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  Madelyn Bennett Edwards

  Copyright © 2018 by Madelyn Bennett Edwards

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Madelyn Bennett Edwards

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

  The point of view of Susie Burton, used in the first person throughout this book as narrator, has no reference or relation to the author and is purely a fictional character.

  The town of Jean Ville, Louisiana is similar to the town where the author grew up, Marksville, Louisiana; but most of the specific places such as the Quarters, St. Matthews Church, Assumption Catholic School, and other areas, streets, and places are all fictional.

  Printers KDP and IngramSpark

  Book design by Mark Reid and Lorna Reid at AuthorPackages.com

  Edited by JT Hill and Jessica Jacobs

  Photography by Brenda Oliver Vessels

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Edwards, Madelyn Bennett, author

  Subjects: Coming of age, romance, race relations, Jim Crow, 1960s, KKK, LSU, Southern University, Sarah Lawrence, Louisiana, Cajun

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition - Copyrighted Material

  Acknowledgements

  Judge Billy Bennett (my brother), Paula Rosenblatt, MACP and Lisa Mezzetti, (my friends) for your patience in reading my manuscript and making beautiful red ink marks throughout.

  JT Hill, editor extraordinaire.

  Lori Hill, webmaster extraordinaire.

  For John Yewell and Mimi Herman, Writeaways, France and Italy hosts extraordinaire

  Mark and Lorna Reid of AuthorPackages for cover and interior design, and all the extras that got this book to print.

  Embark Literary Journal for recognizing Catfish.

  Taryn Hutchison, writing partner, friend, endorser.

  For those who hosted book signings and launches, especially: Mike Dempsey, Laura Hope-Gill, Lenoir Rhyne University in Asheville, NC; Van and Catherine Roy, Baileys in Marksville, LA; Brenda Vessels in Beaumont. For the Louisiana Book Festival in Baton Rouge and the SWLA in Lake Charles. For Avoyelles Charter School and for the book clubs who read Catfish and those who invited me to your meetings.

  For all of you who believed in me enough to order and read Catfish. My family: children and step children: Lulie, David, Paul, Gretchen, Anna, Sean, Christopher, Kristine, Lee; my brothers Johnny and Billy, and my sister, Sally, and my other sister, Angela; my cousin Letty, special friends, Tanya, Kate, Clare, Jane, Jeralie, Laurie, Bev, and so many more…

  For those of you who posted reviews on Amazon and who emailed me, friends and strangers alike, to tell me that my stories and characters meant something to you that you could see, feel, smell, taste, and touch the things I put on the page. That feedback kept me writing on days when I didn’t want to.

  For everyone who reads my blogs and comments. Thank you. I wouldn’t write them otherwise.

  It’s because all of you that I continue to write.

  For Gene.

  Who serves and protects so I can write books. You are amazing.

  For God

  Who believes in me even when I don’t.

  Table of Contents

  Part 1: 1974

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part Two: 1975

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Part Three: 1976-1983

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Part Four: 1984

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Other Books by Madelyn Bennett Edwards

  Biography

  Part 1: 1974

  Chapter One

  ***

  Union Station

  UNION STATION WAS BUSTLING with people walking in every direction as I searched for the arrival gate from Chicago. The next arrival was scheduled for 9:30 AM, an hour away, so I found a seat on a bench and waited. I was nervous and excited at the same time. I remember tapping my foot on the tiled floor and hearing the patter as though it came from someone else's shoe. I absent-mindedly pushed the cuticles on my fingernails, trying hard not to bite them. This was a habit I'd had as a child that I'd fall back into now and again, but today was the wrong time to lapse. I wanted my nails to be perfect when Rodney slid the gold band on the fourth finger of my left hand.

  I had taken a train from New York City to DC on Tuesday night; he was to arrive from Chicago Wednesday and I wasn't sure what time, but I wanted to be there, waiting. I was filled with anticipation as I held my small valise that held a beige suit and matching heels I'd bought to wear to the courthouse for our small ceremony. I wanted to look perfect when I became Mrs. Rodney Thibault.

  I heard the announcement over the loudspeaker that the train from Chicago had arrived, but I didn't need the alert; I was standing near the arrival door waiting. I would be the first person he would see when he entered the terminal.

  People began walking through the doorway, some with briefcases, some carrying luggage, a few with only a newspaper or a magazine. Most were men dressed in suits and ties, looking distinguished and purposeful. It was as if I had X-ray vision and could see through each individual because none of them were Rodney. I watched as the last person sauntered in and looked both ways, then marched towards baggage claim. The attendant closed the door, locked it, and attached a gold strap from one silver four-foot post to another so no one could get near the gate. I had to move back as she completed her task.

  The next train would arrive at noon. I went to the bathroom, found the coffee vendor and bought a cup of coffee, a danish, and a book—Carrie, by a new author named Stephen King. It had surged to the top of the bestseller list out of nowhere and, as a wannabe writer, I was interested in books that were selling well. I became engrossed in the story of a high school girl who seeks revenge on students who bully and humiliate her. It was futuristic, projecting the plot into 1979, five years away. Carrie, the bullied teen, discovers she has telekinetic powers. I wasn't much for science fiction or gore, but the story sucked me in and I was jerked from my reading trance when the announcer said, "…from Chicago arriving at…" I was on my feet and standing at the door before the intercom completed its message.

  This time there were a number of couples and a few women traveling alone who filed into the terminal. I noticed that more of the arriving passengers carried luggage and those who did not seemed in a hurry to get to baggage claim. I looked for the tallest to arrive, someone with dark curly hair and big hazel eyes with amber flecks. He might be wearing a baseball cap so I searched for a navy cap with "Cowboys" stamped in white across the forehead. I thought he could be at the end of the line because he was like that—someone who would let everyone else go first—or he might be carrying a bag or two for an elderly lady.

  No one with that description came into the terminal. I thought he would be on the next train, which arrived at 3:30 PM, but he wasn't. And he wasn't
on the 6:00 PM either.

  I concentrated on my coffee and the Washington Post, which was filled with news of the Nixon White House and the scandals being uncovered by reporters Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward. It was all about a robbery at the Democratic headquarters located in the Watergate Towers.

  I wasn't interested in politics in those days, but I followed the gossip surrounding the president and the way he'd fired the independent special prosecutor, Archibald Cox, who was investigating the Watergate scandal. It was called the Saturday Night Massacre and ended with the resignation of the attorney general and his deputy. Impeachment hearings had begun at the beginning of May and there were reports of testimony given to the House Judiciary Committee.

  At 7:45 PM, the loudspeaker announced a Chicago arrival. I didn't look up this time. I didn't stand at the doorway when the passengers entered from the tracks. Instead, I sat on the bench across the way and peered over the top of my newspaper as if by acting nonchalant, my jitters would go away. I took deep breaths and thought how I wished I knew some of the new-age concepts of transcendental meditation but I'd always thought that stuff was bunk. Now I wasn't so sure, especially when Rodney was not on the 7:45 PM.

  The last arrival from Chicago was at midnight. I would wait to see if he was on it, and if not, I'd call his parents' house in Jean Ville and find out whether they'd heard from him. I'd fallen asleep when the loudspeaker announced the midnight train and I jerked to a seated position on the bench. I stood and stretched, and took a few steps towards the entrance from the tracks.

  Only about thirty or forty passengers came into the terminal. They were all sleepy-eyed and stumbling as though awakened from a deep sleep, as I had been. I watched each individual and looked them up and down, noticing what they wore, the cases they carried, the books and newspapers and magazines under their arms, and I started to cry.

  I walked to the payphone to call the Thibaults in Jean Ville, Louisiana. I picked up the receiver then glanced at the clock hanging above me. It was too late to phone anyone so I went back to my bench and slept fitfully. When the 6:00 AM train arrived from Chicago I didn't look up. It was Thursday and I'd been at the train station for more than 24 hours.

  My nerves were shot. I visualized Rodney every way a dead man could be, and had convinced myself he would never arrive. If he were alive, I figured he had chickened out or had been detained by the promise of an easier life with a woman of his own race. A woman named Annette.

  I thought back to our time together only ten days before.

  *

  In Rodney's eight-year-old sports car, we crossed the Atchafalaya River Bridge—the border between Toussaint and Pointe Coupée Parishes, in South Louisiana. Pine trees, so tall I couldn't see the tops, whizzed by and an occasional magnolia with a few white blooms waiting to pop open came into view. Once we were out of Toussaint Parish I took a deep breath, my first since we'd left our hometown of Jean Ville. I could smell the sweet fragrance of azaleas through the windows, opened a few inches to let in fresh air, humid and thick.

  We had not spoken the entire thirty minutes from Jean Ville and it dawned on me that, other than the evening before, when Rodney drove me three blocks to Dr. David Switzer's house for stitches across my cheekbone, this was the first time I'd been in his car with him. His new, used 1966 metallic-blue Mustang fastback was clean, as though no one had ever ridden in the passenger seat where the canvas belt crossed my lap.

  After we crossed the bridge into Lettsworth, I reached over and touched Rodney's hand. He squeezed mine and glanced at me with a smile, then looked back at the road.

  Our first words were about what we should do when we arrived in Baton Rouge. My plane left for New York the next day and Rodney was going to try to get a ticket to fly with me. We couldn't go into the airport together given the ever-present colored, white entrance debacle. He thought the best thing would be to take me to the apartment he shared with his brother, Jeffrey, close to the Southern University campus, which was near the Baton Rouge airport. I would wait there while he went to buy a ticket.

  *

  I was sitting at the small, round dining table in the man-cave apartment that smelled of sweat and feet when I heard a key turn in the door. I panicked. Rodney had only been gone five or ten minutes and I had my thesis spread out in front of me, attempting to make the final edits. The door swung open and a good-looking guy—taller than Rodney, and thinner—ducked through the doorway and froze with one hand on the doorknob, the other on the strap across his shoulder that was attached to a navy backpack. We both became deer-in-the-headlights metaphors.

  It took a few minutes before I noticed a pretty, light brown-skinned girl standing behind the guy. She was so small compared to him that she looked like a waif, hovering, as though wondering if he'd move out the way so she could get out of the blazing Louisiana heat. She squeezed in between him and the doorframe and now there were three of us, bug-eyed and seemingly terrified.

  "Ummm," he said. "I… uh… um… I'm… um… Jeffrey."

  "Oh," was all I could muster. My long red hair, which I liked to call strawberry blonde, was draped over my books and papers, and I peered at the pair with one eye before putting my pen down and tucking one side of the thick mane behind my ear. Still, I stared sideways, my head bent over my papers.

  "And you?"

  "Susanna Burton. Susie."

  "Oh," he said. The girl stood there like she was watching a movie. "Where's Rodney?"

  "Airport."

  "Oh." They didn't move. Neither did I.

  A fly buzzed in over the girl's head and lit on Jeffrey's blue baseball cap, "Jaguars" stamped in gold letters across the front. The girl watched it. It flew around him and buzzed near his ear. He let go of the doorknob and swatted at the fly. The door slammed behind them with a loud thud in the quiet, thinking space. I was the intruder, but I didn't feel that way, so I just sat there and waited for one of them to say something polite, accepting, understanding.

  I'd forgotten how I looked—a bandage across my cheek and a black, swollen eye.

  "Are you okay?" The girl asked.

  "Sure. Why?"

  "Well, I mean. What happened?"

  "Huh?"

  "Look, let's try to get this started again," the tall guy said. "I'm Jeffrey, Rodney's brother. It's a pleasure to finally meet you. Rod's told me about you."

  "He has?" I stood up and smoothed the knit shirt tucked into my hip-hugger slacks, then extended my hand. "Susie. Nice to know you, too." His long fingers wrapped around my hand and reminded me of Catfish — cotton candy on one side, chocolate on the other. Tears sprang to my eyes.

  "I saw you at Catfish's funeral," he said. "I'm sorry we didn't meet then."

  "Me, too. My dad was there." I don't know why I said that and, afterwards, I took a deep breath as if to erase the last four words that hung in the air and thought about Catfish.

  He was a tall, skinny man who walked in front of our house on South Jefferson Street when I was growing up with my three brothers. My mother told us we couldn't talk to him because he lived in the Quarters and was, “One of them,” whatever that meant.

  We'd caught a turtle in the ditch in front of our house after a big rain, and when Catfish stopped by that afternoon to play his harmonica, I asked him if he wanted it. James, Will, and I were on a mission to discover whether it were true that colored people ate turtles, and we found out that afternoon.

  Catfish explained to me how he would cook it, but what I didn't expect was that over the months and years I would become entranced by the dark-skinned man's willingness to share himself freely, to love unconditionally, and to treat me with a kindness unlike any I'd known. It was very different from the way my father had raised me—with fear, threats, and beatings.

  Catfish had taught me to believe in myself for the first time.

  I remember looking into his ink-dark eyes and wondering where the bottoms were, and when he laughed, he bent forward, grabbed his
belly and bellowed from deep inside. After meeting Catfish that day I would wait for him to walk by our house in the afternoons as he marched home from his job at the slaughterhouse. He taught me how to appreciate the little things in life: the sweet scent of wisteria in bloom, the buzzing of grass bees around my ankles, the freshness of a summer rain, and the taste of honeysuckle picked from the vine.

  When Catfish retired from his job and no longer walked in front of our house, I started stealing off to the Quarters to see him. That's when he began telling me stories about his grandparents and parents, and the people who lived on Shadowland plantation before, during, and after the Civil War.

  I loved his stories, and I loved the way he told them. After hearing the first few "Catfish tales", I decided I would be a writer one day and the first book I'd write would be Catfish's stories.

  I was startled and brought back to the present by Rodney's brother. Jeffrey.

  "Yeah. Well… um… This is Sarah."

  "Hi, Sarah. Nice to meet you." She looked shocked. Obviously, neither Jeffrey nor Rodney had mentioned me to her. She looked at Jeffrey, then back at me, and nodded but didn't shake the hand that I'd extended in anticipation.

  "Yeah. Right," she said.

  "Sarah," Jeffrey said.

  "Well. Maybe someone could fill me in."

  "Rod will be back soon," I said. "You can ask him."

  "Looks like he rescued you from something," Jeffrey was making an attempt at small talk, trying to get us two skittish females to cooperate.

  "Something like that," I said. "I forgot about my face. Sorry."

  "Yeah. Well, as long as Rod didn't do it," Jeffrey's bad joke was followed by a chuckle that made me feel sorry for him. He was trying to break through the thick fog of mistrust that hovered in the air, and neither Sarah nor I helped him.