Under the Tulip Tree

by Michelle Shocklee

  Frankie stopped talking then. We sat in silence a long time. I knew I should record her words, but I couldn’t bring myself to write them down. The images they conjured were too hideous.

  “I ’spect I might have done all right at the new place where I was sold if I’d had any sense, but I was so filled with hate and anger, no one could do nothin’ with me.” She heaved a sigh. “After I was caught stealing eggs, I was sold again. And again. I finally landed on a big place outside of Nashville. By then I’d discovered I could get extra food and privileges using my body, and I became pregnant when I was fifteen. It was a girl child, but she was tiny and sickly and didn’t live long. I got pregnant three more times but lost ’em all. Master whipped me and said I was worthless if I couldn’t bear chillens. I stayed away from men after that.”

  She paused. “That is, till I met Moss.”

  I looked up from my notebook where I’d begun recording her story again. “Moss. Who was he?”

  “Moss lived on a neighboring plantation. My master paid the neighbor to use some of his slaves from time to time, especially during harvest. Moss come over with several others. He was handsome, and he knew it.” She chuckled softly. “Moss and me became known as a pair. Slaves weren’t allowed to marry, but that didn’t stop us from taking up with someone we liked. One day Moss told me he was itching for freedom. Said he had a plan to run away and wanted me to go with him.”

  I felt my eyes widen as I wrote down her words.

  “On the night we was to run off, I tried to get Moss to change his mind. I was scared, but he convinced me we could make it north. I thought about Mammy praying for freedom all those years before and wondered if maybe this was the answer. After everyone was asleep, we snuck out into the fields and started running. Someone must’ve seen us, for it weren’t long before we heard the dogs.” Frankie shivered and closed her eyes as though the yowling animals were just outside the door. “We ran for our lives, but in the end, Moss lost his. They shot him first, then let the dogs finish him off.”

  A lone tear ran down her cheek.

  I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. It seemed unimaginable to me that this elderly woman seated in her cozy living room had once been a runaway slave, chased by dogs, and forced to watch her lover gunned down. What insanity had the world known to think such things were right?

  “The beating I got when they dragged me back to the plantation nearly killed me.” Her voice was hushed, the words measured. “There were many times afterward I wished it had.”

  Saturday morning sunshine filtered into my open bedroom window, along with an unusually warm breeze for this time of year. No interviews were scheduled on the weekend, and I planned to spend the day typing up my notes. When Mr. Norwood drove me home yesterday evening, I didn’t mention Frankie wasn’t anywhere near the end of her story or that I’d assured her I would return as time permitted. After hearing her tale thus far, it didn’t seem right to limit her to the generalities of the government questions. I had other interviews to conduct, which I would begin on Monday, but I found myself far too immersed in Frankie’s life story to quit now.

  There was something else I hadn’t mentioned to him. As I listened to her tell of being sold and how Mr. Hall watched it happen without saving her, I suddenly had the feeling I’d heard the name Hall before. Not simply in passing or belonging to a school classmate, but closer, more familiar. I wasn’t sure when or where I’d heard it though. I hadn’t wanted to interrupt her emotion-filled story, but I hoped to ask Frankie some questions about the Hall family when I saw her again.

  My thoughts strayed to Mr. Norwood as I made my way downstairs. He’d been quiet the first couple miles of our ride home, but after a while he started talking about growing up in Chicago. His stories of the boardinghouse his parents ran and the diverse clientele who stayed there intrigued me, and I found myself far more interested than I’d intended. When he said he wanted to be a novelist someday, I admitted I hoped to work for a large magazine in New York. We ended up having a pleasant conversation, and I wondered if perhaps I’d judged him too quickly that first day.

  Mama sat at the kitchen table in her bathrobe with a cup of coffee and an old issue of Ladies’ Home Journal when I entered the kitchen. “Do you want breakfast? I didn’t have a chance to run by the market. We’re out of eggs and milk, but I see you brought home a loaf of bread. Where did you get it? It looks homemade.”

  A small smile lifted my lips as I remembered how Frankie insisted I take home a loaf of her freshly baked bread when our time came to an end yesterday. “The woman I’ve been interviewing made it. I told her about Dovie’s yeast rolls and how much I miss them, so she gave me some of the bread she baked.”

  Mama frowned. “We don’t need to accept charity from strangers, Rena. I hope you aren’t telling people about our circumstances.”

  I bit back words that would only cause an argument and moved to the stove to pour myself some coffee. “Mrs. Washington wasn’t offering charity. She simply wanted to share some bread with me.”

  “Washington? You haven’t told me why the government is interested in this woman’s life. Who is she?”

  Now I’d gone and done it. I still hadn’t decided what to tell Mama about Frankie. When she learned I was spending time in Hell’s Half Acre talking with former slaves, I knew I’d never hear the end of it. A well-bred young woman from Nashville’s society wouldn’t step foot in that neighborhood, let alone take a job that required doing so.

  But more than the money I was earning, which would greatly help my family, I was gradually coming to understand how little I knew about the world I’d grown up in here in the South. I’d studied slavery and the Civil War in school, but the history I’d been taught never told tales like those I’d heard from Frankie the past two days. Slave labor was a necessity in those days, and they lived and worked on plantations and farms in much the same way laborers do today. Or so I’d believed.

  Yet if what Frankie said was true—and I had no reason to think it wasn’t—it put plantation owners like my ancestors in a completely new light. I didn’t know much about their lives or how they’d treated their slaves, but according to Grandma Lorena, her grandparents and great-grandparents had owned a large number of slaves. Had they been benevolent masters? Or had they been the type that would beat and sell off children?

  But I couldn’t say any of that to Mama.

  “She’s seen a lot in her lifetime. Mrs. Washington is . . . is . . .” My heart pounded. Could I tell Mama the truth?

  “Is what?”

  The moment of bravery passed. “Mrs. Washington is 101 years old.” A sense of shame engulfed me, but I simply couldn’t bring myself to divulge the color of Frankie’s skin. Not yet.

  “My goodness. Does she still have all her sensibilities?”

  “She seems very sharp.”

  The door to the study opened then, interrupting our conversation. Dad stepped from the darkened room, his hair and clothes disheveled. When his gaze landed on me, he seemed surprised. “What are you doin’ here?” He glanced around, a confused expression on his whiskered face.

  “It’s Saturday. I don’t have to work.” My cool words hit their mark. Dad looked ready to retreat into his dungeon.

  Mama stood and poured another cup of coffee. “Come sit down, dear. Rena was just telling me about the woman she’s interviewing.”

  She carried the cup of steaming black liquid to the table. Dad gave a hesitant glance toward me, then moved forward. I had no desire to make small talk with my parents, let alone continue the conversation about Frankie.

  I set my half-finished cup of coffee in the sink. “I have a lot of notes to type up.” I headed for the doorway.

  “Your mother says you’re working for the government.” Dad’s bloodshot eyes met mine.

  My spine stiffened. “I am. What of it?”

  Mama sent me a pleading look. Dad and I didn’t speak to one another often, but when we did, it usually ended i
n an argument and loud voices.

  He shrugged and picked up his cup. “The government got us into this mess. Don’t know why you’d want to work for them.”

  “If you’re referring to our family’s financial situation, the government isn’t responsible.” My ire rose at his lack of culpability. “I should think you’d be grateful the Works Progress Administration created jobs for out-of-work writers like me. They’re helping individuals while at the same time doing something useful and beneficial for all of society.”

  He scoffed. “How is conducting interviews beneficial to society? You’ve always thought too highly of yourself.”

  My fists clenched. How dare this man who’d gambled away my future sit in judgment of me!

  “For your information, the subjects of the FWP interviews are former slaves. President Roosevelt believes it’s important to preserve their stories for the generations to come. I’ve learned more about slavery in the two days I’ve been with Frankie than in all the years I studied it in school.”

  Mama’s eyes flew wide. “The woman you’re interviewing is—?”

  I lifted my chin. Ready or not, it was time to confess. “Yes, Mama. Frances Washington—or Frankie, as she’s known—is black. She’s lived through all kinds of terrible things, and it’s important her story, as well as the others’, are told.”

  My parents stared at me as though I’d taken leave of my senses.

  Dad cursed under his breath and shook his head. “Now I’ve heard everything. The government paying good money to let those people tell tales about how whites did them wrong. I bet this woman has already filled your head with how poorly she was treated.” His tone spoke his disdain.

  “Oh, Rena.” Mama’s face went pale. “I had no idea you were involved in something like this. Why didn’t you tell me who this woman was when I asked?”

  I blew out my frustration. “Because of this.” My wave encompassed them both. “Because I knew you wouldn’t approve.”

  Mama huffed. “Of course we wouldn’t approve. What would our friends say if they knew what you were doing?” She gasped. “Have you gone into this woman’s house?”

  I ignored that question and addressed her first. “What friends, Mama? No one cares about us, so why should I care what anyone might think?”

  “Because we still live in this community, Lorena Ann. We attend church with some who wouldn’t think too highly of these interviews.” Mama shook her head, her anxiety mounting. “Peggy Denny will have a grand time spreading this news around. How could you do this to us? I won’t be able to show my face once folks learn what you’re involved in.”

  I stared at her. My father had bankrupted our family with dishonest schemes. My sister’s indiscretion had forced her to marry a jerk who couldn’t stay faithful. How was my job interviewing former slaves deemed worse than all of that?

  Determined to put an end to the conversation, I stomped to the doorway. “Mrs. Washington is a very nice woman. Her life matters, just as much as yours and mine.”

  I didn’t wait for a response and ran up the stairs to my room. I slammed the door in much the same way I’d done as a hot-tempered adolescent. It wasn’t very mature, but their attitude toward Frankie infuriated me.

  I flopped onto the bed, breathing like a bull ready to charge. Their disapproval was expected yet it still stung. Despite Mary’s disappointing marriage and rowdy children, she’d always garnered praise from my parents. Mama cried buckets when Mary had to quit school, even though my sister cared little for studies. But whenever I voiced my displeasure at not being able to take classes in journalism at the university, Mama called me ungrateful.

  With my eyes closed, I tried to calm myself. My parents’ opinion of my job with the FWP didn’t matter. I knew I was doing something that deserved more praise than what they were willing to give.

  And yet questions silently filtered into my mind. Questions the brief conversation with them raised.

  Why did I feel the interview with Frankie was so important? What made her life’s story worthy of being told? By my own admission, I knew very little about what slaves endured during the period when owning another person was legal. Why should it matter to me now?

  I rolled over and gazed out the window. The top of the magnolia tree filled the view, but it was Frankie’s tiny backyard that came to mind. Even though she lived in one of the worst neighborhoods in Nashville in a small house without an indoor lavatory, she’d managed to make her little part of the world beautiful. She didn’t have the benefit of gardeners like we’d had before the stock market crash. She just planted seeds and tended them with loving care.

  I breathed out a sigh and sat up.

  The life Frankie and others like her lived was as foreign to me as someone from China. Was that the reason I found myself interested in hearing what she endured during slavery? Simple curiosity?

  I made myself give an honest answer.

  Yes.

  And no.

  I couldn’t explain it.

  Something had stirred inside me when Frankie began telling her story. Something that had been dormant until that moment. It was almost as though I saw young Frankie romping through the plantation, carefree and happy, when her life was suddenly altered in the most horrific way. Obviously I knew she’d survived being sold and beaten, but I hungered to know the details. I wanted to know how.

  How does one keep going after experiencing such horror and pain?

  I thought about the past seven years. My life was nothing like hers, my hardships no comparison, but I’d suffered. Or I thought I had until I heard Frankie’s story.

  I heaved another sigh.

  My parents wouldn’t understand my confusion, but Grandma Lorena might.

  I looked at the clock. Grandma got her hair done every Saturday morning, then ran errands. I wouldn’t be able to visit her until later this afternoon.

  An idea sprang to mind.

  I could visit Frankie and continue the interview. I’d told her I would come by as time allowed. With a strong need to get out of the house, now was as perfect a time as any.

  I flew to the closet and dressed. Gathering my notebooks and pencils from the desk, I stuffed them into the canvas book bag I’d carried in school. I hadn’t sneaked out of the house in years, but I remembered every squeaky floorboard to avoid lest I alert my parents to my departure as I made my way to the front door. They couldn’t prevent me from leaving the house as they had back in my teenage years, but I didn’t want to continue the argument over Frankie and the FWP interviews.

  The day I started my job, Mama gave me several coins for the streetcar in case Mr. Norwood proved to be a man I felt uncomfortable riding with. The coins were still in my purse. For a brief moment I thought about calling him since he’d given me his telephone number at the boardinghouse where he was staying. I was certain he wouldn’t mind giving me a ride if he wasn’t busy, but I decided not to bother him on the weekend. Better to let him believe my interview with Frankie was finished.

  The sun shone brightly, a glorious autumn day. I’d enjoy the short walk to the streetcar stop. I couldn’t wait to get to Frankie’s. I hoped I’d learn the secret to her survival today.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The streetcar line ended at the state capitol building. I was the only white person to disembark with a dozen other passengers, each staring at me with suspicion in their eyes. I let them move on to their destinations, with one or two turning back to give me a last look, before I got my bearings. When Mr. Norwood drove me to Frankie’s, he used the street that ran parallel to this one. I feared I would get disoriented if I took a different route, so I walked a block to the familiar path and headed into Hell’s Half Acre.

  It’s strange how different the neighborhood seemed without the protection of a car and a man. I suddenly felt exposed, especially when residents who’d been going about their Saturday business turned to gawk at me. I nodded politely to two women sitting on a porch, but neither returned the greeting. When a
little boy ran toward me with a friendly grin, his mother hollered for him to keep away. I told myself it was because I was a stranger and not because of my white skin, but I had to admit had the situation been reversed and a black person walked down our street, the reactions would be the same.

  I sped up my pace when a group of five or six young men took notice of me. They were lounging on the steps of a house across the street, but when they spotted me, one of the men stood.

  “Hey, lady. You lost?”

  The others laughed and whispered while the bold one continued to watch me. My heart hammered in my chest as I drew even with them. I shook my head and kept my feet moving, praying they’d simply let me pass. Frankie’s little house was around the next corner. I just had to get there.

  “Where you headed, lady?”

  I stole a quick glance over my shoulder to find the man’s attention still on me. When he took a step into the street, my heart nearly stopped beating. My legs began moving on their own, going as fast as possible in my heeled shoes. Oh, why hadn’t I worn my saddle shoes?

  I didn’t have time to think. I simply knew I had to get to Frankie’s.

  I rounded the corner and had a vague sense of spectators watching from the safety of their homes, but no one came to my rescue.

  Frankie’s yellow house shone bright in the morning sunshine. To my utter relief, she was there, standing at the front gate as though waiting for me. I rushed into her open arms and buried my face in her shoulder.

  “What’s goin’ on? Rena? What you doin’ here, chile?” She smoothed my hair while I tried to catch my breath.

  “You know this gal, Mama Fran?”

  The voice of the man. I shivered and tucked deeper into Frankie. She smelled of cinnamon and flour.

  “’Course I do, Billy. She be a friend o’ mine.” Frankie’s frail arms tightened around me. “What you mean scarin’ her like you done?”

  “Didn’t mean to, Mama Fran. Figured she was lost. You know it ain’t safe for someone like her to wander round down here. Just wanted to be sure she got to where she’s going, is all.”