The Fallen Fruit, page 24
A fine goethite like this one wouldn’t have an emerald’s value, but its shine could rival any fine jewels.
She searched the mailbox for a note or any extra clues as to why he had left the rock in the mailbox, but there was nothing. Did Grandpa leave this for someone?
Mrs. Hale’s words echoed through her head. “Some of them come back, and I don’t mean for a visit.”
Ceci slipped the rock into her pocket. Maybe someday she’d learn why Grandpa had left it there.
After far too many hours, she had cleared a path to the house. The next day, a caravan of trucks and cars stumbled up the road, many of them local Black business owners. Carpenters got to work replacing the rotted flooring on the porch. Then Lee Lee’s brother showed up. He owned a hauling company. Four of his men got rid of the broken or rotted furniture. Ceci could finally air out the house, but the place wasn’t empty for long. Mrs. Hale’s niece had passed away recently, and the Hale family needed to sell the poor woman’s furniture to pay for the funeral. The table and chairs from the Hales needed minor repairs, but everything else, like the beds, end tables, and dressers, would help make the home cozy again.
Not long after the hauling company had gotten to work inside, a group of high school boys began clearing the overgrowth around the nearby barn, outhouse, and chicken coops. To her delight, she unearthed an herb garden behind the house and a well underneath a stone cover.
“There’s still water in there,” one of the high schoolers declared proudly. “I can clean it up for more money.”
Ceci hid her smile and bartered with the boy until they agreed on a fee. The local boys had found plenty of work on the property and she didn’t blame their entrepreneurial spirit. While it would take some time yet for the modern niceties such as electricity and water service, things were off to a good start.
At night, she slept at the Carver Inn, and when she got hungry, she could stroll down the street to eat, but spending the day on her paternal grandfather’s land gave her peace. ’Cause thinking led to tears. Sooner or later, she’d have to call Winston and tell him everything, but only after she had enough evidence—which meant more research. And the Bridges still had stories to tell.
Days passed and July snuck up on Cecily. She continued her research until that fateful day when the Civil Rights Act was signed on July 2. After dancing and celebrating long into the night with the guests at the Carver Inn, she slept and woke up with a renewed vigor. She just had to know if she’d find more records about Sabrina in Richmond.
After weeks of research where she’d found little evidence on Sabrina Humbles’s whereabouts and work to clean up the Bridge farm, Ceci returned to the Carver Inn. The receptionist stopped her near the doorway.
“You need to reach out to your husband. He says you haven’t called him back.” The short and portly woman stood no higher than Ceci’s shoulders, but the spark in her reprimand tugged her down a peg or two. “Thank goodness he hasn’t been calling all over town for you.”
“Thank you.” Ceci accepted the receptionist’s five pieces of paper and escaped to her room. She knew what the notes said. The cutting remarks on them were likely sharp enough to slice her fingers.
Once in the cool darkness of her room, she peeked at them, knowing the reunion with Winston would happen but dreading what needed to be said. She’d learned all she could from Amelia, Sabrina, and Rebecca. Now it was time for the Davis family to learn her fate too.
Chapter 27
Cecily Bridge-Davis
July 1964
“Wow, this place is better than camp!” Jason yelled. Lloyd’s laughs followed not long after.
“I wanna see the apples,” Cecily’s youngest added. “Can we eat ’em?”
“There’ll be plenty of time.” Winston hauled two bags out of Mama Davis’s beat-up Chrysler automobile. The car’s rusty muffler had announced their midmorning arrival. “Get on up there to see your mama.”
Cecily grinned from a well-shaded rocking chair on the porch, A Wrinkle in Time in hand. The Davis boys always made an entrance.
They darted from the car and barreled through the front yard. Jason ran up to her first. She extended her arms and laughed at the sight of Lloyd trying to keep up with his older brother’s stride.
“Mom!” Jason called out. “Mom! Mom! Mom!”
She laughed when they nearly knocked her over. Their giggles sprinkled her with profound pain.
“Did you behave for your daddy?” Her cracked voice betrayed her feelings. She forced a smile.
“Yes,” Jason replied.
Lloyd gave his usual nod. He kept glancing at the house, probably curious to see what trouble he’d find.
“You okay, Mama?” Jason asked.
“I’m fine. Just happy to see my boys,” she murmured. She squeezed them again as her youngest squirmed to free himself. “Why not sit for a bit? Did you wash your face and hands this morning?”
The boy shook his head.
“Mama, can I go look inside?” Jason asked softly.
She peeked at his hands too. Not much she could do. “Go on now.”
Today Ceci would let them make mud pies. She’d let them run through the house from one corner to the other, banging pans. After all, they were her boys. She hurried inside after them.
And of course it was Jason who discovered the toys on the kitchen table.
He examined the baseball glove and ball. “Are these ours?”
His little brother didn’t bother to ask for permission and scooped up a wooden cash register set. After last Christmas, her youngest always made them stop at the Fisher-Price display. Thanks to a heavy dose of mom guilt, today was his lucky day.
“Go ahead.” She turned to Jason as Winston came in. “Surprised you didn’t jump through the wall to get to those.”
Her husband left the bags near the doorway and strode up to her. He slipped his arms around her, and she pinched her lips together. Not yet. Not yet. She couldn’t cry yet. Her heart squeezed as she pressed her cheek against his.
Why can’t time stop for just a little while? she thought.
To quiet her nerves, Ceci backed away with a short smile. “How was the drive?”
“I haven’t been up this way in a long time, and much hasn’t changed.” Winston’s features brightened.
Yes, the world would change, and she wouldn’t be here to witness it. To push the errant thought away, she turned from her husband and picked up the bags.
“Mama, can I play outside?” Jason asked.
“I wanna go too,” Lloyd added.
“Go on.” She turned to Winston. “Are you hungry?” she threw over her shoulder.
“We stopped overnight at Ronald’s place and his wife fed the boys breakfast before we rode up here.” Winston was staring at her hard. His eyes had formed slits as he leaned against the kitchen table chair. She’d seen that face before when he stooped over his papers at his desk. He was calculating.
“I should still get something started,” she said. “Who knows when they’ll be hungry.”
Ceci’s body moved of its own volition, and she gathered the ingredients for a vegetable soup. The work kept her shaking hands busy until Winston ended the silence.
“When did you start smoking again?” he asked. He eyed the ashes in the ashtray next to her notes on the table.
“Not that long. It’s been stressful out here and old habits die hard.” She shrugged and tried to add levity to her voice. “I’ll quit once we’re on the . . .” She fished her mind for the next set of words, and they refused to rise to the surface.
Winston pulled out the chair, the sound of the wood dragging against the floor drowning out her inconsistent chops. Even these damn carrots didn’t want to make things easier on her. She waited for him to speak—to finish her sentences like he used to do—but he said nothing.
“Did you know that Pronto Pups is still open?” She poured water into the pot and scooped up the vegetables. “And the place where we went on our first date up on Fourth Street and Main? It’s still there.”
She headed to the cupboard to fetch a stirring spoon, when arms slipped around her waist from behind. The caged panic in her chest escaped its bonds and reared its sharp teeth. Her mouth dried and her eyes blinked as the wall she’d built to protect herself crumbled and fell to her feet. A sob escaped her mouth.
“Whatever it is, I need to hear it, sugar,” Winston said.
“I found my daddy. He was murdered.”
He twisted her around to face him, but she couldn’t look him in the eyes. From where she stood, she’d rather look through the window at her boys playing.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” he murmured.
“I’d like to say that’s it, but the Bridges . . .” She broke away from his arms and strode over to the portable Coleman stove and turned down the gas. “There’s more.”
She pointed to a thick manila folder on the table.
“What’s this?” He opened the folder and retrieved the first page.
“It’s my assertion, and the evidence to support it.”
He scanned the page twice, his straight lips slowly opening in disbelief. “W-what is this—”
“Before you ask, just read it. From beginning to end.”
Winston Davis didn’t move. He stared at her, his eyes poking holes in her demeanor.
“Say something,” she bit out.
He looked away briefly. “Anything I’d say wouldn’t sound good.”
“Try me.”
He slowly shook his head, then blew out a long breath. “Do you think I’m a fool? You’ve been gone all this time, and you show me this bullshit?”
The pages in the file folder of “bullshit” fluttered as Ceci’s husband thrust it in her direction.
“You’ve been gone over a month,” he said. “Fewer and fewer phone calls. And now you want me to read some report?”
“There’s too much to explain, but all—” The tightening in her stomach grew painful and she flinched.
“Page one has a family tree.” Winston riffled through the folder and opened it in the middle. “ ‘The accounts of a Rebecca Bridge, which include birth dates and disappearances, corroborate with local census and newspaper articles. A historical record of “Free Negroes and Mulattos” in 1833 shows . . .’ Why should I read this madness dressed in sanity’s clothes?”
There. That was the question he should’ve asked. “Because you love me and the unbelievable requires a leap of faith.”
Wrinkles flexed on his forehead and his jaw jutted back and forth.
“Do you still trust me?” she whispered.
The weight of that word “trust” circled the room. All Ceci could do was wait.
After a resigned sigh, her husband returned to his chair, and flipped from the first page to the second.
While the soup bubbled in the pot, the stack of read pages grew, but the focused expression on Winston’s face never wavered. He went through the papers as if he had to grade them before Monday.
Ceci abandoned the summer kitchen. Unpacking her family’s bags seemed best. The sound of pages flipping floated from the kitchen while she tucked away the boys’ things in the second bedroom. She avoided looking at Winston’s back when she left his bag in her bedroom. Instead of returning to the parlor, she got on the bed and curled into a ball.
Hours later, with the sunlight outside dimming to a honeyed yellow, she woke with Lloyd beside her. She pressed her face against the stubble on the back of his head, just like when he was an infant. Back then, the curls had been softer and tickled her nose.
Tears blurred her eyes. She sniffed and stiffened, refusing to go there, refusing to think about what would be.
A warm hand softly shook her shoulder, drawing her away from the moment.
“What time is it?” she murmured.
Her husband stood beside the bed and glanced at his wristwatch. “Three thirty.”
“And Jason?” She sat up, careful not to disturb Lloyd.
“Jason’s out in the orchard.” He picked up their youngest. “I’ll be back.”
Winston disappeared around the corner to take Lloyd to the other bedroom before joining her on the bed. It felt strange since he was on the wrong side—he always slept on the right.
“The verdict?” she whispered.
“Now, if I say you’re of sound mind—and right now I’m not so sure—you have compelling evidence to support your family’s time-travel phenomenon. But for every argument, I can think of an explanation.”
Ceci was ready for this part.
“What if the Bible’s ‘gone’ references were fabricated?” he asked. “Your whole argument has no merit without them.”
“Some of them could’ve been fabricated, but why would anyone concoct a scheme at this grand of a scale?”
“Mass hysteria?” His eyebrows rose.
“There’s over a century of records,” she added, “including newspaper articles from Richmond to DC corroborating the disappearances noted in the Bible.”
“ ‘Gone’ can mean anything. People leave. Folks find jobs or their family dies, and they relocate.”
“Yes, people leave, but not at this scale. And all these disappearances are connected to one family line. Isn’t that suspicious?”
Winston threw question after question her way, never stumbling in thought, and her brain whirled from the sheer weight of the information she had accumulated. She’d followed the Bridges’ lives since they’d bought the land. She knew them. Felt them.
Winston didn’t.
“None of this is real, sugar.” He threaded their hands together, and she bit her lip to keep herself from recoiling. “It can’t be.”
“But it is.” She let go of his hand to touch the freedom papers she kept in her pocket. They were just as real as anything else.
“If time travel is real,” she whispered, “and we ignore what I showed you, what will happen if it’s true?”
He rubbed the back of his head and drew out a long exhale.
“If it’s true, then I gotta prepare. Just like my ancestors.” She leaned toward him to rest her head against his shoulder but then she pulled back.
Her husband slowly shook his head again. “Do you understand how all this sounds from my perspective?”
“Unfathomable . . . I thought the same thing.”
“I find it hard to believe you have less than a hundred sixty days until some curse kicks in.”
Her birthday on January 5 held new meaning now. “Probably less than that.”
He gave an unsteady laugh. “You need to stop doing all this. You’re probably scaring yourself for nothing. We got plenty of money from selling the land. I say we hang out, have a nice extended sabbatical as a little family vacation, and by New Year’s, we go home.”
So he’d met her in the middle. Now that she thought about it, after reading so many science fiction and fantasy stories, she would’ve been far less kind had she been in his shoes.
“What about your job?” Her voice trembled.
“I’ll handle it. I ain’t had much time off since grad school, anyway.”
The sounds of the screen door banging bounced into the bedroom. Jason was back. Her husband leaned toward her. The soft kiss to her forehead had to be a peace offering, a promise that everything would be all right.
Chapter 28
Cecily Bridge-Davis
July 1964
“No more working,” Winston said firmly as he took Ceci’s pencil.
Her husband folded his arms and blocked the midmorning light shining through the parlor window. Shadows darkened the worktable and hid the scribbled facts and figures.
It wasn’t as if she’d returned to her research after he and the boys arrived last week. Every single evening, she clung to her babies tighter than the stubborn ivy crawling up the side of the house. Jason snuggled up to her, while Lloyd would have none of her fussing. Not one iota. She would try to pick up the child and sing The Flintstones theme song, but he would escape to go play.
“Don’t make that face, sugar.” Winston smiled and returned her pencil. “Before you call Hitchcock and plot my murder, we’re gonna do something as a family. While you sat petrified in that chair, I went out and grabbed some lunch.”
So that was what she smelled. She hadn’t eaten yet, only prepared her usual lavender tea for breakfast.
“Why can’t we eat inside?” she asked. “I still need to figure out if Emily and Amelia Bridge are the same person.”
“Does that matter right now?”
He had a point there. She glanced out the window to see her boys milling about in the front yard. How long had they waited for her? She rose from her seat.
“Let’s go.” She took her husband’s hand, and after Winston retrieved the bag of sandwiches and a picnic blanket, they left the house.
The sky remained murky in spots, but the shade offered shelter from the damp heat. Even with the warm weather, the walk was pleasant. Back when she’d toiled to clear paths, the shrill call from the common redpolls kept her company. Hearing her children’s shouts and laughter sounded better than anything.
She used to always hold hands with her husband like this, just like the last time they’d headed up to Michigan on vacation. They’d left the boys with Mama Davis and traded the Nashville humidity for cooler temperatures. One of her friends from the Nashville group of the National Council of Negro Women had spoken highly of Idlewild. How Black folks could swim and lounge with comfort off the lakes or catch a first-class show at the Paradise Club. After they’d arrived, they’d spent the whole time exploring the town from one end to the other. The sanctuary from oppression had left them at ease—enough for Winston’s professional demeanor to falter.
Ceci’s grip on her husband’s hand tightened as she realized how little they’d spent time alone after their academic studies had ended. Once the boys were old enough, the Davises had traveled as a family unit. From the get-go, Ceci and Winston had agreed to give their children the world they’d been denied.
