Page 1 of Under the Tulip Tree
Prologue
WNYC RADIO STUDIOS
NEW YORK CITY
TUESDAY, OCTOBER29, 1929
3:00P.M.
“Pandemonium has broken out in the streets of New York City. Angry crowds have gathered throughout the day, demanding answers from those inside the New York Stock Exchange. Down the street, National City Bank closed their doors early, setting off a riot. Police guarding the bank are heavily armed, prepared for the worst.
“The stock exchange is now closed. We should have the final numbers momentarily. In the meantime, there are reports that riots have begun at banks and savings and loans throughout the country. Customers want their money, and I cannot find fault in their wishes. It seems—what is that? Gunshots? We are hearing gunshots along Wall Street.
“My fellow Americans, I fear our day of reckoning is upon us. Despite President Hoover’s declaration last Fridayassuring us the fundamental business of the country is on a sound and prosperous basis, today’s events say otherwise. We’ve watched too many men in powerful positions build empires without a proper financial foundation, relying too heavily upon credit and loans instead of solid investment. Greed and a lust for more weakened the economy irreversibly and brought us to this sad day. We can only pray the market will rally tomorrow, as it did Thursday, but the numbers will tell the tale.
“I’ve just been handed the official report.
“It is worse than we feared. While the tickers are still running, trying to catch up to the record-setting activity, I can now tell you over sixteen million shares traded today. The Dow Jones Industrial Average closed at 230dollars, down 23percent from the opening bell.
“My fellow Americans, it is my grievous duty to inform you... the stock market has crashed.”
CHAPTERONE
NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE
TUESDAY, OCTOBER29, 1929
EIGHT HOURS EARLIER
I was convinced a more perfect day could not be found.
As I snuggled in my favorite chair on the front porch, the pink-and-purple sunrise unfurling in the Tennessee sky had me mesmerized. With a hint of woodsmoke in the crisp morning air and the trill of birds from high atop almost-bare trees, it was as though nature itself fancied to join in the celebration of my special day.
Sixteen!
I scrawled the word at the top of a blank page in the leather-bound diary Grandma Lorena gave me last Christmas.The perfect gift for an aspiring writer, she’d declared. She was right, as usual. My last entry, a long diatribe bemoaning the loss of the election for class secretary to Sally Wortham, was barely legible, with teenage fury showing in every word. Who knew bribing voters with homemade taffy could be so successful?
With a neater hand, I continued my birthday musings.
I finally made it to that magical age—at least it seemed magical when Mary and her friends turned sixteen. Suddenly they were treated like adults and allowed pleasures I, two years younger, was not granted. Yet today I balance on the cusp of a new and far more interesting life than the one I’ve led thus far. The debutante ball next month will officially usher me into Nashville society, and though I care little for the art of gossip and those who participate in it, I plan to take my place among the city’s finest and enjoy every benefit the position offers.
I reread the entry and grinned.
So much happiness calls for a squeal of delight. Maybe even two.
I closed the small book with a satisfied thump, thinking of the day ahead. There would be no school for me. Mama let me skip so I could help her and Mary decorate the hall we’drented for my party later this evening. A hundred or so guests were invited to celebrate my momentous achievement. With Daddy’s bank being one of the largest in the state, most of the people on the guest list were his loyal customers. Their wives were Mama’s friends, women who kept themselves occupied with clubs and charitable organizations that, to me, revolved around social standing rather than altruistic issues.
I stretched and padded into the house. Mama bustled about the kitchen cooking breakfast, hair perfectly coiffed, pearl necklace peeking out from the collar of her two-piece day outfit. A frilly polka-dot apron tied around her middle accentuated a slightly pudgy waistline, but I would never point that out to her.
“Where’s Dovie? She always makes her special pancakes on my birthday.” While it wasn’t unusual for Mama to get our breakfast on the weekends, Dovie, our housekeeper and cook, would normally be at the stove on a Tuesday morning, especially on this day.
A bowl of freshly washed blackberries sat on the counter. I popped one into my mouth before opening the new General Electric refrigerator that arrived last week. GE’s sales slogan,“It’s always summertime in your kitchen,”had struck fear in Mama regarding the safety of our food and resulted in a win for the advertising team as well as the Sears, Roebuck and Co. catalog. True to their word, the glass container of orange juice was nice and cold and free of bacteria caused by the warmth of the kitchen.
Mama didn’t answer.
I turned to see if she’d heard my question and found a strange look on her face. “Mama? Where’s Dovie?”
She offered a tight smile. “I gave her the day off. I knew the house would be in a frenzy, what with your party and all the preparations. It seemed best not to have her underfoot.”
