Page 21 of Under the Tulip Tree
I faced her, surprised by her doubt. “You haven’t finished your story.”
She studied me a long moment before giving a slight nod. “Come on in. I’ll get us some coffee fore we get started.”
I followed her into the cozy home and deposited my purse, notepads, and a bologna sandwich wrapped in paper on the chair I’d occupied the previous day. The aroma of freshly baked bread filled my senses. “Oh, my, something smells wonderful.”
We continued to the kitchen, where two loaves of bread sat cooling on the table.
“Jael is a fine cook, but she can’t bake bread. She’d rather buy it at the market, but I don’t like that store-bought mess. Tastes like cardboard to me.”
I remembered Dovie’s homemade rolls, and my mouth watered. “When I was growing up, our cook made the most delicious yeast rolls. They’d practically melt in your mouth.”
“Baking bread ain’t hard, but it takes patience to get it right. Young people these days don’t slow down long enough to do nothin’. Always lookin’ for the easy way.” She moved to the stove. “Coffee?”
I nodded. “Please.”
She poured two cups of steaming brew from a blue enamel pot on the stove and added a sugar cube to each after we discovered we both liked it sweet but without cream.
We took our drinks to the living room and settled in. I assumed she’d want to get right to her tale, but she didn’t seem in a hurry to talk about the past and instead asked me about my family, a subject I wasn’t too keen to delve into.
“Mama works as a seamstress. I have an older sister who’s married and has three children.” I paused, wondering what I could say about Dad that didn’t divulge my true feelingsof bitterness and disgust. “My father lost his business in the stock market crash. He hasn’t found a new job yet.”
Frankie sipped her coffee while I gave the brief answer. “It be hard times, for sure. I ’spect they appreciate you taking this job with the... What’s it called? The Federal Writers’ Progress?”
I held back a grin. “The Federal Writers’ Project. It’s part of the Works Progress Administration.”
“Yes, I remember now. Has something to do with the president, though I don’t see why he’d pay good money to have you come out and listen to my ol’ stories.” She shrugged and finished her coffee. “But,” she said as she put her empty cup on the low table that separated us, “if he wants to, ain’t gonna argue with that. You ready to start?”
I hurried to get myself organized, shuffling notes and wondering if I should press the issue of returning to the questions or simply let her continue the tale as she saw fit.
“Last night after you left, I got to thinkin’ that maybe I shouldn’t tell you ’bout all the ugly things I seen during slavery times.”
My hands stilled, and I met her eyes.
“I got lots of stories that ain’t as hard to hear as them like I told you yesterday. There was some good times, too, and funny things that happened. I thought maybe that’s what I should tell you today instead of goin’ back to them dark days.”
We sat in silence with our own thoughts for a long moment. A rooster crowed somewhere in the neighborhood.
I knew it must be difficult for her to recall the painful past, and I certainly would never presume to insist she continue with what we began yesterday. But the reporter in me also believed her story—the true story—needed to be told. Especially after the eye-opening revelations I’d experienced last evening.
“Mrs. Washington.” I hesitated, trying to find the right words. “I haven’t been around very many black people, as you correctly guessed yesterday. Our housekeeper, Dovie, is the only one I’ve ever known, really.” I paused. “People like me, like my family, we don’t know much about what slaves experienced. I’ve never heard of children being beaten with no one held accountable, or being forced into labor at the age of seven. Even though slavery isn’t legal anymore, I believe it’s important to remember the past as it truly was, not as we wish it to be.”
I didn’t know if my speech made any sense, but I meant every word. In the twenty-four hours I’d known this woman, her life’s story had touched me in a way I had not expected.
Another long moment passed before she nodded. “I ’spect you’re right. We who lived through it don’t talk ’bout it much. Times is still hard, but it ain’t nothin’ like back when folks could own you without you havin’ a say. We was no more than a dog to some masters. Fact is, we wasn’t treated as good as folks treat a dog these days.”
She gave a slow nod. “I’ll give you what you come for. The truth about slavery times.”
With that settled, we both seemed to mentally prepareourselves. She to go back in time to hard, painful memories, and me to listen, learn, and perhaps come away with a better understanding of the cruelties and injustices some people experienced at the hands of others simply because of the color of their skin.
Despite my tears, screams, and protests, Mammy dragged me up to the big house the day after Miz Sadie beat me. My hand throbbed and my head ached, but Mammy said there wasn’t nothin’ to be done. I’d be whipped by the overseer if I didn’t obey, and I’d seen enough slaves suffer that punishment to know I didn’t want to ever experience it.
Aunt Liza met us in the kitchen. She looked at my bandaged hand, shook her head, and gently guided me toward the walkway to the main house. “Come on, chile. I take you on up to the nursery. Miz Sadie don’t get outta her bed for another hour. We’ll get you settled in with Miss Charlotte so things be nice an’ peaceful-like when Mistress gets up.”
With one last look at Mammy, who stood with her fist pressed against her lips and a sheen of tears in her eyes, I allowed Aunt Liza to lead me through the house and up a back stairway I’d never seen before. The only room on the third floor, the nursery was painted a pale shade of yellow with white, lacy curtains dancing in a gentle breeze coming through open windows. A child-size table occupied the center of the room, set with tiny dishes and cups. Three dollies sat in small chairs as though waiting for breakfast to be served.
Giggles came from an open doorway across from us. A moment later golden curls poked out, and I saw Charlotte peek around the doorframe. When Aunt Liza motioned to her, the girl came forward.
“Miss Charlotte, lookee who come to play dollies with you.”
