Questions poured from my brain. Why would the government care about preserving the stories of former slaves? Wasn’t it the government who created the very laws that had kept people in bondage for over two centuries? Surely there were more important issues to write about. With so many people suffering these days, no one even thought about slavery anymore. The War between the States happened when Grandma Lorena was a small child, over seventy years ago.
But twenty dollars a week was more money than I’d made at any of the odd jobs I’d taken over the past six months. Even with occasional help from Grandma Lorena, who survived the stock market crash surprisingly well, I knew we were in terrible financial shape. Mama never verbalized how destitute we actually were, but I’d seen the bankruptcy papers she’d hidden in her bedroom bureau shortly after the crash. I hadn’t meant to see them, but I was putting away laundry and there they were, plain as day.
My feet grew weary in my heeled shoes, so I sat on a bench at the next streetcar stop and waited. A minute passed before an older black man, neatly dressed, walked up. When our eyes met, he nodded politely but remained standing as he too waited for the streetcar. Although we were the only people at the stop and there was plenty of room on the bench, I knew the unspoken rule as well as he did.
A colored man could not sit next to a white woman.
An odd thought struck me as we waited for the streetcar.
What would this man think about the Federal Writers’ Project and its proposed interviews? Did the stories of former slaves interest him? I couldn’t imagine they would, since they would bring up an unpleasant time in the history of our country. People had moved on from the issues of slavery, leaving the ugliness in the past.
The image of nine black teenage boys on the front page of a newspaper flashed across my mind.
The Scottsboro boys. Convicted of raping two white women in Alabama despite overwhelming evidence of their innocence.
When the trolley arrived, I boarded in the front of the vehicle while the man boarded in the rear. I sat beside a young white woman with a small child on her lap. The pair was too engrossed in their babbled conversation to acknowledge me.
As the streetcar jerked forward, I peeked behind me.
From his place at the back of the vehicle, the older man I’d boarded with looked right at me.
CHAPTER THREE
“You’re going to do what?”
My sister’s shrill voice rose above the loud squabbles of her two oldest children. We sat at the dining room table attempting to enjoy dinner, yet not having much success thanks to an overcooked chicken and cranky kids. Mary’s youngest, a chubby two-year-old boy, was curled on her lap, thumb poked in his mouth and eyes drooping despite the bedlam.
“I’m applying for a job with the Federal Writers’ Project,” I hollered back.
Mama sent me a disapproving look, whether for shouting at the table or for the job, I wasn’t sure. Roosevelt’s “New Deal” ideas to help the unemployed weren’t popular with everyone.
“Holly, James. Enough.” Mary thumped her eldest on the arm, only because he was closest.
“She started it,” he whined, rubbing the spot.
“Did not.”
Four-year-old Holly had the looks of an angel, with a head of golden curls and eyes as blue as the sky, but that’s where the angelic similarities ended. Her bottom lip perpetually stuck out, as it did now, and her glare when she was mad, which was most of the time, could freeze a camel in the desert.
“Finish your supper and go outside to play, both of you.”
Mary sounded exhausted. In fact, she looked awful, now that I studied her from my place across the table. Dark smudges contrasted with pale cheeks, and her hair, normally rolled and teased to perfection, lay flattened on one side. I’d been too preoccupied with my monumental decision to take notice when she first arrived, unannounced, with boisterous youngsters piling out of her old Hudson.
A wave of compassion for my sister washed over me. The crash had changed her life, too. Roy dumped her the day after our father’s bank failed. Five months later, while we were still coping with the aftermath of the stock market crash, Mary, with tears in her eyes, confessed she was pregnant. Mama locked herself in her bedroom for two silent hours while I was left to console my sister, who, if I was honest, I thought was an idiot for getting herself into this mess. She wouldn’t say who the father was until Mama came out of her room and demanded an explanation. When Mary finally sobbed out his name, my jaw practically hit the hardwood floor.
Homer Whitby. The very same Homer who supposedly planned to come calling on me before the crash.
The story wasn’t pretty nor romantic. He wasn’t a knight in shining armor come to rescue Mary after Roy broke things off so abruptly. They’d met accidentally on Vanderbilt’s campus, where Homer and Roy continued to attend classes. Mary had to quit Belmont after we lost everything, and she’d gone to the school that day in hopes of finding Roy, intent on mending their fractured relationship. She found Homer instead. He offered a sympathetic shoulder to cry on, then invited her to dinner, which in hindsight seemed rather two-faced considering she’d been Roy’s girl so recently.
What happened next was none of my business, but eight weeks after their impromptu date Mary tearfully announced she was pregnant. Dad came out of his drunken self-pity to do the right thing, which was to drive Mary to Memphis and meet with Homer’s parents. A hastily planned wedding ceremony took place a week later.
“What kind of writing is it?” Mama asked once the children ran outside, letting the screen door bang behind them.
I’d known this question was forthcoming, but the answer I’d planned, which was basically a lie, lodged in my throat. I didn’t like to lie to Mama, but the truth wouldn’t satisfy her. She wouldn’t approve of the subject of the interviews nor of the need for me to travel into the poorer areas of Nashville where I’d never stepped a toe.
I settled on a half-truth and hoped for the best.
“It’s a job Mr. Armistead told me about, interviewing different people for a government project. It pays twenty dollars a week.”
I knew that would interest her more than the job itself.
“Well, if Mr. Armistead thinks you should apply for it, you should. Goodness knows we need more money coming into this house.”
“It’s not guaranteed I’ll get it,” I added, not wanting either of us to raise our hopes too high. Mr. Armistead’s warning about there being other out-of-work writers willing to do the job echoed in my mind. As reluctant as I’d been to consider the position when he first handed me the letter, now that I’d convinced myself it was worth my time, anxiety swirled through my stomach. What if I didn’t get the job?
“Maybe you’ll interview someone famous, like Greta Garbo.” Mary’s face took on a dreamy expression. “Or Clark Gable.”
Though difficult, I managed to keep myself from rolling my eyes at such a ridiculous statement. I offered what I trusted was a smile and not a smirk. “I doubt the government would pay for the kind of interviews you can read in Film Fun magazine.”
Mama gasped. “You don’t read such trash, do you?”
“No, Mama,” I said, which was true for the most part. Some reporters I’d worked with at the Banner brought in copies of the gossip magazine, boasting racy covers and tales of movie stars’ lives. I’d peeked over the shoulders of my coworkers a time or two, but I wasn’t about to confess that to Mama.