“When you inquired if I lived in my house,” I said in explanation, “I informed you I did indeed. You responded with hmm. I wondered what you meant by that.”
Understanding registered on his face. He glanced at me before 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 fumed as 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 unwelcome emotion 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?”
Mr. Norwood’s voice drew me out of my ponderings. I handed him the paper with Mrs. Frances Washington’s address written on it. Upon reading the street name, he nodded. “I know where that is.” Turning at the next corner, he maneuvered the car past the capitol and into an area of Nashville I’d never seen up close.
Run-down houses and overgrown lots lined every street. While some of the buildings had surely once been fine homes, time and the lack of upkeep left them with crumbling walls and sagging porches filled with what appeared to be abandoned junk. Laundry hung on lines stretched from tree to tree in the neglected yards of several homes, and my heart softened for the women attempting to keep their families in clean clothes amid the squalor of the neighborhood.
A gathering of men stood on the sidewalk dressed in shirtsleeves and hats, but they stopped their conversation to watch us drive past. Mr. Norwood nodded to them politely, but I kept my eyes averted, a tense feeling beginning to swirl through my stomach.
Had I made a terrible mistake accepting a job that forced me to spend time in this part of Nashville? Would I be safe once Mr. Norwood drove away, leaving me alone with a woman I’d never met, in a neighborhood with a reputation even I’d heard of? He might have vexed me terribly with his superior attitude and disparaging assumptions, but his presence offered a measure of safety I hadn’t anticipated needing.
“Here we are.”
Mr. Norwood stopped the car in front of a small house with peeling yellow paint. A low fence circled a yard no bigger than the car I sat in, yet astonishingly it held more flowers of various sizes and colors than I’d ever seen in one place. A narrow path through the foliage led to a porch with two straight-backed chairs, both worn but still solid-looking. A few pots of flowers sat between them.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I gazed out the window to the charming residence. While I didn’t want people like Mr. Norwood judging me on the kind of house I lived in, I was having a hard time not doing the same for the residents of Hell’s Half Acre. That Mrs. Washington took care in maintaining her little home brought a sense of calm to my whirling emotions.
“I’ll meet you here at four o’clock.” Mr. Norwood seemed impatient to be rid of me as he glanced at his wristwatch. “You should be able to walk to your other interviews if you get finished with this one and need to move on.”
Panic rose to the surface at the thought of being left alone in a strange place among strange people. I’d hoped to ask him all sorts of questions about the interview process on our drive here, but his immediate assumptions about my family’s financial status had silenced them. I regretted my sulking because I had no idea what I was doing.
It was too late now. “Thank you,” I muttered, aggravated with him and myself. I gathered my belongings in one hand and opened the door with the other since it appeared Mr. Norwood had no intention of assisting me. I almost laughed, thinking about Mama and how she’d stay right where she was until the gentleman walked around the car to open her door.