Free Catfish Alley by Lynne Bryant Page A

all. It was a proud
day for my grandma and for Zero."
    I sit in silence with the two old women. They are
remembering Zero. I'm turning it all over in my mind. Del Tanner must have come
by his mean-spiritedness honestly. His daddy sounds every bit as prejudiced, if
not more. How could he take a nickel, just one small nickel, from a boy who had
so little? All of it is about what black people deserved and didn't deserve.
I'm not sure I can hear many more of these stories. Milly's right. They are so
depressing.

Chapter 4
    Roxanne
     
    As I set out to pick up
Grace this morning it's raining — pouring rain, actually. I pull on my raincoat
and make sure to grab a couple of umbrellas. Of course, she hasn't told me
where we're going today, so I'm trying to be prepared for anything. I called
her earlier to see if she wanted to cancel and wait until next week. I can't
believe I was actually a little disappointed thinking we might not have our
Tuesday morning together.
    "Cancel?" she
said. "Why would we want to do that? I'm not sweet enough to melt and a
little water never hurt anybody."
    So, here I go, in a
steady downpour, dodging the deep holes in the gravel drive, squinting to see
through the fog that has settled in over everything.
    When I arrive I rush
from the car to Grace's back porch door, hurrying to put my
umbrella down before I get drenched trying to get in the door. Grace is waiting
for me, as usual, with hot coffee and delightful smells of something baking in
her kitchen. Today's treat is something Grace calls cathead biscuits.
    "Why are they called cathead biscuits?" I
ask, trying to fluff some of the water out of my hair.
    "I'm not sure. That's what my grandma called them.
I think it's because they are as big as a cat's head. Here's the butter, and
I've put out some of my muscadine jelly from last year. We had the best
muscadines I've seen in a long time."
    "I wish I knew how to make jelly," I say as I
slather the biscuit with a generous helping. "It's such a pretty
color." I take a bite and the jelly tastes even better than it looks,
tangy and sweet all at once. "These are the best biscuits I've ever had."
    Maybe even better than Mama's, I think. My mind wanders
to Ponchatoula strawberries ... Mama and an old black woman in the Stanleys'
gleaming kitchen, stirring up batches and batches of bright red jam. It was a
Saturday in May and I was thirteen years old, doing everything I could to steer
clear of the sweltering hot kitchen. Mama and her friend, Miss Ethel, were
telling stories
about their husbands while they worked. The kitchen was filled with the sound
of their laughter and the overpoweringly sweet scent of strawberries. I
volunteered to come with Mama that day, but I had no interest in jam-making,
like Mama thought.
    Mrs.
Stanley was hosting a bridal shower for the granddaughter of one of her friends
and I was dying to see what a rich girl's bridal shower was like. Although Mama
and Miss Ethel were complaining about Mrs. Stanley deciding to have a party on
jam-making day, I was thrilled. Mainly because I got to help set up the trays
of finger foods that would be spread across the dining room sideboard. Each
time I carried in a tray, I peeked into the parlor and listened to the polite
"oohs" and "aahs" coming from the room full of women. I was
so impressed with how sophisticated it all was and I couldn't help but notice
the difference between my own mother's raucous laughter and storytelling and
the sedate interaction of the ladies during the bridal shower. I was especially
fascinated with the bride and her friends. They whispered and giggled over each
new crystal goblet or serving piece. I managed to avoid learning anything about
jam-making that day. And here I am now, regretting that, too.
    "You all right?" Grace asks.
    "Oh, yes, I'm fine," I say, almost wishing I
could tell her about Mama and Ponchatoula strawberries.
    "I tell you what." She refills her coffee cup
and pulls a chair up to the kitchen table.