Under the Tulip Tree

by Michelle Shocklee

  “One day I heard about a rally for equal rights. I told Mama I was going to visit a friend, and I was, although I didn’t know it at the time I spoke the untruth. When I arrived at the park, there was quite a crowd gathered. Someone was giving a speech, but I stood at the back and wasn’t able to hear what was being said. I felt out of place even though there were many white people in attendance.”

  Her eyes misted over. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw Jim walk toward me. He asked what I was doing there. When I told him I’d changed, his smile could have lit up the city.”

  I grinned. “He still loved you.”

  “He did. We talked for hours, and by the end of the day, he proposed and I accepted.”

  “What did your parents think?”

  “They weren’t overly excited, but Jim came from an old Nashville family, so they were satisfied with his pedigree and bank account.”

  Grandma’s story had a happy ending. Even though I’d only been a child when Grandpa passed away, I’d seen the love they had for one another. It was evident in their conversations, their laughter. When Grandpa died of a heart attack, Grandma seemed lost. One day she arrived at our house with a smile and something else I didn’t know what to call back then, but I did now. Peace. The pain of loss no longer filled her face. She still missed Grandpa fiercely, but she was able to move forward.

  “With Margaret our only child, Jim decided we needed to help the children of Nashville who were less fortunate. He gave quite a bit of money and much of his time to some of the programs for the poor, oftentimes going into Hell’s Half Acre.”

  I stared at her, unable to believe what I’d just heard. “Grandpa spent time in Hell’s Half Acre?” At her affirmative nod, I asked, “Does Mama know?”

  She sighed. “Jim took Margaret with him once when she was about twelve years old. He’d become acquainted with a pastor down there, and there was always a need among the congregation. That day it was a young mother whose husband had abandoned her and her four children. She needed some repairs done to their home. Winter was upon us, and the poor things were freezing. Jim provided the money to purchase the necessary supplies to repair the roof, but he also wanted to help with the physical labor. He thought it would be a good experience for Margaret to see the poverty that some people are forced to live in, hoping it would quell the selfish streak we were beginning to notice in her.”

  I tried to imagine Mama as a girl, seeing Hell’s Half Acre for the first time. “I guess it was quite a shock for her, seeing that neighborhood.”

  “It was. Unfortunately, the time she spent down there with Jim did more damage than good. It seemed to solidify in her mind her superiority over the people who lived there rather than ignite any sympathetic feelings for their plight.”

  I glanced into the living room, where a black-and-white picture of Grandpa sat on the mantel. “I wish I could’ve gone down there with him.”

  “He would have enjoyed that. And he would have been so proud of you, Rena.” When I turned to her, she smiled. “I believe you’ve inherited some of his spirit. Like your grandpa Jim, don’t let anyone, not even your mother and father, keep you from doing what you know you’re called to do.”

  I left Grandma’s a short while later, full of wonder that my own grandparents had witnessed the inequality between the races and tried to do something about it. What if Mama had taken pity on the residents of Hell’s Half Acre on that long-ago day rather than allowing her scorn to grow? How different would things have been for our family, our servants?

  A question resounded in my heart.

  Was I making a difference? Did my interviews with former slaves truly matter?

  As my feet carried me home, I realized how desperately I wanted the answer to be yes.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Mrs. Patsy Hyde was a sweet elderly woman whose stories of her life as a slave were touching yet far different than those told to me by Frankie. Patsy spoke of her days as a child on the plantation with a fondness I wasn’t sure what to make of, and I struggled to keep to the list of questions provided by the FWP. I wanted to ask about beatings and babies and freedom and how she truly felt about slavery. The things Frankie had willingly shared. But I didn’t, and I felt strangely unsatisfied when I bade Mrs. Patsy goodbye.

  Alden was waiting for me.

  “How did it go?” he asked after I’d settled into the passenger seat.

  I shrugged. “Good, I suppose. We finished her interview.”

  He studied me with eyes that grew narrower with each moment. “But you aren’t happy with it.”

  How did he know me so well already?

  “I wish she would have opened up more, that’s all.”

  After a silent beat, Alden said, “You mean like Frankie.”

  I glanced longingly in the direction of Frankie’s house a few blocks away and nodded. “Frankie is so honest in the telling of her story.”

  “And you don’t believe Mrs. Hyde was honest?”

  I looked at him, uncertain how to answer. “I don’t think she lied, if that’s what you mean. She was a young child when the war ended, like my grandma Lorena. Maybe she wasn’t aware of all the terrible things that went on or simply doesn’t remember them.” I shrugged again, unable to believe my own assessment. Every slave, young or old, surely witnessed things that would stay with them the rest of their lives.

  “I guess I know what you mean.” He shrugged. “The people I’ve interviewed aren’t nearly as open as your Frankie has been with you. I think she’s a rarity among former slaves. You’re lucky you’ve been able to hear her stories firsthand.”

  “Thanks.” Before I could stop myself, I added, “Would you like to meet her?”

  He’d just put his hand on the gearshift. He paused and glanced at me. A slow smile drew the corners of his mouth up. “You know, I think I would. I’d like to meet your Frankie.”

  I grinned, then glanced at my wristwatch. “I need to call Mama and let her know I’ll be late; otherwise I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  Alden drove past several businesses that most likely had a telephone installed. I pointed to an establishment with a number of cars parked in front. “Why don’t we try that one?” But he passed it too.

  When I asked why, he didn’t look at me when he replied. “They aren’t the type of place a lady would enter. Especially a white lady.”

  I gulped. After my frightening experience over the weekend, I certainly didn’t want to bring unnecessary attention to myself ever again. I wasn’t familiar with the types of businesses he referred to, but something in my gut told me I didn’t want to become familiar with them.

  We drove to a small grocery store not far from the capitol building. An older black man stood behind the counter. His ready smile disappeared at seeing us approach.

  “What can I do fo’ you folks?” His gaze darted beneath the counter for a brief moment.

  “We’d like to use a telephone if you have one,” Alden said, sidestepping in front of me.

  I thought it quite rude, so I moved out from behind him. A look of annoyance flashed across his face before he returned his attention to the man, who seemed to regard me with a hint of humor in his dark eyes.

  He pointed to a door behind him. “I got one in the office there you can use.”

  After calling Mama and making an excuse for not coming directly home, we headed to Frankie’s. My thoughts, however, stayed back at the store.

  “Why did you get in front of me when you were speaking to that store owner?”

  Alden kept his attention on the road. “Because he had a gun underneath the counter.”

  I gasped. “How do you know that?”

  “I saw him look at it when we walked in.”

  Part of me wanted to argue that he couldn’t possibly know for certain a gun lay feet from us, yet hadn’t I learned Saturday that life in Hell’s Half Acre was far different from the life I’d always known? Alden had much more experience down here than I did, and I n
eeded to trust him. Our situation reminded me a bit of Grandma and Grandpa’s, with her learning from him.

  Heat rushed to my face, and I turned so he couldn’t see.

  I did not have romantic feelings toward Alden as Grandma had for Grandpa, I reminded myself. We were strictly coworkers and possibly friends, nothing more.

  And yet he’d shielded me with his own body.

  The thought of such chivalry warmed me to my very core.

  We arrived at Frankie’s. Light shone from the living room window as the oranges and golds of dusk settled over Nashville. Somehow the run-down neighborhood looked more peaceful and less sinister in the evening light. Yet if a shopkeeper kept a gun hidden beneath the counter, all was definitely not well in this part of town.

  “We won’t stay long,” I said and climbed from the car. “She and Jael are probably getting their supper ready.” Someone in the house next door looked out the window, watching us.

  Alden followed me up the narrow flower-lined walk.

  A surprised look flashed across Jael’s pretty face when she answered my knock on the door. “Rena, Mama Fran didn’t mention you were coming by.” Her gaze took in Alden.

  “She isn’t expecting me, but I’d like her to meet my friend, if she’s not busy.”

  “Come in.” Jael ushered us into the small living room. The aroma of something savory came from the kitchen. “She’s been napping, but I heard her stirring a while ago. I’ll let her know you’re here.” The young woman disappeared down the hallway.

  I turned and found Alden smiling at me. “What?”

  He gave a slight shrug. “I can see you’ve become someone they trust. That’s quite an accomplishment in such a short amount of time. Well done, Miss Leland.”

  His praise and the look he gave me sent a shiver running through me.

  “Well, lookee who’s come to visit.” Frankie came into the room minutes later with Jael following behind. Her dress looked slightly rumpled from her nap, but otherwise she was just as spry and alert as ever. Her gaze settled on Alden. “And you brought your young man, too.”

  I was sure my face flamed red, but I nodded. “This is Alden Norwood. Alden, this is Mrs. Frances Washington.”

  Frankie gave Alden a good study. “I understand you work for the same organization as Rena.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Alden said. “I’ve been with the WPA over a year.”

  “And what do you think about the gov’ment spending all this time and money on us former slaves?”

  I held my breath. I didn’t think Alden would be caught off guard by such a direct question, but he hadn’t planned for it either.

  “I believe understanding events of the past can help us make the future better for everyone. Our generation,” he said, glancing at me, “doesn’t know much about slavery. Your willingness to share your story will not only benefit us, but it will touch the lives of many people for years to come.”

  After a moment, Frankie chuckled, and I breathed again.

  “Young man, you should think about becoming one of them politicians that sits up yonder on the hill in that big ol’ capitol building. You’ve got the knack for saying just what a person wants to hear.”

  Alden grinned, clearly at ease. “You’re not the first person to suggest that, ma’am.”

  A sense of satisfaction crept over me, watching them interact.

  “Have you two eaten supper?” Frankie asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Alden answered before I could say a word. “Something sure smells good.”

  Was he wrangling for an invitation?

  “Well, you best join us then. Jael’s got a stew on the stove and corn bread in the oven. She may not know how to bake a loaf of bread, but her corn bread melts in your mouth.”

  I glanced at Jael to gauge her reaction, but she simply smiled. “Mama Fran’s teaching us about bread making, though, isn’t she, Rena? Pretty soon our bread will be just as good as hers.”

  We all laughed and made our way to the kitchen, as though it weren’t completely out of the ordinary for two young white people to take a meal in the Hell’s Half Acre home of a former slave. I refused to even consider what Mama would say if she were to find out.

  After Jael produced two mismatched chairs from somewhere in the house, I helped her get the meal on the table while Frankie conversed with Alden.

  “You don’t sound like you’re from around here,” Frankie said, motioning for Alden to take the seat across from her.

  “No, ma’am. I’m from Chicago.” He smiled up at me as I set a bowl of steaming stew in front of him. He’d removed his hat, and for the first time I noticed his eyes were hazel and not brown as I’d originally thought.

  “Chicago.” Frankie’s voice drew his attention away, and I returned to where Jael stood at the stove dishing up more stew. “I knew some folks who went up north after the war. They didn’t stay long. Said they nearly froze to death that first winter. They hightailed it back to Tennessee as soon as they thawed out.” Frankie nodded her thanks when I set a bowl in front of her.

  Jael and I each carried our own bowls to the table.

  “It’s an interesting place to live, but I must say I’m enjoying my time in Tennessee.” His gaze flicked to me, bringing a hot flush to my face. Alden picked up his spoon. “This looks delicious.”

  He seemed ready to dig in when Frankie spoke. “Would you mind offering thanks, Mr. Norwood?”

  It was now Alden’s face that turned bright red. “I, uh,” he stammered, more flustered than I’d ever seen him. “I don’t usually . . .”

  Thankfully, Frankie took pity on him. “That’s quite all right, Mr. Norwood. I’ll say grace.”

  I bowed my head, too embarrassed for Alden to look at him.

  “Lord, we thank thee for your many blessings. I especially thank you for these fine young people you’ve gathered round my table. Bless this food to our bodies. Amen.”

  Jael rose to get the corn bread while I stared down at my stew, feeling awkward.

  “I apologize for surprising you like that, Mr. Norwood.” Frankie stirred her stew, letting the air cool it. “When you get to be my age, you try not to miss an opportunity to give thanks to the Lord for every little blessing. You never know when you’ll find yo’self face-to-face with him.” She chuckled, then took a bite of the meal.

  Alden’s tense shoulders eased with the sound. Jael returned with a platter of thick corn bread dripping with butter. Frankie’s declaration of it melting in one’s mouth wasn’t vain boasting. I’d never tasted anything more delicious. Jael promised to share her secret with me.

  Frankie asked about Alden’s family and wanted to hear more about life in Chicago. He answered each of her questions, but the easygoingness from his previous interaction with Frankie had disappeared. He suddenly seemed reserved, almost shy about talking about himself.

  If Frankie noticed, she didn’t let on. “What is your family’s religious background?”

  It was almost as though the tables had been turned, and Frankie had become the interviewer. I glanced at Alden, wishing now we hadn’t come to visit Frankie. I didn’t know the answer to her question, but it was clear Alden was uncomfortable with the topic.

  “My mother’s family was Jewish, but she hasn’t practiced since she was a child. Father was raised Catholic.”

  Frankie gave a thoughtful nod. “We never had a name for our religious beliefs back in slavery times. We weren’t Methodist or Baptist the way folks are today. We didn’t go to a church building or have regular meetings.” She dusted corn bread crumbs from the table into her gnarled hand and deposited them into her empty bowl. “Mammy tried to teach us chillens about God, but I was too young to understand. After I was sold time and time again, I didn’t think much about God since he didn’t think much about me. I figured I was better off without such beliefs.”

  Alden frowned. “If you don’t believe in God, why do you say grace?”

  “Oh, I believe in God, Mr. Norwood. I sure do.�
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  “Why? Like you said, if he does exist, he doesn’t seem to care about us. What’s the point of putting one’s faith in something or someone who allows slavery and evil to exist?”

  The question hung in the air.

  Frankie seemed to consider her response before speaking. “I’ll answer that question if you’ll answer one of mine.”

  Alden nodded.

  “Do you believe in God, Mr. Norwood? Not in religion, but in a Creator, a Father?”

  All eyes turned to him. I wondered how the conversation had taken us down this dangerous path, and I hoped it didn’t lead to hurt feelings or angry words. Religious discussions were not something we ever broached in my home. Ever.

  “I don’t, Mrs. Washington.” Alden sat straighter in his chair and met Frankie’s gaze. “I mean no disrespect to you or anyone who does. I simply find that the God of the Bible doesn’t make sense or have any place in our modern world.”

  Several silent moments passed before Frankie gave a slow nod. “Yes, Mr. Norwood. I know exactly what you mean. The things Mammy told me about God didn’t add up. Especially after living in slavery.”

  “Then why would you believe in God now? What happened to make you change your mind?”

  Frankie’s gaze narrowed on Alden. “I didn’t change my mind, young man. It ain’t as easy as that. When we’re set in our ways, nothin’ nobody says can make us change what we think or believe. It took something bigger than just preacher talk or words in a book. No, sir, I didn’t change my mind.”

  “What happened then?” Alden asked.

  Frankie sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest, an impish grin on her face. “God showed me I was wrong.”

  My stomach roiled at the stench that came from behind the row of canvas tents.

  Hot July air hung heavy and still over the contraband camp, trapping odors from makeshift outhouses and garbage piles like a cork in a bottle full of putrid milk. I was weary of the filth, the noise, and the drudgery of camp life. Conditions had steadily deteriorated in the four months we’d been kept here. Food was sparse and often inedible, and tempers, including my own, had risen.