Page 34 of Under the Tulip Tree
“One day I heard about a rally for equal rights. I told Mama I was going to visit a friend, and I was, although I didn’t know it at the time I spoke the untruth. When I arrived at the park, there was quite a crowd gathered. Someone was giving a speech, but I stood at the back and wasn’t able to hear what was being said. I felt out of place even though there were many white people in attendance.”
Her eyes misted over. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw Jim walk toward me. He asked what I was doing there. When I told him I’d changed, his smile could have lit up the city.”
I grinned. “He still loved you.”
“He did. We talked for hours, and by the end of the day, he proposed and I accepted.”
“What did your parents think?”
“They weren’t overly excited, but Jim came from an old Nashville family, so they were satisfied with his pedigree and bank account.”
Grandma’s story had a happy ending. Even though I’d only been a child when Grandpa passed away, I’d seen the love they had for one another. It was evident in their conversations, their laughter. When Grandpa died of a heart attack, Grandma seemed lost. One day she arrived at our house with a smile and something else I didn’t know what to call backthen, but I did now. Peace. The pain of loss no longer filled her face. She still missed Grandpa fiercely, but she was able to move forward.
“With Margaret our only child, Jim decided we needed to help the children of Nashville who were less fortunate. He gave quite a bit of money and much of his time to some of the programs for the poor, oftentimes going into Hell’s HalfAcre.”
I stared at her, unable to believe what I’d just heard. “Grandpa spent time in Hell’s Half Acre?” At her affirmative nod, I asked, “Does Mama know?”
She sighed. “Jim took Margaret with him once when she was about twelve years old. He’d become acquainted with a pastor down there, and there was always a need among the congregation. That day it was a young mother whose husband had abandoned her and her four children. She needed some repairs done to their home. Winter was upon us, and the poor things were freezing. Jim provided the money to purchase the necessary supplies to repair the roof, but he also wanted to help with the physical labor. He thought it would be a good experience for Margaret to see the poverty that some people are forced to live in, hoping it would quell the selfish streak we were beginning to notice in her.”
I tried to imagine Mama as a girl, seeing Hell’s Half Acre for the first time. “I guess it was quite a shock for her, seeing that neighborhood.”
“It was. Unfortunately, the time she spent down there with Jim did more damage than good. It seemed to solidifyin her mind her superiority over the people who lived there rather than ignite any sympathetic feelings for their plight.”
I glanced into the living room, where a black-and-white picture of Grandpa sat on the mantel. “I wish I could’ve gone down there with him.”
“He would have enjoyed that. And he would have been so proud of you, Rena.” When I turned to her, she smiled. “I believe you’ve inherited some of his spirit. Like your grandpa Jim, don’t let anyone, not even your mother and father, keep you from doing what you know you’re called to do.”
I left Grandma’s a short while later, full of wonder that my own grandparents had witnessed the inequality between the races and tried to do something about it. What if Mama had taken pity on the residents of Hell’s Half Acre on that long-ago day rather than allowing her scorn to grow? How different would things have been for our family, our servants?
A question resounded in my heart.
Was I making a difference? Did my interviews with former slaves truly matter?
As my feet carried me home, I realized how desperately I wanted the answer to be yes.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
Mrs. Patsy Hyde was a sweet elderly woman whose stories of her life as a slave were touching yet far different than those told to me by Frankie. Patsy spoke of her days as a child on the plantation with a fondness I wasn’t sure what to make of, and I struggled to keep to the list of questions provided by the FWP. I wanted to ask about beatings and babies and freedom and how she truly felt about slavery. The things Frankie had willingly shared. But I didn’t, and I felt strangely unsatisfied when I bade Mrs. Patsy goodbye.
Alden was waiting for me.
“How did it go?” he asked after I’d settled into the passenger seat.
I shrugged. “Good, I suppose. We finished her interview.”
He studied me with eyes that grew narrower with each moment. “But you aren’t happy with it.”
How did he know me so well already?
“I wish she would have opened up more, that’s all.”
After a silent beat, Alden said, “You mean like Frankie.”
I glanced longingly in the direction of Frankie’s house a few blocks away and nodded. “Frankie is so honest in the telling of her story.”
“And you don’t believe Mrs. Hyde was honest?”
I looked at him, uncertain how to answer. “I don’t think she lied, if that’s what you mean. She was a young child when the war ended, like my grandma Lorena. Maybe she wasn’t aware of all the terrible things that went on or simply doesn’t remember them.” I shrugged again, unable to believe my own assessment. Every slave, young or old, surely witnessed things that would stay with them the rest of their lives.
