“I’ll stop at the library after I see Mr. Armistead. Some new job listings might’ve been posted over the weekend.” Odds were there weren’t any, but I enjoyed going to the cool, quiet building to think without the scrutiny of my mother or the indifference of my father looming over me.
Mama opened a high cabinet and took down a soup can. She turned it over and removed the false bottom. A wadded-up handkerchief was stuffed inside, and she unwrapped it to reveal dozens of coins and some dollar bills. I’d seen her do this a hundred times or more in the past seven years, yet it still struck me as one of the saddest things I’d ever witnessed. A banker’s wife hiding money from her husband in a soup can.
She handed me two nickels for the streetcar. “I won’t be home until late. Mrs. Watkins needs me to help with inventory.”
I nodded, if only to cover the awkwardness that always stood between us when she mentioned her job. I still found it difficult to accept my mother working in a sewing shop. Before the crash—that was how I measured time: before and after the crash—I’d never seen Mama sew anything, not even a loose button. How she’d managed to find this job, I didn’t know, but she’d been there over four years now. Her meager wages kept food on the table, although she had to hide the money so Dad wouldn’t take it and buy liquor. Somehow, he managed to get his hands on alcohol anyway. Even during Prohibition, he was rarely without bootleg bottles.
The morning was sunshiny and cool, which made the three-block walk to catch the streetcar pleasant. Gone were the days when my parents drove the latest cars. An old 1925 Ford sat in the garage behind the house, covered with dust, its tires flat. Fuel cost too much, as did repairs and upkeep. I wasn’t certain the thing even ran anymore. Grandma Lorena owned a car and used it from time to time, but I didn’t like to trouble her if I could take the streetcar.
The Banner’s offices were located in Printers Alley, a street teeming with publishers and the city’s two largest newspapers. I missed coming downtown each day, feeling a part of the city’s lifeblood and flow. Nashville’s business district hummed with activity, although I noticed men’s suits were more threadbare and fewer vehicles clogged streets in desperate need of repair. Our city, like the rest of the country, was feeling the effects of the depressed economy, yet folks valiantly met each day head-on with the determination to get back to normal.
Every time I heard that phrase, I silently asked myself if we’d ever see normal again. What was normal anyway? It had only been seven years since the crash, but the life I’d lived then seemed to belong to someone else.
Mr. Armistead’s office sat at the back of a noisy room filled with desks. Several reporters looked up from their typewriters as I entered, nodded at me, and went back to work. No doubt they’d guessed long ago what my weekly visits were about, but I trusted Mr. A. not to divulge the details of my begging sessions, which was what I’d dubbed them. He might not be the most compassionate person in town, but he was no gossip.
He saw me coming through the glass window that separated his office from the larger newsroom. His thick graying brows folded over the black rim of his glasses. “Leland.” His gruff greeting never changed. Smoke swirled from an ashtray on his messy desk where a stub of cigar rested.
“Good morning, Mr. Armistead. How are you today?” I put on my brightest smile even though I knew he wasn’t fooled. He might be as old as most grandfathers, but he was no pushover.
“Same as I am every Monday. Behind schedule and in need of a front-page story.” He continued to shuffle papers and act busy.
I stepped into the room. “You know I’d love to help with that.”
He nodded without looking up. “And you know why you can’t.”
My smile drooped. Yes, I knew. The crash. The failing economy. Money. Money. Money. The failures of other people had dictated my future for too long, yet what choice did I have?
After a long moment, the question I’d avoided the past six months resurfaced in my mind. I feared his answer, which was why I had yet to verbalize it, but perhaps it was time to know the truth and move on.
With a deep breath, I plunged forward. “Mr. A., if things were different and you were able to hire staff again, would you rehire me?”
His hands paused over the mess that was his desk.
My stomach clenched. Now I’d gone and done it. I’d handed him the perfect opportunity to get rid of me once and for all.
Yet when he finally looked up, it was with an expression I’d never seen on his face before. Sympathetic, I suppose, which seemed out of place on the hard-nosed newspaperman.
“I would, kid.”
Three simple words, but oh, how they lightened the heaviness in my heart.
I smiled again, satisfied. “Thanks, Mr. A.” I turned to leave.
“Kid, wait.”
My heart skipped with hope. Had my boldness changed his mind?
He dug through piles of paper until he found the one he sought and handed it to me. “This came in the other day. Maybe you should take a look into it.”
A quick glance revealed it was typed on letterhead from a government agency called the Works Progress Administration. I looked back to Mr. A. “What is it?”
He jabbed a fat finger at the paper in my hand. “Read it, Leland. It’s a job. A writing job.”
A writing job? My interest piqued. However, the more I read, the more confused I grew. When I reached the end of the brief missive, I met his gaze. “I don’t understand.”
He huffed. “The WPA is Roosevelt’s baby. It’s his idea of providing jobs for folks out of work. Writers, as you are well aware, are among the unemployed. Under the umbrella of the WPA, they’ve created something called the Federal Writers’ Project. That letter states they need writers here in Nashville to do interviews. You’re a reporter with experience. No reason you shouldn’t get the job.”
I glanced back to the typewritten words. “But it says something about former slaves.”
“Yeah, that’s who’s being interviewed. To preserve their stories or something of that nature.”
I was sure my expression revealed too much because Mr. Armistead sat back in his chair and narrowed his gaze on me. “I never thought of you as the type to care about the color of a person’s skin, Leland.”
“I don’t.” Dovie had been one of the dearest people in my world before it all fell apart.
“So why not do this?” He indicated the letter again. “They’ll pay twenty dollars a week. All you have to do is spend an hour or two with each interviewee, type up your notes, and turn them in to the WPA office. Sounds like easy money to me.”
It did sound like easy money, and yet . . .
“I’ll think about it,” I finally said.
Mr. A. shrugged and returned his attention to the chaos on his desk. “Suit yourself, but this opportunity won’t last long. Plenty of writers are willing to do the job if you aren’t.”
I left his office with the letter tucked in my purse and frustration rooted in my mind. I needed the job, but to interview former slaves? My ancestors had owned slaves. Shouldn’t that disqualify me from the position?
The job posting board at the library held a small number of new handwritten cards, but they required experience I didn’t possess. As restless as I felt, sitting in the quiet solitude of the big building didn’t appeal today. I needed to walk. And think. I left the building and headed in the direction of home.