Under the Tulip Tree

by Michelle Shocklee

  I sighed. I couldn’t worry about Mr. Norwood. I had a job to do.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d be back,” Frankie said matter-of-factly. “Thought I mighta scared you off.”

  I faced her, surprised by her doubt. “You haven’t finished your story.”

  She studied me a long moment before giving a slight nod. “Come on in. I’ll get us some coffee fore we get started.”

  I followed her into the cozy home and deposited my purse, notepads, and a bologna sandwich wrapped in paper on the chair I’d occupied the previous day. The aroma of freshly baked bread filled my senses. “Oh, my, something smells wonderful.”

  We continued to the kitchen, where two loaves of bread sat cooling on the table.

  “Jael is a fine cook, but she can’t bake bread. She’d rather buy it at the market, but I don’t like that store-bought mess. Tastes like cardboard to me.”

  I remembered Dovie’s homemade rolls, and my mouth watered. “When I was growing up, our cook made the most delicious yeast rolls. They’d practically melt in your mouth.”

  “Baking bread ain’t hard, but it takes patience to get it right. Young people these days don’t slow down long enough to do nothin’. Always lookin’ for the easy way.” She moved to the stove. “Coffee?”

  I nodded. “Please.”

  She poured two cups of steaming brew from a blue enamel pot on the stove and added a sugar cube to each after we discovered we both liked it sweet but without cream.

  We took our drinks to the living room and settled in. I assumed she’d want to get right to her tale, but she didn’t seem in a hurry to talk about the past and instead asked me about my family, a subject I wasn’t too keen to delve into.

  “Mama works as a seamstress. I have an older sister who’s married and has three children.” I paused, wondering what I could say about Dad that didn’t divulge my true feelings of bitterness and disgust. “My father lost his business in the stock market crash. He hasn’t found a new job yet.”

  Frankie sipped her coffee while I gave the brief answer. “It be hard times, for sure. I ’spect they appreciate you taking this job with the . . . What’s it called? The Federal Writers’ Progress?”

  I held back a grin. “The Federal Writers’ Project. It’s part of the Works Progress Administration.”

  “Yes, I remember now. Has something to do with the president, though I don’t see why he’d pay good money to have you come out and listen to my ol’ stories.” She shrugged and finished her coffee. “But,” she said as she put her empty cup on the low table that separated us, “if he wants to, ain’t gonna argue with that. You ready to start?”

  I hurried to get myself organized, shuffling notes and wondering if I should press the issue of returning to the questions or simply let her continue the tale as she saw fit.

  “Last night after you left, I got to thinkin’ that maybe I shouldn’t tell you ’bout all the ugly things I seen during slavery times.”

  My hands stilled, and I met her eyes.

  “I got lots of stories that ain’t as hard to hear as them like I told you yesterday. There was some good times, too, and funny things that happened. I thought maybe that’s what I should tell you today instead of goin’ back to them dark days.”

  We sat in silence with our own thoughts for a long moment. A rooster crowed somewhere in the neighborhood.

  I knew it must be difficult for her to recall the painful past, and I certainly would never presume to insist she continue with what we began yesterday. But the reporter in me also believed her story—the true story—needed to be told. Especially after the eye-opening revelations I’d experienced last evening.

  “Mrs. Washington.” I hesitated, trying to find the right words. “I haven’t been around very many black people, as you correctly guessed yesterday. Our housekeeper, Dovie, is the only one I’ve ever known, really.” I paused. “People like me, like my family, we don’t know much about what slaves experienced. I’ve never heard of children being beaten with no one held accountable, or being forced into labor at the age of seven. Even though slavery isn’t legal anymore, I believe it’s important to remember the past as it truly was, not as we wish it to be.”

  I didn’t know if my speech made any sense, but I meant every word. In the twenty-four hours I’d known this woman, her life’s story had touched me in a way I had not expected.

  Another long moment passed before she nodded. “I ’spect you’re right. We who lived through it don’t talk ’bout it much. Times is still hard, but it ain’t nothin’ like back when folks could own you without you havin’ a say. We was no more than a dog to some masters. Fact is, we wasn’t treated as good as folks treat a dog these days.”

  She gave a slow nod. “I’ll give you what you come for. The truth about slavery times.”

  With that settled, we both seemed to mentally prepare ourselves. She to go back in time to hard, painful memories, and me to listen, learn, and perhaps come away with a better understanding of the cruelties and injustices some people experienced at the hands of others simply because of the color of their skin.

  Despite my tears, screams, and protests, Mammy dragged me up to the big house the day after Miz Sadie beat me. My hand throbbed and my head ached, but Mammy said there wasn’t nothin’ to be done. I’d be whipped by the overseer if I didn’t obey, and I’d seen enough slaves suffer that punishment to know I didn’t want to ever experience it.

  Aunt Liza met us in the kitchen. She looked at my bandaged hand, shook her head, and gently guided me toward the walkway to the main house. “Come on, chile. I take you on up to the nursery. Miz Sadie don’t get outta her bed for another hour. We’ll get you settled in with Miss Charlotte so things be nice an’ peaceful-like when Mistress gets up.”

  With one last look at Mammy, who stood with her fist pressed against her lips and a sheen of tears in her eyes, I allowed Aunt Liza to lead me through the house and up a back stairway I’d never seen before. The only room on the third floor, the nursery was painted a pale shade of yellow with white, lacy curtains dancing in a gentle breeze coming through open windows. A child-size table occupied the center of the room, set with tiny dishes and cups. Three dollies sat in small chairs as though waiting for breakfast to be served.

  Giggles came from an open doorway across from us. A moment later golden curls poked out, and I saw Charlotte peek around the doorframe. When Aunt Liza motioned to her, the girl came forward.

  “Miss Charlotte, lookee who come to play dollies with you.”

  Charlotte’s blue eyes were big and filled with curiosity. Her gaze strayed to my injured hand, and the same troubled look I’d seen on Master Hall’s face after Miz Sadie hit me now appeared on Charlotte’s. I found a measure of hope in it.

  “You two girls stay put while I get your breakfast.” Aunt Liza gave me a stern look. “Mind your manners, Frances.”

  I watched her exit the room with mixed feelings. I didn’t want to be here, and I certainly didn’t want to see Miz Sadie again. Yet excitement at being in Charlotte’s nursery swirled through me too.

  The bright space teemed with all manner of interesting toys and pretty things. I’d never seen anything like it, and I couldn’t decide what to play with first.

  “Does it hurt?”

  Her quiet voice startled me. I turned to find Charlotte staring at me. She pointed to my hand when I didn’t answer right away.

  I shrugged, not certain if I should answer honestly or not.

  “Mama shouldn’t’ve hit you.” She glanced at the door Aunt Liza had just disappeared through, then took a step closer to me. “I used to have accidents when I was little too.”

  Her lowered voice told me this bit of information was something only for me to know. While I appreciated her attempt to make me feel better, I didn’t want her or anyone to think I wet myself all the time.

  “I’m a big girl. Aunt Liza wouldn’t let me use the outhouse yesterday.”

  Charlotte’s face said she didn’t believ
e me, but she let it pass. “Do you want to see my dollies?”

  I did. I followed her to the table, where she picked up a beautiful doll with a painted-on face. Its dress looked similar to the ones Charlotte and I wore. It even had on snowy-white pantalets like those I’d soiled yesterday. Mammy washed them out, but they hadn’t dried overnight. I wasn’t wearing anything beneath my dress, and I hoped Miz Sadie didn’t look to see if I had them on, otherwise she might beat me again.

  “This is Mae. Papa bought her in Atlanta. He said she reminded him of me.” She fussed with Mae’s golden curls before returning the doll to her chair.

  She picked up each of the other two dollies and told me their names, but she didn’t offer to let me hold one. My fingers fairly itched to know what Mae’s hair felt like, yet I knew Aunt Liza and Mammy wouldn’t want me to touch anything unless I’d been given permission.

  Charlotte moved through the sunny room pointing out painted blocks, carved wooden animals, and a miniature house filled with tiny furniture. She led me into the adjoining room, where she slept in a bed larger than the one I shared with Mammy and my siblings, all draped in yards of white fabric I could see through.

  But it was the shelf near the window that captured my attention.

  Slaves were not allowed to own books, but I’d heard Mammy and some of the grown folks talk about them. I’d never seen one up close before, so when Charlotte took a book from the shelf, the colorful drawing on the front held me in awe. I couldn’t imagine how such a thing was filled with tales like those the old men sat around spinning.

  “May I see it?”

  My bold question went against every instruction Aunt Liza had drummed into me the previous day, but I didn’t care. All I wanted was to know the feel of that book in my hands and to see those pretty pictures up close.

  Without hesitation, Charlotte handed the treasure to me despite my lack of respect for the rules.

  I cradled it in my hand as though it were a newly hatched chick. Two little girls graced the outside of it, seated at a table very much like the one in Charlotte’s nursery. A dolly lay on the table while the girls looked at picture books. I tried to open it with my injured fingers, but they wouldn’t cooperate. When I winced with pain, Charlotte reached over and parted it to reveal a boy playing ball with a big red dog.

  “Mama taught me to read. Would you like me to read to you?”

  With widened eyes, I nodded and handed the book back to her, too filled with wonder to speak.

  She chose a different book from the shelf, carried it to the chairs near the fireplace, and settled on one of the pretty upholstered seats. I stood beside her where I could see the pictures. Charlotte began speaking slowly, using her finger to point to the funny marks at the bottom of the pages. Mammy sometimes talked about her desire to learn her letters, but I had no knowledge of such things and couldn’t understand what she meant. Now as I watched Charlotte’s finger move from one group of markings to the next, I realized she was forming words from what she saw on the page.

  “‘The Toadstool: “We won’t worry . . . our . . . ourselves . . . with work,” said . . . Dan . . . Dandelion. “Let us cl . . . climb up this great toadstool and have a dan . . . dance upon the top.”’”

  She looked up at me with a big smile. “See the toadstool?”

  I nodded, my eyes returning to the drawing of two small children with upside-down flowers for hats playing beneath a huge toadstool. “I ain’t never seen a stool that big.”

  Charlotte giggled. “It isn’t big, silly. The children are small. They’re elves.” She closed the book and pointed to a picture of the funny-looking children and a toad sitting atop the stool.

  I sat on the floor next to her chair while she read several more pages before Aunt Liza returned with a tray of delicious-smelling food, the likes of which I rarely saw unless it was a special day like Christmas. We left our reading to eat eggs, ham, and warm biscuits dripping with honey. When we finished, Aunt Liza carried away the dishes, and we hurried back to the chair and our book.

  Charlotte had just begun to read about a pretty girl with butterfly wings when a loud gasp sounded at the door.

  “What is going on here?” Miz Sadie’s screech made us both jump.

  Fear flowed through me as I bounded to my feet, looking for a place to hide from the mistress. I didn’t know what had her riled, but I didn’t want another smack from a poker. As Miz Sadie stormed into the room, I cowered behind the chair Charlotte vacated.

  “Mama.” Charlotte hurried over to Miz Sadie, a proud smile on her face as she held up the book. “I’m reading to Frances.”

  Miz Sadie yanked the book from Charlotte’s hand. “Slaves are not permitted to read.” Her glare moved from her daughter to me, and I slunk further behind the chair.

  Charlotte’s bottom lip trembled. “But I’m reading, Mama. Frances just looked at the pictures.” She sniffled in much the same way I did when Mammy was cross. “I thought you’d be happy with me.”

  The ploy worked.

  Miz Sadie’s angry face eased some, and she reached to smooth Charlotte’s curls. “Of course I am, my darling girl. I’m pleased you’re practicing your reading.” She cast a hard look to me. “But slaves are not allowed books.”

  Charlotte glanced at me, then at the book in her mother’s hands as though she too was confused by the conversation.

  “Put the book away, dear, and let me comb your hair.”

  Miz Sadie sent me one last glare, then seemed to forget I was in the room. She brushed Charlotte’s yellow curls till they shone, all the while chatting about the day, Master Burton’s new horse, and other topics I neither cared about nor understood. I simply stood where I’d been since she entered the nursery, fearful of moving lest I draw her attention.

  When she at last exited the room without a glance toward me, I nearly collapsed on the carpet. My hand ached, and I suddenly felt tired, as though I’d walked a mile instead of standing perfectly still for nearly an hour.

  “Let’s go outside and play.” Charlotte smiled with excitement shining in her eyes.

  I nodded in agreement, even as a sudden thought occurred to me. “Where’s Pauline?” I realized I hadn’t seen the young woman charged with caring for Charlotte today.

  “Papa sent her to the fields since I’m too old for a mammy now.”

  As we made our way to the door, I wondered if Pauline was glad she didn’t have to work in the big house anymore. Even though Miz Sadie had been mean to me the previous day, I’d already begun to enjoy being Charlotte’s companion. Not only had I eaten a fine meal and had the promise of playing with pretty dollies later, I’d been introduced to a treasure more wonderful than I could have imagined.

  With one last longing look at the shelf of books, I followed Charlotte down the grand staircase, eager to return to the nursery later.

  I knew one thing for certain, and I didn’t care what Miz Sadie said about it.

  I was going to learn to read.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Frankie’s eyes closed. I wondered if she’d nodded off to sleep again. It was after lunch but not quite time for me to leave. I’d wait to see if she awoke before packing up my things for the day.

  After a few ticks from the clock on the wall, her eyes opened and she looked at me, with no hint of drowsiness to be found. “Mammy always told me I was stubborn. She was right. I knew I shouldn’t touch Miss Charlotte’s books, but I couldn’t help myself. They seemed to draw me to ’em when I was left alone in the nursery while Charlotte went off with her mama or pappy.”

  She heaved a sigh. “Some months passed. Miz Sadie still didn’t like me much, but she tolerated my presence when I accompanied Charlotte into the parlor. One day she took Charlotte to town, which meant they wouldn’t arrive back home until nearly dark. Aunt Liza put me to work cleaning the nursery, but once she left me alone, I took a book off the shelf and hurried outside with it. I had a good spot under a big ol’ tulip tree that I liked, out of sight of t
he house and fields. No one would bother me there.”

  The room grew silent while Frankie stared out the window.

  “Were you caught?” I asked, hoping to prompt her to finish the tale.

  Her gaze met mine. “Not that day. I hid the book in a hollow spot at the base of the tree trunk. I snuck down there every chance I could to look at my treasure. I remembered some of the words Charlotte read to me that first day, and I tried to figure out the letters and what sounds they made. One day Miz Sadie said she was going visiting and wanted Charlotte to go with her. Soon as they left, I ran to my tree and book. The afternoon was warm, and I fell asleep. Next thing I knew, the overseer yanked me up and hauled me into the big house. Miz Sadie and Master Hall was there. She looked like a barn cat who’d caught a fat mouse when the overseer showed her the book.”

  I swallowed hard. Poor little Frankie. “Did she beat you again?” I whispered.

  Frankie slowly shook her head. “I wish she had. I’d have taken a dozen beatings rather than what she planned. She ordered the overseer to chain me up in the barn until the slave trader could come an’ fetch me.”

  I stared at her. A slave trader could mean only one thing. “You were sold because you looked at a book?”

  “Yes’m.” She took a shaky breath and turned away. “Mammy wasn’t allowed to come see me, not even to say goodbye. I’ve often wondered what that day was like for her. A white man in a wagon come the next morning. He had two men and a woman chained in the back already. I’ll never forget the look of despair on their faces. I screamed and fought when the overseer dragged me from the barn toward the wagon. Master Hall stood on the steps of the porch watching, that same troubled look on his face. I called for him to let me stay with Mammy, promising I’d behave. When his eyes met mine, I thought he might save me, but he didn’t. He turned and went back into the house.”

  She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “That was the day I finally understood about slavery.”