I saw Sam in my comings and goings. The ever-present smile remained on his face as he greeted the officers, soldiers, former slaves. It didn’t matter who he happened across. They were all treated to that smile and a polite word.
By midafternoon, with the sun beating down and heat coming from the fires, exhaustion swept over me. I hadn’t worked this hard in ages. Not even when I’d labored in the tobacco fields. My body wasn’t used to physical labor, and the muscles in my back and arms screamed their discomfort. I knew I’d feel the misery in the morning.
One scraggly tree remained nearby, and I sat beneath its pitiful offering of shade. I’d washed all the officers’ shirts, socks, and underthings and had them hanging out to dry. I could only hope my tired brain remembered whose was whose once they came off the line and I pressed them with sadirons. I still needed to empty the kettles and bank the fires, but my aching back demanded I stay where I was.
“We sure could use some rain right about now.”
I looked up to find Sam a few paces away. He wasn’t smiling, although he wore a pleasant expression despite trails of sweat dripping down the sides of his face.
He held out a canteen. “Thought you might like some cool water.”
My first reaction was annoyance. Why did he presume to know what I might need?
But then I realized how thirsty I was. I hadn’t taken time to drink or eat anything all day, focused as I’d been on doing well my first day. No wonder I felt light-headed.
“Much obliged.” He handed me the canteen, and I drank until there wasn’t one drop left. I gave a slight shrug as I handed the empty container back to him. “Guess I forgot all about drinking anything in this heat.”
He nodded. “Wouldn’t want you to get sun sickness.” His glance went from me to the lines of clean laundry flapping in the hot breeze. “You sure been workin’ hard. The men, they ’ppreciate a hard worker. They got rid of the last woman ’cuz she was lazy. I see they don’t have to worry about that with you.”
Despite my dislike for the man, his compliment eased some of my worry. “I just hope I don’t get their drawers mixed up when I put ’em away.”
A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest. I couldn’t help but enjoy the sound.
“I’d be right pleased to empty them kettles for you, Miss Frankie, while you tend to other things.”
I didn’t want to become beholden to this man, yet my weary body couldn’t muster the strength to finish the job. I’d let him do it—this once—but I didn’t want him to think it was a favor to me.
“Suit yo’self.” I gave an uncaring shrug. “I’ve got some tidying up to do, and I want to check one of the shirts that needs mending.”
A grin lifted the corners of his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”
He set off, a spring in his step despite the heat. I watched him take the thick rag I’d used to keep my hands from getting burned and lift the heavy kettle as though it weighed but a pound or two. The muscles in his arms bulged and strained, but he gave no indication the task was difficult.
I dragged myself to my feet and cleaned up the laundry area. By the time he finished with the last kettle, I was ready to find my tent.
“It’d be my pleasure to walk you home, Miss Frankie.” He tipped his head politely and smiled. “I’m going that direction myself.”
While I was grateful for his help with the kettles, I had no desire to spend time with the man. “I’m sure I can get there fine on my own.” Begrudgingly I added, “Thank you for emptying the water.”
I started toward the contraband camp, hoping he’d stay put. I’d gone several paces when I heard, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Frankie.”
Curiosity made me turn around.
That big ol’ smile stayed in my mind the rest of the evening.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I groaned when I saw Mary’s car in the driveway after Alden dropped me off at home.
We’d ended our evening with Frankie a bit earlier than I would have liked. She nearly dozed off while telling her story, so we’d excused ourselves, promising to come again over the weekend.
I glanced down the road. I could slip over to Grandma Lorena’s and no one would know. Frankie’s mentioning of Sadie Hall once again had me thinking about the familiar name. Maybe Grandma could help with the mystery.
Voices and laughter came through an open window in the house.
If they would simply leave my job and Frankie out of the conversation, I wouldn’t mind visiting with my mother and sister. Contrary to how it appeared most of the time, I did love them.
I quietly entered the house and set my things down in the living room. Light from the kitchen spilled into the adjoining dining room, dark since it was long past the supper hour. After the stock market crash, we’d had to sell some of our possessions, including the silver and Mama’s china. It still made me sad to see the empty hutch in the corner as I made my way toward the kitchen.
“She needs a husband. How is she ever going to find one if she keeps this up?”
Mama’s voice lifted above the chattering and giggles of the children. I wondered which of Mary’s friends they were discussing. Not many of her classmates remained unattached, but there were some who seemed resigned to spinsterhood.
“Have you met the man who’s driving her downtown? Norwood something, isn’t it?”
Mary’s question brought me up short just outside the kitchen entrance. They were talking about me, I realized.
“No. She won’t bring him to the house.” Mama gave a disgruntled sound. “I can’t imagine he’s much of a gentleman if he won’t climb out of that car of his and come to the door.”
“He isn’t picking her up for a date. They work together.”
Silently I thanked Mary for understanding.
“Still,” she continued, “it would be nice for him to meet you and Daddy.”
I rolled my eyes. Didn’t they have more important things to discuss than my relationship with Alden?
“How can she meet eligible young men if she’s spending all her time in—” Mama paused, then hissed—“that neighborhood? Oh, the very thought makes me ill. That place isn’t fit for anyone, but especially not our kind.”
“It does seem odd that she enjoys interviewing those people. Other than Dovie, I don’t think Lulu has ever spoken to a black person.”
“Of course she hasn’t.” Mama sounded offended. “We raised you girls to know your place in society. She won’t have a prayer of a chance at a good marriage if word gets out about this. I can imagine what Peggy Denny will say if she learns about it. It won’t matter to her that the job is only temporary. No. She’ll let everyone know where Rena has been spending her time and with whom.”
Just then the sound of small feet approached. My niece appeared in the doorway and looked up at me. “Mommy,” she bellowed, loud enough for the neighbors to hear, “Auntie Rena is here.”
I’d been found out. I had no wish to defend myself against their gossip, but it was too late to escape to my room. I breezed into the kitchen and forced a smile to my lips. “What a nice surprise to find my sister, niece, and nephews here.”
A look of guilt flashed across Mama’s face, but Mary eyed me as though she knew I’d been listening to their conversation.
“I thought you were going to that woman’s house for dinner.” Mama sniffed as though the odor from Frankie’s house might have followed me home.
“We did, but she was feeling a little tired, so we didn’t stay long.”
Buddy toddled over to Mama and lifted his arms. She bent to pick him up and wrinkled her nose. “You, young man, need your diaper changed.”
Mary started to her feet, but Mama waved her back into her seat. “I’ll take him upstairs and give him a bath. That way he’s all ready for bed when you get home.” She gave Mary a pointed look. “You and your sister can have a chat.”
She carried Buddy out of the room, with James and Holly on her heels, begging to take a bath too. Their voices fade
d as the group noisily climbed the stairs.
Before Mary could say anything, I held up my hand. “I don’t want to hear one word about my job with the FWP, about Mama’s opinion of it, or about what Peggy Denny might have to say.”
Mary’s brow shot up. “You needn’t be so rude, Lulu. I knew you were listening to us. I was simply going to ask how your day went.”
She seemed genuine, so I let my hand drop. “I had a good day. The woman I interviewed was a house servant before the war. It was interesting to hear how her life differed from those who’d worked in the fields.”
Mary sighed. “Homer’s daddy wants to hire a housekeeper for us, but Homer said he doesn’t want a strange black lady going through his things when we aren’t looking.”
That was all she had to say? “What does that have to do with the woman I interviewed?”
Her face went blank. “Well, nothing, but when you mentioned she was a house servant, it reminded me about our need for a housekeeper. I told Homer we could hire a white maid, but he said that was an even worse idea.”
My blood boiled. I wanted to punch my brother-in-law and shake my sister. “I’m talking about slavery, Mary. These people weren’t hired to do a job; they were forced to do it. They didn’t have a choice. If they didn’t comply, they were beaten and eventually sold to someone else.”
Mary frowned. “Why are you suddenly so concerned with slavery? Mama is worried about you, and now I see why.”
“Because I care about someone other than myself?”
The barb struck its mark. “I care about my family, Lulu. I have three children who depend on me for everything. Their father is—” She clamped her mouth shut and looked away.
Guilt washed over me. I shouldn’t have baited her. “I know, Mary. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t know everything,” she whispered, tears swimming in her eyes when she looked up at me. “I’m not sure how much longer I can stay with Homer.”
We stared at each other. Her quiet words shocked me, and she seemed a little surprised that she’d voiced them aloud. “You’re thinking about leaving him?” While I felt she should have dumped the jerk long ago, this was serious.
Her slim shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I’m just tired of it, Lulu. He’s always out with his buddies, drinking and gambling. I know he’s been with other women, too.”
I sank down into the chair across the table from her. “Oh, Mary.”
“I’m not an idiot, you know. I’m aware of his wild ways. I kept hoping Papa Whitby could talk some sense into Homer, or at least control him somehow with money.” She wiped a tear that trailed down her pale cheek. “He was fired from his job yesterday. I haven’t told Mama yet.”
I reached to grasp her hand in mine, something we hadn’t done in years. The sisterly action brought fresh tears to her eyes. It would be silly for me to offer any advice, being that I wasn’t a wife or a mother. What would she do if she left her husband? How could she raise three children on her own?
We sat in silence for several minutes before she squeezed my hand and stood. “Don’t mention any of this to Mama. I wouldn’t want her to worry. Not yet, anyway.”
I nodded. “I’m not making much with the FWP, but if you and the children need anything . . .”
She gave a sad smile. “Papa Whitby has always been generous with me and the kids. We’ll be fine.”
After Mary took her children home, I bade Mama good night and went to my room. I was too keyed up for bed, so I reached for my notebook and found the pages I’d filled at Frankie’s. Her story of life in the contraband camp came alive in my mind, and I began to wonder about its location. More than seventy years had passed, so evidence of it would most likely be long gone. Still, I’d like to know more about it.
I turned to a clean sheet of paper and jotted a note.
Where was the contraband camp near Nashville?
More questions flooded my mind, and I wrote them down as well.
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 101 years 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 October 29 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 Cabin by 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 about Uncle Tom’s Cabin in 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.”
Under the Tulip Tree Page 15
