The Fallen Fruit, page 20
Annie laughed. “Corn and tomatoes are two different vegetables.”
Georgie shrugged and kept picking. Once he’d eaten his fill, he picked a couple and offered them to Annie.
His sister opened wide and Georgie pushed the vegetable into her mouth. “Tastes good. You want one, Mama Bear?”
“I’m not hungry,” Reba replied. “We still need to keep working, girl.”
Now that George had fed his sister, he abandoned his work to slap the watermelons. The fruits’ field spots had yet to go from white to buttery, and he tapped them as if they were a baby’s bottom.
“You’re a bad boy!” Georgie said. “You’re gonna get a spanking!”
“What’re you doing?” Jimmy snapped. “Get back here and stay close to Mama.”
While Reba watched her eldest stomp over to his brother to grasp the boy by the wrist, she exhaled. Not one but two exasperated breaths.
Reba was tired of feeling ashamed. Just like she was tired of feeling nauseated and pulled in every direction except the one she wanted to go in. She edged Jimmy out of the way.
“Stay close to me, Georgie,” she said softly.
“Why, Mama?” he asked between chews. His breath smelled of mint, sour green tomatoes, and innocence.
“Because” was all she said.
* * *
Reba and her children spent hours in the gardens and fields. Her lower back and hips ached, but the time eased her mind until she’d forgotten about Ruth’s visit, the cover over the well behind Carrie’s house, and disappearances no man or woman could explain.
All that ended when they returned home. Reality swept in as she prepared supper—along with a dull cramp that kept streaking across her abdomen. She stroked her belly as if such a movement would soothe it. This child wouldn’t whisper into this world but come shouting and screaming.
Swaying and begging for peace didn’t help, so Reba slipped out the door. With each step, pressure built in her lower stomach, a sign she needed to relieve herself.
“I did too much today, didn’t I, little one?” she breathed.
Puddles from yesterday’s showers still filled the pasture. Reba half expected to see Nelson and Peter waiting outside, but no one was there. She hurried to the outhouse, not bothering to sidestep the puddles. The warm water seeping into her boots was a reminder she was alive and well.
When Reba slid her hand through the knotted rope tied to the outhouse door, a new dampness slid between her thighs. She hiked up her dress, noticing the dots of crimson speckling her petticoats.
Please, no.
She reached down, knowing what she’d find. Her fingertips brushed against her inner thigh and her trembling hand revealed the truth. Clot-filled blood ran between the cracks and crevices of her hand to darken the puddles at her feet.
Dear God in heaven, that’s my baby. She stumbled up the single step. Waited for the pain to come, for the agony she’d seen other women experience, but the feeling never arrived. All that hung in the air—while she sat in that filthy place—was a hollowness as empty as her womb would become. And in that emptiness, a new feeling sprouted: relief. Absolute relief.
What had Luke said? The Bridges will come to learn one child in each family will be lost.
“Thank you, God,” Reba whispered. “For sparing my other children.”
Chapter 21
Rebecca Raley-Bridge
September 1817
Herb returned after everyone settled in for the night. Her husband’s news broke her heart even further: The girl was never found. It took far too long for Reba to put what happened into words.
“I think I might lose the baby,” she whispered.
Herb drew Reba close until they faced each other.
“I’m praying for a better outcome but . . .” She shifted until her nose and lips rested against his collarbone. Over the years, whether it was hot or cold, Herb’s clammy skin offered a familiar comfort. She squeezed her eyes shut. A single inhale came out as a whimper.
“We’ve been blessed for many years, wife.” With his index finger, he gently drew circles on her back. “We’ll be blessed again.”
“I know.” Her breath quickened. Before she cried again, she tried to match Herb’s steadiness.
Scratches and tiny thuds stirred outside the house next to the barrel where they kept food scraps. Herb stilled. Alert. Both their heads turned toward the sound. Probably the fat-bellied coon Herb had failed to catch. The sounds receded and Herb relaxed again.
“Do you remember when you fell last year?” he asked offhandedly. “It was springtime.”
“A little.”
“You were holding Georgie and you tripped over Jimmy’s toy.”
“That boat . . .” Briefly, she couldn’t resist smiling.
“I was sitting on that porch cleaning my tools. You were crossing the pasture from Carrie’s place when it happened. Thought you’d fallen into a hole.” He went quiet for a spell before he continued. “Seemed like the tall grass swallowed you up. I never ran so fast. When I got to you, Georgie was crying, and you were lying there bleeding from a cut on your forehead. Took you a long time to wake up too.”
“I don’t remember any of it.”
“You don’t, but I do. It’s trapped in my head,” he said. “I was uneasy for the longest of time until I had a dream ’round Christmastime.”
“What dream?”
“It was years into the future. You and I were sitting next to the creek with the other Bridges. A couple of Raleys. We were watching the children swim. Annie was older, as tall as you are now. Our boys—all four of them—were playing in the water. Barely recognized ’em.”
“Four boys?”
“Yes indeed. You and me and our blessings.”
Reba was tempted to ask if her husband had seen the other missing children in his dream, but she didn’t have the heart to ask. There’d been enough loss around here to last twenty lifetimes.
The next day the overcast sky refused to weep with Reba. She stared outside and waited for raindrops to pepper the porch, for dew to dampen the fields, but the rain that refused to leave a couple of days ago wouldn’t return.
So she sat. The hush in the house trickled into her, ever the reminder of what had happened, of the rags placed between her legs to catch the blood. Sorrow had sliced through her like a deep and unyielding serrated blade. Even if Herb had dreamt of other children, she still had thought of what she would name the babe, considered the clothes she needed to mend, and the simplest things. Like would the child’s nose be small like hers, or its cheeks high like Herb’s? Would the baby have birthmarks?
Mariah served the children porridge and warm bread. “Mama’s tired,” she told them.
Exhaustion wrapped itself around Reba and she closed her eyes, cradling the feeling close until a shadow passed in front of the door. She squinted to see Mariah stride across the porch. Then her friend spoke in hushed tones with Ruth of all people.
“I heard Reba lost the baby,” Reba caught her neighbor saying. “I came to see if she needed anything.”
Ruth turned away from Mariah to approach the door, her face ashen with the sadness Reba should’ve carried. But in the same instant, Reba wanted to cry with joy, to shout a prayer of thanks to God for sparing Jimmy, Annie, and Georgie. The shame rolled over her and squeezed more tears from her eyes.
Dear God, forgive me, she thought.
“I heard what happened from Herb,” Ruth said. “How is she doing truly? I’d hoped she wouldn’t lose one like Joseph and me.”
“I don’t know,” Mariah admitted, taking a step back. “It happened last night and we’re still trying to come to terms with it.”
“She was four months along, wasn’t she?”
Reflexively, Reba stroked the gentle curve; her child was still there, unmoving, yet soon it wouldn’t be. Her hands trembled and she clenched them into fists. The women spoke of her as if she didn’t sit right in front of them. But hadn’t she done the same since the last time Ruth had lost her baby? Last spring when the sheep were heavy with lambs, Reba had ventured across the pasture with food in hand and prayers in the same manner. She’d sincerely meant her words of condolence, even if she hadn’t completely understood the depth of the loss.
“Joseph and I send our best,” Ruth said. “If there is anything we can do—”
“We can pray for the other families. I hope no one else is taken,” Mariah said firmly. “I tell you, this land is cursed. No matter what Herb says or that crazed man. Something ain’t right here. I don’t know if God took that baby or if it was taken like those other children, but none of this is natural.”
After offering more words of comfort, Ruth left, only to return an hour later with Carrie and her children.
Reba slowly tried to rise. Carrie said softly, “Don’t get up. Rest easy.”
Her neighbor floated into the room, her eyes distant and clothes disheveled. Carrie eased into the seat next to Reba. Without glancing at Reba, she patted her hand with sympathy. The woman’s daughter climbed into her lap while her son leaned against her legs with his thumb in his mouth. Ruth settled on the opposite seat, remorse evident in her drawn-up shoulders and eyes trained on the nicks in the table. Mariah’s gaze flicked between the two, ready to act if one of them misbehaved.
“I never thought, whatever this thing is, that it would take the unborn,” Ruth began.
“It’s the devil’s work,” Carrie murmured. “Don’t matter how old those children were. Hiram was a grown man. And now this one . . .” Her voice trailed off as her gaze darted across the table.
Reba opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t form words through the sawdust caught in her throat. Mariah passed her a cup of water. The tepid fluid quenched her thirst. “So what happens now?” she whispered.
“I don’t know.” Carrie wrung her hands. “I still don’t know what to do.”
“Ain’t nowhere left to search, so here we stay,” Ruth managed, wiping away a single tear.
Reba wanted to take in their faces, but if she did, she knew she’d be swept away and left breathless with grief. So the women stewed in silence. They allowed the wind to rattle the front door. The buzzing from the cicadas filtered inside.
“I asked Joseph about leaving,” Ruth said quietly.
“It’s only been a couple of days. He might come back,” Carrie said. “And where you gonna go? Up north, they don’t want colored folks anyway. Last I heard, Negroes couldn’t go to Ohio.”
“This place don’t feel right anymore,” Ruth whispered. “I turn every corner expecting to see Pete, but he’s never there. Everything feels dirty in here.” She brushed her hand against her chest. “And I can’t scrub it clean.”
“Some stains can’t be cleaned,” Carrie said.
And some splinters can’t be removed, Reba thought.
“We haven’t made a decision yet . . . and winter’s coming in a few months,” Ruth said. “Maybe by spring things will be different.”
“How long does it take?” Reba managed to ask. “For things to feel different?”
A hint of a sad smile touched Ruth’s lips. “A mother’s pain is forever. But the sharpness retreats. Sometimes gradually. Sometimes bit by bit. Having Joseph with me helps—even if he’s not the talking type.”
“You should talk to Herb,” Carrie said to Reba wistfully. “You have a good man. He takes care of you.”
“I think he helps you around the house too much,” Ruth said.
Reba paused to clench her skirt. “Herb takes good care of me, as he should.”
“True, but that ain’t right.” Ruth leaned forward as Mariah rolled her eyes. “Women should stay in the house and men should be working. You see, they’re on the outside and we’re on the inside,” she said with an air of authority. “That’s how it should be.”
“Should be?” Carrie grunted. “I know plenty of men who don’t do half the work I do at my house. I don’t need them.”
“Do you want another man?” Reba couldn’t help but ask.
Carrie pursed her lips, then smacked them. “They’re only useful when I need my bed warmed. That’s when I don’t mind them being inside.” A smile brightened her pretty face. “And afterward, the man can head on outside.”
Reba laughed. Ruth tried not to. Mariah guffawed and covered her mouth. Soon enough they were all laughing. Why did it take all this madness for them to sit and comfort one another?
The tightness in Reba’s chest eased. She was ready to speak her truth. “I should’ve been more serious, more insistent,” she managed.
Carrie’s head rose. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about our children. When I taught them, I could’ve done things differently.” She tried to swallow past the cotton in her throat. “Carrying a child is a part of life. We all must do what we can for the betterment of others.”
“Indeed,” Ruth murmured.
Reba attempted to gather scattered thoughts. “Come this spring, we should work with the Raleys to build a proper schoolhouse. We shouldn’t wait.”
Ruth slowly nodded. “Joseph can build desks for them.”
“A proper place for the children sounds wonderful,” Carrie added.
“In time,” she said, “they’ll have arithmetic books and chalkboards.”
Each woman sounded off, one after another, with the supplies their children would need. The vineyard could be built in the years to come. They had all the time in the world, didn’t they?
A quiver circled Reba’s stomach. She trembled as she pulled herself away from a melancholic train of thought. Had her baby moved? No, it was the porridge surging up her throat. She rushed out the door and emptied her stomach onto the grass.
A warm hand pressed against her lower back and stroked. Carrie’s tiny, splayed hand had the span of a hummingbird’s wings, but her palm was comforting.
When she was ready to return to the house, Carrie helped her back inside. It was Carrie who sat with her while Georgie played with the twins. Reba wasn’t sure how the day passed as people went in and out. Now and then, she rose to attend to the chores, but a hand was there to force her to sit again. By the end of the day, the bleeding had ended, and her baby still hadn’t moved.
“A mother’s pain is forever. But the sharpness retreats. Sometimes gradually. Sometimes bit by bit,” Ruth had said.
Reba carried those words into the next day. Then the next. Gradually, she got up from her spot before the hearth to pace the house. She swept the floor. Hung the bundles of herbs up to dry. All with the purpose Luke had shared: Didn’t the living need to move on?
A week later, Mariah said to her, “I caught a pheasant. Want to help me cook it?”
“You might not want that,” Reba admitted. “Herb learned how to roast a chicken from his mother, and she taught me how to not burn it.”
Mariah laughed. “Then I’ll cook it.”
She assessed the hearth. If they wanted a fine meal tonight, they’d need more wood.
“Can I help, Mama?” Georgie asked, abandoning his sister, who played by herself and sang off-key.
“Go tell Jimmy to bring me some firewood,” Reba said.
With a squeal, Georgie bounded out of the house and tore out into the yard. He returned with his brother not far behind him.
“You needed me?” There were beads of sweat on Jimmy’s forehead and dirt caked under his fingernails. He’d spent the morning cutting firewood for their winter supply.
She smiled. “Georgie was supposed to tell you to bring me some wood.”
“He didn’t. I’ll go get you some, Mama Bear!”
Reba looked him up and down, noticing his torn trousers and filthy shirt. “When’s the last time you changed your clothes?”
“It’s been a while,” he murmured.
“The hole in your breeches has gotten bigger,” she said. “Your clothes will grow legs and throw themselves into the fire.”
With a groan, Jimmy hurried up the ladder. Moments later, he returned in a fresh linen shirt and a pair of dark-blue breeches. As he made his way out the door, she leaned over to kiss him. But before her lips even reached him, her precious son vanished before her eyes.
Annie was still softly singing her song, but once Reba screamed, her voice fell silent. Reba searched the kitchen, but her son was gone. Just like Nelson. Just like Peter. Just like Hiram.
Georgie began to cry, and Annie whimpered before she wailed. Reba couldn’t hear them over her own screams.
* * *
No funerals were held for the missing children. There were no bodies to bury. During that time, Herbert and Reba numbly went through the motions of living. Her beloved husband refused to speak to anyone for two days. After losing his brother and now two children, he had nothing left to say.
Reba distracted herself by harvesting Carrie’s corn with the scythe. The jerk and twist of her arms was like rocking her babies while she separated the stalks from the earth.
The Bridge family Bible remained in her chest. The very thought of drawing it out to mark her boy’s name inside struck her very soul. Perhaps with time she might find the strength to consider Luke’s request.
Buckets of apples piled up in the barn. Little Georgie stuffed his cheeks and gorged himself while Mariah and Reba did what had to be done to preserve the harvest.
Not once did her friend mention what had happened. Mariah let her tears fall, and the woman stopped soothing her when she couldn’t stop crying out for Jimmy.
God has punished you, and rightfully so.
If she hadn’t prayed for his safety, this wouldn’t have happened.
Punishments or not, Georgie still wanted his mother. That afternoon, he drew Reba away from her errant thoughts as he parted her stilled hands to try to climb into her lap.
“Leave Mama be.” Mariah reached over to pick up the boy. George squirmed out of her arms, ran up to his mother, and leaned against Reba to kiss her belly.
Horrified, Mariah snapped, “You’re being a pest, Georgie!”
“I’m kissing the baby,” the boy said proudly.
