Page 10 of Under the Tulip Tree
Mr. Norwood’s voice drew me out of my ponderings. I handed him the paper with Mrs. Frances Washington’s address written on it. Upon reading the street name, he nodded. “I know where that is.” Turning at the next corner,he maneuvered the car past the capitol and into an area of Nashville I’d never seen up close.
Run-down houses and overgrown lots lined every street. While some of the buildings had surely once been fine homes, time and the lack of upkeep left them with crumbling walls and sagging porches filled with what appeared to be abandoned junk. Laundry hung on lines stretched from tree to tree in the neglected yards of several homes, and my heart softened for the women attempting to keep their families in clean clothes amid the squalor of the neighborhood.
A gathering of men stood on the sidewalk dressed in shirtsleeves and hats, but they stopped their conversation to watch us drive past. Mr. Norwood nodded to them politely, but I kept my eyes averted, a tense feeling beginning to swirl through my stomach.
Had I made a terrible mistake accepting a job that forced me to spend time in this part of Nashville? Would I be safe once Mr. Norwood drove away, leaving me alone with a woman I’d never met, in a neighborhood with a reputation even I’d heard of? He might have vexed me terribly with his superior attitude and disparaging assumptions, but his presence offered a measure of safety I hadn’t anticipated needing.
“Here we are.”
Mr. Norwood stopped the car in front of a small house with peeling yellow paint. A low fence circled a yard no bigger than the car I sat in, yet astonishingly it held more flowers of various sizes and colors than I’d ever seen in one place. A narrow path through the foliage led to a porch with twostraight-backed chairs, both worn but still solid-looking. A few pots of flowers sat between them.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I gazed out the window to the charming residence. While I didn’t want people like Mr. Norwood judging me on the kind of house I lived in, I was having a hard time not doing the same for the residents of Hell’s Half Acre. That Mrs. Washington took care in maintaining her little home brought a sense of calm to my whirling emotions.
“I’ll meet you here at four o’clock.” Mr. Norwood seemed impatient to be rid of me as he glanced at his wristwatch. “You should be able to walk to your other interviews if you get finished with this one and need to move on.”
Panic rose to the surface at the thought of being left alone in a strange place among strange people. I’d hoped to ask him all sorts of questions about the interview process on our drive here, but his immediate assumptions about my family’s financial status had silenced them. I regretted my sulking because I had no idea what I was doing.
It was too late now. “Thank you,” I muttered, aggravated with him and myself. I gathered my belongings in one hand and opened the door with the other since it appeared Mr. Norwood had no intention of assisting me. I almost laughed, thinking about Mama and how she’d stay right where she was until the gentleman walked around the car to open her door.
Although Mr. Norwood and I hadn’t gotten off to a great start, my stomach sank as I watched him drive away, leaving me in a place I never imagined I’d set foot in, let alone spendtime in interviewing former slaves. When I’d gone to Mr. Armistead’s office to inform him I got the job and wouldn’t be visiting him for a while, he’d appeared impressed.
“I wasn’t sure you had it in you, Leland. I’m glad I was wrong.”
The memory of the affirming words strengthened my resolve as I made my way through the pretty flowers, their heady aroma thick and sweet, and quietly mounted the porch. Two windows flanked the door, but both had curtains drawn, so there was no peeking inside to get a hint of what awaited me. I swallowed, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door. Several long moments passed before I heard movement on the other side.
The woman who answered was not what I expected.
“Mrs. Washington?”
Sharp black eyes studied me before she answered. “Yes’m, I’m Miz Washington.”
“I’m Lorena Leland, with the Works Progress Administration. I believe you’re expecting me.”
She continued her examination of me, perusing my face, my dress, even my shoes, before her narrowed eyes met mine again. I in turn considered her. Taller than I’d anticipated, she appeared to be in remarkably good health considering her advanced age. Her short-cropped hair was snowy white, but her cheeks were as smooth and wrinkle-free as a young woman’s.
Finally she nodded. “I been expecting you. The Lord told me I couldn’t go home till you come.”
The strange answer caught me off guard. I stared at her, wondering if she was in her right mind. Would this be a complete waste of time? Surely the tales told by a woman whose mind bore the effects of age would not be beneficial to the FWP and their mission to preserve the oral history of former slaves.
“Let’s not stand here gawking at each other. Come in, chile, come in.” She turned and retreated into the small house.
With one last longing glance down the now-vacant street, I followed, letting the screen door close behind me with a bang that sounded like a gunshot. Mrs. Washington continued to an overstuffed armchair with faded floral print as though she hadn’t heard it. A small shelf crammed with books stood within arm’s reach should she desire to read in the evenings.
“Sit where’er you be most comfortable.”
The choices were few. A low-slung couch I wasn’t sure I would be able to climb out of or a stiff-looking chair near the window. I chose the latter and set my purse on the wood floor next to me. She sat silently watching while I took out a pencil, opened one of the steno notebooks, and unfolded the list of questions Mr. Carlson had given me upon signing the contract to conduct interviews for the FWP.
With a deep breath to quiet my nerves, I met her gaze. “I believe you know why I’m here.”
She gave a slow nod. “Uh-hm, I know why you here. But, chile, you ain’t got a clue whyyouis here.”
CHAPTERFIVE
Mr. Carlson’s instructions were simple: ask the questions as they appeared on the typewritten paper he’d given me and allow the former slaves to tell their stories in their own way, talking freely of slavery and the ills suffered, without giving my own opinion on any subject discussed.
But now that the time had come, I found myself reduced to a jumble of nerves.
As Mrs. Washington looked on, I attempted to arrange the steno notebook and the list of questions, each vying for a position of prominence on my lap. My pencil slipped from my hand in the process, breaking the sharpened lead when it hit the floor.
