Although Mr. Norwood and I hadn’t gotten off to a great start, my stomach sank as I watched him drive away, leaving me in a place I never imagined I’d set foot in, let alone spend time in interviewing former slaves. When I’d gone to Mr. Armistead’s office to inform him I got the job and wouldn’t be visiting him for a while, he’d appeared impressed.
“I wasn’t sure you had it in you, Leland. I’m glad I was wrong.”
The memory of the affirming words strengthened my resolve as I made my way through the pretty flowers, their heady aroma thick and sweet, and quietly mounted the porch. Two windows flanked the door, but both had curtains drawn, so there was no peeking inside to get a hint of what awaited me. I swallowed, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door. Several long moments passed before I heard movement on the other side.
The woman who answered was not what I expected.
“Mrs. Washington?”
Sharp black eyes studied me before she answered. “Yes’m, I’m Miz Washington.”
“I’m Lorena Leland, with the Works Progress Administration. I believe you’re expecting me.”
She continued her examination of me, perusing my face, my dress, even my shoes, before her narrowed eyes met mine again. I in turn considered her. Taller than I’d anticipated, she appeared to be in remarkably good health considering her advanced age. Her short-cropped hair was snowy white, but her cheeks were as smooth and wrinkle-free as a young woman’s.
Finally she nodded. “I been expecting you. The Lord told me I couldn’t go home till you come.”
The strange answer caught me off guard. I stared at her, wondering if she was in her right mind. Would this be a complete waste of time? Surely the tales told by a woman whose mind bore the effects of age would not be beneficial to the FWP and their mission to preserve the oral history of former slaves.
“Let’s not stand here gawking at each other. Come in, chile, come in.” She turned and retreated into the small house.
With one last longing glance down the now-vacant street, I followed, letting the screen door close behind me with a bang that sounded like a gunshot. Mrs. Washington continued to an overstuffed armchair with faded floral print as though she hadn’t heard it. A small shelf crammed with books stood within arm’s reach should she desire to read in the evenings.
“Sit where’er you be most comfortable.”
The choices were few. A low-slung couch I wasn’t sure I would be able to climb out of or a stiff-looking chair near the window. I chose the latter and set my purse on the wood floor next to me. She sat silently watching while I took out a pencil, opened one of the steno notebooks, and unfolded the list of questions Mr. Carlson had given me upon signing the contract to conduct interviews for the FWP.
With a deep breath to quiet my nerves, I met her gaze. “I believe you know why I’m here.”
She gave a slow nod. “Uh-hm, I know why you here. But, chile, you ain’t got a clue why you is here.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Mr. Carlson’s instructions were simple: ask the questions as they appeared on the typewritten paper he’d given me and allow the former slaves to tell their stories in their own way, talking freely of slavery and the ills suffered, without giving my own opinion on any subject discussed.
But now that the time had come, I found myself reduced to a jumble of nerves.
As Mrs. Washington looked on, I attempted to arrange the steno notebook and the list of questions, each vying for a position of prominence on my lap. My pencil slipped from my hand in the process, breaking the sharpened lead when it hit the floor.
Flashing Mrs. Washington a look of apology, I retrieved it, then took another from my purse. Somehow, after what seemed an inordinate amount of time, I was ready to begin.
With a glance at my subject, who continued to consider me with a stony face, I forced a smile. Yet before I could get the first question out of my now-dry mouth, Mrs. Washington stood.
“You want a cup o’ tea? I find it helps quiet the jitters.”
My tense shoulders eased some, knowing she was anxious about our interview too. “That would be nice, but I want to assure you there is nothing to be nervous about.”
A deep chuckle rumbled in her chest. “I ain’t nervous, chile, but you’re ’bout ready to come out of your skin. Come on to the kitchen and we’ll make you a nice cup o’ chamomile tea.”
Without waiting for my response, she headed through a doorway while I remained seated, mortified that she’d read me so well. Why was I so jumpy? Like Mama observed, I’d never been this nervous while conducting interviews for the Banner.
I set my things on the floor and followed her into a tiny kitchen. A deep porcelain sink sat beneath a window that looked out to the backside of a run-down tenement one street over. A small icebox occupied a corner of the room while an even smaller table and two chairs occupied the other. Yet it was the old-fashioned wood-burning stove where Mrs. Washington worked that brought the most surprise. Our stove at home was fueled by gas. It never occurred to me people still cooked over wood or coal. Was this a common practice here in Hell’s Half Acre? I wondered. Or was it Mrs. Washington who hadn’t caught up to modern times?
Seeing her at the old stove, however, forced me to consider what else might be missing from this woman’s life that I had and took for granted.
“Jael—she takes care of me when she ain’t studying down at the university—she likes chamomile tea, but I have to admit I prefer a strong cup o’ coffee.”
As she worked, I noticed one of her hands was quite disfigured. Large knots existed where knuckles should be, and it seemed at least two, maybe three, of her fingers were not lined up as they should be. It didn’t slow her down though. She poured hot water from a kettle sitting on the stovetop into a plain white cup with a tea ball. Taking a pale-blue saucer from the open shelf that held short stacks of mismatched dishes, she set the cup on it and handed it to me. “You take sugar?”
I shook my head, not wanting to be any more trouble than I’d already been, especially when I realized she was not partaking. “This is wonderful, thank you.”
She nodded and led the way back into the sitting room, where she eased herself into her chair. “I ’spect you ain’t never been down here to the Acres.” Her steady gaze held no accusation nor even curiosity. It was simply a statement.
“No, ma’am.” I carefully sat down, trying not to spill my tea. There was no hope of retrieving my notebook and pencil at the moment, so I trusted she wouldn’t launch into her life’s story just yet.
“Well, you ain’t missed much. I’ve lived here near ’bout sixty years. Seen all kinds of troubles. There be some good folks here in the Acres, but there also be some who want to do nothin’ but cause hardship for everyone else.”
I noticed she didn’t refer to the neighborhood as Hell’s Half Acre, as the area was known throughout Nashville. I suppose I wouldn’t either if I had to live here. Why add to the discouragement of living in such conditions by labeling it after a place I hoped I never saw?
“I’ll be honest, Miss Leland.” She leaned back in the chair. “I was mighty surprised when I received a letter from the gov’ment wanting to hear my stories ’bout slavery times.”