Page 37 of Under the Tulip Tree
“I apologize for surprising you like that, Mr. Norwood.” Frankie stirred her stew, letting the air cool it. “When you get to be my age, you try not to miss an opportunity to give thanks to the Lord for every little blessing. You never know when you’ll find yo’self face-to-face with him.” She chuckled, then took a bite of the meal.
Alden’s tense shoulders eased with the sound. Jael returned with a platter of thick corn bread dripping with butter. Frankie’s declaration of it melting in one’s mouth wasn’t vain boasting. I’d never tasted anything more delicious. Jael promised to share her secret with me.
Frankie asked about Alden’s family and wanted to hear more about life in Chicago. He answered each of her questions, but the easygoingness from his previous interaction with Frankie had disappeared. He suddenly seemed reserved, almost shy about talking about himself.
If Frankie noticed, she didn’t let on. “What is your family’s religious background?”
It was almost as though the tables had been turned, and Frankie had become the interviewer. I glanced at Alden, wishing now we hadn’t come to visit Frankie. I didn’t know the answer to her question, but it was clear Alden was uncomfortable with the topic.
“My mother’s family was Jewish, but she hasn’t practiced since she was a child. Father was raised Catholic.”
Frankie gave a thoughtful nod. “We never had a name for our religious beliefs back in slavery times. We weren’t Methodist or Baptist the way folks are today. We didn’t go to a church building or have regular meetings.” She dusted corn bread crumbs from the table into her gnarled hand and deposited them into her empty bowl. “Mammy tried to teach us chillens about God, but I was too young to understand. After I was sold time and time again, I didn’t think much about God since he didn’t think much about me. I figured I was better off without such beliefs.”
Alden frowned. “If you don’t believe in God, why do you say grace?”
“Oh, I believe in God, Mr. Norwood. I sure do.”
“Why? Like you said, if he does exist, he doesn’t seem to care about us. What’s the point of putting one’s faith in something or someone who allows slavery and evil to exist?”
The question hung in the air.
Frankie seemed to consider her response before speaking. “I’ll answer that question if you’ll answer one of mine.”
Alden nodded.
“Do you believe in God, Mr. Norwood? Not in religion, but in a Creator, a Father?”
All eyes turned to him. I wondered how the conversation had taken us down this dangerous path, and I hoped it didn’t lead to hurt feelings or angry words. Religious discussions were not something we ever broached in my home. Ever.
“I don’t, Mrs. Washington.” Alden sat straighter in his chair and met Frankie’s gaze. “I mean no disrespect to you or anyone who does. I simply find that the God of the Bible doesn’t make sense or have any place in our modern world.”
Several silent moments passed before Frankie gave a slow nod. “Yes, Mr. Norwood. I know exactly what you mean. The things Mammy told me about God didn’t add up. Especially after living in slavery.”
“Then why would you believe in God now? What happened to make you change your mind?”
Frankie’s gaze narrowed on Alden. “I didn’t change my mind, young man. It ain’t as easy as that. When we’re set in our ways, nothin’ nobody says can make us change what we think or believe. It took something bigger than just preacher talk or words in a book. No, sir, I didn’t change my mind.”
“What happened then?” Alden asked.
Frankie sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest, an impish grin on her face. “God showed me I was wrong.”
My stomach roiled at the stench that came from behind the row of canvas tents.
Hot July air hung heavy and still over the contraband camp, trapping odors from makeshift outhouses and garbage piles like a cork in a bottle full of putrid milk. I was weary of the filth, the noise, and the drudgery of camp life. Conditions had steadily deteriorated in the four months we’d been kept here. Food was sparse and often inedible, and tempers, including my own, hadrisen.
Male laughter greeted me when I ducked into the small tent I shared with another woman. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I found my cot occupied by a writhing couple.
My blood boiled. “Get outta here!”
Nell, the laziest gal I’d ever met, struggled up from beneath the man. At least she had the sense to look embarrassed as she tugged the front of her dress closed. The man stood, adjusting his own garments. I’d seen him around camp the past weeks, pretending to have a bad leg in order to avoid working for the Yankees, building their fortifications and digging trenches to keep the Confederates at bay.
“I told you I don’t want no men in here.” I glared at Nell until her gaze dropped to her bare feet. She couldn’t be more than sixteen years old, but I wasn’t about to share this cramped, moth-eaten, smelly tent with a gal who ended up in the family way and brought a screaming baby into the mix.
“Now, Frankie, you don’t gotta be cross at Nell here,” the man drawled, offering me a sugar-sweet smile and showingoff even white teeth. No doubt it was the same smile he gave every other gal in camp, worming his way into their beds.
I narrowed my glare on him. “Don’t speak to me. Don’t look at me. And don’t ever come into this tent again, or I’ll tell them soldiers you ain’t got no hurt leg. You been making them look like fools for believing your pathetic story ’bout how you injured your leg runnin’ away from your massa.” My eyes traveled his length. “I seen you plenty of times when the soldiers ain’t looking, walking around without a limp.”
A flash of concern crossed his face before he masked it. “My leg ain’t none of your business. ’Sides, I really did hurt it comin’ up from Georgia.”
