Aunt Liza wrapped my hand while I screamed in pain. Mammy sat watching, tears streaming down her cheeks too. She carried me back to the quarter and tucked me into the big bed I shared with her and my siblings.
Her touch on my forehead was cool as she smoothed my wild hair. “I know you don’t understand all this, Frankie. All you gotta know is that Master and Mistress be our owners, and we has to do everything they tells us to do, whether we like it or not.”
“Why, Mammy? Why can’t we just leave here?” My hand and head throbbed, and I wanted to get as far away from the Halls as I could.
Her sad eyes met mine. “One day you’ll understand, and then you’ll know why I ask God ev’ry night for freedom.”
I watched Mammy leave the cabin, her slim shoulders slumped. I cried until I was exhausted, angry with everyone. Why was Miz Sadie allowed to hurt me and not be the one who was wrong? Would she beat me again tomorrow when I returned to the big house? Why couldn’t Mammy and us chillens leave here and find us a better mistress, a nicer one?
When I finally quieted, with my throbbing hand tucked against my heart, I felt something take hold inside me. Like a big ol’ log on a cook fire, it fed my bitterness and anger. I didn’t know what to call it, but the way it made me feel, I guessed it was the opposite of what Mammy taught me about love. She wouldn’t be happy I had this new sensation swirling around inside me like a twister, but I couldn’t help it. It was there, and I liked it.
I knew one thing for certain.
No one could take it away from me. Not even that devil woman Miz Sadie.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Alden Norwood arrived at Frankie’s house promptly at four o’clock, bringing an end to my first day as an FWP interviewer. I had more than a dozen pages filled, back and front, with Frankie’s story, yet she’d barely begun telling about her life as a slave. She asked if I wanted to return the following day, and I eagerly accepted the invitation.
“How did it go?” he inquired after we’d been on the road several silent minutes.
I shifted my attention from the view of downtown traffic to him. I’d been thinking about Frankie’s maimed hand and how a simple trip to the outhouse that day would have saved her from a lifetime of misery. I couldn’t fathom how someone could beat a six-year-old child with a fireplace poker, crippling her for the rest of her life, because of an accident.
Yet discussing my feelings with Mr. Norwood was out of the question. He didn’t think me qualified for the job in the first place. “Fine,” I simply said.
He glanced at me, then back to the road. A long minute passed before he heaved a sigh. “All right, Miss Leland. I apologize for misjudging the financial circumstances of your situation and your need to work for the FWP. You were correct in saying I don’t know anything about you or your family. I’m sorry I made assumptions this morning.”
Another glance, as if he was waiting for me to respond. He seemed sincere, and it pleased me that he’d seen the need for an apology. “Thank you, Mr. Norwood.”
His full lips formed an easy grin. “Now that we have that behind us . . . how did it go today? Were you able to coax her into telling you much?”
I smiled, glad to have the morning’s unpleasantness over and done. Maybe he wasn’t as patronizing as he’d seemed. “I’d say so. I have thirteen pages of notes, and I told her I’d come back tomorrow to finish the interview.”
“Thirteen pages? What else could she possibly tell you that she hasn’t already?”
His astonishment concerned me. “How many pages do you usually end up with when you’re finished with your interviews?”
“Five, maybe six. It depends on the interviewee, but most answer all the questions within a couple hours.”
I worried my bottom lip. I’d been with Frankie the entire day, yet I wasn’t anywhere near the end of our interview. I’d given up reading questions after the first few and let her tell her story in her own way, but maybe tomorrow I should stick with the list in order to speed things up.
“How was your day?” I asked, changing the subject. I didn’t want word to get back to Mr. Carlson that my first interview wasn’t keeping to the schedule. The less I said to Mr. Norwood, the better.
He told about the elderly couple he’d interviewed—a ninety-two-year-old gentleman and his eighty-eight-year-old wife who met after freedom. The man had worked in a tobacco factory since he was a young boy, but she’d been a field slave. As Mr. Norwood shared interesting details about the couple’s lives, my mind drifted back to Frankie, wondering how Miz Sadie treated her the next day. Admittedly, I was anxious to get back to the little yellow house in Hell’s Half Acre to hear more.
When we arrived at my house, I glanced at the home I’d lived in most of my life. In recent years, repairs to the porch and roof had been neglected, and the yard was more weeds than anything else. But it was still a grand and beautiful place, even if the family who occupied it no longer was.
“Thank you for the ride.” I gathered my things into one hand so I could open the door with the other. “Same time tomorrow?”
He nodded. “But remember, you have a lot of other interviewees assigned to you. You’ll need to finish up with Mrs. Washington and move on.”
The reminder and the superior tone he used grated. So much for thinking we might become friends. “I’m sure I can manage my own schedule, Mr. Norwood. Good night.” I slid from the car and slammed the door harder than I’d intended. When I glanced back, he pushed his hat back high on his forehead, a look of surprise on his face.
I’d just opened the front door when I heard his car back down the driveway and leave. Oh, the man could rile me! How would I ever put up with him for all the weeks it would take to complete the interviews?
“Rena, is that you?”
Mama came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. I’d hoped to sneak into the house and get to my bedroom without anyone seeing me. My head was so full, I needed time to process the day and all that had happened before Mama started with her questions.
“Hi, Mama.” I put my things on the hall table and removed my hat. “You’re home early.”
She sighed. “Mr. Watkins is ill again, so Mrs. Watkins closed the shop at noon. As though he isn’t a grown man who can do without her and get his own soup.”
I nodded, but the irritation she expressed for her employer held irony. Wasn’t she herself the wife of a grown man who spent his days sleeping off the previous night’s drinking binge, wallowing in his pathetic life and expecting her to take care of him?
“How did your interviews go?”
“Good.” I moved toward the stairs, hoping she’d take the hint and leave her questions for later. “I need to go over my notes while it’s all fresh in my mind.”
I’d nearly made it to the landing and out of her sight when she called, “Who did you interview? Anyone we know?”
I stood still, weighing how to proceed. I had yet to formulate an answer for that question. An answer that would prevent an argument, yelling, and who knew what else.
On one hand, it was quite ridiculous that I felt a need to hide the true nature of my job with the FWP from my mother. It wasn’t that I was afraid of her reaction, nor was I ashamed of what I was doing. After hearing only one day of Frankie’s heart-wrenching tales, I knew the project had merit.
Yet I also knew Mama would not approve of my going to Hell’s Half Acre to spend time with former slaves. Even though she would never again be a member of Nashville’s high society, holding on to small things from our past kept her sane. And maintaining a superior position over the less fortunate in the city was something I was certain she was not ready to relinquish.
“No one you’d know.” I forced my voice to remain normal. “She’s an elderly woman. I’m to record the stories of her life for a collection of historical writings.”
I didn’t wait for Mama’s reply and nearly flew up the remaining stairs. At my room, I closed the door with a click loud enough for her to
hear but not so loud she would grow suspicious. With my ear pressed to the wood, I was satisfied she hadn’t followed me in order to gain more information.
The desk near the window held my Underwood typewriter, a gift from my parents before the crash. Ever since the Monday Mr. Armistead summoned me into his office to tell me I was unemployed, it had sat unused.
I took a blank sheet of paper from the desk drawer and rolled it onto the cylinder, realizing how much I’d missed doing this simple task on a regular basis. Words had been such a big part of my life, I wondered how I’d survived six months without writing anything.
Two hours later Mama called up the stairs to tell me supper was ready. Now that I was working again, we would share the responsibility of getting the evening meal on the table. I did most of the cooking after I lost my job at the newspaper, so it was nice to have supper ready after a long day of work.
I stopped at the bathroom down the hall to wash my hands. Baby-blue tiles lined the walls and floor. A deep tub sat beneath the high window, and I looked forward to a long soak after supper. Glancing at the commode, I couldn’t help but remember the smelly outhouse in Frankie’s backyard.
As I stared at the gleaming white porcelain, a sense of guilt washed over me. Guilt for what, I wasn’t sure, but I recognized the uneasiness for what it was.
What would it be like to live in such poverty you didn’t have use of an indoor bathroom, something I’d taken for granted my entire life?
I looked back to my reflection in the mirror over the sink. Despite the hardships of the past seven years, I still saw what I’d always seen: a well-brought-up young woman. I didn’t sport the latest hairstyles or fashions as I once had, and my dreams of college and career were gone, but my most basic needs had always been met. We remained in our comfortable home and had food on the table, which was more than thousands of people could say. I’d seen pictures of soup and bread lines in the papers and read stories of the dust bowl in the West. People were suffering, and an end to it all seemed far in the distance.
Mama was sitting at the table when I arrived in the dining room. A meat loaf with its edges burnt graced the center, flanked by a bowl of lumpy mashed potatoes and one of green peas, my least favorite vegetable. Only yesterday I might have grumbled over the imperfect meal, but after my bathroom musings, I felt a strange sense of gratitude well up from a place deep inside I didn’t know existed until this very moment.
“Supper looks good.” I took my seat and laid a napkin in my lap.
A look of wonder settled on Mama’s face when I glanced her way. “Thank you, Rena. I hope the meat loaf isn’t too done.”
The evidence said it was, but I’d ruined my share of meals too.
We loaded our plates and ate in silence. I tried to think of a topic of conversation to initiate in order to avoid more questions regarding Frankie. One day soon I’d tell Mama the truth, but for now I wanted to keep the secret to myself.
“Mary said she and the children might drop by tomorrow evening.” Mama forked a bite of potatoes. “Homer is working the late shift these days, so she doesn’t have to get his supper.”
“At least he hasn’t gotten himself fired from this job.” Yet, I added silently.
I held little faith my good-for-nothing brother-in-law would keep this job any longer than he’d kept the string of others. Mary and the kids avoided homelessness and starvation because Homer’s daddy paid their bills.
Mama sighed. “I saw Peggy Denny at the market today. She couldn’t wait to inform me that Roy and his new wife bought a house in Washington, DC.”
Roy Staton, Mary’s old beau.
Turns out Roy actually made something of himself after college. Through his family’s connections he’d found a job in the governor’s office and became acquainted with Senator Hull. When President Roosevelt asked Hull to be his secretary of state, Hull took Roy to Washington with him to work in his office. Not long afterward, Mrs. Denny, one of Mama’s old friends and a woman who thrived on gossip, showed up at our door to see how Mama was doing with the news. Mama didn’t know what she was talking about, and Mrs. Denny practically oozed with satisfaction when she announced—with a somber face, of course—that Roy was engaged to the daughter of a senator from Texas.
“If Roy had loved Mary, he wouldn’t’ve broken up with her, no matter what his daddy said. There’s no use wishing things had turned out differently.” I shrugged. “I hope he and his wife live happily ever after, but I’m tired of hearing about him.”
Truth was, I was tired of hearing about anything concerning the life we used to live. The past could not be changed, no matter how much Mama wished it so. Grandma was right. My new job with the FWP was exactly the thing I needed to help me move forward.
“When these interviews are finished, I might see if I can get more assignments with the Works Progress Administration. Mr. Carlson said the WPA has a number of projects here in Nashville.” I looked at Mama. “Did you know the new post office is being built by people employed by the WPA? They’re even restoring an old Civil War fort on Saint Cloud Hill. It’s all part of Roosevelt’s New Deal legislation.”
She frowned. “I hope you won’t have to work for the government for long, Rena. Doing interviews is fine until you find something else, but the New Deal programs are for the destitute. Those poor wretches we see on the streets, begging for money. I wouldn’t want folks to get the wrong impression about why you’re working for the government.”
She sounded like Mr. Norwood. I gave a humorless laugh. “The only reason we aren’t standing next to those poor wretches is because of Grandma Lorena’s generosity. If not for her, we’d be homeless.”
“I work very hard, young lady.” Indignation flashed across her face. “Mother is helping us, yes, but I deserve some credit too.”
I held back a sigh. She never liked to discuss Grandma’s financial assistance. “I know you do, Mama, but you know as well as I do we would’ve had to sell the house long ago if Grandma hadn’t taken over the mortgage payments.”
Silence hung heavy in the room, as it always did when Mama and I discussed finances.
She pushed her potatoes around her plate before she sent an accusing glance my way. “Why do you always take her side against me?”
“What?” Where did that question come from?
“Mother can do no wrong in your eyes, and I can’t do anything right.”
I stared at her, wondering how the conversation had veered off so drastically. Mama and her mama didn’t get along well. They didn’t argue and fight; they simply avoided one another. I saw Grandma Lorena far more than Mama did despite us living just down the street, which caused jealousy to rise in my mother. Admittedly, it was far easier to talk to Grandma, simply because she let me share my thoughts and ideas and didn’t pass judgment the way my mother did.
Clearly, though, Mama felt slighted, which was never my intention.
“Mama, I don’t mean to make you feel like I don’t appreciate everything you do. I know you work hard at the shop.” She sniffled, a good sign. It usually meant mollification was near. “But I also appreciate everything Grandma does for us. I love you both.”
She gave a small nod. “Thank you, Rena.” Her gaze drifted to the study and the door that stayed closed most of the time. “I just wish things were different.”
We finished our meal in silence after that, both lost in thoughts better left unspoken. I volunteered to wash the dishes since Mama had cooked. She disappeared upstairs, and I knew I wouldn’t see her again until morning.
As I cleaned things up, I thought back to Frankie’s tiny kitchen, where she’d made my tea, her gnarled hand never slowing her down. I longed to run down the street and tell Grandma Lorena all about Frankie, but after the dinner conversation and Mama’s hurt feelings, I felt it would be a betrayal of sorts.
The setting sun gave the house a gloomy feel as I made my way to my room. I returned to my Underwood and Frankie’s story. Typing the words she’d spoken t
hat day brought images to my mind I’d never experienced before. A Negro child beaten and bleeding. Slaves by the dozens laboring in the fields, some as young as Frankie’s brother Saul.
I couldn’t recall ever hearing such things in school when the topic of slavery was discussed. People who owned large parcels of land prior to the Civil War required vast numbers of laborers, the teacher said. Slaves had been brought over from Africa for that purpose. It never occurred to me to question whether they’d been mistreated or what a slave had to endure. Their existence was simply part of our country’s history.
I continued typing.
Tears sprang to Mammy’s eyes. She took me by the shoulders and gave me a little shake. “You ain’t got no choice, Frankie. We is slaves.”
I stared at the words.
No choice. Slaves.
They echoed through my mind, as though I heard Frankie’s mammy’s voice myself, growing louder and louder, until understanding began to dawn, filling every inch of my being.
“She was owned by someone,” I whispered, shocked by the revulsion that swept over me at the very thought of such a thing. As I stared at the words I’d just typed, it suddenly seemed so absurd that the truth of slavery had evaded me for twenty-two years. I knew the definition of bondage, but until this moment I’d never put a face to it. I’d never met anyone who’d experienced it firsthand. “Frankie was owned,” I repeated.
The reality of what that truly meant for thousands upon thousands of people overwhelmed me.
I sat back in my chair, unable to continue.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Frankie was waiting for me when I arrived the next day.
“Mornin’.” She stood on the porch in a faded-green dress and house slippers. When she waved to Mr. Norwood, I turned and saw him return the gesture. Our eyes met briefly before he drove off. He’d been quiet on the drive into town, which was fine with me. It allowed me to gather my thoughts and prepare the questions that would get the interview back on track. But now I wondered if he’d thought me rude.
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