by Lynne Bryant
"And does she use that thick Cajun dialect like her mama?"
"As a matter of fact, I think she does. You know, I can hardly understand it when they talk. Especially when they're talking to each other."
"See what I mean? They choose to stay backward that way, talking that coonass language that no one can understand."
"Oh, let it go, Rose. She's just a pretty little girl who happened to be born into a poor, backward family."
Just then Mama stuck her head out of the kitchen looking for me. I know my face was red and hot with shame. But when Mama asked me, "What's wrong, Chere?" I couldn't answer. My world had suddenly shifted, and in those short few minutes I realized I had a choice. I was white and I could choose to be like those ladies in that dining room. But I had to learn to speak like they did — and not only that, I had to learn everything I could about how refined white people lived. I vowed to myself then and there that my life would be different. I would not grow up and marry some Cajun boy and live on the bayou cooking gumbo and having babies, like my brothers' wives and my mama.
Louisa Humboldt's daddy was probably paying for her Ivy League education while I was surviving on scholarships at the W. Granted, I married into Dudley's money, but I learned how to act like I wasn't poor. Just thinking again about Louisa and that meeting, I am so irritated I have to get off the settee and move around. I peek around the parlor doorframe to see if Grace Clark is coming. Where did she go?
Louisa Humboldt then proceeded to tell the committee how she thought that someone should research the important African-American historical landmarks in and around Clarksville. And since I'm director of the Pilgrimage Committee, that someone ended up being me. I was so mad I could spit. This was the last thing I needed right now. But I smiled — more charm — and volunteered to interview Grace Clark. I try to remind myself that if I can just get this tour started, the Humboldts will most likely hire me to restore Riverview.
I can feel that nervous twitch starting in my foot. I hope we can get right to the point. I need Grace to be a consultant for this tour, but I just cannot bear her droning on and on about slavery and civil rights and all of that. That's the biggest drawback to planning this African-American tour, all of that unpleasantness. I much prefer to focus on the finer aspects of Southern culture.
What could possibly be interesting about the black community in Clarksville? As far as I can tell, there were no black people with homes or businesses of any distinction. I'm sure Miss Clark will have some ideas. I'm certainly not going to present a proposal to the committee, especially the Humboldts, without something noteworthy to say.
Finally. Here she comes. She's walking slowly and carrying a tray. Are those cookies? There goes my diet. There's nothing worse than a fat woman in a hoopskirt. I've spent years trying to make sure I don't end up looking like Aunt Pittypat.
"Here, Miss Clark, let me help you with that." I move quickly to carry the tray for her.
"Thank you, Mrs. Reeves. I appreciate it. Seems like things are heavier than they used to be."
"Please, call me Roxanne."
"Come on and sit over here, Roxanne. We'll put this on the table and we can sit and visit."
"Yes, ma'am." I place the tray on the table between two wingback chairs.
"Mrs. Reeves, if this involves putting Pecan Cottage on your house tour, I'm still not interested."
Although I would love for this house to be on the tour, I have sent letters to this woman for at least the last five years and she will not budge. I still don't understand why. It is one of the best-preserved houses in the county. But I have already decided not to push that anymore.
"No, Miss Clark, I'm not here about that. Although I would love to have your house on our tour, I accept your choice not to include it. I'm here for an entirely different reason. It's been suggested that we add an African-American historical tour to the events we host every year. I was thinking that since you've been in this community for so long and, well ... since you live here at Pecan Cottage, you'd have a lot of knowledge about the history of this area. We thought you might be willing to suggest places we could put on the tour and give us some information about them."
Grace nods at me, then just stares across the room. When I turn to see what she's looking at, she seems to be staring at the portrait of Davis and Marjory Calhoun.
"What kind of history are you interested in?" she asks.
I take a cookie and put it on a napkin in my lap. "I'm not exactly sure. I was hoping you could make some suggestions. My specialty is restoring antebellum homes. I, um ... I..."
"Don't know much about black folk?" she offers.
I just hate being put in this position. How am I supposed to answer this woman gracefully? After all, I don't want to be rude.
"No, not really. Not the local history, anyway. I mean, I know the usual about the slave trade here, and then, after the War, there was Reconstruction and no more slavery. I know that black people had their businesses and churches mostly over near
Catfish Alley and that kind of thing. But I don't know about the places that black people ... um ... I mean African-Americans would call historical around here."
It feels like this woman is watching me like a chicken hawk. What if I say the wrong thing and offend her? I'm not even sure whether to say "black" or "African-American." They are so particular these days. Sometimes it seems like saying "colored people" like my parents did was easier. My parents may have been poor, but they were careful to teach me never to say "nigger." I'm proud of that. Although people do still use that word around here; even the black people use it. That, I really don't understand.
"It doesn't much matter to me whether you call me black or African-American," Grace says. "I would rather you just call me Grace. And it does sound like you could use some help. Tell me, Mrs. Reeves ..." She leans forward and looks over her glasses at me. "Why are you doing this? What reason do you have for adding the history of black people to your tour of all those fine old homes?"
I did not expect Grace's question and assumed she would be pleased to have her people represented. Louisa Humboldt should be out here doing this blasted interview!
"Since I'm the director of the tour," I say, "the committee thought I should be the one to talk to you so that when we take the idea to the city planning people for a vote, I am able to answer all of their questions."
"I see. And what do you think about this idea?"
What difference does that make? Here I was thinking I would be the one asking the questions. Just when I was cooling off, I'm starting to perspire again. I hear a big thump outside and wonder if big black Walter comes in the house. I was so sure Grace would be happy to help. I thought maybe she would suggest one of their black churches, or maybe that nice house over on Third Street. I heard it was owned by a black doctor at one point. We could add an extra half hour to the end of the home tour for the handful of people who wanted to see a couple of places that represented black people from the area who made something of themselves. That would make everyone happy. I like that idea. I also like the idea of restoring Riverview.
"I thought this might be a good thing for the community. This way your people won't feel left out." That didn't sound right. Somehow, it seems like everything I say is coming out wrong.
Grace doesn't speak for quite a while. I sip my coffee and eat another cookie — they are so good — and try not to talk. I always talk too much when other people are quiet.
Finally, she says, "I'll help you, but I have a condition or two."
Oh, no! What conditions is this old black woman going to insist upon? What have I gotten myself into?
"What conditions, Miss Clark?"
"I want you to be my driver and my scribe."
"I'm sorry, Miss Clark. I don't understand."
"I want you to drive me around to the places that I think should be on this African-American tour and I want you to write down the stories I tell you."
"Well, I can certainly drive you. I think I have an after
noon free next week." I reach for my planner. Although I don't relish the thought of driving her around, I would rather do that than be trapped in her car with Walter at the wheel. "But I'm no writer. We have a retired English teacher on the committee. Wouldn't it be better if you had her help you with the stories?"
"No. Those are my conditions. You find one morning a week and we'll go out and look at some places. I get around better in the morning before I get too tired, and I'm fond of my afternoon nap these days. Then, during the week, you can write down the stories. You're going to need some stories that people can read so they understand the history, aren't you?"
"Well, yes, that's true ... but, really, I'm not a writer...."
"That's all right. You'll do just fine."
She has such kind eyes.
I don't see how I could possibly have time for this, with all of my committee meetings and church responsibilities. On the other hand, how hard can it be? A couple of landmark signs and a paragraph or two about the history. Besides, I can get someone to edit it. And if I leave without agreeing to do this, how would that look?
"All right. I can do that. When would you like to get started?"
"How about next Tuesday morning? You can pick me up at nine o'clock. Tuesday would have been Zero's ninety-first birthday."
"Zero? Who's Zero?" I ask.
"My brother."
"I didn't realize you had a brother."
"That's part of the story."
Chapter 2
Roxanne
As promised, I arrive at Grace Clark's house promptly at nine o'clock to cart her around and look at God knows what. This is Ola Mae's day to clean, and I usually like to be there to be sure she does things the way I want, so having to do this today is a little irritating. I know Ola Mae will be able to tell that Dudley's things are missing. I just hope she doesn't talk about it to the other maids. So far, no one knows we're separated. I can barely say that word to myself. How could this have happened? Was it because I gained weight? Got boring? Because I'm over forty?
I think about last night's phone conversation with him and I get that little ache in my chest. He wants to come by for more of his clothes. Funny, the things he says he needs are the clothes he always wears when he wants to make a good impression — that tweed sport coat, his favorite red tie.
"Who are you trying to impress?" I asked him.
"What are you talking about, Roxie? I just need the clothes for work."
"Are you trying to impress your young girlfriend?" I hated myself for asking that. I have been systematically trying to convince myself that what I saw that day last spring couldn't have been what I thought it was. But when you walk into an off-limits bedroom in your own house during a Pilgrimage Tour, hoping to get a little privacy for a moment, and find your husband with a hoopskirted tour guide pressed against the wall ... I clinch my teeth together as I remember her pretty face. She's one of his graduate assistants, who oh-so-thoughtfully volunteered for our home tour. She did have the good grace to gasp in horror.
"Oh, Mrs. Reeves," she sputtered. "I'm so sorry ... uh ... Dr. Reeves was just helping me get something out of my eye...." She saw pretty quickly I wasn't buying it and rushed out of the room. "I'll just get back to the tour now...."
"I've told you over and over, Roxanne. That was nothing. You've blown it all out of proportion." That's what Dudley said last night. He often says I make too much of things. But then, he's never had to work for anything he has. That easy charm is why I fell in love with him. He just plods along, taking for granted that life will continue to be handed to him. I've always envied his easiness that way. I thought I could ignore their affair, but after four months the tension between us was so thick, he said he couldn't breathe in his own house. He certainly jumped on that faculty apartment the minute it opened up.
When I was young I was so proud of myself for snagging him. I was a graduate student in those days and also struggling to establish myself in the restoration business, desperately wanting to be part of his social class. He was the young, handsome history professor who all the girls swooned over. Why did it have to be a graduate student? Her youth is such a cliché. But then, Dudley never has been very creative. Was I so attracted to him because he never challenged me or my story? He was willing to swallow completely that I was an orphan adopted by the Stanleys, the wealthy couple Mama cooked for. And I was willing to play the role of the perfect faculty wife — the right social circle, the right clothes, the right clubs.
I've begun to wonder lately if all of the effort I've made over the years, not only to get his attention but to keep it, has been worth the cost. I've spent the better part of my adult life working hard to change the way I talk, to get an education, to separate myself from anything related to the bayou, including my brothers. That wasn't difficult after Mama and Daddy died. Monroe and Bill aren't interested in anyone who's not drinking beer and fishing; besides, I'm so much younger than them, I think they actually forget about me. At least that's what I tell myself.
Mama always said, "You was my change-of-life baby, Chere."
Maybe that's why I always felt like an afterthought. As I look up and admire Pecan Cottage, I wonder again how Grace came to be living in a home owned by wealthy whites for generations. I guess we're both usurpers in a way.
I walk around to the back and enter through the screened porch, just as Grace instructed. The smell that meets me takes me back instantly to my mother's kitchen. I stand there for a minute and breathe in the memories along with the scents of coffee, cinnamon, and apples. Then the door to the house opens and Grace appears.
She looks so dignified. Even though she's a small woman, she has a manner about her that makes me think her students sat up and paid attention.
"Good morning, Roxanne. Come on in. I made us some coffee and an apple cake."
I was not expecting to sit down for coffee and can't help wondering if Ola Mae has found all of the instructions I left for her. I'd rather just get started, but how can I hurry along this old woman who has gone to all this trouble?
The kitchen really does remind me of Mama — the good part anyway. After all, it was Mama's cooking that got her the job at the Stanleys' as their cook. If she hadn't gotten that job and started taking me to work with her when I was eight, I never would have had my little epiphany. After that I swore I would never be like her: round and puffy, old and tired at fifty after too many years of cooking for other people. But I do miss her kitchen. I suck in my stomach even as I'm eyeing that apple cake.
"Shall we talk about our plan for today?" Grace asks as she serves me a piece of cake.
"Yes, certainly. Where do we start?"
"We'll start at the first school for black children."
"Where was that?"
"Over on the south side of town, on Ninth Avenue."I'm trying to place the street. I remember a lumberyard in that area. Delbert Tanner, the owner, sometimes salvages old wood from buildings being torn down around Mississippi. I was there a couple of years ago looking for old beams for Rose Dillard's summer kitchen.
"All I remember on Ninth Avenue South is Tanner's Lumber Yard."
"That's the place. The first school for black children was in what is now a warehouse on the property."
"How do you suppose we're going to tour a place that is a business?"
Grace takes a last sip of coffee, then picks up her purse and starts toward the door. I grab my purse and follow her, moving quickly to keep up. "Miss Clark? Did you hear what I asked?"
Grace stops and turns, pulls a tissue from the sleeve of her sweater, and blots her lipstick. "Yes, I heard. I reckon you will have to sort that out. I'll just show you the places. This is the one we'll start with."
And that's the end of conversation until we're well on the way to Clarksville. Of course, I'm a little uncomfortable with the silence. It just doesn't seem natural. As we drive the country roads back to town I try to make small talk about how bright the sweet gum trees are this year. They really are go
rgeous — all reds, golds, and purples. But she doesn't say much, except "mm-hm" or "yes," so I decide to be quiet. Besides, I need to think through how I want to tackle the Humboldts' kitchen. Before she died, that old maid Ellen Davenport actually covered that gorgeous heart pine floor in indoor-outdoor carpet! Scandalous, if you ask me.
I notice when we drive by the Visitors Center at the entrance to town that Louisa Humboldt's car is parked out front. I can't help but wonder what she's doing there. Probably more research. She's convinced that Tennessee Williams was a distant cousin of hers. His daddy was a traveling salesman, so who knows? Maybe he made it as far north as Connecticut. But I doubt it. Last year they moved the house where Tennessee was born to Main Street and made it the Visitors Center. I've tried to tell her there aren't any family records there, but she doesn't listen. I think Louisa is just desperate to have some excuse to call herself a Southerner.
When we reach Tanner's Lumber Yard, I pull in beside a red Ford F350, probably Del Tanner's. The gravel parking lot is full of beat-up trucks. This whole part of town is mostly warehouses and construction supply businesses. I can't imagine children going to school here. Two black men are sitting on the back of a lumber truck just inside the high chain-link fence that circles the yard. They stare at us as we sit in my car looking at the building; I'm feeling strangely self-conscious right now.
I'm not sure how to proceed. I'm fairly sure the particular warehouse where Del keeps the salvaged wood is on the back of the property. It would be quite a distance for Grace to walk. Plus, we would have to go past several large trucks loading lumber. And all of those black men.
"Would you like me to go in and talk to Mr. Tanner about going back to the warehouse? Maybe he'll give us permission to drive back there so you won't have to walk so far."
"I would appreciate that. These old knees are not what they used to be."
As I head toward the office door I smell cigarette smoke, the clean piney scent of newly milled lumber, and the oily smell of old trucks. It's a strange morning for memories. The smells here remind me of Daddy. How he hated working for the oil refinery. Born and raised on the south Louisiana bayou, he would much rather have spent his days in his pirogue fishing and hunting for whatever he could put on the table. My thoughts of him are always bittersweet. His Cajun patois was so thick most people couldn't believe he was speaking English. He smoked like a chimney and drank like a fish, but he was a kind and gentle man. And he loved me fiercely.