“Hello.” He gave a small nod of greeting.
“Hello.” I climbed into the vehicle, trying not to stare at several worn places on the seat as I slid over them.
He stuck out his hand but didn’t smile. “Alden Norwood.”
“Lorena Leland,” I returned, briefly engaging his cool hand with my sweaty one. Thankfully, he didn’t retrieve the handkerchief peeking out from his jacket pocket and use it as a towel.
His glance shifted to our house. He studied it a long moment before asking, “You live here?”
The odd question confused me. “Yes.” Why else would I be here so early in the morning, ready to begin a new job that he himself was driving me to?
“Hmm.”
That’s it. That’s all he said before he shoved the gearshift into reverse and backed down the driveway. With one last glance at the house, then at me, he put the car into gear and headed up the street.
I stewed over his hmm for a solid minute before I stole a glance at his profile.
He was far younger than I’d anticipated. For some reason I’d envisioned Alden Norwood as an older gentleman when Mr. Carlson, the director of the Nashville FWP office, told me a fellow writer would pick me up and drive me to Hell’s Half Acre, a run-down neighborhood where all of my interviewees lived. Mr. Carlson had sung Mr. Norwood’s praises, declaring him a true advocate for the downtrodden and a highly experienced interviewer. I was to ask Mr. Norwood any questions I might have regarding my assignment, with the assurance the gentleman would be happy to supply the answers.
Yet Mr. Norwood couldn’t be much older than me. Dark hair in need of a trim poked out from beneath the Errol Flynn hat that, now as I took a closer look, I realized had seen better days. The dark-gray suit he wore might well have come from a church charity box, as threadbare as it appeared. I couldn’t help but wonder at his financial situation and how long he’d been in need of work before he discovered the FWP.
Which brought me full circle back to his hmm. What exactly did it mean? Was it a good hmm or a bad hmm? So intent on my ponderings, I didn’t realize I was staring at him until I found questioning brown eyes returning the gaze while we waited at an intersection.
“I beg your pardon.” A rush of heat rose to my face as I quickly looked away. “I was . . .” What could I say? Embarrassment jumbled my brain, preventing a logical explanation from surfacing in time to save me.
He chuckled. “You wore quite a perplexed frown as you studied me. Dare I ask the nature of such glowering?”
The car lurched forward before I could answer, and we resumed our journey. With his concentration returned to the road, my tense shoulders eased. Perhaps his humor at my poor manners boded well. I hoped so anyway.
“I simply wondered what you meant by hmm.”
He shot me a puzzled look before returning his attention to the other vehicles on the busy street. Nashville’s population had grown over the years despite the depressed economy. Sedans, delivery trucks, and streetcars clogged roads inadequate for so much traffic, yet the city had no money to alleviate the problem.
“When you inquired if I lived in my house,” I said in explanation, “I informed you I did indeed. You responded with hmm. I wondered what you meant by that.”
Understanding registered on his face. He glanced at me before answering. “I suppose I was surprised that someone who took a job with the FWP resides in such a fine home.”
His answer was not what I expected. “Why is that?”
“Because the programs under the Works Progress Administration are for people who meet certain criteria. We’ve all had to take the ‘pauper’s oath,’ as it’s called, proving we have no money, no property of our own, no job, and no prospect of getting any of those.” He glanced at me again, this time taking in my dress, sweater, and hat. “I’ll be honest, Miss Leland. You don’t look like you meet the criteria.”
I wasn’t sure whether to take his opinion as a compliment or an insult. I’d borrowed one of Mama’s old dresses she used to wear to her club meetings, hoping to appear serious and mature. The pale-blue outfit wasn’t new, but it wasn’t as worn-looking as most of my own things. And yet this man had the audacity to judge me and my circumstances by the house I lived in and the clothes I wore.
My blood boiled. “I wouldn’t have taken the oath if it weren’t true. What exactly should someone who meets the criteria look like? In your esteemed opinion, of course.” I folded my arms across my belly when he chanced a glance at me.
Even with his attention returned to the road, I kept my glare on him, awaiting his response.
“The Works Progress Administration is part of the government’s New Deal programs. It was formed to help the down-and-out through these hard economic times.” He spoke as though explaining something to a child. I fumed as he checked for traffic before proceeding across a street. A moment later his eyes met mine. “It’s easy to see your family hasn’t been hit as hard by the depressed economy as the rest of us who work for the WPA. There are people—fellow writers and friends of mine—who have lost their homes and have children to take care of. They’re truly suffering and could use a job with the Federal Writers’ Project. Pardon me for saying so, but you aren’t one of them.”
I felt as though I’d been slapped. How dare this man assume we hadn’t been hit as hard as anyone else. And as for not suffering?
I pictured my father, the former bank president, a man who’d dined with the governor and held positions on various boards, now holed up in a dark room day and night, bourbon bottles his constant companion. Mama tried to keep him clean and fed, but there were days when he was unrecognizable, with his unkempt hair and whiskers.
I thought of my mother, working long hours at the sewing shop in order to put food on our table, and of my sister, her life full of diapers and despair over a lazy, unfaithful husband.
No, we weren’t homeless as thousands were, and thankfully we weren’t starving. But this man, this stranger, had no right to judge my life based on a glimpse of our once-stately house and a hand-me-down outfit.
A lump formed in my throat, and my chin trembled. “You don’t know anything about me or my family, Mr. Norwood. I’ll thank you to keep your judgments to yourself.”
I faced the window so he wouldn’t see the unwelcome emotion that sprang to my eyes. His misguided opinion shouldn’t bother me, yet I was so weary of strangers and acquaintances alike making assumptions. No one knew what we’d been through the past seven years. No one knew the fear we lived with every single day. If it weren’t for Grandma Lorena’s help with bills, I didn’t know how we would survive.
I dug in my purse for a handkerchief and wiped my drippy nose. With resolve, I blinked away the last bit of telling moisture, determined not to give him satisfaction in knowing he’d upset me. The opinion of Alden Norwood didn’t matter in the least. He was merely my driver, and I would treat him as such.
The grand Tennessee state capitol building came into view a short time later, its gleaming white limestone walls and lantern-shaped cupola presiding over the city with dignified command. It seemed at odds with the slums that existed practically in the shadow of the stately structure where laws were created and the rights of Tennessee citizens were discussed. Did the men whose office windows must surely look down on Hell’s Half Acre not notice the neighborhood whose sordid reputation of poverty, violence, and crime dated back to the 1870s? Or was it that they simply didn’t care?
“What’s the address of your first interview?”
Mr. Norwood’s voice drew me out of my ponderings. I handed him the paper with Mrs. Frances Washington’s address written on it. Upon reading the street name, he nodded. “I know where that is.” Turning at the next corner, he maneuvered the car past the capitol and into an area of Nashville I’d never seen up close.
Run-down houses and overgrown lots lined every street. While some of the buildings had surely once been fine homes, time and the lack of upkeep left them with crumbling walls and sagg
ing porches filled with what appeared to be abandoned junk. Laundry hung on lines stretched from tree to tree in the neglected yards of several homes, and my heart softened for the women attempting to keep their families in clean clothes amid the squalor of the neighborhood.
A gathering of men stood on the sidewalk dressed in shirtsleeves and hats, but they stopped their conversation to watch us drive past. Mr. Norwood nodded to them politely, but I kept my eyes averted, a tense feeling beginning to swirl through my stomach.
Had I made a terrible mistake accepting a job that forced me to spend time in this part of Nashville? Would I be safe once Mr. Norwood drove away, leaving me alone with a woman I’d never met, in a neighborhood with a reputation even I’d heard of? He might have vexed me terribly with his superior attitude and disparaging assumptions, but his presence offered a measure of safety I hadn’t anticipated needing.
“Here we are.”
Mr. Norwood stopped the car in front of a small house with peeling yellow paint. A low fence circled a yard no bigger than the car I sat in, yet astonishingly it held more flowers of various sizes and colors than I’d ever seen in one place. A narrow path through the foliage led to a porch with two straight-backed chairs, both worn but still solid-looking. A few pots of flowers sat between them.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I gazed out the window to the charming residence. While I didn’t want people like Mr. Norwood judging me on the kind of house I lived in, I was having a hard time not doing the same for the residents of Hell’s Half Acre. That Mrs. Washington took care in maintaining her little home brought a sense of calm to my whirling emotions.
“I’ll meet you here at four o’clock.” Mr. Norwood seemed impatient to be rid of me as he glanced at his wristwatch. “You should be able to walk to your other interviews if you get finished with this one and need to move on.”
Panic rose to the surface at the thought of being left alone in a strange place among strange people. I’d hoped to ask him all sorts of questions about the interview process on our drive here, but his immediate assumptions about my family’s financial status had silenced them. I regretted my sulking because I had no idea what I was doing.
It was too late now. “Thank you,” I muttered, aggravated with him and myself. I gathered my belongings in one hand and opened the door with the other since it appeared Mr. Norwood had no intention of assisting me. I almost laughed, thinking about Mama and how she’d stay right where she was until the gentleman walked around the car to open her door.
Although Mr. Norwood and I hadn’t gotten off to a great start, my stomach sank as I watched him drive away, leaving me in a place I never imagined I’d set foot in, let alone spend time in interviewing former slaves. When I’d gone to Mr. Armistead’s office to inform him I got the job and wouldn’t be visiting him for a while, he’d appeared impressed.
“I wasn’t sure you had it in you, Leland. I’m glad I was wrong.”
The memory of the affirming words strengthened my resolve as I made my way through the pretty flowers, their heady aroma thick and sweet, and quietly mounted the porch. Two windows flanked the door, but both had curtains drawn, so there was no peeking inside to get a hint of what awaited me. I swallowed, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door. Several long moments passed before I heard movement on the other side.
The woman who answered was not what I expected.
“Mrs. Washington?”
Sharp black eyes studied me before she answered. “Yes’m, I’m Miz Washington.”
“I’m Lorena Leland, with the Works Progress Administration. I believe you’re expecting me.”
She continued her examination of me, perusing my face, my dress, even my shoes, before her narrowed eyes met mine again. I in turn considered her. Taller than I’d anticipated, she appeared to be in remarkably good health considering her advanced age. Her short-cropped hair was snowy white, but her cheeks were as smooth and wrinkle-free as a young woman’s.
Finally she nodded. “I been expecting you. The Lord told me I couldn’t go home till you come.”
The strange answer caught me off guard. I stared at her, wondering if she was in her right mind. Would this be a complete waste of time? Surely the tales told by a woman whose mind bore the effects of age would not be beneficial to the FWP and their mission to preserve the oral history of former slaves.
“Let’s not stand here gawking at each other. Come in, chile, come in.” She turned and retreated into the small house.
With one last longing glance down the now-vacant street, I followed, letting the screen door close behind me with a bang that sounded like a gunshot. Mrs. Washington continued to an overstuffed armchair with faded floral print as though she hadn’t heard it. A small shelf crammed with books stood within arm’s reach should she desire to read in the evenings.
“Sit where’er you be most comfortable.”
The choices were few. A low-slung couch I wasn’t sure I would be able to climb out of or a stiff-looking chair near the window. I chose the latter and set my purse on the wood floor next to me. She sat silently watching while I took out a pencil, opened one of the steno notebooks, and unfolded the list of questions Mr. Carlson had given me upon signing the contract to conduct interviews for the FWP.
With a deep breath to quiet my nerves, I met her gaze. “I believe you know why I’m here.”
She gave a slow nod. “Uh-hm, I know why you here. But, chile, you ain’t got a clue why you is here.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Mr. Carlson’s instructions were simple: ask the questions as they appeared on the typewritten paper he’d given me and allow the former slaves to tell their stories in their own way, talking freely of slavery and the ills suffered, without giving my own opinion on any subject discussed.
But now that the time had come, I found myself reduced to a jumble of nerves.
As Mrs. Washington looked on, I attempted to arrange the steno notebook and the list of questions, each vying for a position of prominence on my lap. My pencil slipped from my hand in the process, breaking the sharpened lead when it hit the floor.
Flashing Mrs. Washington a look of apology, I retrieved it, then took another from my purse. Somehow, after what seemed an inordinate amount of time, I was ready to begin.
With a glance at my subject, who continued to consider me with a stony face, I forced a smile. Yet before I could get the first question out of my now-dry mouth, Mrs. Washington stood.
“You want a cup o’ tea? I find it helps quiet the jitters.”
My tense shoulders eased some, knowing she was anxious about our interview too. “That would be nice, but I want to assure you there is nothing to be nervous about.”
A deep chuckle rumbled in her chest. “I ain’t nervous, chile, but you’re ’bout ready to come out of your skin. Come on to the kitchen and we’ll make you a nice cup o’ chamomile tea.”
Without waiting for my response, she headed through a doorway while I remained seated, mortified that she’d read me so well. Why was I so jumpy? Like Mama observed, I’d never been this nervous while conducting interviews for the Banner.
I set my things on the floor and followed her into a tiny kitchen. A deep porcelain sink sat beneath a window that looked out to the backside of a run-down tenement one street over. A small icebox occupied a corner of the room while an even smaller table and two chairs occupied the other. Yet it was the old-fashioned wood-burning stove where Mrs. Washington worked that brought the most surprise. Our stove at home was fueled by gas. It never occurred to me people still cooked over wood or coal. Was this a common practice here in Hell’s Half Acre? I wondered. Or was it Mrs. Washington who hadn’t caught up to modern times?
Seeing her at the old stove, however, forced me to consider what else might be missing from this woman’s life that I had and took for granted.
“Jael—she takes care of me when she ain’t studying down at the university—she likes chamomile tea, but I have to admit I prefer a strong cup o’ coffee.”<
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As she worked, I noticed one of her hands was quite disfigured. Large knots existed where knuckles should be, and it seemed at least two, maybe three, of her fingers were not lined up as they should be. It didn’t slow her down though. She poured hot water from a kettle sitting on the stovetop into a plain white cup with a tea ball. Taking a pale-blue saucer from the open shelf that held short stacks of mismatched dishes, she set the cup on it and handed it to me. “You take sugar?”
I shook my head, not wanting to be any more trouble than I’d already been, especially when I realized she was not partaking. “This is wonderful, thank you.”
She nodded and led the way back into the sitting room, where she eased herself into her chair. “I ’spect you ain’t never been down here to the Acres.” Her steady gaze held no accusation nor even curiosity. It was simply a statement.
“No, ma’am.” I carefully sat down, trying not to spill my tea. There was no hope of retrieving my notebook and pencil at the moment, so I trusted she wouldn’t launch into her life’s story just yet.
“Well, you ain’t missed much. I’ve lived here near ’bout sixty years. Seen all kinds of troubles. There be some good folks here in the Acres, but there also be some who want to do nothin’ but cause hardship for everyone else.”
I noticed she didn’t refer to the neighborhood as Hell’s Half Acre, as the area was known throughout Nashville. I suppose I wouldn’t either if I had to live here. Why add to the discouragement of living in such conditions by labeling it after a place I hoped I never saw?
“I’ll be honest, Miss Leland.” She leaned back in the chair. “I was mighty surprised when I received a letter from the gov’ment wanting to hear my stories ’bout slavery times.”
I smiled. “We appreciate you being willing to share about your life.” Of course, I didn’t know who we referred to, but as an employee of the federal government, I had to give appearances of being part of a larger community. The entire project was President Roosevelt’s idea, so one would assume his interest in the oral histories of former slaves was the catalyst for my being in the presence of this woman.
Under the Tulip Tree Page 4