The Fallen Fruit, page 14
On the TV, CBS newscaster Walter Cronkite said, “Ladies and gentlemen, this afternoon President Lyndon B. Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act.”
I glanced up from the spool. My heart raced as I shot off the bed to move closer to the television.
It was happening.
After all this time, LBJ had fulfilled his promise. Winston and I had dreamt of this day, and here I was searching for folks who’d never see it.
The camera was centered on Johnson at a desk with rows of pens and a pile of papers. After months of wishing and waiting, the moment had finally come. All that hard work of marching and boycotting had borne the sweetest of harvests: antidiscrimination was now writ into law.
I flung my hands in the air, breaking into an excited dance. Shouts rang from outside the room as word spread. Before I could escape, urgent knocks hit my door.
“We did it!” one man cried. “The bill passed!”
I grabbed my key and hurried out to join the small crowd downstairs. Folks filled the parlor and dining room, their jubilant faces worth every spiteful stare I’d encountered while marching with the Freedom Riders. My babies had a chance for a better life now.
Someone put on a record with Martha and the Vandellas’ latest hit, “Heat Wave.” Chairs were pushed against the wall. Claps erupted and the ladies around me sashayed to the beat.
An old Negro ambled down the stairs and threw over his shoulder a gruff “Don’t know why y’all fussin’ and hollerin’—nothin’ gonna change,” but we kept celebrating. He settled in a seat and watched us.
One of the hotel patrons, a wiry businessman from Biloxi, even brought a box of corn dogs and burgers from Pronto Pups. We danced and sang in the parlor for hours.
When morning arrived, I woke up groggy and stiff. My world had changed again overnight. And yet when I turned over to face the window, my room and its reminders remained. The morning light stretched across the census documents and biographies strewn on the table. Right before the broadcast, I’d scribbled some random thoughts about checking the records at the University of Richmond.
Twenty minutes later, after dozing off a couple of times, the fever hit to search for Sabrina again.
Maybe I’d missed something—a shipping manifest or Richmond census. I’d only find those answers if I put in the effort.
An hour later, I drove down Highway 64. Today was just as miserably hot as yesterday so I rolled down my Chevy sedan’s windows while the radio blared the Ronettes’ “Be My Baby.” I sang along with Ronnie, Estelle, and Nedra. With each whites only sign I passed, I daydreamed of each one of them falling to dust.
The drive was wonderful until Skeeter Davis’s “The End of the World” came on. I cringed as if slapped and switched off the radio to continue my trip in silence.
Soon enough, I reached the University of Richmond campus. With my head held high in the summer heat, I made my way to the library. As to be expected, I got strange looks—even a scowl or two—from the folks I passed. The administration had only recently opened the school to Negro students.
Despite the stares, I sailed into the Boatwright Memorial Library, but accessing the restricted materials section was another matter. The frowning white woman sitting at the reception desk, a certain Annabelle McCloud, offered no welcome. I gave Miss McCloud what my aunt Hilda called a smile soaked in sunshine, even complimenting the fine blouse she wore. I then stated succinctly what I needed and how I’d overheard from other professors up in Nashville how well Miss McCloud and her staff organized their materials. For my efforts, Miss McCloud helped me sort through the documents. The problem was that few records existed of Sabrina Humbles once she reached Richmond. Correspondence between a Mrs. Bridget Knox and her cousin in Lynchburg, dated late 1780, revealed that a girl named Sabrina had designed dresses for Mrs. Knox, but other than that, I suspected I’d uncover little else. The Virginia capital went up in flames in January 1781 after Benedict Arnold, a former general, betrayed the Continental Army and joined the British.
Other than Luke’s spool, I wished there was something of Sabrina for me to hold. I liked to imagine she fell in love again and remained resilient until the end of her life, passing that resilience on to future generations.
In the time it took to pore through the early Albemarle County records and investigate Sabrina, I’d lost several more weeks. Winston had become impatient, growling at the children as we spoke on the phone, and though guilt niggled at me, I couldn’t—wouldn’t—be slowed down. For long hours, I sat and scribbled fact after fact about Luke and his family. I wrote until my hand throbbed and I could barely clutch a pencil.
Even when I returned to Charlottesville, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. There were so many unraveled threads of my ancestor’s history left to catch on the wind. Sabrina was gone without a trace for Luke to find. I didn’t want to believe my beloved would face the same heartache after I fell through time.
As my work on Sabrina concluded, I surmised there was nothing I could do either. Just like when the Bridges in the 1780s, and even in the 1810s, finally grasped how awful the curse could be. There was nothing any mother, wife, or father could do about something that could not be seen, tasted, or touched. For those chosen, the inevitable always came calling—like the five handwritten messages I received once I returned to the Carver Inn. The last one couldn’t be ignored.
From your husband, Winston Davis:
We’re on our way to Charlottesville.
Chapter 15
Rebecca Raley-Bridge
September 1817
In the early weeks of autumn, a haze blanketed the trees, the suffocating humidity hovering close to the earth. The land grew quiet around this time. Perhaps all living things struggled in such miserable conditions.
When the heat rose to intolerable levels, all activity on Bridge land ceased from midday to late afternoon. The forty-nine souls living on this land, including Rebecca, lounged on their porches, huddled under the protection of the pippin apple trees, or slept in the cool comfort of shade. Only the foolhardy tempted fate. Two years ago, a distant cousin of Rebecca’s collapsed off a ladder like wheat sliced down by a scythe. A decade before that, five boys had gone hunting for feral hogs. One of them, a Bridge boy of no more than ten years, had stood in the sun too long. Papa Raley had told her the child’s skin grew so cold and clammy the boy wouldn’t have known if he was in the heat or a blizzard. Two steps from his home, the child fainted and died.
“Those ignorant Bridges don’t know any better, Reba,” Papa had said.
He still said that after she’d married one of them.
The Raleys had come to know the Bridges after Papa took advantage of Charles Bridge’s debts and bought the man’s land for half its worth. Once Papa owned the property, he reached out to them and hired the younger Bridge men as laborers for his growing enterprise of ferrying goods along the James River. Papa believed that another man’s folly was his opportunity, and it was up to him to use those profits wisely.
Now that Papa was dead and gone, Reba didn’t have to hear his biting remarks anymore, but she remembered his sayings. Be wary in the woods. Do not trust your eyes. Listen. Question everything.
During this time of the year, the mugginess pricked at the skin and smeared reality. She couldn’t see beyond the rolling pasture to the two cabins near her home. Murky figures came and went, but from time to time, the hairs along the nape of her neck fluttered and she turned, only to find no one there. This strange feeling would persist from late summer into fall.
The four children sitting at her feet on her porch tried to ignore the weather and focus on the arithmetic lesson she presented on a small writing slate. Half of these students were her cousin’s children. Her youngest boy was inside the house. Lizzie Raley propped up her chin with her palm, her facial expression dimming. The head of her younger brother, Gerald, bobbed for the third time. At six years of age, he never wanted to listen. Reba’s instruction on how to perform a carryover reached the only attentive child: her eldest son, Jimmy.
Briefly, she wished the breeze rustling the trees would cool them off instead of baking them. No matter the sweat rolling down her back, she was their teacher, and all children living on Bridge land must learn reading, writing, and arithmetic. Long before she’d married Herbert and borne his children, this rule had been in place, but it made little sense to her. Unless these children found employment in Richmond or Charlottesville, they’d grow up on the farm and learn a trade. For many of them, all this wasted time with letters and numbers would do them no good. How often would they need to mark their name or read what few books they had, many of them yellowed and moldy? But she did as she was told. Bridge traditions ran deep.
Not long into demonstrating how to do a borrow during subtraction, a shout rang out.
“Miss Reba, your friend Mariah’s returned!” Breeches caked in dust, a boy appeared, his tawny brown cheeks puffing in and out from his labors.
Her wilted students sprang to life, but Jimmy continued to sit quietly, ever diligent. Even her eight-year-old daughter, Annie, managed to hold her tongue.
Even Reba’s spirits lifted. She’d missed Mariah dearly. They were best friends, having grown up together in the same household, with Mariah working as one of the Raley family housegirls. Mariah had a laugh like morning bells and a mood never heavier than a rain cloud.
“Did she bring anything?” Gerald asked.
“I bet she got candy like last time,” Lizzie said.
“Where is she?” Reba asked. For the first time today, she was feeling elated.
“She’s at Grandpa Luke’s place.” With the news delivered, the boy hurried off, likely to repeat the gossip to everyone.
“Can we go see her?” Lizzie stood. Sweat pebbled her forehead, but her enthusiasm was infectious.
“Fine.” Reba sighed. “I’m right behind you.”
Lizzie and Gerald ran off as Jimmy asked, “Can I come?”
“Yes, let’s go see her. Fetch your younger brother.”
Jimmy stepped inside. Moments later, he emerged holding his sleepy little brother, George. At four years old, Georgie still took naps in the afternoon. Annie had discarded the garment she had been sewing to trail after him. Waking Georgie from his nap wasn’t wise, but the children hadn’t seen Mariah since he was born.
They left the shelter of the porch with its damp heat and marched out into the full sun. Reba winced and sucked in a deep breath. Nausea stirred in her stomach, forcing sourness to surge up the back of her throat.
“Dear child, give me peace,” she murmured.
After carrying two children with ease, Georgie and this precious babe—her fourth—gave her nothing but poor health and a foul temper. At twenty-eight years old, she’d hoped her body would be used to this by now. She had a long way to go though; she wouldn’t see this child until the spring lambs appeared.
Grinning, Reba took her time to follow the children and considered their good fortune. Visitors like her dear friend were a welcome distraction. Other than the two families who lived nearby, Reba and her husband rarely had any company from outside the farm.
They ventured south, sticking to the shaded areas along the well-beaten footpath connecting the pasture to the orchard. Tucked underneath the canopy of the apple tree branches, men and women rested in the shade. Flecks of light peeked around the leaves and speckled their tired faces in light and dark. Sweat permeated the air. Many of them slept, while others relaxed, their mouths agape in the relentless heat.
“Send Mariah my best,” said one of Reba’s Raley relatives as he wiped his glistening brow.
“Good to have her back,” said another man as he fanned himself with his hat.
She gave him a weak smile. “Rest easy.”
With the harvest coming in the next month, the families who worked at the orchard would be busy producing cider and preserves. She’d spend her evenings making apple butter and her mornings drying apple rings. The sweet scent of the apples’ flesh would stick to her hair and the juice to her skin, and her thumb would become achy from how she held the knife when peeling away the pale green skins.
Reba and the children left the orchard and made their way to another cabin, a clapboard structure built onto another far older one. Herb had told her the first Bridge cabin had been built here, and over time the family had added rooms and such. Now Luke Bridge lived here.
Men, women, and children swarmed the house. Voices rose from the porch, and she immediately recognized Mariah’s. Reba’s steps quickened until she reached a few familiar faces. They included Mariah, her husband, Herbert, and the Bridge patriarch, Luke Bridge.
After Reba caught a glimpse of Mariah, they exchanged a squeal before Mariah rushed in for a hug.
“Riah!” Reba drew the younger woman close until their laughter bounced off the porch walls. “What took you so long?”
Mariah Kenner released Reba and placed her hat on Annie’s head. Her best friend eased back onto her seat. Reba almost didn’t recognize her in a man’s shirt and trousers. As they’d grown together into womanhood, Mariah never had a woman’s curves. Over the past couple of years, Mariah’s thinner arms had thickened, and the gentle swell of her full cheeks had elongated. Life had etched worries into her wrinkled brow, but the woman excelled in peace of mind. According to her, troubles came and went. How you came up for air after a wave was just as important as what you did before the wave hit.
“What took me so long?” Mariah repeated with disdain. “You try walking all the way from Richmond. I ain’t as fast as I used to be.”
“You used to run everywhere.”
“Too tired now.” Mariah gave her a hard, long look. “You’re shorter.”
“No, I stopped growing. You didn’t.”
“It’s absolutely awful in this heat.” Mariah fanned herself with her hand. “It’s more pleasant near the coast.”
“Everything is nicer near the coast,” Reba replied.
“Herb was telling me you haven’t put up a fuss this whole time.” Mariah smiled, revealing two dimples.
Reba glanced at her husband. He leaned against the far wall. When she strode up to him, he feigned running away. At least he wouldn’t get far in this heat.
“What else have you told her about me?” she asked, her sweet voice now salty.
Her husband surrendered his stool for her. “Nothing she’d believe, wife.”
She eased onto the stool and Herb came to stand next to her. Reba’s youngest scrambled up to her and rested his head against her knee. Jimmy, Annie, and the Raley children played nearby, their quest for candy forgotten—for now.
“Richmond treating you well?” Reba said.
“It was until a week ago.” Mariah lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. “Mr. Simmons laid off over ten seamstresses.”
“Shame,” murmured the oldest man on the porch. Luke had always had a quiet way about him, especially after they buried his wife in the family cemetery not far from this house, but their elder spoke fervently during conversations like these. “All of those folks have mouths to feed.”
“I only need to fend for myself,” Mariah said.
“Can’t feed yourself with empty pockets,” Herbert said.
“That’s why I’m here,” Mariah said. “Haven’t got much to my name now.”
“You’ll be fine, girl,” Luke chided. “Folks find a way. There’ll be more droughts and bountiful harvests in the future, but if we believe in the good Lord, He’ll give us what we need. Not what we deserve.”
“Scraping by for a while will make you stronger,” Herb added.
“Mariah doesn’t care about those kinds of things anyway,” Reba said softly.
Riah flicked the ash off her cigarette. “I need a home, but I don’t have that anymore either.”
Herb patted Mariah’s shoulder. “How long you staying?”
“As long as I’m needed.” Mariah’s gaze flicked to Reba’s. Compared to Papa, her best friend had worked for an honest wage. There was no shame in coming here.
The family chatted until Reba’s hips ached from sitting for too long. She motioned for her pupils to follow her—Jimmy and his siblings trailed behind while Lizzie and Gerald took their sweet time. They reached the path to the orchard and the mischievous pair veered north to go home.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Reba called out to them.
The Raley siblings went as still as deer caught grazing in the morning light.
“We’re going home,” Lizzie said matter-of-factly. “Mama says once our book learning is over, we should come home.”
“When did we finish our lesson?” Reba asked crisply.
Lizzie stared at the ground. Her brother fidgeted.
“Can both of you complete a carryover correctly?” She hid her amused grin.
“I can.” Gerald had far more enthusiasm than his sister. Lizzie’s right hand clenched her dress, and a familiar grimace filled her face.
“Can’t we show you tomorrow?” Lizzie begged.
As much as Reba wanted to continue the lesson, the pleas in their eyes convinced her otherwise.
“What if we stay longer tomorrow?” Lizzie added. “We’ll be quiet—”
“You already don’t speak much.” Reba folded her arms. Perhaps she should interrupt their lessons more often.
“Sissy will listen,” Gerald said. “I’ll listen too.”
“No sleeping?” Reba asked.
“Never,” said Lizzie with a quick nod.
Now, that was a lie.
Gerald’s impish grin said it all.
Reba stood there a bit, letting them believe she couldn’t decide. When they squirmed, she couldn’t resist laughing.
“Go on home,” she said, “but I expect you to return to school tomorrow. We have much to learn before you’ll be needed for the harvest.”
