Catfish Alley

by Lynne Bryant

  Dewey walks in from the kitchen behind the bar, drying a glass. I order another Bud and study my options. I could sell everything and move, get out of the lumber business completely. Alice's brother up in Memphis told me if I ever needed a job, I could work for him, but I don't know nothing about farm equipment. Or, I could sell the house and use the money to support the lumberyard for a couple more years until things turn around. Me and Alice could move in with her mother for a while, maybe build a new house in one of those subdivisions when I get a little ahead.

  The thought of living with Alice's mother is just about more than I can stand. That woman is the orneriest old bitch I ever met. I've spent the better part of the past forty years of my married life staying out of that woman's way.

  Nope, neither one of those ideas is even tolerable. I'm going to have to get a loan. I'm just going to have to go down there to the First National Bank of Clarksville and meet with a loan officer. Hopefully, it'll be one of the boys I know from high school. One of them will probably do me a favor. My credit's been mostly good until the last couple years. And I've never asked for much before.

  Yep, that's what I need to do. I finish off my second Bud. It's all going to work out. Alice will see. And maybe I'll look into selling the old place. Things are bound to be looking up soon. I've lived in this town my whole life and I provide a good service for people. Alice teaches Sunday school at the First Baptist. I even show up there myself on Easter and for the Christmas program. Yessir, how can a banker — who's probably one of the boys I grew up with — refuse me? I feel so much better, I tell Dewey to bring me another Bud.

  After a shower and shave, I put on a clean shirt and think about a tie, but decide I don't need that. Those boys up at the First National Bank of Clarksville know me. A. W. Spencer and now Arvis Spencer, the president of the bank, have been working with us Tanners for as long as I can remember. When I was a boy, I'd go to the bank with Daddy, and sit in a big soft chair while he met with A. W. Of course, Daddy was growing the business enough to pay back the advances the bank made him ahead of time. And he ran the lumberyard before all of the rules about how much you have to pay: health insurance, workman's compensation, and all of that malarkey. It's enough to drive a man out of business these days.

  Construction should pick up after the first of the year. I heard rumors that a new contractor's coming to town looking to build a couple subdivisions with one hundred to one hundred and fifty houses each. This could be a great boon to Tanner Lumber if I can get that contract. I just need a small loan to tide me over until then.

  I walk up to the front counter and a young girl wearing a suit greets me real polite-like. When I ask to see Arvis, she smiles in a snooty businesslike way and asks me if I have an appointment. I am not expecting to need an appointment to talk to old Arvis, so I tell her no. I tell her that I just stopped by to chat with him. She smiles again. This girl sure does smile a lot. She tells me to have a seat. I go over to one of the chairs in the big wide lobby and I look around to see if there's anybody there I know. Thankfully, since it's early, there are only a couple other people, who I don't know, in the lobby. The girl from the front counter talks on the telephone for a few minutes and then she comes over to tell me that Mr. Spencer will he right down. He's upstairs in a meeting.

  That's more like it. He knows my family. Of course he's going to want to talk with me. I wait patiently, my cap in my hand. Finally, I hear the ring of the elevator bell and low voices of men having a business conversation. I see Arvis Spencer in his expensive suit in the middle of a group of men that are all dressed like him. One of them, to my surprise, is black. Now this is strange. Since when did old Arvis Spencer start hiring blacks at the Clarksville Bank? I'm going to have to have a conversation with him about that.

  Arvis looks up and sees me, so he breaks free from the group and comes over to shake my hand.

  "Good to see you, Delbert. It's been a long time." Arvis's voice is one of those deep, booming ones.

  "Yessir, it has. I haven't had much call to visit the bank."

  "What can I do for you, Del? I've got just few minutes before I have to be in a meeting over at City Hall." Arvis looks over my shoulder at the group of men waiting for him.

  "Oh, well, I won't keep you long. I just needed to talk to you about a small loan for my business...."

  "Not a problem, my man," Arvis says, clapping me on the shoulder. "I've got a fine loan officer here who will sit down with you and help you out." Arvis turns and hollers to a man from the group who got off the elevator. "Jack, come over here and meet Del Tanner."

  The black man leaves the group and heads over toward us. What? He has to be kidding! He is going to leave me in the hands of some nigger for the most important business decision of my life? I don't know what to say. What is Clarksville coming to? I nod and shake his hand. Arvis says his name is Jack Baldwin. Then I nod again as Jack says I should meet him in his office over on the east side of the lobby.

  "Arvis," I say quietly, as Jack walks away, "I don't believe I want to do my business with a stranger. Haven't you got somebody else who can help me? You yourself used to work with my daddy."

  I don't think Arvis realizes how serious I am. He laughs. "Del, Jack Baldwin is a very good loan officer. He's one of the best I have. I stole him from a bank in Tupelo, as a matter of fact. He'll take good care of you — don't you worry."

  And without another word, Arvis claps me on the back again, goes to join the group of men waiting for him, and they're out the door.

  What else can I do? I sure as hell can't go to another bank. Granddaddy and Daddy both dealt with First National their whole lives. I walk over to the office that Jack Baldwin had motioned toward. I look in and he's sitting behind a huge desk. I just hope he ain't one of those arrogant ones that think they're hot shit because they got themselves a big job where they could tell white people what to do. Why, this man even has one of those young white girls bringing him stuff. Bet he likes that all right.

  Jack Baldwin gets up out of his chair. "Come in, Mr. Tanner. Please, have a seat. Can we get you anything? Cup of coffee?"

  I shake my head and ease myself into the chair across the desk from Baldwin. I notice he's got a picture on the desk of a good-looking black woman and two kids. There's a bunch of framed important-looking papers on the walls. Near as I can tell, this man has won a lot of awards for his work. But I still don't trust him.

  Baldwin asks me what he can do for me, so I explain my situation as best as I can without letting him know how bad it really is. It wouldn't do for him to start spreading around town to other blacks that Tanner Lumber is having problems. They might start taking advantage of me even more. They always do. Apparently, I don't give him enough information, though, because he keeps asking the same questions over and over. Finally, I get tired of the whole damn thing.

  "Can you help me, or not?" I ask.

  "Mr. Tanner," Baldwin says, real calmlike, "I'm pretty sure that we can, but I'm going to need more documentation from you. It's just part of the process. Your business value has to be appraised by a professional business appraiser before I can loan money on it. It's just part of the regulations we're required to follow." Baldwin hands me a piece of paper with a list on it. "If you'll get these documents in order for us and get them back to me within the week, I'll get that appraisal scheduled for you."

  I take the list and get the hell out of there. Damn! Back in Daddy's day you didn't have to go through all of this bullshit just to get a simple loan. Besides, I'm good for it. Why can't it be like it used to be when two men, two white men, agreed and shook hands? Now that banking is integrated like everything else, it's just too damn complicated. And to top it all off, I don't know where half of the shit on this list is. I'll have to go I tome and get Alice to help me look for it. I hope to God she has a better idea where Daddy kept all the old records than I do.

  Chapter 8

  Roxanne

  At least the front facade of Riverview hasn't
been tampered with, I'm thinking as I walk up the steps to the marble-floored portico. The massive white columns are still in good shape and the original ironwork from 1850 is intact. That's a start. The front door is standing open behind the screen door, letting in the warm October sunshine, and Louisa has placed some gorgeous gold and deep purple chrysanthemums in pots on either side of the door.

  It's so irritating to be nervous about this meeting. I've been a member of the Pilgrimage Committee for at least fifteen years, and director for two. Yet this African-American tour has got me so ruffled up, my palms are sweating. There's not one woman on this committee who knows any more about the history of black people than I do. So what am I worried about? It occurred to me last night when I was tossing and turning again that Louisa is just trying to get the black vote for her husband. I've heard rumors that he'll probably run for mayor next year. Wouldn't she just love that? Ellery Humboldt, Candidate for Mayor, Establishes First African-American Tour.

  I'm surprised, but it matters to me that I get this right. It was so much easier when it was just one more item on my list of have-to-dos, but since I've gotten to know Grace and her friends a little better, it does matter. I find that very annoying. I'm still trying to get my head back into my role as pilgrimage director when a young black man in a white butler's jacket answers the doorbell. Louisa and Ellery Humboldt have enough money to employ plenty of people at any function they have. I happen to know for a fact that the caterer she uses is Bayou Belle's. The young man who answers the door is tall and handsome with a brilliant smile and a Creole-accented voice as smooth as butter — probably one of Belle's sons.

  Belle Robicheaux moved up here from New Orleans in the fifties and has built a small empire catering functions like this one. And for an extra fee — which I could personally never afford — she'll send some of her children to serve and answer the door. At least she's making good money from wealthy white people who want to put on airs. Now, why did I think of that? That's never occurred to me before. Usually I'm trying to figure out how I can afford to have servers at one of my parties. Of course, I'm the one who gave Belle's name to Louisa.

  As I step inside and look around, I have to admit, Louisa has exquisite antiques. Her collection, along with what was left in the house after Ellen Davenport died, is impressive. It's been just six months since she and Ellery purchased the house at auction from the Davenport estate. I know they have plans to put it on the tour in the spring, but I'm not sure the restoration can be done by then.

  The problem is that the Davenports did some expensive, but terribly inappropriate, remodeling to the old home. Ellen had Berber carpet laid in the bedroom she used downstairs and had a bathroom installed that looks like something out of a catalog for assistive devices. Of course, there's what she did to the old summer kitchen to accommodate her live-in sitter, and then there's the new kitchen her parents tacked on to the back of the house around 1940 that's just ghastly.

  Riverview is one of the older homes in this area, with a wide, sloping back lawn that looks out over the Tombigbee River. People will be interested to hear how it was situated here because the river was the main thoroughfare to transport cotton during the days before the Civil War. Riverview is also another one of the homes that wasn't damaged by the Union soldiers because it served as a hospital during the War. After being neglected all those years by the Davenport family, it's looking a little shabby. I notice that the walls and woodwork need some refurbishing.

  I'm hoping Ellery Humboldt, Louisa's husband, won't be here today. He tends to be underfoot a lot, since he's much older than she is and retired from a lucrative law practice in Connecticut. They've already hosted at least two parties since they moved to town, and I find him obnoxious. Too bad Dudley's gone, or I could get him involved in one of those long, drawn-out conversations with Ellery about his collection of Civil War memorabilia. Ellery especially likes to wear his vintage Rebel uniform, which fits him to a tee since he's such a small man. He actually wore it for their Christmas party, and Louisa was in hoopskirts.

  They both like to think of themselves as benevolent plantation owners. It always feels to me like they're trying to play parts out of Gone With the Wind. I feel that old green-tinged twinge of jealousy when I think of Louisa Humboldt's parties, which, I have to admit, are some of the best I've seen during my years in Clarksville. She even had the dress she wore at Christmas made from actual bolts of green satin she found in Charleston. The fabric was stored in locked trunks that had gotten lost in a warehouse on the docks.

  On the night of the party, women were surrounding Louisa like flies on sugar. "Yes, isn't it amazing?" she said. "These bolts of fabric were going to be smuggled across the blockade so that the Southern ladies could still have nice dresses, but the ship never made it out of Charleston. My antiques broker heard about the trunks and called me. I bought them sight unseen. People always say that I have the best luck when it comes to an antique find!"

  Louisa and Ellery have enough money to employ a large staff of service people, and I've noticed that they tend to drop the Southern drawl when giving directions to them. Given my work lately with Grace Clark, I'm experiencing a surreal sense of time as I stand in the entrance hall. I wonder how many slaves the original family at Riverview owned, and then I fast-forward to the early twentieth century — Grace's day. Who were the hired help that worked here then? Did Grace and her family know any of them?

  I shake myself slightly. I have to get a grip! I'm about to be in the middle of a very serious conversation about the style of dresses that the young girls who will be guiding tours for Riverview will be wearing. I can't afford to risk my position of authority by getting sidetracked wondering how long it look a slave woman to iron that same dress with a heavy iron heated in a fire in a one-hundred-plus-degree summer kitchen!

  But I do wonder. And I wonder where that woman slept and how many children she had and how many of those children were the progeny of the master. I wonder if there are any half-white ancestors of Riverview slaves still living in Clarksville. I search my memory about the family that originally built Riverview. I can't think of them right now, probably because my mind is just too crowded with all of this other stuff.

  I peek into the parlor, where soft music is playing and six women twitter like colorful birds as they stand around the exquisite mahogany and satin furniture. Louisa spies me and smiles. She's still a good inch shorter than I am, even in those three-inch heels, not to mention the height of her swept-up bleached blond hair. She detaches herself from the rest of the group and approaches me in a cloud of L'Air du Temps and bourbon. She isn't a pretty woman, but she's wealthy, so everything about her is designed to give the illusion of beauty. I wish I could pull that off. She takes my hand and presses it between hers.

  "Roxanne Reeves, we're so glad you're here," she gushes. "Johnny" — she waves to the young man who answered the door — "take Mrs. Reeves's things." It occurs to me that this same young man might have been the butler for the last party of hers that I attended. I didn't even notice him then, but now I find myself wondering what he thinks of all of these over-accessorized white women trying to hold on to our little eddies in the small pond of Clarksville. Are we as invisible to him as he is to us? Johnny obediently takes my sweater and purse with a courteous nod, and Louisa ushers me into the room as if I'm royalty. "Ladies, look who's here! It's our very own pilgrimage director."

  I smile as everyone stops talking and looks up. This is awkward. I've been in meetings of various sorts with these women for years. It's embarrassing to be treated like some sort of special guest. They all know as well as I do that Louisa Humboldt is just trying to get her house into the spring tour. Making me even more uncomfortable than the introduction is knowing that all of these women are just waiting like hopeful buzzards to see what my decision will be.

  Everyone on the committee knows that I'm a stickler for authenticity. I carefully review each and every home on the tour to be sure that the owners can explai
n any modern changes and that, as much as possible, details from the antebellum period are preserved. I can see from looking around this room that the Humboldts are well on their way to furnishing this house with period-appropriate furniture. Ellen Davenport's cheap reproduction pieces that still lingered in December have been removed and replaced. From the fainting sofa in the corner to the harpsichord under the window, the antique furniture is dead-on. But then, Louisa is quite the collector. Between the discomfort of being on display and the fear that Louisa might be a threat to my job, I'm breaking into a cold sweat.

  I decline the milk punch that yet another young black person, a girl this time, offers me, ask for coffee instead. Milk punch is deadly for me this time of day. It's a delicious concoction made from Maker's Mark, sugar syrup, vanilla, and heavy cream. The whole mixture is frozen overnight and then thawed just enough for pouring. I know if I have milk punch my judgment will be clouded, and I need to stay clear.

  I'm anxious to get my hands on that diary Louisa found, but I'll have to wait until she and I are alone. Hopefully, she hasn't broadcast it to the whole group. As I maneuver into the room I overhear a group of ladies in a heated discussion. The woman currently holding forth is Elsie Spencer, my longtime nemesis and the wife of Arvis Spencer, the president of the First National Bank of Clarksville. Elsie has made an art form out of snobbery. I find myself simultaneously drawn to her like a beetle to a bug light and yet repulsed by the swift, bloodless executions I have seen her perform on her unknowing victims' social lives. For years, I've spent tremendous amounts of energy being sure that I stay under her murderous radar.

  Elsie fancies herself quite the genealogist. If she ever finds out that my only claim to class or money is my husband's — possibly soon to be ex-husband's — family, not my own, I might as well move to Biloxi and go to work in a casino. Somehow I've always managed to skirt the question of Who are your people? by giving her vague responses that are really more about the Stanleys than my own parents. And they are both dead. That much is true. It's just that Mama died of cancer gone untreated for years and Daddy smoked and drank himself to death. They're both buried in a small Catholic cemetery in the bayou. Daddy is not tucked neatly under a white headstone in a particularly beautiful corner of Arlington Cemetery, like I might have implied.