by Lynne Bryant
"So, it's not enough that her husband has gotten a high-profile position at the bank, but now she wants to volunteer to help with the Pilgrimage Tour," Elsie is saying to Dottie Lollar, one of the two women listening to her in rapt attention.
"A black woman in the Pilgrimage Tour?" asks Dottie. "How can that be? What would she wear?" Dottie nibbles nervously on a cheese straw, looking like an anorexic squirrel.
Elsie nods. "That's what I thought. Now, I'm not prejudiced, but how can a black woman wear a Southern day dress with hoopskirts? That just wouldn't look right.
And we can't very well ask her to wear what slave women would have worn." Elsie shakes her head and sips her punch. "I tell you, it's a dilemma." She looks up, sees me, and moves toward me. The other women tag along. Oh, Lord! I don't want to be in this conversation!
"Here's our director now. I'm sure she will have a solution for this problem."
I try to look interested as Elsie describes the bank function she was attending. "Rita Baldwin is the wife of that black man, Jack Baldwin, who Arvis swears is going to make him a heap of money. Apparently he was a widower and Rita is his second wife. I think he met her in Atlanta. She was in some community service job — I forget what. Anyway, so Rita approached me and asked if she could help with the spring tour, maybe even be a guide." The other women are looking distracted since they've already heard this story at least twice. "Well, I made up something about an application process and being on a waiting list, but I'm telling you, Roxanne, I just didn't know what to say! We've never had this happen before." Elsie shakes her perfectly coiffed head and pats the corners of her mouth with her cocktail napkin. "So I told her she should contact you about how to proceed."
Of course, this is typical. Take the credit if it's something positive, and pass the problem on to me if it's not. I'm already in a difficult situation with this African-American tour. Elsie is a powerful woman in this community, and if I can't keep her support, then I might not get reelected for this position next year. Elsie was also one of the three people on the committee who voted against the African-American tour. I'm remembering what she said in that meeting: "It is not necessary to have an African-American tour. It will introduce the wrong element to Clarksville. It just doesn't fit."
By the wrong element she meant more black people. I can see her obvious glee in putting yet another such situation in my hands. Elsie's plotting my demise. It's as clear as the crystal cup she's sipping her milk punch from.
I make up some inane comment to put Elsie off as — thank the Lord — the butler announces that lunch is served. Everyone moves across the hall into the dining room. I notice that the original patterned carpet is still in here, and the huge gilt rococo mirror that I've admired over the years still hangs over the fireplace. We all find our place cards and take seats around the perfectly laid-out mahogany dining table.
"I've seated you next to me so that I can bend your ear about that diary," Louisa whispers as I sit to her left and she waits for the butler to pull out her chair at the head of the table.
"Good, I can't wait to hear about it," I say, thinking that's truthfully the most interesting thing I'll hear today.
The lunch is excellent as usual. I stuff myself on Belle's crawfish étouffée and am eyeing the bread pudding on the sideboard when Louisa clinks on her glass.
"Ladies, we should come to order now. Our director is ready to start the meeting."
I take one last longing look at the bread pudding being served to the others and pull the agenda from under my plate. I take a deep breath, mostly because I'm nervous today, which I'm usually not, and also because I ate too much. I launch into today's topics.
"The attire for the Holiday Tour, the treasurer's report on the ticket prices for spring, and finally ..." I look down, adjust my glasses, and clear my throat. "My report on the African-American tour." I hear a short rumbling of hushed conversation after this last item and decide to push on.
"Dottie, we'll start with your report on the Holiday Tour," I announce.
Dottie Lollar pulls her reading glasses and a small notepad from the expensive designer bag hanging on the back of her chair and sets the glasses on her minuscule turned-up nose. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and launches into her usual perky soliloquy on the local home owners who have volunteered their homes for the annual Christmas tour. I remind myself to think "Holiday Tour." Two years ago we had a Jewish family buy one of the homes traditionally on the tour and we had to start calling it a Holiday Tour, but none of us have gotten used to that yet. I find my mind wandering as Dottie goes on.
"So I've looked into caterers for the cookies. There's the black woman over on Martin Luther King Drive that makes the best date nut balls I've ever put in my mouth. But then there's also Sanders Cafe, where we've gone for the past five years. Anyway, the decision was so hard that our little subcommittee decided to hold a contest in October to choose the best cookie. Won't that be fun? I'm just so excited about it...."
The meeting rambles on at its usual sluggish pace. Each woman reporting seems to I feel compelled to include some story about the difficulty she's having with a dressmaker, or a caterer, or a cleaning service. I find my mind wandering to what Grace would think of this meeting if she were here. Would she be impressed with how detail-oriented we are and how high our standards are? Or, rather, would she shake her head at our sense of entitlement?
Finally, we get to my report on the African-American tour. Louisa's looking at me expectantly and I can't help but notice that Elsie Spencer is talking behind her land to her minion, Dottie Lollar. I make my voice sound matter-of-fact and, I hope, positive.
"So far, we have three very interesting historical sites for our African-American tour." The ladies stop talking among themselves and look at me as if they're surprised.
"We have the first African-American school...." Granted, that's a little bit of a lie, but I'm still convinced I can work around Del Tanner somehow. "The home of the first black doctor in Clarksville, Dr. Albert Jackson. And a very important African-American hotel called the Queen City Hotel." I end my report by telling them that I will follow up next month with a more extensive list and finalized plans. I'm now holding my breath, hoping no one asks questions. Louisa is nodding, looking impressed. Of course, Elsie is staring at me with those beady green eyes.
"Roxanne, darling," she says, "is the Queen City that rundown old building over on Fifteenth?"
I'm squirming now. "Yes, it is a little rundown, but there's a plan in the African-American community to do some restoration." Another lie. God is going to strike me down with lightning. "I thought I might approach this Rita Baldwin you mentioned earlier." I'm proud of myself for having this brainstorm. "Maybe she can convince her husband to get behind this project."
"Oh," Elsie says. "Well, I hope so, because my maid says she won't even drive through that area, it's gotten so bad with gangs and all, and she's black, of course." Elsie immediately starts talking in whispers with the women seated next to her.
I decide not to respond to this last comment, and since no one has any other items for discussion, the meeting draws mercifully to a close. As the ladies drift toward the door I stay at the table and press Louisa's arm.
"Have you got that diary for me?" I ask.
"Yes," she says. "It's in here." She gets up and walks over to the sideboard and opens a drawer. "Maybe you can read it better than I can, you being a Southerner." I'm wondering what that has to do with reading handwriting. "I can't make head or tail of it. I was hoping it might have some information about the house ... you know, for the restoration and all."
I feel a tremor of hope now. Maybe she's trying to tell me I'm going to get the job. I notice that Elsie is staring our way, probably wanting to stick her nose in what we're doing.
I quickly tuck the diary into my purse. "I'll read it over and be in touch," I say, turning my back toward Elsie. I say my good-byes and make my way toward the door. Little does Louisa Humboldt know that I'm
not nearly as interested in the details of the Riverview mansion as I am in the black man called Zero.
I can hardly hold my eyes open, but I am determined to read at least a little bit of Ellen Davenport's diary tonight, so I take the worn leather-bound book and crawl into bed with it. I'm still exhausted from that meeting today, and I realize that I'm looking forward to my next get-together with Grace Clark more than anything I have to do related to the pilgrimage or the committee people. What a strange turn of events this has been.
I snuggle into my pillows, taking the ones from Dudley's side of the bed, too. After all, he's not here to use them. For a moment I'm sad not to have his long, lanky frame sprawled out beside me. If nothing else, his presence always gave me a sense of security. I try to push the thoughts away and pick up the diary. I feel something tonight that I haven't felt before, and I can't identify it. I sit here, the diary open on my lap, my sleepiness fading into wakefulness. Longing, that's what it is. I'm longing for something ... or someone? I examine the possibilities and realize it's not Dudley. I think about sex with him. That was fine until I found out about the graduate student; then I lost all my confidence. No, it's not sexual ... It's more about having a relationship with another person who really knows me, not for the role I fulfill — like wife, or mother, or chairperson. Once again, I push the nagging thoughts away. I need to try and decipher a little of this diary before I sleep.
The pages are yellowed and swollen as if it was dropped in water at some point. The handwriting is loopy and girlish. I try to imagine Ellen Davenport as a young girl.
The older Ellen Davenport, whom I visited years ago, was a lonely old spinster who was eating herself into oblivion. Dear God, please don't let me turn out like that! Maybe I should call Dudley. Stop that! I turn to the first page....
Ellen Elizabeth Davenport
Clarksville, Mississippi 1931 August 7, 9 p.m.
Mama gave me this journal for my sixteenth birthday. She said I should use it for writing poetry, but I've had it for two years now and never written one word of poetry, so I decided to write about what's happening to me right here, right now, in Clarksville, Mississippi. I can't tell anybody my secret and I feel like I'll explode if I don't write it down.
Andy Benton wants to marry me! We met yesterday, like we do every week, at the sawmill. Until I started secretly meeting Andy, it was always so boring to have to go down there each Thursday and bring Daddy lunch. He could care less about seeing us, but Mama insists. She says she wants Daddy to feel supported. Sounds like hooey to me. I think she just wants to check up on him.
Anyway, if I hadn't gone down there with Mama, I never would have met Andy in the first place. I noticed him because that awful Ray Tanner was yelling at him about something. I had stepped out onto the porch of the office to get some air and Ray didn't see me. Andy looked at me over Ray's shoulder and smiled. Then Ray just yelled at him more for smiling.
So every week, while Mama and Daddy are talking after lunch, I say I want to get some air, and I go out on the shaded side of the porch. Then Andy comes up next to the building real close, so no one can see him, and talks to me for a few minutes.
And now, after meeting for only a few weeks, Andy has practically begged me to marry him! I can't believe it! He's just so adorable with his freckles and blond hair. I think we'll make beautiful babies together. Maybe I'll let our children read this so that they'll know how exciting it was when their daddy and I ran away together. Andy says he only works at the mill because there's no other place to find work now. Still, I know Daddy would never approve of me marrying him. He and Mama have this idea that I will marry some distant cousin on my mother's side. They think I'm not pretty enough or smart enough to catch a boy on my own, but I'll show them.
I have to be careful now. Andy is my secret and I don't want anyone to take him away from me! Andy thinks I'm pretty. He even said so. We're going to run away and get married and he'll find work down in New Orleans. He'll make lots of money and someday we'll come back and Papa will see that he should have been nicer to Andy.
As much as I love Andy, I don't want to be stupid. I told him I have to see a ring first to be sure he's serious. If he can come up with the money to buy me a ring, then I'll know he really wants to marry me. So, I'm waiting, waiting, waiting.
August 13, 8 p.m.
Still no ring yet. Today at the sawmill he said he's working on it. He tried again to get me to run away with him without an engagement ring, but I said no. I wish I could tell Mama how I'm holding out for this. She would be proud of me. I think Sarah Jane knows something is different. She's been watching me real close. I never could keep secrets from her very well. She's been with our family so long she's practically like a sister to me. But if I tell her, what if she tells Mama? I might just have to take that risk, because I might need her help. I just don't know what to do!
August 14, 8:30 p.m.
I told Sarah Jane today! I think she was happy for me just a little bit, I could tell. But she told me I'd better be careful. She's worried about me, but I told her I'll be just fine. I'm completely in love with Andy and we're going to be so happy together. She says I don't know what I'm getting into, that I'm used to having nice things and plenty to eat. But I told her that I'm stronger than she thinks. I am a little worried about cooking, though. Sometimes I hang around the kitchen and watch Josephine cooking our meals, but I've never really done it myself. It doesn't look too hard. It's just so hot in there, I'm not sure I could stand the heat. Maybe Andy and I could afford to hire just one person. Maybe Sarah Jane would leave and come work for us! I'll ask her about it tomorrow!
August 20, 9:30 p.m.
It's really going to happen! Andy told me today that he's saved enough money to buy the ring and pay the justice of the peace. I told Sarah Jane, but she didn't look happy for me at all today. As a matter of fact, she's been downright sullen lately. She doesn't talk much and goes off by herself whenever she's not cleaning or serving at the table. I don't understand it. I know she works for us, but I thought we were friends, too. She won't talk to me about whatever's wrong. But I can't let her stand in the way of my happiness. Andy says he'll bring the ring Saturday night between midnight and one in the morning. That means I'll just have to stay awake, because if I fall asleep I might miss him! And then, our plan is to meet early Monday morning behind the feed store. He's going to borrow his brother's car. We'll drive over to Yalobusha County to Itta Bena and get married and then we'll board the bus headed for Louisiana and our new life together! I better stop writing and get packed.
August 23, 1:30 a.m.
The strangest thing happened tonight. Andy didn't deliver the ring himself and I still don't know why. He had Zero Clark deliver it. Of course, I've known Zero since I was a little girl. He's friends with Sarah Jane. She makes eyes at him every time he makes vegetable deliveries to Josephine from the Calhoun farm. And until
Daddy bought a car, he always took care of our horses when we visited the Calhouns. But I sure didn't expect to see Zero under my balcony at half past midnight! It liked to scared me to death!
The ring is pretty enough. It's a very small silver band, but it's a start. At least I know Andy's serious now. The note inside the box only says, "I'll explain later. Meet me behind the feed store at five o'clock Monday morning." I only have to get through the rest of today and then I'll be with Andy forever!
Chapter 9
Roxanne
Rita Baldwin and I just ordered our food and I can't help but notice how Mary Ellen Sanders keeps glancing in our direction from behind the counter. I find myself remembering those Sunday nights as a little girl when Daddy let me stay up late and watch Candid Camera with him. He loved the absurdity of it all — seeing people make fools of themselves. Even then, I cringed at the horror of being caught on camera looking so foolish. Today, trying not to stare at Rita Baldwin's impeccable skin and nails or the suit she's wearing that fits her full body so well, I feel like at any moment a cameraman will s
tep up and say, "Roxanne Reeves, smile! You're on Candid Camera!" Then Allen Funt will step out and explain how they wanted to capture the awkwardness of a white woman like me having lunch with a black woman. How would we look? Like two businesswomen having a working lunch? Like friends? Probably not, since I'm not sure what that looks like. I'm asking myself for the hundredth time why I invited Rita to lunch. Is this my little vendetta against Elsie Spencer? Am I just asking to not be reelected as pilgrimage director next year? Maybe, in the end, what it boils down to is curiosity. Rita is about my age, well-dressed, articulate. I wonder if she can tell that I'm sizing her up. As we return our menus to the waitress, I'm about to take control of the conversation in my usual manner when Rita beats me to it.
"I'm glad we got a chance to have lunch. The reason I wanted to talk to you personally is to get your sense of what it will be like for a black woman to participate in the Pilgrimage Tour in Clarksville. So far, I'm not sensing a lot of openness about the idea from the women I've met."
I'm so caught off guard by her directness that I'm pretty sure my mouth stays open for several seconds before anything comes out. This was not at all what I expected. Who is this woman? How do I answer her, knowing that I'm supposed to be discouraging her, even making up some reason to keep her out of the pilgrimage? All because it might be awkward for Elsie Spencer or Dottie Lollar? I stumble for words. "I ... well ... I'm sure it would be fine ... well, maybe not fine, but ... um ... challenging ... different...." I'm so mad at myself right now. I'm coming off as incompetent and addled. Why didn't I figure out what to say ahead of time?