Page 9 of Under the Tulip Tree
His glance shifted to our house. He studied it a long moment before asking, “You live here?”
The odd question confused me. “Yes.” Why else would I be here so early in the morning, ready to begin a new job that he himself was driving me to?
“Hmm.”
That’s it. That’s all he said before he shoved the gearshift into reverse and backed down the driveway. With one last glance at the house, then at me, he put the car into gear and headed up the street.
I stewed over hishmmfor a solid minute before I stole a glance at his profile.
He was far younger than I’d anticipated. For some reason I’d envisioned Alden Norwood as an older gentleman when Mr. Carlson, the director of the Nashville FWP office, told me a fellow writer would pick me up and drive me to Hell’s Half Acre, a run-down neighborhood where all of my interviewees lived. Mr. Carlson had sung Mr. Norwood’s praises, declaring him a true advocate for the downtrodden and a highly experienced interviewer. I was to ask Mr. Norwood any questions I might have regarding my assignment, with the assurance the gentleman would be happy to supply the answers.
Yet Mr. Norwood couldn’t be much older than me. Dark hair in need of a trim poked out from beneath the Errol Flynn hat that, now as I took a closer look, I realized had seen better days. The dark-gray suit he wore might well have come from a church charity box, as threadbare as it appeared.I couldn’t help but wonder at his financial situation and how long he’d been in need of work before he discovered the FWP.
Which brought me full circle back to hishmm. What exactly did it mean? Was it a goodhmmor a badhmm? So intent on my ponderings, I didn’t realize I was staring at him until I found questioning brown eyes returning the gaze while we waited at an intersection.
“I beg your pardon.” A rush of heat rose to my face as I quickly looked away. “I was...” What could I say? Embarrassment jumbled my brain, preventing a logical explanation from surfacing in time to save me.
He chuckled. “You wore quite a perplexed frown as you studied me. Dare I ask the nature of such glowering?”
The car lurched forward before I could answer, and we resumed our journey. With his concentration returned to the road, my tense shoulders eased. Perhaps his humor at my poor manners boded well. I hoped so anyway.
“I simply wondered what you meant byhmm.”
He shot me a puzzled look before returning his attention to the other vehicles on the busy street. Nashville’s population had grown over the years despite the depressed economy. Sedans, delivery trucks, and streetcars clogged roads inadequate for so much traffic, yet the city had no money to alleviate the problem.
“When you inquired if I lived in my house,” I said in explanation, “I informed you I did indeed. You responded withhmm. I wondered what you meant by that.”
Understanding registered on his face. He glanced at mebefore answering. “I suppose I was surprised that someone who took a job with the FWP resides in such a fine home.”
His answer was not what I expected. “Why is that?”
“Because the programs under the Works Progress Administration are for people who meet certain criteria. We’ve all had to take the ‘pauper’s oath,’ as it’s called, proving we have no money, no property of our own, no job, and no prospect of getting any of those.” He glanced at me again, this time taking in my dress, sweater, and hat. “I’ll be honest, Miss Leland. You don’t look like you meet the criteria.”
I wasn’t sure whether to take his opinion as a compliment or an insult. I’d borrowed one of Mama’s old dresses she used to wear to her club meetings, hoping to appear serious and mature. The pale-blue outfit wasn’t new, but it wasn’t as worn-looking as most of my own things. And yet this man had the audacity to judge me and my circumstances by the house I lived in and the clothes I wore.
My blood boiled. “I wouldn’t have taken the oath if it weren’t true. What exactly should someone who meets the criteria look like? In your esteemed opinion, of course.” I folded my arms across my belly when he chanced a glance at me.
Even with his attention returned to the road, I kept my glare on him, awaiting his response.
“The Works Progress Administration is part of the government’s New Deal programs. It was formed to help the down-and-out through these hard economic times.” He spoke as though explaining something to a child. I fumedas he checked for traffic before proceeding across a street. A moment later his eyes met mine. “It’s easy to see your family hasn’t been hit as hard by the depressed economy as the rest of us who work for the WPA. There are people—fellow writers and friends of mine—who have lost their homes and have children to take care of. They’re truly suffering and could use a job with the Federal Writers’ Project. Pardon me for saying so, but you aren’t one of them.”
I felt as though I’d been slapped. How dare this man assume we hadn’t been hit as hard as anyone else. And as for not suffering?
I pictured my father, the former bank president, a man who’d dined with the governor and held positions on various boards, now holed up in a dark room day and night, bourbon bottles his constant companion. Mama tried to keep him clean and fed, but there were days when he was unrecognizable, with his unkempt hair and whiskers.
I thought of my mother, working long hours at the sewing shop in order to put food on our table, and of my sister, her life full of diapers and despair over a lazy, unfaithful husband.
No, we weren’t homeless as thousands were, and thankfully we weren’t starving. But this man, this stranger, had no right to judge my life based on a glimpse of our once-stately house and a hand-me-down outfit.
A lump formed in my throat, and my chin trembled. “You don’t know anything about me or my family, Mr. Norwood. I’ll thank you to keep your judgments to yourself.”
I faced the window so he wouldn’t see the unwelcomeemotion that sprang to my eyes. His misguided opinion shouldn’t bother me, yet I was so weary of strangers and acquaintances alike making assumptions. No one knew what we’d been through the past seven years. No one knew the fear we lived with every single day. If it weren’t for Grandma Lorena’s help with bills, I didn’t know how we would survive.
I dug in my purse for a handkerchief and wiped my drippy nose. With resolve, I blinked away the last bit of telling moisture, determined not to give him satisfaction in knowing he’d upset me. The opinion of Alden Norwood didn’t matter in the least. He was merely my driver, and I would treat him as such.
The grand Tennessee state capitol building came into view a short time later, its gleaming white limestone walls and lantern-shaped cupola presiding over the city with dignified command. It seemed at odds with the slums that existed practically in the shadow of the stately structure where laws were created and the rights of Tennessee citizens were discussed. Did the men whose office windows must surely look down on Hell’s Half Acre not notice the neighborhood whose sordid reputation of poverty, violence, and crime dated back to the 1870s? Or was it that they simply didn’t care?
“What’s the address of your first interview?”
