Page 19 of Under the Tulip Tree
She sighed. “Mr. Watkins is ill again, so Mrs. Watkins closed the shop at noon. As though he isn’t a grown man who can do without her and get his own soup.”
I nodded, but the irritation she expressed for her employer held irony. Wasn’t she herself the wife of a grown man who spent his days sleeping off the previous night’s drinking binge, wallowing in his pathetic life and expecting her to take care of him?
“How did your interviews go?”
“Good.” I moved toward the stairs, hoping she’d take the hint and leave her questions for later. “I need to go over my notes while it’s all fresh in my mind.”
I’d nearly made it to the landing and out of her sight when she called, “Who did you interview? Anyone we know?”
I stood still, weighing how to proceed. I had yet to formulate an answer for that question. An answer that would prevent an argument, yelling, and who knew what else.
On one hand, it was quite ridiculous that I felt a need to hide the true nature of my job with the FWP from my mother. It wasn’t that I was afraid of her reaction, nor was I ashamed of what I was doing. After hearing only one day of Frankie’s heart-wrenching tales, I knew the project had merit.
Yet I also knew Mama would not approve of my going to Hell’s Half Acre to spend time with former slaves. Even though she would never again be a member of Nashville’s high society, holding on to small things from our past kept her sane. And maintaining a superior position over the less fortunate in the city was something I was certain she was not ready to relinquish.
“No one you’d know.” I forced my voice to remain normal. “She’s an elderly woman. I’m to record the stories of her life for a collection of historical writings.”
I didn’t wait for Mama’s reply and nearly flew up the remaining stairs. At my room, I closed the door with a click loud enough for her to hear but not so loud she would grow suspicious. With my ear pressed to the wood, I was satisfied she hadn’t followed me in order to gain more information.
The desk near the window held my Underwood typewriter, a gift from my parents before the crash. Ever since theMonday Mr. Armistead summoned me into his office to tell me I was unemployed, it had sat unused.
I took a blank sheet of paper from the desk drawer and rolled it onto the cylinder, realizing how much I’d missed doing this simple task on a regular basis. Words had been such a big part of my life, I wondered how I’d survived six months without writing anything.
Two hours later Mama called up the stairs to tell me supper was ready. Now that I was working again, we would share the responsibility of getting the evening meal on the table. I did most of the cooking after I lost my job at the newspaper, so it was nice to have supper ready after a long day of work.
I stopped at the bathroom down the hall to wash my hands. Baby-blue tiles lined the walls and floor. A deep tub sat beneath the high window, and I looked forward to a long soak after supper. Glancing at the commode, I couldn’t help but remember the smelly outhouse in Frankie’s backyard.
As I stared at the gleaming white porcelain, a sense of guilt washed over me. Guilt for what, I wasn’t sure, but I recognized the uneasiness for what it was.
What would it be like to live in such poverty you didn’t have use of an indoor bathroom, something I’d taken for granted my entire life?
I looked back to my reflection in the mirror over the sink. Despite the hardships of the past seven years, I still saw what I’d always seen: a well-brought-up young woman. I didn’t sport the latest hairstyles or fashions as I once had, and my dreams of college and career were gone, but my most basicneeds had always been met. We remained in our comfortable home and had food on the table, which was more than thousands of people could say. I’d seen pictures of soup and bread lines in the papers and read stories of the dust bowl in the West. People were suffering, and an end to it all seemed far in the distance.
Mama was sitting at the table when I arrived in the dining room. A meat loaf with its edges burnt graced the center, flanked by a bowl of lumpy mashed potatoes and one of green peas, my least favorite vegetable. Only yesterday I might have grumbled over the imperfect meal, but after my bathroom musings, I felt a strange sense of gratitude well up from a place deep inside I didn’t know existed until this very moment.
“Supper looks good.” I took my seat and laid a napkin in my lap.
A look of wonder settled on Mama’s face when I glanced her way. “Thank you, Rena. I hope the meat loaf isn’t too done.”
The evidence said it was, but I’d ruined my share of meals too.
We loaded our plates and ate in silence. I tried to think of a topic of conversation to initiate in order to avoid more questions regarding Frankie. One day soon I’d tell Mama the truth, but for now I wanted to keep the secret to myself.
“Mary said she and the children might drop by tomorrow evening.” Mama forked a bite of potatoes. “Homer is working the late shift these days, so she doesn’t have to get his supper.”
“At least he hasn’t gotten himself fired from this job.”Yet,I added silently.
I held little faith my good-for-nothing brother-in-law would keep this job any longer than he’d kept the string of others. Mary and the kids avoided homelessness and starvation because Homer’s daddy paid their bills.
Mama sighed. “I saw Peggy Denny at the market today. She couldn’t wait to inform me that Roy and his new wife bought a house in Washington, DC.”
Roy Staton, Mary’s old beau.
Turns out Roy actually made something of himself after college. Through his family’s connections he’d found a job in the governor’s office and became acquainted with Senator Hull. When President Roosevelt asked Hull to be his secretary of state, Hull took Roy to Washington with him to work in his office. Not long afterward, Mrs. Denny, one of Mama’s old friends and a woman who thrived on gossip, showed up at our door to see how Mama was doing withthe news. Mama didn’t know what she was talking about, and Mrs. Denny practically oozed with satisfaction when she announced—with a somber face, of course—that Roy was engaged to the daughter of a senator from Texas.
“If Roy had loved Mary, he wouldn’t’ve broken up with her, no matter what his daddy said. There’s no use wishing things had turned out differently.” I shrugged. “I hope he and his wife live happily ever after, but I’m tired of hearing about him.”
Truth was, I was tired of hearing about anything concerning the life we used to live. The past could not be changed, no matter how much Mama wished it so. Grandma was right. My new job with the FWP was exactly the thing I needed to help me move forward.
