Under the Tulip Tree

by Michelle Shocklee

  Was Grandma’s great-aunt Charlotte the same Charlotte Hall whom Frankie had known as a child? Ripples of horror continued to roll through my mind as I considered the implications if that were true.

  “Rena, you’ve barely touched your food,” Mama said, pulling me from my dark thoughts. “Do you feel well?”

  I offered a weak smile. “I’m fine, Mama. Maybe a little tired.”

  Her keen eyes narrowed. “You spend too much time working.” Her emphasis on the word as well as her look of disapproval drew Dad’s attention.

  “I thought we decided you would quit that job.” He reached for his glass of water, looked at it with disgust, and set it back down.

  My back stiffened. “It’s a perfectly respectable job with decent pay. There isn’t any reason to quit.” I glanced at Buddy as he swirled mashed potatoes on the tray of his chair. “Especially with four additional mouths to feed.”

  I’d thought to throw in that last part to remind him of his lack of income, but it was Mary who looked hurt.

  “I hope we won’t be a burden for long, Lulu.” She sniffled.

  Mama sent me a glare, then softened as she patted Mary’s hand. “You and the children are not a burden, dear. This is your home, and you’re welcome here for as long as you need.”

  Remorse over my careless comment washed away my ire with my father. “I didn’t mean you’re a burden, Mary. Like Mama said, this is your home.”

  She offered a small nod, but I could tell I’d wounded her.

  The meal finally drew to an end. I volunteered to wash the dishes since I hadn’t helped cook. Mary took the children upstairs to give them all baths and ready them for bed. Dad disappeared behind the study door, and Mama and Grandma went into the living room and spoke in hushed tones.

  I sped through the kitchen work, anxious to walk Grandma home so we could talk. Anxiety had hold of my stomach when we were finally able to put on our coats and head outside.

  “I enjoyed being with the family,” Grandma said, pulling up her fur collar to ward off the chilly night air. Stars twinkled in the black sky above as did lights in the neighbors’ windows.

  “You should come more often.”

  She chuckled. “Margaret couldn’t tolerate seeing her mother more than once a week.”

  The comment was sadly true. “Has she always been like that?” I asked, thinking of the picture on Grandma’s mantel of Mama as a happy little girl.

  “I suppose in some ways, yes. We spoiled her since she was our only child. I probably gave in to her wishes far more than I should have.” She pressed her lips into a smile. “But she has a good heart, Rena. Underneath the layers of self-importance and harshness, she loves me. She loves you girls, too.”

  I knew she was right, but it was difficult to accept some days. Mama cared too much about what other people thought. I wished she cared more about what I thought.

  When we reached Grandma’s house, she turned to me. “Come inside and tell me more about the woman your Frankie knew. You have me quite curious.”

  I followed her in. We decided on hot cocoa to take away the chill in our bones, then settled into comfy chairs in the small parlor, each with a mug of the delicious drink.

  “Frankie said she was born on a plantation about a day’s ride from Nashville,” I began, trying to recall the details of Frankie’s early life. In my haste to hustle Grandma out of the house, I’d forgotten to run upstairs to retrieve my notebooks. “It was owned by a family named Hall.”

  Grandma sipped her cocoa, a look of contemplation in her eyes. “Go on.”

  “I don’t recall the man’s name, but his wife’s name was Sadie.”

  “Hmm.” Grandma frowned. “That doesn’t sound familiar, but then I’m not so good with names these days.”

  The tightness in my chest eased some with her admission. Maybe the similar name was simply a coincidence. Helen and Charlotte were both fairly common.

  “When Frankie was six years old, Sadie beat her with a fireplace poker after Frankie accidentally wet the carpet. It broke her fingers, and she still has a deformed hand.”

  “Oh, my, how dreadful.” Grandma shook her head. “It’s hard to imagine a woman treating a child in such a way, but I fear things of that nature happened far more than we would like to admit.”

  “Not long after the beating, Frankie took a book from Sadie’s daughter, Charlotte. She hid it outside, but she was eventually caught. They sold her the next day.” Emotion welled in my throat. “She never saw her mother again.”

  Tears glistened in Grandma’s eyes. “Poor child. What an awful thing to happen to one so young.”

  I leaned forward. “But you don’t think Sadie is related to your great-aunt Charlotte?”

  “I can’t say for certain, dear. Aunt Charlotte married a gentleman from Ohio and moved before I was born. She’d visit Grandmother Helen from time to time, and Mama always took us to see her when Charlotte was in town.” Her eyes squinted. “You know, I believe I have a box of old photographs and things that belonged to Grandmother. If I recall, there’s a picture of Charlotte among them.”

  We hurried to her bedroom, where a large, old trunk with a rounded top sat beneath the window. I lifted the heavy lid for her, and she rummaged around, exclaiming over this item or that, until she came to a cloth-covered box that looked like it had once held sewing items.

  When we returned to the parlor, we sat side by side on the sofa. Opening the box was like stepping back in time. Dozens of black-and-white photographs filled it, all of people long dead.

  “This is Grandmother Helen,” she said, taking out a picture of a woman who looked to be in her fifties. Her dress was in the style of the late 1800s, and she held a lacy parasol over her head despite obviously posing inside a studio.

  Grandma turned the picture over and nodded when she read the handwriting on the back. “Yes. Helen Hall Morris, taken in 1875 here in Nashville.”

  She flipped it back over and we studied Helen.

  “You look a little like her,” I said, noting the similar facial features.

  We dug through more pictures, some of people Grandma recognized, some she didn’t. Near the bottom, she found one of a pretty young woman with pale curls piled on her head. She sat posed with her bell-shaped skirt spread out around her.

  “I believe this is Aunt Charlotte.” She turned the picture over and smiled. “Charlotte Hall, 1850.”

  I reached for the picture, studying my ancestor. “She was very pretty.”

  “She was, even as an older woman. I remember her smile.”

  Grandma kept digging in the box while I studied Charlotte’s picture. She looked to be in her late teens, with a fresh face and sparkling eyes despite the lack of color to the picture. It made me wonder what I might have been like had I been born in her day. Would I have accepted slavery as most residents of Tennessee had?

  A gasp next to me drew my attention back to Grandma. “What is it?”

  She held a small picture inside a book-like frame. Her wide eyes met mine before she handed it to me.

  I recognized it as an old-fashioned daguerreotype. Although the images behind the slightly clouded glass weren’t as clear as some of the paper photographs we’d found in the sewing box, I noted a woman dressed in her finery sitting in a chair while two children, a boy and a girl, stood beside her. None of them smiled, but the woman looked especially sour-faced. I turned it over to read the scrawling on a slip of paper glued to the back.

  Sadie Pope Hall and children.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “It can’t be.” My whispered words were more plea than statement. I turned to Grandma, her face as pale as I believed my own must be. “How can this be possible?”

  She shook her head and bent to retrieve the picture, which had slipped from my fingers and fallen to the floor. We both stared at it, stunned that the image of the very woman who’d abused and sold Frankie was now in our possession.

  “I wish I had remembered her name earl
ier.” Grandma sighed. “It might not have been such a shock, I think.”

  My stomach roiled, and the meager dinner I’d consumed threatened to come forth. I squeezed my eyes closed to block out the horrid woman’s face. “This can’t be happening.”

  A thousand questions flooded my mind. How? Why?

  I looked at Grandma, the edges of anger beginning to take hold. “Is this some sort of terrible joke God is playing on me? Why would Frankie Washington be on the list of former slaves for me to interview? Why not Alden or one of the other FWP employees? Why me?”

  She placed her wrinkled hand on mine. “God isn’t like that, Rena. You have to know there is a reason behind all this.”

  “What?” I couldn’t keep my voice from rising. “What good can possibly come from this?”

  She gave a slight shrug. “We’ll have to wait and see. Perhaps after you tell Frankie, you’ll understand.”

  I stared at her. Surely she wasn’t serious. “I can’t tell her this. In fact, I can’t ever see her again. How could I face her, knowing my own great-great-great-grandmother was none other than the hateful and vicious Sadie Pope Hall?”

  “Rena,” she said, surprise and admonishment in her voice, “you have to tell her. She deserves to know the truth.”

  I shook my head stubbornly. “No. She’s trusted me with her life’s story. I won’t break that trust by telling her I’m . . . I’m . . .”

  “You’re what?”

  “I’m a Hall.” I nearly choked on the words.

  “You’re not a Hall. You’re a Leland. Your ancestors were Halls, but you had nothing to do with Sadie injuring Frankie.”

  I stood, fear and anger swirling through me so fast, I had to get up and move. “My family owned her. My skin is as white as theirs.” I pointed an accusing finger to the picture still in her hands. “That woman’s blood runs through my veins, just as it does yours.”

  We were silent for several long ticks from the clock on the mantel. Finally Grandma raised her eyes. “Be that as it may, I don’t believe Frankie will hold it against you. You had no more control over our ancestor’s actions than she did.”

  I paced the small room, anxiety mounting. “What will I say to her?”

  “The truth.”

  Grandma’s simple answer brought me to a stop. Tears filled my eyes. Before I knew it, I was sobbing. She stood and wrapped her arms around me, her own sorrow mingling with mine.

  When I quieted, she led me back to the sofa. She picked up the picture again and studied it, but I couldn’t look at it. It made me sick to my stomach.

  “I assume the girl is Charlotte, but I don’t recall her brother’s name.”

  “Burton. Burton Hall.”

  She nodded. “Ah, yes. If I recall correctly, I believe he was a Confederate soldier.”

  “He was.” Curiosity got the better of me, and I glanced at the teenage boy in the picture. Burton had been a handsome fellow. I wondered what life was like for him after the war with only one arm. “Frankie worked in the prison hospital where he was brought after the Battle of Nashville. She didn’t know him at first, but he recognized her because of her hand.”

  “What a shock that must have been.” Grandma shook her head. “I’m sure it was quite difficult for her once she discovered the truth. What happened?” Grandma looked up at me.

  I gave a shrug. “She forgave him.”

  A small smile lifted her mouth before she handed the picture to me.

  “Then you will rob yourself of the freedom forgiveness brings if you don’t tell her the truth.”

  Early the next morning I called Alden at the boardinghouse to tell him I didn’t need a ride. I simply couldn’t face him until I’d spoken to Frankie. He asked the reason, but I wouldn’t tell him. Not over the telephone.

  “Can we meet for dinner somewhere? I have something to tell you.”

  We decided on the diner on Main Street at six o’clock.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked, the concern in his deep voice nearly bringing me to tears.

  “I hope so. I’ll see you tonight.” I hung up, wondering what Alden’s reaction would be to my news.

  Mary was already in the kitchen, sipping a cup of coffee, when I arrived.

  “Morning.” Her greeting held little enthusiasm. I noted dark circles beneath her eyes as she stared into the mug.

  “You’re up early.” I moved to pour myself a cup from the enamel pot on the stovetop. I needed something stronger than orange juice to face this day.

  “Buddy didn’t sleep well. He misses his crib.”

  I plunked a cube of sugar into the dark liquid, then carried it to the table and sat across from her. I’d been so preoccupied with discovering who Charlotte Hall was last night after dinner that I’d completely neglected my sister. By the time I came home from Grandma’s, everyone was in bed for the night.

  “Is there anything I can do to help? Maybe with the kids?”

  She glanced up and shrugged. “Now that Homer’s parents live in Nashville, his dad volunteered to take James to school. It’ll just be Holly and the baby here with me during the day. Besides, you have your all-important job to go to.”

  I didn’t tell Mary I’d stayed up half the night wrestling with whether or not I should continue with the FWP. Finally, after the grandfather clock downstairs sounded four chimes, I’d come to my decision.

  “Maybe not for long. I know Mama isn’t happy with me going down to Hell’s Half Acre for the interviews.”

  Mary’s brows rose. “Did I just hear you say you’re giving in to Mama’s demands?”

  I sent her a disparaging look, just like in the old days. “It’s my decision.” I paused before adding, “But I’ll admit she’s worn me down.”

  We sat in silence for a while, each sipping our drinks.

  “You need to follow your dreams, Lulu.”

  Her quiet words surprised me. She met my gaze, looking older than her twenty-five years. “I made one bad decision and look at me now. I love my kids—don’t get me wrong—but this isn’t the life I thought I’d have. Don’t let anyone, not even Mama, take your dreams away from you.”

  “Thanks, Sis,” I whispered. We hadn’t been close in years, but in that moment, I felt a kindred spirit with my sister. Briefly I considered telling her about Frankie and Sadie but ultimately decided against it. The story was too long and too convoluted. Besides, I didn’t want her to tell Mama. There would be time enough to confess the whole sordid tale later.

  “May I borrow your car today?” I’d planned to take the streetcar to Frankie’s, but now I realized it would be much faster and safer in Mary’s old Hudson.

  She nodded. “Sure. After helping me pack things up yesterday, Papa Whitby filled the tank with gas and gave me some extra money.” She heaved a sigh. “He really is a nice man.”

  One of the kids called from upstairs, and Mary rose. “The keys are on the table in the foyer,” she said before she exited the kitchen.

  I finished my coffee, thinking about the life Mary would never have. But she had three kids she was crazy about. Something good had come from her mistake despite everything.

  Was that the key to surviving, no matter what life hands you? Find the good among the ashes?

  I made a mental note to spend more time with my sister and her children. Which, if I went forward with my plan to quit the FWP, I’d have plenty of opportunities to do.

  It had been a while since I’d driven a car, but I managed to make it to Hell’s Half Acre without a problem. I pulled up in front of the familiar yellow house, my stomach in knots. Frankie wasn’t expecting me this morning, but I wanted to come while Alden was at work and Jael in class. The speech I’d rehearsed on the way over was for Frankie’s ears only.

  The curtains in her window moved, and I saw her gaze intently at the strange automobile. I didn’t want to frighten her, so I hurried to exit the car and wave. She returned the greeting, and a moment later the front door opened.

  “
Well, lookee who’s here in a fancy new car.”

  I closed the door of the weather-beaten vehicle and forced a smile to my lips. “It belongs to my sister.”

  She waited for me to gain the porch. “What brings you here so early? Don’t you have an interview today?”

  I shook my head. My heart hammered so hard I was sure she could hear it. “I need to talk to you about something.”

  Her keen eyes roamed my face. “You look near done in with whatever it is. Come on inside. You want coffee?”

  I declined, ready to get on with my confession. The sooner I spoke the vile truth, the sooner I could leave.

  We settled in our normal places. If she noticed I didn’t take out my notebooks and pencil, she didn’t mention it. I held the handles of my purse in a fierce grip, knowing the two pictures concealed inside would change everything.

  I thought my nervousness might seep over onto her, but she sat watching me with a calm, almost-peaceful expression. Oh, that I didn’t have to do this. What would she think when she heard the truth?

  Finally I took a deep breath. “When I first came to see you, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I’d never met anyone who’d been a slave. The things I learned in school about slavery times weren’t like the stories you told, and I found myself captivated by them.”

  She didn’t respond but simply let me speak my mind.

  “The day you mentioned the name Hall, I knew I’d heard it before.”

  Her brow furrowed a bit, but she remained silent.

  I swallowed hard, the lump of fear in my throat growing with each guilt-ridden word. Tears filled my eyes, and my chin trembled. “My grandma Lorena remembers having a great-aunt named Charlotte Hall.”

  Confusion washed over her face. I wanted to run out of the house and speed away in Mary’s car, but I knew I couldn’t. I had to confess my family’s sins to this woman. A woman I’d come to care about.

  I reached into my purse and pulled out the two pictures. A sob shook me as I handed her the photograph of Charlotte. “This is my grandma’s aunt Charlotte.” She took it, her eyes widening in recognition. I forced myself to remain seated and extend the second photograph to her. “And this is Charlotte’s mother.”