Page 11 of Under the Tulip Tree
Flashing Mrs. Washington a look of apology, I retrieved it, then took another from my purse. Somehow, after what seemed an inordinate amount of time, I was ready to begin.
With a glance at my subject, who continued to consider me with a stony face, I forced a smile. Yet before I could get the first question out of my now-dry mouth, Mrs. Washington stood.
“You want a cup o’ tea? I find it helps quiet the jitters.”
My tense shoulders eased some, knowing she was anxious about our interview too. “That would be nice, but I want to assure you there is nothing to be nervous about.”
A deep chuckle rumbled in her chest. “I ain’t nervous, chile, but you’re ’bout ready to come out of your skin. Come on to the kitchen and we’ll make you a nice cup o’ chamomile tea.”
Without waiting for my response, she headed through a doorway while I remained seated, mortified that she’d read me so well. Why was I so jumpy? Like Mama observed, I’d never been this nervous while conducting interviews for theBanner.
I set my things on the floor and followed her into a tiny kitchen. A deep porcelain sink sat beneath a window that looked out to the backside of a run-down tenement one street over. A small icebox occupied a corner of the room while an even smaller table and two chairs occupied the other. Yet it was the old-fashioned wood-burning stove where Mrs. Washington worked that brought the most surprise. Our stove at home was fueled by gas. It never occurred to me people still cooked over wood or coal. Was this a common practice here in Hell’s Half Acre? I wondered. Or was it Mrs. Washington who hadn’t caught up to modern times?
Seeing her at the old stove, however, forced me to consider what else might be missing from this woman’s life that I had and took for granted.
“Jael—she takes care of me when she ain’t studying down at the university—she likes chamomile tea, but I have to admit I prefer a strong cup o’ coffee.”
As she worked, I noticed one of her hands was quite disfigured. Large knots existed where knuckles should be, and it seemed at least two, maybe three, of her fingers were not lined up as they should be. It didn’t slow her down though. She poured hot water from a kettle sitting on the stovetop into a plain white cup with a tea ball. Taking a pale-blue saucer from the open shelf that held short stacks of mismatched dishes, she set the cup on it and handed it to me. “You take sugar?”
I shook my head, not wanting to be any more trouble than I’d already been, especially when I realized she was not partaking. “This is wonderful, thank you.”
She nodded and led the way back into the sitting room, where she eased herself into her chair. “I ’spect you ain’t never been down here to the Acres.” Her steady gaze held no accusation nor even curiosity. It was simply a statement.
“No, ma’am.” I carefully sat down, trying not to spill my tea. There was no hope of retrieving my notebook and pencil at the moment, so I trusted she wouldn’t launch into her life’s story just yet.
“Well, you ain’t missed much. I’ve lived here near ’bout sixty years. Seen all kinds of troubles. There be some goodfolks here in the Acres, but there also be some who want to do nothin’ but cause hardship for everyone else.”
I noticed she didn’t refer to the neighborhood as Hell’s Half Acre, as the area was known throughout Nashville. I suppose I wouldn’t either if I had to live here. Why add to the discouragement of living in such conditions by labeling it after a place I hoped I never saw?
“I’ll be honest, Miss Leland.” She leaned back in the chair. “I was mighty surprised when I received a letter from the gov’ment wanting to hear my stories ’bout slavery times.”
I smiled. “We appreciate you being willing to share about your life.” Of course, I didn’t know whowereferred to, but as an employee of the federal government, I had to give appearances of being part of a larger community. The entire project was President Roosevelt’s idea, so one would assume his interest in the oral histories of former slaves was the catalyst for my being in the presence of this woman.
“Fact is, I ain’t never told my story to anyone since freedom come. No sense in rememberin’ them days, I say.” She folded her arms across her chest.
I nearly choked on the sip of tea I’d just taken. Did she mean she wouldn’t share the tales of her life with me? Would my first interview for the FWP be a complete failure? Mr. Carlson would not be pleased.
A knot began to form in my stomach as it occurred to me I might not have a job by the end of the day. I set my teacup on a small table to my left, careful not to disturb the knickknacks and a framed picture of a young man, my brainwhirling. Mr. Armistead taught me early on in my career as a reporter to use the power of persuasion on difficult subjects. I hoped his methods would work now.
“Mrs. Washington, I’m sure I’m not qualified to give you advice on whether or not to answer the questions I have for you, but I do believe this project is important.”
In the seconds it took those words to pass over my lips, I realized they were true. I did want to hear this woman’s story. I wanted to know what her life as a slave was like. Mrs. Frances Washington was a faceless name to me yesterday. Today, she was an elderly woman, living in a tiny yellow house with a yard full of flowers in a neighborhood whose reputation was as sullied as the gutters that lined its streets.
Long seconds ticked by on a clock as we regarded one another.
“Jael is the one who said I should talk to you. She’s young and don’t know much ’bout slavery times. Said it would be good for folks in her day to know ’bout the past.”
I said a silent prayer of thanks for Jael and reached for my notebook.
“But I told her the past is best forgotten. We can’t go back and change nothin’ that happened, so why dredge up all those bitter memories?”
My shoulders slumped. “So you won’t answer my questions?”
Her eyes narrowed on me. “I sure didn’t plan to, but just this mornin’ the Lord told me I couldn’t go home till I talked to you.”
There it was again. The same strange statement she’d greeted me with. I could only assume she referred to God, but did she truly expect me to believe the Almighty wouldn’t allow her to die until I interviewed her?
Once again, I wondered if her mind was fully intact. Maybe I should pack up my notebooks and leave while I still had time to find my next interviewee. At least I’d have something to show Mr. Carlson for today’s efforts.
