Catfish Alley (19 page)

"Challenging because?" she asks, dumping
artificial sweetener in her tea and stirring. She's not going to let me off the
hook easily.

Okay, I tell myself. Settle down. Don't be so frazzled.
It feels like this woman can see right through me. I take a deep breath and
make myself stop fiddling with my napkin. After all, I initiated this lunch.
I've come this far. Why not try honesty for a change? Dammit, just the bald-faced
truth.

"Here's the thing, Rita," I say, taking a sip
of my own tea and looking her in the eye. "There are no African-American
owners of antebellum homes in Clarksville — except for Grace Clark, that is.
And I'm still not sure about her story. You would be the first to actually
purchase one." She nods. "And the women who are on the committee ...
well, let me just say that they are less than enthusiastic about your becoming
a member."

"And you?"

She just doesn't let up! How do I feel? I'm staring at
her, knowing she's waiting for an answer, and I realize that I honestly don't
have one. A few weeks ago this conversation would not have even taken place.
Instead, I'd have done everything in my power to avoid Rita Baldwin until she
gave up. I decide to try my strategy of keeping the conversation off of me.

"I guess what I don't understand is why. Why would
you want to own a home that was built by slaves? Believe me, I love the whole
antebellum era. I've spent years learning how to restore these places to their
former grandeur. Plus, I know everything from how many petticoats they wore
under those hoopskirts to what type of food they served at parties. People
around here pride themselves on being able to tell stories of their
great-great-grandfathers and the battles they fought during the Civil War. They
talk about how these houses have been in their families for generations. Or, as
in the case of people like the Humboldts, who moved here from Connecticut, they
have an intense fascination with the Civil War and they're just thrilled to be
part of the whole thing. But why would you —"

She interrupts. "Why would a black woman want to
be part of all of that?"

"Exactly. Especially when it's all so connected
with slavery. The black women I've met through working on this African-American tour don't have anything good to say about the pilgrimage. They seem
to think it paints this overly romantic picture of the Old South."

"I agree."

"Then why do you want to be a part of it?"

"The same reason you're putting together this African-American
tour. There's another history here. One that's untold."

With a twinge of guilt it occurs to me that she must
think this whole African-American tour was my idea, instead of something I'm
doing to get a lucrative restoration contract. It's also beginning to dawn on
me what she's trying to do. In my naiveté, I thought she simply wanted to be
like us.... Like them? I'm so confused. Did I think she wanted to be like white
people? Is she not like white people now? She must see my confusion as I ask,
"Rita, what is it that you do? For a living, I mean? Elsie Spencer
mentioned that you did something with community service?"

Rita's smile is polite but there's an edge to her
voice. "Ah, yes, Elsie Spencer. I met her at a bank employee barbecue a
couple of weeks ago. She couldn't extricate herself from me fast enough after I
mentioned the pilgrimage. I got the impression the only black women she's ever
had conversation with were holding a dust rag at the time."

I find myself feeling a little defensive. Of Elsie
Spencer? Am I crazy? "Well, I don't know about that —"

"Come on, Roxanne," she interrupts. "Are
you going to tell me that this little town's social register looks any
different from any other small town in the South?"

I'm at a loss here. She's right. The pilgrimage is
mainly about social status — white social status. She's still talking, and I
have to admit, I'm drawn to her confidence.

"When I met Jack I was running a nonprofit center
for kids in Atlanta. I loved it, but I fell into it accidentally. After Owen,
my first husband, died, I needed to do something with my time. Our girls were
in college, so they didn't need me. Owen was a pediatrician, so I knew a lot of
people in organizations that worked with kids. It was easy to get involved. But
I was a history major in college and what I've always wanted to do is start a
museum...."

At first I feel a twinge of excitement to finally meet
another woman with a similar educational background. However, that's
immediately followed by fear. She's black, after all, and that changes
everything. Doesn't it?

"My great-great-grandmother was a slave,"
Rita continues. "I grew up in a poor family on the black side of the
tracks in Macon, Georgia. I got to college on a United Negro College Fund
scholarship, and my mama couldn't have been more proud. This isn't about me
trying to be like white folks. Jack and I are in a financial position to buy
this kind of house and maybe, just maybe, by doing that, we can tell the other
side of the story."

"What does Jack think about all of this?" I
ask.

"I'm Jack's second wife, you know. We had both
lost our spouses when we met. His first wife died three years ago. She was born
and raised here and, although she was lovely and smart, she stayed within the
expectations of this community. So, Jack thinks I'm a little crazy, but he
loves me enough to let me try it. I know I'll get flak from blacks. Half of
them will say I'm selling out to the white man and the other half will be proud
of Jack and me for what we're trying to do. In the end, we have to do this the
way that's right for us."

I shake my head. I'm impressed with her passion and
it's obvious she's prepared herself for this decision. It's just that she's
talking about shaking up everything. Here I am caught between a white woman from
Connecticut who wants us to tell the history of the black community and a black
woman from Atlanta who wants to be part of what has been an all-white event for
sixty years. I'm not so sure I'm ready for this. Isn't this new tour enough?
Where will it end?

"You know, people around here don't usually talk
this openly about ... race," I say carefully. "I'm just not sure how
it will be received. Not that it matters, of course." I hurry to say this
last part. For some reason I like that she believes I'm more open than most
people in town.

Rita nods and leans forward. "I know it's
complicated. But if we spend our lives staying within the limits of the black
community — limits, I might add, that are made by white people — how is it any
different from before desegregation?" She's very matter-of-fact about
this. I'm not sensing anger from her. No ... it's pride, actually ... and
determination.

"I'm no political activist, but I do want young
people, like my new stepchildren and my own daughters, to see me mix with whites.
Not because I'm trying to 'act white,' but because I can do anything I want to
do."

I have to ask the question. It seems shallow, but I
have to know. "Do you plan to wear a costume and give tours of the home
you buy?"

"You mean, how the hell are you going to pull off
having a black woman in a hoopskirt?"

"Well ... yes," I answer, grateful for the
interruption of the waitress to fill our tea glasses. When I look up at Rita
again, I find that she's laughing so hard her shoulders are shaking. It's contagious
and I find myself laughing, too, not sure whether to be relieved or more
confused. Is she laughing at me?

She catches her breath and dabs at her eyes with her
napkin. "If I put on a hoopskirt and stays, my grandmother would roll
over in her grave. Not to mention, can you see this figure in one of those
getups?" She motions toward her full curves. "To tell you the truth,
Roxanne, I haven't figured out that part yet. Do I recruit young black girls to
dress as slaves, while the young white girls are out front on the lawn being
belles and waving their fans? I don't know how to present what it really was
like and deal with this race issue, but I'm damn sure going to try to figure it
out."

I find myself suddenly seeing the Pilgrimage Tour from
a different perspective. One I've never considered before. Maybe instead of an
elite social status event it could truly be about history — all of the history.
Maybe Rita and I can figure this out together. Maybe it's time for something
new in Clarksville. Most of all, maybe it's time for something new for me. I
feel more hopeful than I have in a long time. Rita grew up poor and she just
admitted that to me as if she wasn't ashamed of it. Where did I go wrong? Why
have I thought it necessary all of these years to hide my background? Mrs.
Stanley's words echo through my mind again ... "A woman can't afford to
reveal her flaws ... They will be held against her." Maybe Mrs. Stanley
was mistaken.

"I want to help you," I say, realizing that
my hands are shaking. "I do know of a property that will probably come on
the market next spring. And I think it might be perfect for what you have in
mind. It's one of the few properties around here that's kept some of the slave
quarters intact."

"Good," she says, smiling at me. "I
would appreciate that." She looks down at her plate, then back up at me.
I'm uncomfortable with the silence; something is hanging unsaid between us.
She's the first to break it.

"I want you to know that I realize this ...
relationship with me probably puts you in a difficult position ... with your
friends, that is."

Right now, I am so tempted to blurt out,
What friends?
I've spent the past twenty years focused on building an image, not
relationships. But I'm not sure I can trust this woman. What if she laughs at
me? I feel a strong pull to share my story with her, to finally tell someone
who might actually understand. But what if she doesn't? What if, instead, she's
repulsed by my lies, by my total focus on appearing to be from a pedigreed
Southern family? No, I decide the risk is too great. I actually think I might
want this woman to be my friend. How can I ever unravel this web of lies I've
made without unraveling my whole life? But then, isn't it unraveling already?

"Oh, don't worry about that," I reply, trying
to appear nonchalant as I change the subject to my own agenda. "Since
we're talking about history, have you heard of the Queen City Hotel?"

Today Grace and I are going down to Catfish Alley to
the site of the Penny Savings Bank, where young Zero was headed that day with
his nickel when he got waylaid by Ray Tanner and his gang. I fell asleep last
night reading Ellen Davenport's diary and picturing Zero Clark standing out
under the balcony at Riverview in the middle of the night. Zero must have been
around twenty years old then. Funny, I'm beginning to feel more familiar with
these people than with my own family. As a matter of fact, I don't know this
much about my own parents' histories.

I've decided not to mention the diary to Grace yet. For
some reason, she seems very private about her brother. When I arrive at Pecan
Cottage, she is ready and waiting for me at the door.

"Hello, Grace. No coffee today?"

"We'll have coffee," she says as she walks
toward my car. "Just not here."

It turns out she's made arrangements for us to meet the
man who owns the buildings that were once home to several African-American
businesses on Catfish Alley. This includes Jones's Cafe, where, according to

Grace, the catfish was fried that gave the street its
name.

As we turn onto Fourth Street South, Grace points to a
row of brick buildings on the right that don't appear to be in use now. The
windows in two of them are boarded up and there's some kind of gang graffiti on
one of the walls. Another building still shows what's left of an old 1940s
advertisement for RC Cola. I remember noticing the sign before, because RC is
my favorite, but I never really paid attention to this part of town. This
street, or alley as it used to be called, is usually only a thoroughfare for me
to get to other parts of town.

We stop in front of a small barbershop that appears to
be still open for business. A red candy-striped barber pole stands outside and
the sign in the window says
Jones Barbershop — Haircuts $5.00.
Through the wide plate-glass window, I see three chairs, two of which are
occupied by black men. Once again, I'm feeling very uncomfortable. I'm not
accustomed to being around black men, except when they're doing lawn
maintenance or service work of some kind for me. There is a black man who bags
my groceries at the Piggly Wiggly, but I don't really talk to any of those
people.

Grace, of course, is serene, as usual. I take a deep
breath. If an eighty-nine-year-old woman is not nervous, why should I be? But
then, these are
her
people, not mine.