Page 87 of Under the Tulip Tree
“She was well loved,” Grandma said.
Alden assisted her from the car and we made our way inside. I was pleasantly surprised to find we were not the only white people in attendance. Although I guessed Illa Crandle was long dead, I wondered if any of her descendants had heard the tales of Frankie and Sam and come to pay their respects.
The service was like nothing I’d ever experienced. Spirited music and singing filled the rafters. When the singers grew quiet, Pastor Silas gave a beautiful eulogy. Then one person after another stood to speak about Frankie. How she and Sam had helped them in their time of need. How she’d taught them to read. How she’d changed their lives. Like Grandma, hearing the stories made me wish I’d known Frankie longer than the short time I was granted.
When the service was over, we followed the long procession to an old graveyard near the ruins of Fort Negley. There, not far from where she’d lived in the contraband camp, Frankie was laid to rest in the shade of a tulip tree, Sam beside her.
We dropped Grandma at her home after she treated us to lunch. Despite the sadness of the day, I enjoyed introducing Alden to Grandma Lorena and letting them get to know one another. She winked at me when I walked her to her door. “I hope you’ll bring Alden around again. He seems like a fine young man.”
We took Alden’s car to Centennial Park. The rebuilt Parthenon and several small lakes were all that remained from the grand Tennessee exposition held in celebration of Tennessee’s one-hundredth birthday in 1897. Only a few other people milled about, no doubt due to the clouds above us growing darker and threatening rain, so we practically had the place to ourselves.
Settling on the steps of the huge replica of the Greek building, we sat quietly. Birds trilled and fountains gurgled nearby, but the lack of human voices allowed my mind and body to relax. I needed this moment of respite to prepare for whatever Alden had to tell me.
“I know this sounds crazy, but I’ve often wondered who will attend my funeral.”
I turned to him. His statement was not what I expected. “I don’t think I’ve ever once considered such a thing.”
He chuckled and gazed out at the natural beauty of the park. Fading lawns dotted with leaves of various colors spread out beyond us. Autumn was in the air, and soon the trees would be completely bare.
“I suppose it’s a strange thing to ponder, especially for someone my age. But—” he paused and lookedheavenward—“everyone dies eventually. And after what I witnessed yesterday... with Frankie’s hand, I mean... I’m not entirely sure what I believe about life and death anymore.”
I considered this. “Maybe that’s the whole point. What we believe and what we think are not static. Experiences and people leave a mark on us and change us. Meeting Frankie and hearing her stories opened my eyes, almost like a blind person having their sight restored and seeing the world for the first time.”
I spread my hands in front of me. “Witnessing the transformation of her hand...” I still found it nearly impossible to believe. “Well, I don’t see how we could remain the same people after that.”
“Her story needs to be told.”
Alden’s quiet words drew my gaze. “Yes, it does. You took my pages to Mr. Carlson, didn’t you?”
“I did.” He heaved a sigh.
“What? What aren’t you telling me?”
He reached for my hand. “Mr. Carlson looked over your submission. He said it was too long. He also suggested that some of the more graphic details will need to be removed.”
I stared at him. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “He himself told me to take down the former slaves’ stories word for word. That’s what I did. Frankie’s story is told in her words, her way.”
“I know. I said as much to him, but he has his own ideas about what should and shouldn’t be included in the narratives.”
I sat in stunned silence.
“He wants you to turn in an edited version next week.”
A spark of rebellion ignited somewhere inside me, reminding me of Frankie. “And if I don’t?”
“He won’t include Frankie’s story with the other narratives.”
I gaped at Alden. “He can’t be serious.” I stood and stared down at him.
Alden rose. His expression revealed the truth. “He was perfectly serious, Rena. I feel exactly the same way you do. We should take down the stories word for word, just the way the interviewee describes their life, with the exception of clarity now and then. But Mr. Carlson doesn’t agree. He feels they should be more uniform in length and similar in content.”
My fists clenched. “To do that would forfeit the truth. Their lives weren’t neat and orderly. They were messy and ugly, and yes, sometimes the details were graphic. How can he—we—edit someone’s life story when we weren’t the ones who lived it?”
“I don’t know.” He seemed resigned to Mr. Carlson’s demands, but I was not.
“I’ll speak to him myself tomorrow. Make him see that I can’t—I won’t edit Frankie’s story.”
He shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “I don’t believe it will do any good, Rena. His instructions were very clear. Edit the story or he won’t use it.”
