The Fallen Fruit, page 26
“C’mon now.” Ursula poked her shoulder. The woman’s quick steps meant business. “You fending for yourself today.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ceci’s words held no weight. The sorrow sticking to her bones tugged at her to stay in her chair, but somehow she rose.
Step by step. Slow breath in, slow breath out. That was how she washed her face. Slipped another woman’s leather boots—those had belonged to Jane too—onto her feet. Ursula waited by the door, her stern gaze never wavering.
“We’re gonna scoop the molasses out of your slow-cooked porridge this morning.” The woman giggled with a hint of a smile.
Fully dressed, she followed Ursula out the door into the high humidity. The Bridge farm always had a tranquil underpinning. Beneath the rolling hills and flecks of trees hid the unseen threat of time.
Ursula stormed through the darkness, a sweet hum from between her lips as they trudged around the house. Two structures, an outhouse and a chicken coop, had replaced the empty field she’d walked across with her family. Chickens milled about the A-frame coop, squawking and skirting away at Ursula’s arrival.
In the future, a young Ceci would trail after her grandpa Ross to another coop to gather eggs. He’d towered above her, and his tin bucket of feed had swung with each step. His birds, which had the strangest names of Chicken Pot Pie and Chicken-’n’-Gravy, had harassed Ceci at every opportunity. The most evil rooster of them all, who lived well into old age, had been aptly named That Bastard Bird.
Ceci held the warm eggs and smirked at the thought of that damn bird, hounding her as if she dared approach the coop. Those were the good old days.
“Looks like you got one.” Ursula grinned. “Time to cook these.” She gently tapped under Ceci’s chin, then gestured to her own small basket.
The minute the pair returned to the house, Ceci’s steps slowed again. The chair beckoned her like a throne in need of a ruler, but Ursula pressed her tiny palm against Ceci’s back.
“Can’t wait to fry these up,” she chirped. “Oh, the smell gets me every time.”
Ceci managed a nod.
“How do you eat yours . . . where you’re from?” The woman pushed a bit harder to quicken Ceci’s arctic shuffle. “You seem like a fried-eggs-and-ham kind of lady. My grandmama loved some buttered ones.”
Ursula left her standing in a corner of the kitchen while she fussed over her Acme cooker. She opened the stove’s feed door and added bits of wood. Over the past couple of months, Ceci had watched the woman ignore the grime and old grease caked on the stove.
“Can’t stand filth,” Aunt Hilda always used to say. “Might as well set the table on a filthy floor.”
Speaking of floors, on the way inside, Ursula had tracked her muddy footprints all over the checkerboard linoleum.
“Can you believe my grandmama added scoop after scoop of butter and sweet cream? Then that woman put all that on top of some bread.” Ursula sucked air between her teeth as the butter sizzled in the cast-iron pan. “Granny should’ve ate a bowl of cream and been done with it.”
She turned around to reach for the eggs Ceci held. “Do you like cream?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good, ’cause I love it.” Ursula freed the eggs with a practiced thwack and sprinkled salt and pepper on top. The abandoned shells left a gooey pile on the counter. Ursula ignored it and began to sing.
“Put your arms around me, honey,” she crooned. “Hold me tight. Huddle up and cuddle up with all your might.”
Ceci glanced from the mess on the counter to the woman. Finally, she crossed the kitchen in two strides and gathered the refuse. A buoyancy in her gait she’d missed added strength to her steps as she tossed the shells into the compost bucket behind the house. Then she picked up the broom from the kitchen corner.
Ursula swayed to a beat only she heard, singing in a pitch higher than Little Anthony could ever achieve. “Oh! Oh! Won’t you roll those eyes? Eyes that I just idolize.”
“What are you singing?” Cecily swept up the crumbs hiding along the floor next to the counter.
“It’s called ‘Put Your Arms Around Me Honey.’ Isn’t it great?”
“Sounds wonderful.” She wished she meant it.
“Music and the good Lord above make me happy.”
Music used to make her happy too. She’d never hear the Ronettes again, never dance to Ike and Tina Turner’s music either.
“Where did you go?” Ursula touched her shoulder. “I was getting to the good part.”
Somehow Ceci had returned to the seat in front of the window. “I got tired,” she admitted. “Do you need anything?”
“Why, Miss Meg, I had you up a moment ago. Would you like to sing with me? We can pick a different song.”
“Not right now.”
“Fine then, but you’re gonna need to rest up if you wanna get out of here,” she said softly. “A cousin of mine is heading into town at summer’s end, and I know Dennis wouldn’t mind if you came along. Want to get out for a spell?”
At the mention of her grandfather’s name, Ceci’s heartbeat sped up. She had yet to see him or her daddy. Why hadn’t anyone crossed Ursula’s doorstep since she’d shown up? After Ceci had arrived, the clothes and quilt she’d stolen had disappeared—most likely returned to their owners.
“Do you want to go or not?” The way the woman tilted her head, Ceci would’ve thought she was one of those parakeets.
“I’m from the future . . . Would that be wise?”
“You’ll always be from the future, honey,” Ursula said. “Are you gonna run into yourself?”
“No, ma’am. I likely never will.”
Her nostrils flared from a delicate sniff. “Then it don’t matter. You got living to do.”
Chapter 31
Cecily Bridge-Davis
August 1911
The morning brought apprehension and an endless curtain of rain. Thick clouds outside the parlor window promised Ceci’s trip wouldn’t happen any time soon. She folded up the blankets from her pallet near the stove and prepared a pot of hot water, all for her grandfather’s arrival. She imagined him striding through the rain up to the door, his hat dampened from the storm and his face covered in a sparse beard.
“How long you been awake?” a voice asked.
Ceci turned to see Ursula in a white nightgown with a shawl around her shoulders. This early in the morning, strands of her white and black hair had escaped the three braids she’d tied the night before.
“Not long,” she lied. “The storm woke me up.”
“You usually sleep in.” Ursula turned around to plod over to the kitchen. “Not much of a storm, if you ask me.”
“No, it isn’t. I’ve seen horrible snowstorms in these parts.”
“Indeed.” Ursula paused to give her a once-over. “Are you sure you want to wear those clothes into town? That old thing?”
Not long after adding a bit of kindling to the stove, Ceci had washed up and put on one of the housedresses the woman had given her. The back hem had frayed and the flowers on the bodice had faded, but the clothes fit right.
“It’s clean,” Ceci replied. “I can buy something new once I sell a few things.”
“You could buy something when we’re in town, but when Bridges go to the Lord’s house, or elsewhere, we look our best.”
She’d been wearing two of Jane’s housedresses while washing her underwear daily. When she added what Ursula had called “that strange contraption on your chest” to the wash, she considered burning it, but she couldn’t part with it. The woman had yet to offer her anything else to wear, and it was time for her to get her own things. Especially since her host was far too short and Ceci couldn’t fit into any of her hosiery.
Cecily rose from her seat. “If there’s a Negro business that buys goods, I have some pearl earrings to sell.”
Ursula looked horrified. “Now, why would you need to sell your valuables?”
“I need the means to take care of myself . . .” Ceci trailed off.
“Hmph.” Ursula flicked her fingers to motion for Ceci to follow her into the dimly lit bedroom.
She plodded after the woman. A single kerosene lamp illuminated one of the corners. Like the rest of the house, the room was untidy, with clothes scattered across the floor and knitting materials strewn over one side of the double bed.
The first time Cecily had come in here, she wondered what kind of life Ursula Bridge had led before Owen killed her at the age of sixty-five. Had the woman slept next to a husband on this bed? Had she comforted her grandchildren on long afternoons in the kitchen? Ceci had discovered no evidence of a man, nor any children’s clothing, only the remnants of Ursula’s sister, Jane, stowed away in a cedar chest.
“My sister left everything behind,” Ursula murmured. “Brushes. Jewelry. Her clothes are old but well made.” The woman strode through the room, checking the drawers in a bureau, then she shifted her attention to the cedar chest under the only window. “I’ll never forget the day after she left. Daddy kept crying while Mama kept cleaning. Nobody wanted to collect Janie’s things.” Her voice receded to a whisper. “Nobody wanted to remember how much they missed her or how they were hurting.”
“Are you sure you want to give this to me?” Cecily asked.
“I thought it would be easy to take out a couple of things, you know, a dress or two, but I don’t have the heart to do more myself, to be honest. Lord knows I tried.”
From the depths of the chest, Ursula retrieved thin outer garments and what appeared to be a corset, the color of an old pearl. “All this belonged to my sweet Janie,” she explained.
Ceci stared at the clothes, recognizing the shirtwaist top and ankle-length skirt from older black-and-white photos, but she’d never studied what the women back then had worn underneath. She’d never considered how they put them on or how they kept them clean.
“How do I . . .” she began to say before Ursula fussed at her to take her housedress off. It didn’t take long for Ceci to abandon her bra for the corset and a chemise made from stiff cotton and linen. Jane had had a wider waist but narrower hips. With effort, Ursula adjusted the straps until Ceci had an ideal fit.
“Look at you.” The woman backed away to admire her work. “Now let’s get you into this blouse and skirt.”
By the time Ceci was fully dressed in a shirtwaist and navy skirt, her heartbeat quickened at the thought of finding a mirror to see what she looked like.
She touched the lacy bodice and thought, This is my life now. These are the clothes I must wear.
Ursula sniffed in her direction. “Smells a bit musty, but it should be fine.” She blinked and turned away.
As Ceci waited, she wondered what her boys were up to. If they were searching for her, hoping for her return.
She forced herself to speak. “I really appreciate the clothes.”
“They’re already here. Why waste them?”
“But they remind you of her. I can tell.”
“People come and go, Miss Meg. They’re born. They die. We can’t change that.”
No, Cecily couldn’t change that. Not far from where Ceci and her family ate their lunch, Ursula’s house remained, but the woman had been long gone. Briefly, Ceci considered telling her what would happen twenty-seven years from now. The Bridge family rule to never interfere kept her mouth shut.
“No matter what, I need to repay you for everything you’ve done for me,” Ceci said.
“Repay me for what? For taking care of my family? That’s what Bridges do.”
Cecily’s gaze hit the window and the rain beyond. The corset pushed her back to straighten. “I feel so damn empty. I’m getting nothing done, and I don’t know how you’ve put up with me.”
“I ain’t put up with anything.” Ursula surprised Ceci by drawing her arms around her. She had to stoop to accept them. “After my sister left, I prayed and prayed for her to be comforted by a woman like my aunt Leah.”
Ursula rocked a bit and Ceci swayed with her.
The woman murmured, “Back in those days, my daddy’s sister was the strong one. Little did I know, when I thought my auntie was ignoring how hungry we were, she was hiding and giving her food to one of the fallen. And once they were ready, they moved on.”
“Did you ever find out who it was?”
“Never did. Aunt Leah believed, like I do, that the Bridges have an obligation to shoulder the burden you’re experiencing right now. I can’t lessen your pain, and you’re gonna carry those wounds until you return to the Heavenly Father.” Ursula stroked her back like a mother would a child. “But I can get you out of that chair. Do your hair. Feed you a hot meal. Janie would want me to do that.”
Ursula smoothed back Ceci’s Afro and chuckled. “This head needs some help, child.”
An hour later, the woman finished straightening Cecily’s hair with a hot-pressing comb in the summer kitchen. It had been over ten years since she’d sat in Aunt Hilda’s parlor for a similar treatment. The burned-hair smell and head twisting transcended time. Ceci ran her fingers through her shoulder-length curls and let out a long breath. There’d be no more wigs for a while. Not the kid she’d recognize.
“Now you look like you have purpose,” Ursula remarked.
“What do you mean?”
Ursula cupped her cheek. “Your purpose now isn’t to take Jane’s place but to move on from it.”
* * *
Ceci saw puddles had formed in the patches between the tall grass as she opened the front door to glance outside. One thing she knew for certain was that wagons these days didn’t do as well stuck in the mud. All she could do now was wait.
By the time the skies had cleared, she resigned herself to taking off her nicer clothes and returning to scrubbing the laundry, but Ursula peeked outside and declared, “Time to go. He should be waiting for us by now.”
Ceci must’ve frozen in place, for Ursula added her hands to her narrow hips. “We can’t get out of this house unless you start moving them legs. C’mon now, Miss Meg.”
All she needed was one “C’mon now,” and the skin on her cheeks cracked from a wide grin. Ceci picked up a velvet clutch purse and reached inside for something—she had to remind herself car keys wouldn’t matter for another forty years.
The two ladies had to make their way along the footpath from Ursula’s cottage through the orchard. From there, the path wove through a glen to the house she’d arrived from. A copse of trees hid a cabin and a delivery wagon in the front, but bits of color from the home’s red shutters bled through the birch trees.
The pitter-patter of raindrops falling from the canopy of birch and elm trees accompanied them and quieted Ceci’s fast-beating heart. She stared through the trees, attempting to pierce through them to spot the house and its occupants on the other side. The person she truly wanted to see perched on the edge of the delivery wagon’s driver’s seat. A sign attached to the side was painted with the words bridge masonry.
Was that him? She considered asking Ursula but held tight to patience. A couple more minutes wouldn’t matter. She slowed down to stand in the woman’s shadow. As she drew closer, the man’s features came into view. She had his high forehead and full cheeks.
Right around this time Dennis would be about thirty years old—he was practically her age, a grown man with a wife, two young children, and a newborn.
She stared at him until she seared his likeness into her memory.
As her boots sank into the wet earth, Ceci thought about how every single atom in her body had traversed not millions of miles but a couple hundred yards to reach this point. Everyone else traveled from one place to another while trapped within the boundaries of time. She’d escaped the temporal dimension to witness this moment.
When the man spotted the woman in front of her, he tilted his head her way. “Mornin’, Miss Ursula. I thought I’d have to send Isaiah over to fetch you.”
“Not necessary,” she replied crisply. “I knew you had business in town. Whether it’s snowing or raining, Dennis Bridge finishes what he starts.”
Cecily stood off to the side, her gaze resting on the rutted mud from the wheel tracks. She nervously touched her upswept hair and smoothed down her skirt.
“Dennis, this is my friend Miss Meg. She came this way from down in Nashville.”
“Miss Meg.” He jerked his chin in greeting, then extended his hand to help her into the wagon. The bed had a row of seats on one end and bags of supplies on the other. Dennis had a strong grip and guided her up the side step.
“How are you this afternoon?” Cecily managed to say.
“A bit tired,” Dennis admitted, “but I got a new baby at home.”
The year was right: 1911. Her father had been born that spring.
Once Ceci and Ursula were seated, Dennis set off for the main road. The wagon jostled and slipped over the uneven road, but the two Bridges chatted about the rainy weather while Ceci kept stealing glances at her granddaddy’s back. She wanted to ask where he lived on the property, what his wife and children were like.
Ceci shifted her focus to her new home. The narrow path leading from the Bridge land opened onto a mud-slicked road. A single mailbox, this one dark green with chipped paint, marked the spot she’d visited before.
Seeing the unpaved road felt surreal, as if someone had smeared the present into the past. They rode for a while before a bungalow appeared along the road. That place would be long gone in 1964. More country farms appeared and vanished. Roads weaved slightly left or right compared to the last time she’d driven her Chevy up and down these hills.
Once they made it downtown, she understood—yet couldn’t fathom with her own eyes—how much had changed. Jefferson Elementary still stood on the same spot on West Main Street, while the Paramount and Pronto Pups weren’t there, of course. A part of her expected to see all the modern vehicles—the Chryslers, Chevys, and Fords—but they had been replaced by chugging, noisy Model Ts. It was as if she’d stepped onto a movie set.
