Under the Tulip Tree

by Michelle Shocklee

  When the service was over, we followed the long procession to an old graveyard near the ruins of Fort Negley. There, not far from where she’d lived in the contraband camp, Frankie was laid to rest in the shade of a tulip tree, Sam beside her.

  We dropped Grandma at her home after she treated us to lunch. Despite the sadness of the day, I enjoyed introducing Alden to Grandma Lorena and letting them get to know one another. She winked at me when I walked her to her door. “I hope you’ll bring Alden around again. He seems like a fine young man.”

  We took Alden’s car to Centennial Park. The rebuilt Parthenon and several small lakes were all that remained from the grand Tennessee exposition held in celebration of Tennessee’s one-hundredth birthday in 1897. Only a few other people milled about, no doubt due to the clouds above us growing darker and threatening rain, so we practically had the place to ourselves.

  Settling on the steps of the huge replica of the Greek building, we sat quietly. Birds trilled and fountains gurgled nearby, but the lack of human voices allowed my mind and body to relax. I needed this moment of respite to prepare for whatever Alden had to tell me.

  “I know this sounds crazy, but I’ve often wondered who will attend my funeral.”

  I turned to him. His statement was not what I expected. “I don’t think I’ve ever once considered such a thing.”

  He chuckled and gazed out at the natural beauty of the park. Fading lawns dotted with leaves of various colors spread out beyond us. Autumn was in the air, and soon the trees would be completely bare.

  “I suppose it’s a strange thing to ponder, especially for someone my age. But—” he paused and looked heavenward—“everyone dies eventually. And after what I witnessed yesterday . . . with Frankie’s hand, I mean . . . I’m not entirely sure what I believe about life and death anymore.”

  I considered this. “Maybe that’s the whole point. What we believe and what we think are not static. Experiences and people leave a mark on us and change us. Meeting Frankie and hearing her stories opened my eyes, almost like a blind person having their sight restored and seeing the world for the first time.”

  I spread my hands in front of me. “Witnessing the transformation of her hand . . .” I still found it nearly impossible to believe. “Well, I don’t see how we could remain the same people after that.”

  “Her story needs to be told.”

  Alden’s quiet words drew my gaze. “Yes, it does. You took my pages to Mr. Carlson, didn’t you?”

  “I did.” He heaved a sigh.

  “What? What aren’t you telling me?”

  He reached for my hand. “Mr. Carlson looked over your submission. He said it was too long. He also suggested that some of the more graphic details will need to be removed.”

  I stared at him. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “He himself told me to take down the former slaves’ stories word for word. That’s what I did. Frankie’s story is told in her words, her way.”

  “I know. I said as much to him, but he has his own ideas about what should and shouldn’t be included in the narratives.”

  I sat in stunned silence.

  “He wants you to turn in an edited version next week.”

  A spark of rebellion ignited somewhere inside me, reminding me of Frankie. “And if I don’t?”

  “He won’t include Frankie’s story with the other narratives.”

  I gaped at Alden. “He can’t be serious.” I stood and stared down at him.

  Alden rose. His expression revealed the truth. “He was perfectly serious, Rena. I feel exactly the same way you do. We should take down the stories word for word, just the way the interviewee describes their life, with the exception of clarity now and then. But Mr. Carlson doesn’t agree. He feels they should be more uniform in length and similar in content.”

  My fists clenched. “To do that would forfeit the truth. Their lives weren’t neat and orderly. They were messy and ugly, and yes, sometimes the details were graphic. How can he—we—edit someone’s life story when we weren’t the ones who lived it?”

  “I don’t know.” He seemed resigned to Mr. Carlson’s demands, but I was not.

  “I’ll speak to him myself tomorrow. Make him see that I can’t—I won’t edit Frankie’s story.”

  He shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “I don’t believe it will do any good, Rena. His instructions were very clear. Edit the story or he won’t use it.”

  Tears of anger spilled over, but I stepped out of his reach when he tried to comfort me. “She deserves better, Alden. She deserves to have her life story told exactly as she lived it.”

  “Yes, she does, but how? Carlson won’t use it unless you alter it. What other choice do you have?”

  A light rain began to fall, but I didn’t care. There had to be another way. My mind whirled.

  “What other choice is there, Rena?” he asked again, softening his voice this time, as though encouraging me to find a solution.

  The words of Harriet Beecher Stowe came back to me.

  “I hope every woman who can write will not be silent.”

  Suddenly I knew.

  An idea so preposterous, so ridiculously improbable took root in my spirit, I nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. Yet something about it felt completely right.

  For the first time that day, a smile inched up my wet cheeks.

  I parked Mary’s Hudson in the shade of the two-story building on Printers Alley. It had only been six weeks since the last time I’d come down to the Banner’s offices, yet so much had happened since. After Mr. Armistead let me go, I thought I couldn’t survive if I didn’t work at the newspaper. Funny that I didn’t realize until just this moment I hadn’t missed it at all.

  Typewriters hummed as I entered the office. The familiar smells of ink, cigarette smoke, and coffee hung in the air, but they didn’t beckon to me as they had in the past. Several reporters glanced my way. I smiled and kept walking. By the time I reached the door to Mr. A.’s office, I’d gained the attention of most of the men in the newsroom.

  “Gentlemen,” I said before turning to find Mr. A. standing at his desk, a look of surprise on his face. “Hello, Mr. Armistead. It’s good to see you.”

  “Leland.” He glanced through the window that separated his office from the newsroom. A number of men continued to stare at me. “What are you gawking at? Get to work,” he bellowed. When the noise of typing resumed, he returned to his seat and eyed me over the rim of his glasses for a long minute. “Something’s different.”

  I hid a smile. “Oh?”

  He motioned to the chair in front of his desk. I settled in it, keeping my purse on my lap.

  “How are things with the Federal Writers’ Project?”

  “I interviewed seven former slaves for the FWP. Their stories will be included in those being gathered and sent to Washington.”

  He nodded, but his narrowed eyes remained on me. “And now you’re out of a job and you’re here to beg me to hire you.”

  I chuckled. “Not exactly, but I would appreciate you hearing me out. I have an idea I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “An idea?”

  I settled back against the chair. “It’s actually a story about an incredible woman I recently met.”

  Never one to miss a thing, he said, “A former slave, I take it.”

  “Yes. Her name is . . . was Frankie Washington, and hearing her story changed me.”

  He crossed his arms over his ample belly. “How so?”

  I’d rehearsed this speech a dozen times over the last few days, but now the practiced words fled me. Instead, I spoke from my heart. “Frankie lived a life I never knew existed. In school we learned about slavery, but not like this. Not the real, raw, and sometimes-horrifying truth of their lives in bondage.”

  A look of doubt clouded his face. “The war ended seventy years ago. No one wants to hear about slavery these days.”

  “That’s the point, Mr. Armistead. No one wants to talk about it, yet th
at doesn’t mean it didn’t exist. People who are still alive today endured it. They were forced into labor, never given a choice. They had no say about their lives, their destiny. They were owned.” I let that word sink in. “They were property, bought and sold at the whim of their master. Our generation—my generation—can’t begin to understand how such a thing was possible or what it felt like. The people who lived it are the only ones who can tell their story. They’ll be gone soon—” my voice cracked with still-raw grief at the thought of Frankie—“so we mustn’t let this opportunity slip past us.”

  “Isn’t that what the FWP is doing? Collecting stories from these people so they’ll be on record?”

  “It is, but I have reason to believe not all the stories will be told in the way they should be.” I didn’t want to accuse Mr. Carlson of any large-scale wrongdoing based on the situation with Frankie’s interview, but I also knew I couldn’t allow her story to be edited in order to fit his idea of a slave narrative.

  His eyes narrowed again, but in a familiar way. I knew he was considering my words. “What do you propose?”

  I took a deep breath. My time had come. “I’d like to write an article about her. About the other slaves too. To tell their stories in their own words, holding nothing back. Frankie’s story would only be the beginning. There are hundreds of former slaves living in Tennessee. But it wouldn’t always be about slavery. I want to interview former soldiers who fought in the Civil War, nurses who tended the wounded, riverboat captains, and even plantation owners. All sorts of voices from the past, telling their stories in their words. The possibilities are endless.”

  My passionate speech came to an end. I feared he would laugh me out of the room, but he didn’t. He tapped his pencil on the desk, deep in thought. “It’s an interesting idea, Leland. I’ll give you that. But we don’t run this type of human-interest story. With the economy the way it stands, folks want to read about jobs and what’s being done to help those in need now, not what happened in the past.”

  “I realize times are still hard for a lot of people,” I said, thinking of my own family. “But if they knew that others had suffered and survived, it could be encouraging. Life-changing, even.”

  He chuckled. “You’re putting a lot of stock in your writing abilities, Leland. Even the best newspapermen have a hard time getting their message across.”

  “My confidence isn’t in my ability, sir, but in the people whose stories I’ll write.” I thought of Frankie’s courage and smiled. “It’s their lives that will offer hope. Not all of them have a happy ending, I imagine, but they still deserve to be told.”

  The clock on the wall ticked off time as Mr. Armistead’s gaze bored into me, his face giving away nothing. Finally his chair squealed as he leaned back against it. “Tell me about this Frankie of yours.”

  I couldn’t keep from grinning. “I’ll do one better.” I opened my purse and pulled out the story I’d been working on since the day after Frankie’s funeral. I handed the typed sheets to Mr. A.

  He glanced at the title page. “‘Their Stories, Their Words.’ You’ve already written the article?”

  “Yes, sir. I knew I’d have to prove myself.”

  A look of appreciation crossed his features before he continued reading. I watched his face for the slightest reaction, but not a wrinkle moved. I tried not to let disappointment creep in while he shuffled the pages.

  Finally, after he’d gone over it a second time, he tossed the whole bundle onto his desk. My hopes plummeted.

  “The thing is, Leland,” he began, shaking his head. He picked up the first page, glanced over it, then returned it to the pile.

  I steeled myself against the imminent rejection and the disappointment it would bring.

  “The thing is, I wish I’d come up with this idea myself.”

  I held my breath.

  He indicated the papers on his desk. “This is good stuff, kid. Your Frankie sounds like quite a lady.”

  My entire body trembled with excitement. “Are you saying—?”

  He held up his hand before I could finish my hope-filled question. “Unfortunately, it’s not a good fit for the paper. Like I said, people want to read about the economy and what the folks in Washington are doing about it. Things like that.”

  I swallowed hard. I knew it had been a long shot, but still, I’d hoped Mr. A. would see the potential. It hurt down deep that Frankie’s story might go untold. I felt as though I’d failed her.

  He glanced over the article again, his chin jutted out in thought. “However, I’ve got a friend in New York who might be interested.” He glanced up at me, a glint in his eye. “He’s the editor of a little rag called Collier’s. Ever heard of it?” He laughed at his own joke.

  My mouth fell open. “Collier’s, sir?”

  “Bill and I go way back to our university days. I’ve sent him some writers over the years.” He waited for me to focus on his intense gaze, although my mind was spinning. “Listen to me, Leland. This article is good. Good enough for a national magazine.”

  I stared at Mr. A., unsure whether to bawl like a baby or dance like a fool. There was no guarantee his college buddy would print the article, but it meant the world to me that Mr. Armistead truly did see the potential in Frankie’s story. That he liked my writing was icing on the cake.

  “Thank you, Mr. A.,” I said, my voice shaky with emotion.

  “You’re welcome.” He grew contemplative. “You’re different, Leland. More sure of yourself. I like it. Now get out of here and let me get back to work.”

  His gruff compliment followed me through the newsroom and out the door into glorious sunshine. I couldn’t wait to share my news with Alden and Grandma Lorena, but first there was someone else I had to tell.

  I drove to the cemetery. Frankie’s grave stood out among the others. A simple wooden cross bore her name, but I knew a granite headstone had been ordered. The residents of Hell’s Half Acre had taken up a collection to pay for it.

  Seeing the mound of fresh dirt covered in wilted flowers brought tears to my eyes. How had this woman become so dear to me in such a short amount of time? She would forever be part of my life. Her story was connected to mine. Despite the shame and pain of the past, together we’d overcome it. I’d sought forgiveness for my family’s transgressions, and she’d willingly given it.

  There, under the tulip tree, peace—real, tangible peace—settled in my soul.

  “I’m going to tell your story, Frankie,” I whispered. “Thank you for entrusting me with it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The aroma of roasting turkey filled the house. Children’s voices echoed down the hallway to my bedroom, where I sat at my desk, fingers hovering over the keys of my Underwood typewriter. How was I supposed to write my article with such pleasant distractions?

  “‘Precilla Gray was born in Williamson County before the Civil War began.’” I reread aloud the opening line for the fourth time. “‘At 107 years of age, she attributes her good health to taking care of herself and wearing yarn petticoats.’”

  Mary’s soft laughter sounded behind me, and I turned to find my sister standing in the doorway. “Yarn petticoats?”

  I chuckled. “That’s what she says. Maybe we should try it.”

  She grinned, and I realized how much I enjoyed having my sister in the house again, noisy children and all. She still looked sad and worn from time to time, but the stress lines in her face had eased since she’d moved back home. After Mrs. Watkins retired and made Mama the manager of the sewing shop last month, Mary had stepped in and taken over the household responsibilities. I had to admit she was a much better cook than either Mama or me.

  “Alden just arrived. He’s downstairs with Grandma Lorena.”

  I glanced out the window to the street, surprised to see his car parked at the curb. “I didn’t hear him knock.” I stood and stretched, working the knots in my shoulders that tended to form when I sat at the typewriter too long.

 
“I’m glad you invited him to join us for Thanksgiving, Lulu. He seems like a really good guy.” The wistful tone in her voice brought an ache to my heart. Homer filed for divorce last week despite threats from his father to cut him off financially. He had a new girlfriend and had no desire to see his children.

  I hurried downstairs and found Alden sitting next to Grandma on the sofa. She laughed at something he said, his grin revealing his pleasure at her response. When his gaze shifted to me, he stood. I’d taken more care with my appearance today, and the look of admiration in his eyes made all the effort worthwhile.

  “Don’t you look pretty, Rena,” Grandma said. She started to rise, and Alden offered his hand. “Margaret told me she didn’t need help putting the finishing touches on the meal, but I think I’ll go pester her anyway.” She winked at me before disappearing into the kitchen, where Holly’s high-pitched voice ordered James to “stop sneakin’ licks of the punkin pie.”

  Alden and I settled on the sofa. “Your grandmother’s right. You look beautiful.”

  I felt my face flush under his intense study, but I relished the compliment. “You look quite dashing yourself.” My gaze traveled his length, noting the charcoal-gray suit he’d purchased for his new job with the Works Progress Administration.

  He reached into his pocket and took out something bulky. “I was going to wait and give this to you at Christmas, but it seemed appropriate to give it to you today.”

  My curiosity piqued, I reached for the gift, thinking the size and shape revealed it as a book. Tearing off the tissue paper, I gasped.

  It was a framed picture of Frankie.

  “I’d forgotten you took her picture that day.”

  She sat in a chair on her front porch, her deformed hand resting in her lap while her other hand hid her mouth. I remembered wondering what she was thinking about.

  “She’d be proud of you, Rena.”

  Alden’s soft voice caused my eyes to fill with tears as I gazed at her precious face. “I hope so. I’m glad Mr. Carlson changed his mind about including her story in the collection of narratives. He didn’t even ask for one edit.”