Catfish Alley (20 page)

When we open the barbershop door, a cowbell clanks over
our heads, announcing our arrival. The shop is small, but very clean. It smells
of shaving soap and Old Spice cologne. I recognize the smell from Daddy's
shaving mug that always sat on the bathroom shelf. A baseball game plays on a
small TV that is mounted on the wall in the corner of the shop. The volume is
up so loud it's a wonder anybody hears us walk in.

There is one middle-aged, very clean-cut-looking man in
the back barber chair, draped with a white cape. Behind him stands a tall lean
man with graying hair and mustache, a pair of scissors poised over the head of
his customer, while he looks intently at the small television screen. The third
man, younger and dressed in baggy shorts and a T-shirt, sits on an old sofa
nearby.

As the wooden door slams shut behind us, the barber
looks up and smiles.

"Well, look who's here!" He excuses himself
from the other two men, who both bland up and nod politely in our direction. I
am impressed with their courtesy and I begin to relax a little. The barber
comes over and warmly shakes Grace's hand.

"Gracie, it's so good to see you again." He
turns to the other two and says, "Fellas, y'all remember Miss Grace Clark,
the best teacher the Clarksville Union School ever had. Miss Clark, this here
is Jack Baldwin."

The older man who was getting the haircut nods politely
and says, "Union School, fourth and fifth grades."

"Yes, I remember you," Grace says.
"Jackie Baldwin. You were quite a cutup in school. I was always proud to
see you do so well. And I heard at church last Sunday that you had moved back
from Tupelo." Grace turns to the younger man. "And you must be Jack,
Jr. I remember you from Clarksville Elementary, too."

"Yes, ma'am," he says.

I stand behind Grace, trying to be unobtrusive. I'm
wondering if I should mention to Jack Baldwin that I had lunch with his wife.
Would she have told him? Grace moves to stand beside me.

"Gentlemen, I would like to introduce Mrs. Roxanne
Reeves. She is putting together an African-American historical tour for
Clarksville. Roxanne, this is Mr. Clarence Jones. He owns this barbershop and
most of this block of buildings," she says. She motions proudly to Mr.
Baldwin. "Jack

Baldwin here has recently been appointed as a loan
officer at the First National Bank of Clarksville. He was one of my last
students at Union before we integrated with Clarksville Schools in 1971. And
this is his son, Jack, Jr."

Jack and Jack, Jr., both shake my hand, and the older
Jack says, "Rita told me about meeting with you the other day, Mrs.
Reeves. She said y'all had a mighty fine conversation."

"Yes, it was good to visit with her," I say,
wondering what he thinks a "mighty fine" conversation entails.

Jack turns to Grace. "My new wife has got her
heart set on us buying one of those old houses — the ones like yours, built
back before the Civil War. She's got it in her head that she wants to do some
history thing." He shakes his head. "I surely don't understand
it."

"Well, how about that!" says Grace.
"She'll fit right in with what Roxanne here is trying to do."

"Yes, ma'am," Jack answers, and there's an
awkward silence as we all try to figure out what to say next.

Grace pats the younger man on the shoulder and asks,
"What are you doing these days, Jack, Jr.?"

"I'm going to Mississippi State, Miss Clark. I'm a
senior there, studying business."

The older Mr. Baldwin glows with pride as his son
speaks. "He's going to come work with me at the bank when he finishes
school. Keep it in the family, you know?"

"That's just wonderful," Grace replies.

Grace spends a few more minutes chatting with the men
about common acquaintances, while Mr. Jones finishes Jack Baldwin's haircut.
When he's finished, Mr. Jones escorts us back to the kitchen of his home, which
adjoins the back of the barbershop. The other men open up Cokes and keep right
on watching the ball game, as if they were home in their own family rooms.

We sit down at an antique red Formica table in Mr.
Jones's spotless kitchen. I can't help but admire the vintage 1940s fixtures.
There are cookies in a jar on the table and coffee cups are set out for us on
the counter near the coffeepot. A set of double windows looks out over the
alley, and I can see a small vegetable garden in the back. This little
apartment has such a homey feel. It's all so cozy and comforting that I find
myself starting to relax.

"What a lovely place," I say. Frankly, I'm
surprised at how well kept it is. "Mr. Jones, are you married?" I'm
thinking that there has to be a woman to keep a place as neat as this.

"I'm a widower, ma'am. My Ernestine died about ten
years ago." He has a look of deep sadness in his eyes. He must have loved
her very much. Grace reaches up and pats his arm.

"We all miss Ernestine," she says, turning to
me. "I went to the Union School with her. And Clarence was a good friend
of my brother Zero's back in our young days. He grew up on a cotton farm just
outside of town. He started cutting hair when he was a teenager and opened this
shop when he was in his twenties. He's been cutting hair here for more than
sixty years."

"So y'all are about the same age?" I am still
incredulous at how long-lived these people are. I can never tell their ages by
looking at them.

"That's right. Clarence will be ninety next year,
if I'm not mistaken." She looks to Clarence for affirmation and he nods.

"Yes, ma'am," answers Clarence. He walks
slowly to the counter and pours coffee. He moves well for his age. He lowers
himself into a kitchen chair, looks directly at me, and smiles. I get a sense
of quiet confidence from this man. He seems completely at ease with himself, a
quality I always envy.

"So how can I help you ladies?"

"I was hoping you could tell Mrs. Reeves here
about some of the businesses black folks had down here on Catfish Alley over
the years. I know most of them are closed now, but since you own a lot of this
block, I figure you know the history best," Grace says.

"Well, let me see now," Mr. Jones says,
scratching his chin thoughtfully. "Right here next to the barbershop,
there used to be a cafe. It was called Jones's Cafe. Miss Mabel fried the best
catfish and hush puppies in town. You could smell it all the way over to Main
Street. Even white folks come over here to get Miss Mabel's catfish." He
laughs. "They come in the front door, too. Not like we had to do if we
went to some white restaurant." At this last statement, Clarence reaches
over and nudges Grace gently, and she shakes her head, laughing softly. He
pauses to sip his coffee, frowns, and reaches for the sugar bowl in the middle
of the table. "I got the sugar diabetes, you know. Ernestine never would
let me put sugar in my coffee, but I'm telling y'all, I do love me some sweet
coffee.

"Now, 'cross the street here was the Penny Savings
Bank, and then there was the lodge for the Knights of Pythias upstairs over the
bank." He pauses. "Oh, and Green's Grocery was on the other side of
Jones's," he says, looking at me and motioning right and left.

"The Knights of Pythias?" I have no idea what
that is.

Grace pitches in. "In the twenties, black businessmen
and clergy established several secret societies. They were similar to some of
the white organizations, but since black people couldn't join the white
societies, they formed their own. Adelle's daddy, Dr. Jackson, set up the
Knights of Pythias."

"What kinds of things did they do?" I ask,
thinking this might be a good way to highlight the philanthropy of
early-twentieth- century African-Americans.

Grace and Clarence give each other an odd look. It's as
if they aren't sure how to answer me. I get the impression that they're trying
to decide if they should make up something or tell me the truth.

"I reckon Gracie better tell you about the lodge,
Mrs. Reeves," says Clarence. "I never did have much patience for
trying to work on things peaceably like Dr. Jackson did. Especially after what
happened."

I look at Grace. Her mouth has tightened into a thin
line as she shakes her head. She looks down at her coffee cup. "This is
not one of the good stories, Roxanne," she says. "Zero was bound and
determined to get to Alcorn State College one way or another.

He took a job at the sawmill that summer—"

"Were y'all still living out on the Calhoun
property?" I interrupt. I'm still curious about how she came to own Pecan
Cottage, but I don't have the nerve to ask that yet.

"Oh, yes. The Calhouns deeded our little house on
the back of the property over to Grandma when she and Mama were still working
for the family. Said they wanted Grandma to feel secure that she had a place to
live in her old age. Grandma was the Calhouns' cook and Mama was a housemaid
and helped take care of the Calhouns' twin daughters. My mama loved those
little girls like she did Zero and me. She used to love to dress them up in
those beautiful little dresses Mr. Calhoun ordered all the way from New York. We
were all sad when we lost those little girls to polio. They were only three
years old. That near about broke Mrs. Calhoun's heart. Grandma said she was
never the same after that. She never had any other children.

"Our mama died when we were young. I was only
twelve and Zero was fourteen. My grandma raised us after that."

I think of my own mama then, ignoring symptoms I can't
even imagine for all those years. I make a mental note to talk to Grace more
about our mamas — when we're alone. "What about your father?" I ask
this tentatively, not knowing, for some reason, if this is too personal.

"Sugar," she says, looking at me over her
glasses, "that's another story for another day."

I know Grace well enough by now to know when to stop
asking questions. This is one of those times. However, she has just made me
more curious than ever. Anyway, we've gotten off subject. "So you were
telling about Zero and the sawmill?"
Is this the same sawmill mentioned
in Ellen Davenport's diary?

"Oh, yes, I knew I got off track somewhere. So
Zero goes to work at that sawmill because he says the money's good and it's
only for one summer. I told him then that he shouldn't get mixed up with any
place where Ray Tanner was, but he wouldn't listen. Always was hardheaded about
Ray Tanner. Said he was all talk.

"That was August 1931. I remember it like it was
yesterday. Everything started to Change after that summer. Zero was working two
jobs — Green's store and hauling lumber for Davenport Timber. Those Davenports
were the richest folks in town, and rumor was, Ray Tanner was trying his best
to work his way up in that company. Ray's daddy, Rufus Tanner, had worked there
since he was a boy, but he didn't make much of himself. He drank up his whole
paycheck. Junior and Zero used to tell us stories about old Rufus Tanner and
his brawling. But Ray was different. Had a mean streak and he didn't care what
it took to get what he wanted. He'd already made it to supervisor by the time
Davenport hired Zero.

"Do you remember me telling you about the Louis
Armstrong show over at the Queen City?" Grace asks me. I nod, waiting for
her to go on.

"That night after we got home I tried to sleep,
but I was still too wound up. So, I was in the kitchen getting some cold
buttermilk out of the icebox when Zero came tiptoeing in through the back door.
I was surprised because I thought he had gone to bed the same time I did. We
had church the next morning. I remember looking at the clock on the kitchen
wall, and it said two o'clock in the morning. I knew he wouldn't be seeing
Adelle that late at night. He was trying to be real quiet, took his shoes off
at the door... Grace pauses and chuckles to herself. "I liked to scared
him to death when I said, 'What do you think you're doing?' I thought he would
jump out of his skin, he was so twitchy and nervous."

"What was he so jumpy about?" I ask.

Grace shakes her head and exchanges glances with
Clarence. "He was still a ball of nerves from what he'd just done. When he
told me, I thought right then about waking up Grandma and telling her the whole
story. Because if she'd ever known that Zero was up in the middle of the night
delivering packages for a white boy to his rich sweetheart, she would have
tanned his hide right then and there, even if he was almost twenty years old!"

"Package?" I ask, thinking to myself that it
is true. It
was
Zero who delivered the ring to Ellen
Davenport that night.