulling down the corners of my mouth and I feel that catch in my throat. Zero tried harder than any of us in those days to make things different, but look what happened.
There are places I can show her all right, although most of them are rundown or gone by now. The problem is that every place I think of has so many stories attached. Will this white woman want to hear those stories? Does she know what she's getting herself into?
Roxanne
This is just so strange. Black people do not live in houses like this. I am sitting on a lovely antique settee in the parlor of Pecan Cottage trying to calm myself down. It's still hot for September, and when I get this nervous I start to perspire. I got distracted by the roses near the front porch steps; my gardening man can never get mine to look that good. And suddenly, that big black man came out of nowhere. There he was, towering over me. It flashed through my mind that I could be attacked and left for dead way out here in the country and no one would ever know. He had a shovel in his hand; he could have buried me, too. Just when I thought I'd better get back in my car quick, the door opened and the old woman stepped out.
"Afternoon," she said. "I see you've met Walter. You must be Mrs. Reeves." He just looked at me then, never said one word, and lumbered off around the house toward the back. Made me shiver. Meanwhile, Miss Clark invited me in. She has very nice manners and she talks almost like a white person, good grammar and all.
I have scrutinized this room carefully. Grace Clark has certainly kept this place up. I can smell reproduction furniture from the porch steps, but this house has the genuine article. I've lost count of the number of pre-Civil War houses I have helped restore in this area and I am certain these furnishings are original to around 1852, when Davis Calhoun built the place.
Of course, I've heard the stories about Grace Clark. But what I don't understand is how an old black woman came to own an entire plantation. She is one of the more educated black people around here, but she's always been private. And since she retired from school teaching, the only time my acquaintances have seen her is when her helper — I guess that must be Walter — drives her into town to go to the grocery store or the bank.
I got here right at two o'clock. I'm never late. Now she's shuffled off somewhere to get coffee. So, here I sit, waiting. I hope she gets back soon; I have at least two other meetings and several errands to run today. Then, I remember: I don't have to rush home to make dinner, because Dudley's gone. When I insisted he move out, I never realized how quiet our big old house would be. Still, I have to keep up appearances. I can't have anyone knowing we're having problems. Don't think about that now. Focus on this meeting. I glance at my watch and I get annoyed all over again, thinking about why I'm doing this.
Last Tuesday, we were having a perfectly lovely Pilgrimage Committee meeting when Louisa Humboldt piped up and said, "I have a proposal to make. May I address the committee?"
Thank the Lord, I kept smiling. I can't stand it when people spring topics on me that aren't on my agenda. But she's new to the committee, and frankly, the Humboldts have more money than God, so I felt trapped into letting her talk. Everything was fine until they blew into town from someplace up north — Connecticut, I think. They bought Riverview — I heard they paid cash — which is probably the most beautiful property in Clarksville.
"Of course you can address the committee, Louisa," I said. I tried to sound charming. I've been working on charming for years. I think I pulled it off. Besides, if I can get into Louisa Humboldt's good graces, I stand a strong chance of getting the contract to restore Riverview. That would be quite the feather in my cap, not to mention the money.
I remember being in Riverview several years back before the Humboldts bought it — I must have been delivering a food box for the Women's Missionary Union — and I was appalled. Back then that dried-up old spinster Ellen Davenport still lived there. The house looked like something out of Great Expectations. Spooky.
"I would like to propose that we create an African-American tour of Clarksville," Louisa said. The whole room got really quiet after that. I looked around, trying to figure out how to respond gracefully. But she didn't stop there.
"I believe that this part of our community is underrepresented in terms of historical accuracy...."Our community? She's only lived here six months. I've been clawing my way to the positions I have now for twenty years, and in six months she thinks she can waltz in and upset the entire order of things? She's probably one of those people born to money. I still get annoyed with myself for letting her type intimidate me. Will I ever get over feeling like I'm going to be found out? A memory floats by. Something about Louisa Humboldt reminds me of the first summer I helped Mama with her job at the Stanleys' house. I had just carried in a tray of canapes for Mrs. Stanley and her garden club friends. Eight years old, and fascinated by those wealthy women, I remember stopping to listen just outside the parlor door.
"Who was that beautiful little raven-haired girl, Irene?" asked one of the ladies.
"Oh, that's my cook's little girl. She's helping her mama out this summer."
"She's a pretty little thing. A little coonass, I guess."
"Now, Rose, you know I don't like to refer to the Acadians that way."
"Yes, yes, I know. But you don't seem to have the same sensibilities about your colored help, Irene."
"Well, that's different. They're black. This little girl is as white as you and me."
"Yes, but does she speak like you and me? Have you had a conversation with her?"
"Not really. Just a word or two."