“Fact is, I ain’t never told my story to anyone since freedom come. No sense in rememberin’ them days, I say.” She folded her arms across her chest.
I nearly choked on the sip of tea I’d just taken. Did she mean she wouldn’t share the tales of her life with me? Would my first interview for the FWP be a complete failure? Mr. Carlson would not be pleased.
A knot began to form in my stomach as it occurred to me I might not have a job by the end of the day. I set my teacup on a small table to my left, careful not to disturb the knickknacks and a framed picture of a young man, my brain whirling. Mr. Armistead taught me early on in my career as a reporter to use the power of persuasion on difficult subjects. I hoped his methods would work now.
“Mrs. Washington, I’m sure I’m not qualified to give you advice on whether or not to answer the questions I have for you, but I do believe this project is important.”
In the seconds it took those words to pass over my lips, I realized they were true. I did want to hear this woman’s story. I wanted to know what her life as a slave was like. Mrs. Frances Washington was a faceless name to me yesterday. Today, she was an elderly woman, living in a tiny yellow house with a yard full of flowers in a neighborhood whose reputation was as sullied as the gutters that lined its streets.
Long seconds ticked by on a clock as we regarded one another.
“Jael is the one who said I should talk to you. She’s young and don’t know much ’bout slavery times. Said it would be good for folks in her day to know ’bout the past.”
I said a silent prayer of thanks for Jael and reached for my notebook.
“But I told her the past is best forgotten. We can’t go back and change nothin’ that happened, so why dredge up all those bitter memories?”
My shoulders slumped. “So you won’t answer my questions?”
Her eyes narrowed on me. “I sure didn’t plan to, but just this mornin’ the Lord told me I couldn’t go home till I talked to you.”
There it was again. The same strange statement she’d greeted me with. I could only assume she referred to God, but did she truly expect me to believe the Almighty wouldn’t allow her to die until I interviewed her?
Once again, I wondered if her mind was fully intact. Maybe I should pack up my notebooks and leave while I still had time to find my next interviewee. At least I’d have something to show Mr. Carlson for today’s efforts.
“I’ll say to you the same thing I said to him,” she continued, unaware of my panicked line of thought. “I’ll tell you ’bout slavery times if you want to hear it. You can ask me anything and I’ll do my best to remember. It ain’t a pretty story, though. You may be sorry you came askin’ when I’m done tellin’.”
I hesitated only a moment before nodding. I was here, seated in her home and ready to move forward, so I would attempt to conduct the interview as promised. But if at any time I felt she wasn’t in her right mind and her answers proved too outlandish—such as her statement about God not allowing her to go home yet—I would move on to the next subject.
“I understand, Mrs. Washington. I appreciate your willingness to answer my questions.” I lifted the typewritten list, although I’d memorized most of what was on the two pages. “We’ll start with some basic information. When and where were you born?” I poised my pencil above the first page in the notebook, where I’d written her name in bold letters before leaving the house this morning.
“I was born on the Halls’ plantation.” A small frown settled on her face. “Don’t know exactly where their place was, but it were about a day’s ride to Nashville, I ’spect. Mammy always said I was born in 1835 when the leaves started changin’ color.”
I felt my eyes widen as I did the math.
She grinned. “Yes’m, I be 101 years old. Lord have mercy, I been around a long time.”
I jotted down every word she said. The instructions from the FWP office in Washington, DC, were to write the former slaves’ stories word for word, avoiding any kind of censorship of the material collected, regardless of its nature. If the subject spoke in a dialect, I was to attempt to spell the word out in such a way that a reader would understand the meaning even without proper spelling. Thankfully, Mrs. Washington’s speech was quite clear, sprinkled with Southern pronunciation common in our part of the world.
When I finished recording her answer, I moved on to the next question. “What were your parents’ names? Where did they come from?”
A soft smile came to her lips. “Mammy’s name was Lucindia—ain’t that pretty?—but I never knowed my pappy. Mammy’s mama came from Africa. Her name was Frances, like mine. That’s why folks started calling me Frankie when I was still a baby.”
I glanced up from my notes. “I’m named after my grandmother, too. Lorena, but everyone calls me Rena.”
She gave a satisfied nod. “Mammy had three other children that I know of, but only one was older than me. A boy named Saul.”
This information puzzled me. Wouldn’t she know if her mother had more children? That important fact didn’t seem like something one would forget despite being 101 years of age.
“I see you want to ask me somethin’ that ain’t on that paper of yours.”
I looked up from my notes, heat rushing to my cheeks at being found curious. She was correct in guessing the most personal of questions were not included on the list provided by the government. The next question I was to ask was “What work did you do in slavery days?” Probing why this woman didn’t know if her own mother bore more children than she remembered or why she didn’t refer to Saul as her brother seemed far more intimate than my position as interviewer permitted.
“Go on,” she said, pointing to the notebook on my lap. “I said you can ask anything and I’ll do my best to answer. I’m too old these days for secrets or shame. Ain’t nobody gonna judge me ’cept the Lord himself, and he already knows all about me.”
I moistened my lips. Dare I? “Why . . . why don’t you know if your mother had more children? They would’ve been your brothers and sisters.”
The silence that followed my question stretched long. She closed her eyes, a pained look on her face. My shoulders fell, and I regretted voicing my curiosity, despite her insistence. She was an elderly lady trying to remember things that happened nearly a century ago. Surely it would be difficult.
I was about to withdraw my inquiry when she looked at me again.
“You want to know why I don’t know the answer to that question? It ain’t because I can’t remember, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She shook her head. “The truth be far more miserable than a forgetful mind. I don’t know if Mammy bore other chillens because I wasn’t there. I was sold away from her when I was seven years old.”
I gasped. “Sold? But you were just a child.”
A hardness came to her eyes. “There is lots of things done to children during slavery times that are pure evil. Are you certain you want to hear about them?”
I was not.
Yet I also knew I couldn’t leave now.
With far more courage than I possessed, I nodded. “Tell me.”
THE HALL PLANTATION, TENNESSEE
SPRING 1842
“Frankie? Frankie!”
I heard Mammy’s call, but I didn’t pay no mind to it and continued chasing the little black-’n’-white kitten around the empty horse stall. I wasn’t s’pposed to be where I was, and I knew Mammy’d sting my legs with a switch for disobeying her if she caught me. She’d told me to leave the baby kitties be because they’s too young to leave their mama yet. But I wanted to play with them, so I’d snuck into the big barn and smuggled one of the tiny creatures to the far stall where no one would find us. The little thing mewled and wouldn’t chase my fingers like an older cat. When someone banged the barn door, the kitten startled and ran to hide behind a pile of hay.
I’d just captured him when I heard Mammy approach.
“Frankie! Didn’t you hear me a-callin’?” She eyed the animal in m
y arms. “I told you not to mess with them cats, girl. Why you gotta do the opposite of what I tell you all the time?”
She stomped over and snatched the cat out of my hands. “Get on to the cabin and clean yo’self up. I got some good news to tell ya.”
“Yes’m.” With a last look at the cat, who hadn’t been nearly as much fun to play with as I’d thought, I skipped out of the barn into afternoon sunshine, thankful Mammy’d been more concerned with the kitten and her news than doling out punishment.
The quarter where our cabin was located was just up the cart path from the barn. More slaves lived there than I could count, from cryin’ babies to old men with spittle on their chins. Mammy, me, and my three siblings shared our cramped space with five other people, though two were chillens like me. My brother Saul, two years older than me, had already been sent to work in the tobacco fields, where he and dozens of other boys spent their days picking nasty worms off growing plants that had been transplanted from seed beds. If left alone, those big ol’ bright-green worms would eat the whole crop in a matter of days, according to the old-timer who liked to tell tales to us chillens at night. Saul and them other boys had to search every single plant, under the leaves and along the stalks, for the critters. If they missed one and the overseer found it, they’d get a lash to their back for every worm he found. Mammy was awful proud Saul hadn’t given that mean ol’ white man cause to whup him yet.
When I arrived at our cabin, empty since everyone was still in the fields, I found a basin of water and a cloth laid out. Why Mammy needed me to wash in the middle of the day, I couldn’t guess. But I’d already disobeyed her about the cat, so I quickly splashed water onto my face and arms, rinsing away any dirt that might have stuck to me in my romping about the plantation.
Mammy always told me I was lucky, because being only six years old, I was free to run and play as much as I desired instead of tromping out to the tobacco and corn fields early in the morning the way most other slaves on the plantation do. Mammy was lucky too, because she worked in the kitchen behind the big house, cooking and cleaning for Master and Mistress Hall. She said when I was old enough, I’d come help her, which suited me just fine.
Mammy soon arrived without the cat. She inspected me from head to toe, frowning at what she saw. “Chile, you got straw stickin’ out o’ your hair and dirt caked on your feet.” As she set about picking hay from my braids, I looked down to my bare toes. Sure enough, they were covered in dried mud, and I remembered the puddle near the horse trough I’d splashed through on my way to fetch the kitten.
“Why I gotta be clean, Mammy? The day ain’t over yet.”
My childish wisdom made her grin despite her obvious frustration as she wiped my feet with the cloth. “Because you is goin’ to the big house.”
I stilled. “Am I comin’ to cook with you?”
While the idea of being with Mammy all day was a nice one for the future, I wasn’t ready to give up my freedom just yet. I had too much fun exploring the plantation and running around with the other children who stayed in the quarter with the old mammy assigned to watch over us.
She met my gaze, excitement shining in her eyes. “You ain’t comin’ to work in the kitchen. Miz Sadie wants you to be Miss Charlotte’s companion.”
I blinked, trying to make sense of the new word. Mammy seemed happy about it, so it must be something good. “What’s a com-pan-ion?”
“It means you’ll be Miss Charlotte’s playmate. She be two years older than you, but I told Miz Sadie you’s a growed-up girl for just being six. Honey, you’ll get to wear a pretty dress and play with Miss Charlotte’s dollies and take your meals with her in the nursery.”
My ears perked up at this. “And all I gotta do is play with Miss Charlotte?”
Mammy smiled. “Yes’m, chile. I been askin’ the Lord to spare you from the fields, and here he done answered my prayers.”
A warm feeling started in my belly. Mammy spent many hours on her knees in the evenings talkin’ to the Lord after we chillens were abed. I was pleased to know he’d listened.
“If you want me to play with Miss Charlotte, Mammy, I will.”
She tugged me into her arms, and I laid my cheek against her. “You gotta be a good girl, Frankie. Miz Sadie don’t take no nonsense from her slaves.” She gently pushed me away so she could look me in the eye. “You obey everything they tells you, you hear me? I don’t want to hear you done otherwise, or I’ll take a switch to your backside.”
I nodded. “Yes’m.”
She grasped my hand. “Come on, now. Miz Sadie wants to look you over. If she like what she see, you’ll move into the big house tomorrow.”
I pulled to a stop. “I won’t live here with you?”
“’Course you’ll still live here, but there be times you’ll need to sleep on a pallet in Miss Charlotte’s room. I’ll be right there in the kitchen, so I’ll see you more now than when you was down here in the quarter.”
Satisfied, I continued with her toward the big white house a short walk from the quarter.
As long as I’d still get to see Mammy, I was happy to become Miss Charlotte’s companion.
CHAPTER SIX
Glancing out the curtained window, I determined it was probably a little past one o’clock. Mrs. Washington had dozed off in the middle of a sentence, and I felt it best to let her sleep. Remembering her life as a slave must be wearing, but she’d insisted on continuing with her story the two times I offered to take a break.
The pages of my notebook had quickly filled up. I’d settled into a nice rhythm of writing down her story word for word, spelling out most but also using some of the shorthand I’d learned in school. I had to admit I found her tale fascinating. I could almost see young Frankie romping through the vast plantation grounds, free and unencumbered by the hardships of slavery. Admittedly, I was surprised to learn her brother had been put to work at such a young age.
After a silent stretch, I set my notebook and pencil on the floor. The hard-backed chair emitted a loud creak as I rose, but a quick glance revealed Mrs. Washington’s chin remained on her chest and her eyes closed.
I needed to relieve myself, so I quietly made my way down a narrow hallway. Two doors opened into neatly kept bedrooms with colorful quilts spread across each bed, but neither held what I sought.
Returning to the sitting room, I confirmed the only other door led to the kitchen. A little desperate now that I’d moved from my sitting position, I bit my fingernail, trying to think through the situation. Obviously Frankie and Jael had access to a bathroom, but where was it? Did it have an outside entrance?
I’d just moved to the front door when I heard a soft sound behind me. Mrs. Washington stirred before her eyes opened, momentary confusion filling them at seeing me there. Then she nodded as if remembering who I was and why I was in her home.
“Guess I went to sleep.” She gave a drowsy chuckle. “Not a very good hostess, am I?”
I smiled. “We both needed a break.” I gathered my courage. “Would it be possible for me to use your bathroom?”
“’Course, chile, ’course. I shoulda told you first thing how to get to the outhouse.”
As she slowly got to her feet, my stomach lurched. Did she truly mean what I thought she did?
“It’s out back, just past Jael’s garden.”
She said it so matter-of-factly, I couldn’t do anything but nod and move in the direction she pointed. A door next to the kitchen sink led to the backyard, which surprisingly held more flowers than the front yard. I’d failed to see them earlier from the window over the sink because the house sat higher than ground level, requiring a set of steep concrete steps. A well-worn dirt path wove its way through the plants to a small vegetable garden that must provide an abundance of fresh produce during the summer months. Now only a handful of green tomatoes remained on the vine, though small holes told me worms had claimed them before Jael could.
Beyond the garden and tucked into a corner of the small yard s
at the wooden structure I sought. Never in all my life had I used an outhouse. Mama would be horrified to see me now, but there wasn’t any choice in the matter. I couldn’t wait three hours until Mr. Norwood arrived to pick me up. The ride home would surely be miserable even if I could contain myself until then.
I cautiously opened the door. The odor that met me caused me to catch and hold my breath, although I desperately wished I’d done so before filling my lungs with rancid air. With as much speed as I could manage, I took care of the deed and hastened from the shed, practically stumbling away as air swooshed from my burning lungs. I couldn’t imagine using such a crude facility again, and I made a mental note not to drink anything at my interviews until I’d ascertained the bathroom conditions.
When I approached the house, I glanced up to find Frankie watching me from the kitchen window. Her gaze went from me to the outhouse, then back to me again before she turned and disappeared from my view.
Had she witnessed my desperate flight from the smelly privy? A place she and her caregiver were forced to use every day?
I entered through the back door to find Mrs. Washington seated in her chair again. Two slices of bread spread with purple jam and two hunks of cheese sat on a plate on the low coffee table.
“Thought you might be gettin’ hungry.” She motioned to the food.
I returned to my seat, hoping the outhouse episode would pass without mention. “Thank you. I didn’t think to bring my lunch.” I gave a small shrug of apology.
She helped herself to one of the bread slices. “I guessed right then. This is your first interview, ain’t it?”
“Yes. And no.” I took the other slice while she nibbled on hers. “I had a job at a newspaper for several years, first working in the mail room and then as a secretary, before my boss promoted me to reporter. I interviewed a number of people for news stories, including the governor.” I didn’t mention that Governor McAlister abruptly ended the interview when he learned who my father was. Dad, a staunch and vocal Republican, had laid blame for the stock market crash solely at the feet of the Democrats before he disappeared into his drunken exile. Although McAlister wasn’t governor at the time, he didn’t want anything to do with a Leland and demanded George send someone else to finish the interview.
Under the Tulip Tree Page 5