Page 25 of Under the Tulip Tree
She carried the cup of steaming black liquid to the table. Dad gave a hesitant glance toward me, then moved forward. I had no desire to make small talk with my parents, let alone continue the conversation about Frankie.
I set my half-finished cup of coffee in the sink. “I have a lot of notes to type up.” I headed for the doorway.
“Your mother says you’re working for the government.” Dad’s bloodshot eyes met mine.
My spine stiffened. “I am. What of it?”
Mama sent me a pleading look. Dad and I didn’t speak to one another often, but when we did, it usually ended in an argument and loud voices.
He shrugged and picked up his cup. “The government got us into this mess. Don’t know why you’d want to work for them.”
“If you’re referring to our family’s financial situation, the government isn’t responsible.” My ire rose at his lack of culpability. “I should think you’d be grateful the Works Progress Administration created jobs for out-of-work writers like me. They’re helping individuals while at the same time doing something useful and beneficial for all of society.”
He scoffed. “How is conducting interviews beneficial to society? You’ve always thought too highly of yourself.”
My fists clenched. How dare this man who’d gambled away my future sit in judgment of me!
“For your information, the subjects of the FWP interviews are former slaves. President Roosevelt believes it’s important to preserve their stories for the generations to come. I’ve learned more about slavery in the two days I’ve been with Frankie than in all the years I studied it in school.”
Mama’s eyes flew wide. “The woman you’re interviewing is—?”
I lifted my chin. Ready or not, it was time to confess. “Yes, Mama. Frances Washington—or Frankie, as she’s known—is black. She’s lived through all kinds of terrible things, and it’s important her story, as well as the others’, are told.”
My parents stared at me as though I’d taken leave of my senses.
Dad cursed under his breath and shook his head. “Now I’ve heard everything. The government paying good money to let those people tell tales about how whites did them wrong. I bet this woman has already filled your head with how poorly she was treated.” His tone spoke his disdain.
“Oh, Rena.” Mama’s face went pale. “I had no idea you were involved in something like this. Why didn’t you tell me who this woman was when I asked?”
I blew out my frustration. “Because of this.” My wave encompassed them both. “Because I knew you wouldn’t approve.”
Mama huffed. “Of course we wouldn’t approve. What would our friends say if they knew what you were doing?” She gasped. “Have you gone into this woman’s house?”
I ignored that question and addressed her first. “What friends, Mama? No one cares about us, so why should I care what anyone might think?”
“Because we still live in this community, Lorena Ann. We attend church with some who wouldn’t think too highly of these interviews.” Mama shook her head, her anxiety mounting. “Peggy Denny will have a grand time spreading this newsaround. How could you do this to us? I won’t be able to show my face once folks learn what you’re involved in.”
I stared at her. My father had bankrupted our family with dishonest schemes. My sister’s indiscretion had forced her to marry a jerk who couldn’t stay faithful. How wasmy job interviewing former slaves deemed worse than all of that?
Determined to put an end to the conversation, I stomped to the doorway. “Mrs. Washington is a very nice woman. Her life matters, just as much as yours and mine.”
I didn’t wait for a response and ran up the stairs to my room. I slammed the door in much the same way I’d done as a hot-tempered adolescent. It wasn’t very mature, but their attitude toward Frankie infuriated me.
I flopped onto the bed, breathing like a bull ready to charge. Their disapproval was expected yet it still stung. Despite Mary’s disappointing marriage and rowdy children, she’d always garnered praise from my parents. Mama cried buckets when Mary had to quit school, even though my sister cared little for studies. But whenever I voiced my displeasure at not being able to take classes in journalism at the university, Mama called me ungrateful.
With my eyes closed, I tried to calm myself. My parents’ opinion of my job with the FWP didn’t matter. I knew I was doing something that deserved more praise than what they were willing to give.
And yet questions silently filtered into my mind. Questions the brief conversation with them raised.
Why did I feel the interview with Frankie was so important? What made her life’s story worthy of being told? By my own admission, I knew very little about what slaves endured during the period when owning another person was legal. Why should it matter to me now?
I rolled over and gazed out the window. The top of the magnolia tree filled the view, but it was Frankie’s tiny backyard that came to mind. Even though she lived in one of the worst neighborhoods in Nashville in a small house without an indoor lavatory, she’d managed to make her little part of the world beautiful. She didn’t have the benefit of gardeners like we’d had before the stock market crash. She just planted seeds and tended them with loving care.
I breathed out a sigh and sat up.
The life Frankie and others like her lived was as foreign to me as someone from China. Was that the reason I found myself interested in hearing what she endured during slavery? Simple curiosity?
I made myself give an honest answer.
