Page 20 of Under the Tulip Tree
“When these interviews are finished, I might see if I can get more assignments with the Works Progress Administration. Mr. Carlson said the WPA has a number of projects here in Nashville.” I looked at Mama. “Did you know the new post office is being built by people employed by the WPA? They’re even restoring an old Civil War fort on Saint Cloud Hill. It’s all part of Roosevelt’s New Deal legislation.”
She frowned. “I hope you won’t have to work for the government for long, Rena. Doing interviews is fine until you find something else, but the New Deal programs are for the destitute. Those poor wretches we see on the streets, begging for money. I wouldn’t want folks to get the wrong impression about why you’re working for the government.”
She sounded like Mr. Norwood. I gave a humorless laugh. “The only reason we aren’t standing next to those poor wretches is because of Grandma Lorena’s generosity. If not for her, we’d be homeless.”
“I work very hard, young lady.” Indignation flashed across her face. “Mother is helping us, yes, but I deserve some credit too.”
I held back a sigh. She never liked to discuss Grandma’s financial assistance. “I know you do, Mama, but you know as well as I do we would’ve had to sell the house long ago if Grandma hadn’t taken over the mortgage payments.”
Silence hung heavy in the room, as it always did when Mama and I discussed finances.
She pushed her potatoes around her plate before she sent an accusing glance my way. “Why do you always take her side against me?”
“What?” Where did that question come from?
“Mother can do no wrong in your eyes, and I can’t do anything right.”
I stared at her, wondering how the conversation had veered off so drastically. Mama and her mama didn’t get along well. They didn’t argue and fight; they simply avoided one another. I saw Grandma Lorena far more than Mama did despite us living just down the street, which caused jealousy to rise in my mother. Admittedly, it was far easier to talk to Grandma, simply because she let me share my thoughts and ideas and didn’t pass judgment the way my mother did.
Clearly, though, Mama felt slighted, which was never my intention.
“Mama, I don’t mean to make you feel like I don’t appreciate everything you do. I know you work hard at the shop.” She sniffled, a good sign. It usually meant mollification was near. “But I also appreciate everything Grandma does for us. I love you both.”
She gave a small nod. “Thank you, Rena.” Her gaze drifted to the study and the door that stayed closed most of the time. “I just wish things were different.”
We finished our meal in silence after that, both lost inthoughts better left unspoken. I volunteered to wash the dishes since Mama had cooked. She disappeared upstairs, and I knew I wouldn’t see her again until morning.
As I cleaned things up, I thought back to Frankie’s tiny kitchen, where she’d made my tea, her gnarled hand never slowing her down. I longed to run down the street and tell Grandma Lorena all about Frankie, but after the dinner conversation and Mama’s hurt feelings, I felt it would be a betrayal of sorts.
The setting sun gave the house a gloomy feel as I made my way to my room. I returned to my Underwood and Frankie’s story. Typing the words she’d spoken that day brought images to my mind I’d never experienced before. A Negro child beaten and bleeding. Slaves by the dozens laboring in the fields, some as young as Frankie’s brother Saul.
I couldn’t recall ever hearing such things in school when the topic of slavery was discussed. People who owned large parcels of land prior to the Civil War required vast numbers of laborers, the teacher said. Slaves had been brought over from Africa for that purpose. It never occurred to me to question whether they’d been mistreated or what a slave had to endure. Their existence was simply part of our country’s history.
I continued typing.
Tears sprang to Mammy’s eyes. She took me by the shoulders and gave me a little shake. “You ain’t got no choice, Frankie. We is slaves.”
I stared at the words.
No choice. Slaves.
They echoed through my mind, as though I heard Frankie’s mammy’s voice myself, growing louder and louder, until understanding began to dawn, filling every inch of my being.
“She was owned by someone,” I whispered, shocked by the revulsion that swept over me at the very thought of such a thing. As I stared at the words I’d just typed, it suddenly seemed so absurd that the truth of slavery had evaded me for twenty-two years. I knew the definition of bondage, but until this moment I’d never put a face to it. I’d never met anyone who’d experienced it firsthand. “Frankie wasowned,” I repeated.
The reality of what that truly meant for thousands upon thousands of people overwhelmed me.
I sat back in my chair, unable to continue.
CHAPTEREIGHT
Frankie was waiting for me when I arrived the next day.
“Mornin’.” She stood on the porch in a faded-green dress and house slippers. When she waved to Mr. Norwood, I turned and saw him return the gesture. Our eyes met briefly before he drove off. He’d been quiet on the drive into town, which was fine with me. It allowed me to gather my thoughts and prepare the questions that would get the interview back on track. But now I wondered if he’d thought me rude.
I sighed. I couldn’t worry about Mr. Norwood. I had a job to do.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be back,” Frankie said matter-of-factly. “Thought I mighta scared you off.”
