Page 47 of Under the Tulip Tree
Where was the Halls’ plantation? What was Sam’s last name? Is anyone from the camp still alive?
I tapped my pencil on the notebook, wishing I had answers to the questions. With a flop onto the bed, I stared up at the ceiling.
When had Frankie’s story become much more than an interview for the FWP? I thought back to the day I met her. I’d been shocked to discover she was 101years old. She’d seen so much in her lifetime. Even more than Grandma Lorena. Frankie’s stories of being sold and beaten were horrible, yet her courage to survive it all touched me somewhere deep, in a place I hadn’t realized existed until I met her.
Wasn’t that what life was about? To know and be known. To offer encouragement to others and share the burdens we all face. No matter the color of one’s skin, weren’t we all supposed to care about each other? My own sister was suffering, but I’d shown her little compassion over the years. Accusing her of being concerned only for herself was like the pot calling the kettle black, as the saying goes. Ever since the stock market crash, I’d wallowed in my own self-pity. My job at the newspaper allowed me some semblance of redeeming the life I’d lost, but then I was fired. The position with the FWP had initially been about doing something that would bring me back to feeling like the me I’d lost seven years ago.
But Frankie and all she’d lived through deserved more than that. Maybe time and maturity helped me see this more clearly than I would have years before. Certainly had the earth-shattering events of October29 not happened, I would have never taken a job such as the one I now held. I wouldn’t have ever considered going into Hell’s Half Acre, escorted or not. The plight of the slave from bygone eras would’ve remained as foreign to me as it was to my mother. I would have never met Frankie Washington and heard her story.
I sat up and stared out to the night sky, astounded where my thoughts had led.
I’d never dreamed this possible, but I’d just discovered something good actually came out of the crash and all the changes it brought to my life.
I had a request for Alden when he arrived Saturday morning to take me to Frankie’s.
“Would you mind if we stopped at the library?” I knew we weren’t far from the stately white limestone building on Eighth Avenue. “There’s a book I’m interested in reading.”
“Sure. What’s the title?” He turned the car toward the library.
“Uncle Tom’s Cabinby Harriet Beecher Stowe.”
He nodded. “I think that’s a fine idea. My mother has a copy. I read it as a teenager, and I believe it helped me understand slavery even more.” He glanced at me as we pulled into the parking lot. “When President Lincoln met Mrs. Stowe,he credited her as the author of the book that helped start the war.”
I remembered hearing aboutUncle Tom’s Cabinin school, but it wasn’t a book my teacher recommended. As a student, I hadn’t given it any thought, but recently I began to wonder about the story. Like Alden said, even President Lincoln was said to have read it. I was curious if any of the things Frankie had shared were similar to what the characters in the fictional tale experienced.
The sharp-nosed librarian scowled when I asked for the book. “What is a young lady like you doing reading such things?”
I simply smiled. “Learning.” From his place next to me at the counter, Alden covered a laugh with his hand.
The librarian huffed before turning to search her card files for the location of the book. When she went to retrieve it, the young woman left in charge of the desk came over. She glanced from side to side as though making sure no one was listening, then leaned over to whisper, “There’s an excellent biography about Mrs. Stowe, if you’re interested.”
I nodded eagerly, and she went off to find it as the older woman returned, her face pinched like she’d eaten sour grapes.
“I don’t know why we have this book on our shelves. Literature like this only stirs up things best left in the past.”
Like Mama, this woman wouldn’t be convinced of the benefits of the FWP slave interviews, so there wasn’t any point in explaining my motivation in asking for the book.Thankfully, the younger woman returned with the biography, and the sour-faced librarian left me in her care.
“I admire Mrs. Stowe’s writings,” the young woman said as she jotted my name on the paper lists of those who’d checked out the books prior to me. There weren’t many.
“Thank you.” I gathered the books. “I’m sure I will too.”
Alden had a surprise for Frankie and me when we arrived at her house a short time later.
“I brought a camera today.” He took a shiny black box from its leather case. Two glass lenses on the front reminded me of an owl’s big eyes. “The Works Progress Administration hopes to collect as many photographs of former slaves as possible to go with the stories.”
Frankie eyed the strange-looking contraption. “Well, now, I ain’t had my picture made since I was a young woman. Them cameras look different these days. It’s smaller than the ones I remember.”
Alden nodded. “It’s very easy to operate.” He opened the top and tinkered with a knob, explaining the process, before meeting her gaze again. “Would you be willing to have your picture taken?”
At first, I wasn’t sure she would comply. But after a long moment, a slow smile slid up her face. “I ’spect if the gov’ment wants a picture of ol’ Frankie, I shouldn’t deny them that pleasure.”
While Alden scouted the best lighting for the picture, Frankie invited me back to her bedroom. “I’d like to freshen up a bit. You can come on back and help, if you care to.”
I followed her down the narrow hallway to the room on the right. I’d only peeked in the door that first day in my quest for a bathroom. Now I had time to take in the details, few as they were.
“I suppose my dress will have to do, but some years ago I was given these earrings.” She opened a plain wooden box on top of a dresser and took out two silver hoops. “I don’t wear such things these days, but when I was younger, I enjoyed dressing up every now and then.” She handed the earrings to me. “Would you help get these on my ears? I’m afraid my poor old hand can’t manage it.”
I took the hoops from her and set to work. I’d helped Grandma Lorena with her jewelry many times. It felt right somehow, being that close to Frankie, helping with a task familiar to women of all colors.
