“We didn’t realize you were home until I heard you yell. Are you all right?”
I sat up, shaken by the nightmare. “I guess I fell asleep.”
She turned on the lamp on my desk. “Have you eaten? There’s leftover meat loaf in the refrigerator.”
I nodded. “Alden and I stopped at the diner.”
Surprise registered on her face. “Was this a date?”
“No, Mama. We needed to talk about work.”
Her eyes narrowed as she settled on the edge of the bed. “Mary says you told her you might quit your job.”
I refrained from emitting a growl. My sister had never been able to keep a secret. “I might. I haven’t decided yet.”
Mama studied me. “Did something happen?”
I would tell her about Sadie Pope Hall someday, but I wasn’t ready yet. She’d have too many questions and strong opinions, and I simply couldn’t manage them right now.
“I finished Frankie’s interview today. As much as I enjoyed meeting her, I’m not sure I want to continue with more interviews.”
“Well.” Mama’s satisfied smile irked me. “I’m sure it’s for the best. You know I didn’t approve of you going down to that . . . neighborhood. I’m sure you can find another job that suits you better.”
I glanced at the notebook on my desk. “I still need to type up my notes and turn them in to the FWP office.”
She frowned as she eyed me. “You look tired. Those notes will be there in the morning.” She stood and walked to the door but turned to face me before leaving. “I think it best if we keep your involvement with the FWP quiet. You’re quitting, so there’s no need for anyone to know where you’ve been or what you’ve been doing.”
“I’m not ashamed of it, Mama. And I’m not ashamed of the time I spent with Frankie. I still believe the interviews are important. Maybe more so now than when I first started.”
Her lips pinched, as they usually did when she was unhappy with me. “Be that as it may, there’s no reason to give the gossips something else to hold over us. I expect you to abide by my wishes.”
She turned and left the room. Her bedroom door closed a moment later.
I lay back down, frustration keeping my muscles tense. Would telling Mama about Sadie change her mind? Doubtful. She’d probably side with our ancestor. At the very least, she would argue that Sadie lived so long ago, her actions had nothing to do with us.
I rolled onto my side and stared out the window into the night sky. Stars twinkled on a black canvas, the same stars visible to everyone, no matter the color of their skin.
What I’d said to Mama was true. I wasn’t ashamed of my work with the FWP. The interviews I’d conducted in Hell’s Half Acre showed me another side of the story. The world as I’d always known it now looked different. Felt different. I was different. Would Frankie’s story affect others the same way?
I got out of bed and sat at my desk. With light from the lamp, I opened the notebook and read through a page of notes about the day six-year-old Frankie was sold. A terrible ache settled in my heart reading her word-for-word description, especially when I reached the part involving my very own great-great-great-grandfather. I couldn’t fathom how a man, a father, could stand by and watch a child dragged away, screaming for her mammy.
The very image brought tears to my eyes. Tears of sadness . . . and shame.
With the house quiet for the night, I rolled a clean sheet of paper onto the cylinder of my Underwood. I stared at the blank page, thinking of Frankie. Because of her, I’d come to understand that everyone has a story to tell. It wasn’t always pretty or happy, and, like my own family’s tale of woes, it could be a bit messy at times. But our stories mattered.
Frankie’s story mattered.
I smiled, and my fingers began their dance across the keys.
It was ten o’clock the next morning when I woke to the sound of the telephone ringing downstairs. I’d stayed up through the night typing, refusing to let my eyes close each time they drooped in exhaustion. When I finally fell into bed just before the sky began to lighten, a neat stack of typed sheets of paper sat on the desk.
“Rena?” Mary knocked on my door, then opened it slowly. “Good. You’re awake.” A sly grin creased her face. “Mr. Norwood is on the telephone.”
I sat up, rubbing sleep from my eyes. Why was Alden calling? He’d volunteered to go to Mr. Carlson’s office with me this afternoon. I hoped he hadn’t changed his mind. The thought of facing the stern head of the Federal Writers’ Project alone left a knot in my stomach.
With my bathrobe and slippers on, I descended the stairs to the nook in the hallway where the telephone receiver lay on a small table.
“Hello? Alden?”
“Hi, Rena.”
Something in his voice sent a chill racing up my spine. “What’s wrong?”
“I need to tell you something, but I’d rather do it in person. Can I come over?”
I swallowed hard. Had Mr. Carlson already learned of my family ties to Frankie? “Tell me now.”
A heavy sigh came over the line. “Jael called the boardinghouse this morning.”
My heart seemed to stop beating. “Why? Is Frankie ill?”
But in the next moment I knew. I knew before Alden said the dreaded words.
“She passed away in her sleep last night, Rena. She’s gone.”
The crack in his voice was my undoing.
I closed my eyes against the pain gripping my soul. “Nooo.” The wail brought my sister running, but I couldn’t speak. I just fell to the floor, sobbing.
Mary took the receiver from my hand. I don’t know what she said to Alden, but a moment later I was cradled in her arms.
I cried until there was nothing left inside me. Mary smoothed my hair and rubbed my back, like I was one of her children. When my sobs and hiccups quieted, I heaved a shuddering breath.
“Thanks,” I croaked when she handed me a handkerchief. I dried my tears and blew my nose but remained on the hardwood floor.
“I’m sorry, Lulu. I know she was special to you.”
I nodded without looking at Mary.
“Mr. Norwood said he’d call on you this afternoon.”
I nodded again. With great effort, I rose to my feet.
Mary rose too. “You should eat something. Do you want some coffee?”
I shook my head. “I just want to be alone right now.” I turned toward the stairs but stopped and faced her again. “Thank you, Mary.”
When I entered my room, my eyes immediately went to the stack of papers on the desk. Tears came again as I lifted the top sheet. The words blurred, but it didn’t matter. I knew them by heart.
I was born on the Halls’ plantation. Don’t know exactly where their place was, but it were about a day’s ride to Nashville, I ’spect. Mammy always said I was born in 1835 when the leaves started changin’ color.
With the story in hand, I crawled back into bed and cried myself to sleep. When I woke, it was nearly two o’clock. Mary must have come in at some point because a tray with a sandwich and a cup of now-cold tea sat on my bedside table. My stomach rebelled at the sight of food, but I gratefully sipped the tea. Alden would be here soon, so I needed to clean myself up.
I was pulling on a dark-navy dress when Mary poked her head through the doorway.
“How are you?”
I shrugged. “It hurts.”
Sympathy shone in my sister’s eyes. “I’m really sorry, Lulu.” She came over and fastened the clasp at the back of my dress. “I don’t know what I can do, but if you need anything or just want to talk . . .”
“Thank you.” I noticed the house was quiet despite three rambunctious children in residence. “Where are the kids?”
She busied herself straightening the covers of my bed. “James is still at school, but Holly and Buddy are playing checkers with Dad.”
I looked at her in disbelief.
She chuckled. “Buddy has really taken to him. James and Holly final
ly wore him down last night with their pestering to teach them how to play the game, but I don’t think he minds.”
“What about his drinking? You don’t want the kids around that.”
“I told him I wouldn’t let the children see him if he was drunk. He’s actually stayed sober since we moved in.”
I kept my thoughts to myself. Finding fault with our father wasn’t something I wished to dwell on just now.
“I don’t know when I’ll be home.” I picked up the stack of papers that held Frankie’s story. With utmost care, I tucked them into my notebook and placed it all in my school book bag.
“I’ll let Mama know.” She hugged me then, long and tight. I fought to keep my tears at bay.
Alden arrived a short time later. Instead of waiting for me in the car as usual, he came to the door. My resolve crumbled at the sight of him, so handsome and solemn in his dark suit. I fell into his arms and shook with silent sobs. The kids came to investigate, but Mary thankfully shooed them into the kitchen and left us alone on the porch.
When I finally quieted, we sat on the steps.
“Jael invited us to come to the house this afternoon. She said there would be people coming and going all day. The funeral is tomorrow.”
I sniffled. “I’d like to go. To both, if you wouldn’t mind coming with me.”
“Of course. Frankie was a special person. I’m glad you introduced me to her.”
We drove to Hell’s Half Acre under cloudy skies. It seemed fitting that the sun wasn’t shining on this day. The number of cars parked along the street in front of the yellow house surprised me. People gathered on the porch and on the path leading to the house, chatting. The door stood open and I could see more guests inside. Every face I saw, however, was a different color from mine.
“Maybe we shouldn’t go in.” Uncertainty swirled through me. It was one thing to meet with Frankie and her great-granddaughter in the privacy of her home. Mingling as one of only two white people in a crowd was quite another. They belonged here. I didn’t.
Alden studied the group on the porch. He had far more experience with people from different walks of life than I did. I waited to hear his opinion.
“Frankie was our friend. We might not know all of these people, but I believe the majority will be as welcoming as Frankie and Jael. Think of all Frankie endured throughout her life. I don’t think she’d want fear to prevent you from honoring her.”
I looked back to the crowd. I might not have known Frankie as long as they had, but she’d become dear to me in our short time together. It was only right that I join with those who mourned her passing.
“You’re right. Let’s go inside.”
Alden came around and opened the car door for me. In an unexpected move, he took my hand in his and we made our way up the path. A hush came over those on the porch as they watched us approach. A man stepped out to block our progress, and I recognized him as the one who’d chased me—or so I’d thought—when I came to visit Frankie alone.
Alden’s hand tightened on mine. “We’ve come to pay our respects. Jael invited us.”
The man’s stare bored into Alden a long moment before his eyes met mine. My knees trembled beneath my skirt, but I didn’t look away.
Finally he nodded and stepped aside. “Anyone who was a friend of Mama Fran’s is welcome here.”
We climbed the remaining steps, with all eyes on us. Thankfully, Jael met us at the door.
“I’m glad you came.” She took me by the hand and led us into the room. Conversations slowed until everyone grew quiet.
“This is Rena, Mama Fran’s friend I was telling you about.” She turned her smile to me, her eyes red-rimmed. “Mama Fran never talked to anyone about her life as a slave. Not even my grandpa.” She indicated a gray-haired man nearby, and I recognized Frankie’s son from his picture. “Mama Fran always said the past was best left in the past, but you changed all that. She told me after you left that first day that if anyone else had shown up at her door asking to hear her tales, she would have sent them packing.”
Several people in the crowd chuckled.
Jael squeezed my hand, and tears slipped from her eyes. “But the Lord sent you. Last night before she went to bed, she said she was glad she’d shared her story with you. Said if change is gonna come, it has to start somewhere.”
Murmurs of agreement swept the room.
Jael let go of my hand and reached into her pocket. She pulled out a small book with a worn leather cover. It looked quite old.
“This is the Book of Psalms Papa Sam gave Mama Fran when she was in the contraband camp.” She offered it to me. “Mama Fran wanted you to have it. She wrote a note for you. It’s inside the cover.”
I gasped. “Oh, Jael, I can’t take this. It’s a family treasure. You keep it.”
She smiled. “Mama Fran left each of us a keepsake. She had it all planned.” She put the book in my hands. “Just last night she added this to the list. It already has your name inside.”
I opened the book with trembling hands. When I saw my name scrawled in shaky handwriting beneath Frankie’s own, I could no longer contain the tears.
For Lorena Ann Leland. May these words become more important to you than silver or gold.
“Isn’t that what Sam told her the day he gave her that book?” Alden asked from his place next to me.
I nodded, rendered speechless by Frankie’s generosity.
Jael hugged me, her own tears wetting my shoulder. When we separated, she whispered, “I have something wonderful to show you.”
Alden and I followed the young woman down the hall to the bedroom where I’d helped Frankie with her earrings only a few days ago. I clutched the book to my chest before crossing the threshold, needing strength from the words inside.
Frankie was laid out on her bed, her eyes closed as though she were simply asleep. Wrinkles on her face had smoothed, and her lips rested in an eternal smile.
“She looks so peaceful,” I said softly, missing her already.
Alden came up beside me and put his arm around my shoulders. I leaned into him.
“Look closer,” Jael said.
I studied Frankie. She wore a simple dress, with a blanket pulled up to her waist. Her arms were folded across her chest, with her hands resting one on top of the other. The thin gold band I’d seen the day Alden took her picture shone in the lamplight.
I was about to turn away when I stilled.
Something about her hands seemed different. I stared, not understanding what my eyes were seeing. The ring, I realized, was on her left hand, not her right as it had been. A hand that should have been bent and knotted with deformity . . . but wasn’t.
Jael reached out to touch Frankie’s hands, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I found her like this.” She met my gaze, smiling. “God healed her, Rena. Just like she said he would.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
After we left Frankie’s, Alden dropped me off at Grandma’s house while he took my typed notes to Mr. Carlson. Now was not the time to meet with the man, but I knew I would need to confess the truth about my family connection to Frankie someday soon. In the meantime, I wanted to be sure her story was included in the FWP collection.
When I told Grandma about Frankie’s forgiveness, her death, and her healed hand, Grandma cried.
“I would have liked to have met her in life and offered my apologies for the things our family did to her,” she said, wiping tears off her translucent cheeks. “To honor her in death would be a privilege. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to attend her funeral.”
I smiled. Nothing could make me happier.
At home, Mama and Mary offered their sympathies, although I wasn’t convinced Mama was entirely genuine. I felt drained and excused myself to my room. Fresh tears wet my face when I saw the notebooks on my desk. While it might have been comforting to read through them, the pain of losing Frankie left my heart too raw. I picked up the book on the life of Harriet Beecher Stowe ins
tead.
As I thumbed through the pages, a quote from a letter she wrote to the editor of an antislavery magazine captured my attention.
I feel now that the time is come when even a woman or a child who can speak a word for freedom and humanity is bound to speak. . . . I hope every woman who can write will not be silent.
Words written more than eighty years prior, yet they resonated within me with profound clarity. Mrs. Stowe’s courage to face the problem of slavery in her day sent a wave of inspiration crashing through me. I wasn’t sure if my participation with the Federal Writers’ Project counted when compared to works like Uncle Tom’s Cabin and her other writings against human bondage, but I couldn’t help but think she would be pleased at the progress I’d made over the past weeks of getting to know Frankie.
When Alden arrived to pick us up the next morning, he seemed unusually quiet. With the somberness of the day, it made sense, yet something told me his frown went beyond Frankie’s passing. Grandma insisted we take her sedan and went to retrieve the key. While she stepped out of the room, I pulled him aside.
“Are you all right?”
He nodded but avoided eye contact. “We need to talk, but later.”
We arrived at the church on the outskirts of Hell’s Half Acre and joined an even larger crowd than had formed at Frankie’s home the previous day.
“She was well loved,” Grandma said.
Alden assisted her from the car and we made our way inside. I was pleasantly surprised to find we were not the only white people in attendance. Although I guessed Illa Crandle was long dead, I wondered if any of her descendants had heard the tales of Frankie and Sam and come to pay their respects.
The service was like nothing I’d ever experienced. Spirited music and singing filled the rafters. When the singers grew quiet, Pastor Silas gave a beautiful eulogy. Then one person after another stood to speak about Frankie. How she and Sam had helped them in their time of need. How she’d taught them to read. How she’d changed their lives. Like Grandma, hearing the stories made me wish I’d known Frankie longer than the short time I was granted.
Under the Tulip Tree Page 26