Page 89 of Under the Tulip Tree
I took a deep breath. My time had come. “I’d like to write an article about her. About the other slaves too. To tell their stories in their own words, holding nothing back. Frankie’s story would only be the beginning. There are hundreds of former slaves living in Tennessee. But it wouldn’t always be about slavery. I want to interview former soldiers who fought in the Civil War, nurses who tended the wounded, riverboat captains, and even plantation owners. All sorts of voices from the past, telling their stories in their words. The possibilities are endless.”
My passionate speech came to an end. I feared he would laugh me out of the room, but he didn’t. He tapped his pencil on the desk, deep in thought. “It’s an interesting idea, Leland. I’ll give you that. But we don’t run this type of human-interest story. With the economy the way it stands, folks want to read about jobs and what’s being done to help those in need now, not what happened in the past.”
“I realize times are still hard for a lot of people,” I said, thinking of my own family. “But if they knew that others had suffered and survived, it could be encouraging. Life-changing, even.”
He chuckled. “You’re putting a lot of stock in your writing abilities, Leland. Even the best newspapermen have a hard time getting their message across.”
“My confidence isn’t in my ability, sir, but in the people whose stories I’ll write.” I thought of Frankie’s courage and smiled. “It’s their lives that will offer hope. Not all of them have a happy ending, I imagine, but they still deserve to be told.”
The clock on the wall ticked off time as Mr. Armistead’s gaze bored into me, his face giving away nothing. Finally his chair squealed as he leaned back against it. “Tell me about this Frankie of yours.”
I couldn’t keep from grinning. “I’ll do one better.” I opened my purse and pulled out the story I’d been working on since the day after Frankie’s funeral. I handed the typed sheets to Mr.A.
He glanced at the title page. “‘Their Stories, Their Words.’ You’ve already written the article?”
“Yes, sir. I knew I’d have to prove myself.”
A look of appreciation crossed his features before he continued reading. I watched his face for the slightest reaction, but not a wrinkle moved. I tried not to let disappointment creep in while he shuffled the pages.
Finally, after he’d gone over it a second time, he tossed the whole bundle onto his desk. My hopes plummeted.
“The thing is, Leland,” he began, shaking his head. He picked up the first page, glanced over it, then returned it to the pile.
I steeled myself against the imminent rejection and the disappointment it would bring.
“The thing is, I wish I’d come up with this idea myself.”
I held my breath.
He indicated the papers on his desk. “This is good stuff, kid. Your Frankie sounds like quite a lady.”
My entire body trembled with excitement. “Are you saying—?”
He held up his hand before I could finish my hope-filled question. “Unfortunately, it’s not a good fit for the paper. Like I said, people want to read about the economy and whatthe folks in Washington are doing about it. Things like that.”
I swallowed hard. I knew it had been a long shot, but still, I’d hoped Mr.A. would see the potential. It hurt down deep that Frankie’s story might go untold. I felt as though I’d failed her.
He glanced over the article again, his chin jutted out in thought. “However, I’ve got a friend in New York who might be interested.” He glanced up at me, a glint in his eye. “He’s the editor of a little rag calledCollier’s. Ever heard of it?” He laughed at his own joke.
My mouth fell open. “Collier’s, sir?”
“Bill and I go way back to our university days. I’ve sent him some writers over the years.” He waited for me to focus on his intense gaze, although my mind was spinning. “Listen to me, Leland. This article is good. Good enough for a national magazine.”
I stared at Mr.A., unsure whether to bawl like a baby or dance like a fool. There was no guarantee his college buddy would print the article, but it meant the world to me thatMr. Armistead truly did see the potential in Frankie’s story. That he liked my writing was icing on the cake.
“Thank you, Mr.A.,” I said, my voice shaky with emotion.
“You’re welcome.” He grew contemplative. “You’re different, Leland. More sure of yourself. I like it. Now get out of here and let me get back to work.”
His gruff compliment followed me through the newsroom and out the door into glorious sunshine. I couldn’t wait to share my news with Alden and Grandma Lorena, but first there was someone else I had to tell.
I drove to the cemetery. Frankie’s grave stood out among the others. A simple wooden cross bore her name, but I knew a granite headstone had been ordered. The residents of Hell’s Half Acre had taken up a collection to pay for it.
Seeing the mound of fresh dirt covered in wilted flowers brought tears to my eyes. How had this woman become so dear to me in such a short amount of time? She would forever be part of my life. Her story was connected to mine. Despite the shame and pain of the past, together we’d overcome it. I’d sought forgiveness for my family’s transgressions, and she’d willingly given it.
There, under the tulip tree, peace—real, tangible peace—settled in my soul.
“I’m going to tell your story, Frankie,” I whispered. “Thank you for entrusting me with it.”
