The Fallen Fruit, page 27
As they drew closer to what should’ve been the city park, she counted each cross street, waiting and hoping for the open field and Robert E. Lee’s statue.
But it was all gone.
“While Dennis handles his affairs,” Ursula said softly, clutching Ceci’s hand, “I want to treat you to lunch.”
“I’d like that.”
Ceci’s granddaddy dropped them off in front of Smiley’s Eatery off Preston Avenue. As he helped her off the wagon, he said, “The folks here make the best meatloaf, but their biscuits ain’t too good.”
She thanked him, wishing she could say more before he drove away. She hurried down the damp pavement after Ursula into the restaurant. Black diners, eating their afternoon supper, nearly filled the six tables. Ursula didn’t wait to be seated and headed to the back. Instead of picking an empty table, she took a seat across from a well-dressed gentleman in a striped, dark-brown sack suit and black Homburg hat. Ceci sat in the free chair to Ursula’s left.
“I’ve been waiting for four hours,” the man said stiffly.
Ursula dabbed away the sweat on her cheeks with a handkerchief. “And you would’ve waited even longer with all this rain, Ozzie.”
The man shifted toward Cecily, but Ursula interrupted him with a shout to the waiter. “Two afternoon specials, please.”
“Sis, I need to catch the evening train,” the man added.
“And you’ll catch it. Miss Meg hasn’t eaten out since her arrival.”
The man frowned and inclined his head in her direction. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties and had a refined edge to his words. “Forgive my sister. I’m Oswald Bridge.”
“Margaret,” Ceci said, slightly distracted by the goings-on in the eatery. “I’m Margaret Murry.”
“Well, Miss Murry, I wish I could say welcome, but I suspect you’d rather be elsewhere.”
“That’s an understatement.”
Ursula reached under the table and gripped Ceci’s knee. “She’s here and she’ll be fine. What can your friends do for her?”
“Not much, but I’m working with other Bridges who have means. They’ve formed a collective of sorts to secure funding to help the fallen and those left behind.”
Now the conversation had her attention. A waiter arrived with glasses of water. A hush fell over them until the man left.
“So far, we’ve helped five gentlemen resettle in DC, where I’m living now as a physician,” Ozzie explained. “Others have found jobs in town, or we’ve paid for their transportation elsewhere.”
Ceci took a slow sip of her warm water. During the long hours that she’d stared out the window at Ursula’s house, she’d often thought of what she’d do next, but none of her plans was concrete. She wasn’t supposed to exist yet. She was no one.
“Whatever you’d like to do, it’s important for you to not reveal your true identity or anything of the future,” Oswald said. “We will help you find a new name and secure the necessary government registration.”
Ceci’s and Ursula’s food arrived. The waiter placed a steaming platter with meatloaf, country-style potatoes, and french peas on Cecily’s place mat. The sad biscuit on top of the peas had charred edges. Even gravy couldn’t fix a stony biscuit. Ursula got to work sampling the food while Ceci turned to Ozzie.
“You were saying?”
“In order to adapt,” he began, “you’ll need a trade.”
“Before I . . . came here, I taught history at a university.”
Oswald’s face sagged. “You were a professor?”
Tennessee State hadn’t been founded yet, and the likelihood of someone hiring her at another university was low.
“I can speak with my associates to see if anything is available nearby,” he said, “but you may have to start out as a schoolteacher.”
“I need to work.” Ceci had to force herself to pick up her fork and knife. She stirred the peas around before she took a bite of meatloaf. It wasn’t too shabby. A bit salty, like Mama Davis’s food, but the very act of eating food in a restaurant gave her a moment of clarity. She had twenty-seven years to come up with a way to change events just enough so Owen doesn’t end up murdering her family. But before she could do that, like Ursula had said, she had living to do.
Oswald spoke to his sister. “Do I need to say it?”
“Say what?” Ursula didn’t glance up.
He reached into his suit pocket and fished out a couple of bills. He slid them across the table. “Get Miss Meg some new clothes. She can’t be wearing Jane’s.”
His sister stopped mid-chew. The look she gave him was laden with daggers, and after swallowing, she said, “You been swimming too long with the rich fish up in DC.”
“Here we go.”
“Jane’s clothes are old, but they look perfectly fine.”
“You know that’s not what I’m saying, sis.”
“She needs to save money right now.”
“Miss Meg can still do that, but I’m talking about you.”
“I swear, Ozzie.”
“It’s been almost ten years. Give those clothes to charity—”
“It’s that easy, huh? Just toss ’em out with the trash, and maybe I should move up north too? Is that how I’ll forget her?”
Oswald’s impassive face briefly revealed his frustration. “You always know where to cut deep, don’t you Ursula Renee?”
She didn’t reply and stabbed the meatloaf. The metal fork hit the plate with a loud clang.
He added, “Putting me in my place won’t bring Jane back.”
“Nope,” she said with her mouth full. “All you had to do was come down here and help. I know what I need to do.”
The siblings continued their conversation in hushed voices. Ceci put down her utensils and placed her hands in her lap. The cottony material of the skirt—Jane’s skirt—was smooth to the touch. Such a simple thing roused festering wounds. Those two sounded as if they could go back and forth all day, but Ceci didn’t have to listen. Somebody had to move on. Might as well be her.
“If you’ll pardon me,” she said softly, “I need some fresh air. I’ll be right back.”
Ursula nodded as Ceci grabbed her clutch and left.
Once outside, she stared down Preston Avenue. Past two little Negro girls playing jacks in front of a house-painting business that would be a Safeway grocery. Past the Wood Carriage Company and the King Florist Shop. These storefronts were before her time, her previous time. They held no memories and meant nothing to her.
An older man driving a cart full of flowers pulled up next to the florist. Two women spilled out of the shop, a shower of Italian preceding them. They greeted the gentleman before he got down to unload the goods. As he worked, the scents of chrysanthemums and roses floated down the road. Aunt Hilda had loved late-blooming flowers.
“Ceci, there’s nothing better than mums,” her aunt used to say. “No matter the weather, those pretty little ladies keep their secrets all summer only to share them come fall.”
A wooden box stuffed with yellow chrysanthemums tumbled from the back of the cart. Petals sprinkled across the road. The driver picked up the parcel, but a bunch of flowers wrapped with twine remained in the red clay dirt. Half in, half out. Abandoned and forgotten.
Ceci took a step forward—only to turn back to the restaurant’s window to see her wide-eyed reflection staring back at her. She could go anywhere, but without thinking, she set off south down Preston until she reached her first four-way intersection. With no street signs to guide her, she let her memories from ’64 tug her down what had to be Main Street. From there, her pace and spirits picked up. She counted the blocks. One. Two. Three. At the fourth intersection, she looked around, her soul as invigorated as her body. White children played tag in front of an Italian grocer while across the street a couple left a bakery. Not a single detail reminded her of her time, and yet she could feel Winston approaching from Fifth Street. He’d have his hands stuffed in his jeans pockets and a wry smile on his youthful face.
Her glove-covered hand brushed against her lips. She swore she’d never sit and wait. Somehow, someway, she’d see Winston again.
Chapter 32
Cecily Bridge-Davis
December 1924
Around this time of the year, when the snow fell and families adorned their mantels with holiday trinkets, Ceci always told her students to reflect on the past for the sake of the future. None of them knew how deeply she did the same.
Within the quiet of her private room at a boardinghouse not far from Howard University, she packed her trunks to the crackle of the fire in her fireplace.
She used to hang up three socks in the hope Santa Claus would return her family to her, but lately she’d hung up something else on the wall next to the fireplace: her plans for Amelia Bridge. Ever since she’d identified the young woman, Cecily had covered a large swath of wall with her past research. Most of her notes and records from 1964 were still there. Over the years, time had both muddied and clarified the waters of memory. But as Ursula had predicted, she’d learned to move on. Her journeys had taken her to Chicago, New York, and then finally Atlanta. From there, she’d heard of an opportunity to teach classical history at Howard University.
Right next to her chemises, she added her suffrage sashes. She didn’t need them anymore, but the marches, along with the times she’d listened to great orators like Marcus Garvey and Ida B. Wells, were one of the things she cherished.
Her attempts to change the past, not so much. In 1917, she’d sent a sum of money to Owen’s parents to improve their situation, but nothing came of that. Last year, she’d even written a letter to Ursula, explaining what would happen in 1938. The letter had been returned to her unopened. Either the murders couldn’t be prevented or she had to take drastic measures in the next fourteen years.
And then she met Amelia Bridge a couple years ago. Once she’d confirmed her suspicions about her former student, she’d spent many long nights planning a new timeline. This change had to be big. Bigger than a letter or a grandiose confrontation.
Based on the data she had gathered, the curse had always been with the Bridge family like some peculiar mutant gene, from Zachariah all the way down to his descendants. It simply had manifested itself in 1817 with Nelson, Hiram, and the others.
But Luke was different for some reason.
As to why his fall had happened forty years before the others, Ceci didn’t know.
What she did know—based on Luke Bridge’s attempt to alter the timeline—was one change had the potential to make an impact in the future. Amelia would always have to go back in time since she was her own descendant, but if a small change were made far enough back, every event afterward could be slightly different.
For example, Emily could avoid having Luke. She could live a fruitful life, and her descendants, including a future Amelia, would time travel to a different sort of life. The family would adapt like before, but the legends of Luke and Emily would be replaced by something else.
The first step would be convincing Amelia to go back in time somewhere other than the Bridge farm in Charlottesville. Pretty soon, Amelia would turn twenty-two. All Bridges fell before twenty-seven. The girl might have a couple more years left in the 1920s, but Ceci believed Amelia’s fall could happen any time now. Her student could go all the way to Maryland or Massachusetts, but she might not make it. The woman’s best bet was Pocahontas Island, an early Negro settlement south of Richmond. If the woman agreed to help her, they could be in Petersburg by this evening. Ceci had far too much to do. A headache threatened to form whenever she thought about changing the family’s long history in Virginia. An altered timeline meant innocent lives could be wiped away. Emily’s descendants might never exist as they do now.
Ceci grabbed her satchel and shut the trunks. It was time for her to call the boardinghouse porter to fetch her things. She had to catch Amelia before the young woman took the midday train to Charlottesville.
The trip to Amelia’s didn’t take long. Soon enough, a brisk wind nipped at Ceci’s face as her cab deposited her and her trunks outside the Bridge household. Cecily closed her eyes until the pain had backed off. Then she straightened her back and knocked on the door.
Part Five
Emily
Chapter 33
Amelia Bridge
December 1924
After Professor Mayberry revealed her true identity and her plan, Amelia scooted off her seat and stood by the fireplace. Her former teacher had to have lost all common sense. She glanced down the hallway to the kitchen. If the professor gave her any trouble, she’d call for Clara or Mr. Parks. Millie’s guest had yet to shift from her spot on the divan.
“We shouldn’t tamper with time,” Millie said firmly. “Can you imagine how much could go wrong?”
Mrs. Mayberry had that knowing smile, a veneer she often had shown during her lectures. The side of her mouth tilted up and her cheek twitched with amusement. “Dear girl, I’ve lived in the early twentieth century for over ten years now. That’s a long time to do a lot of damage.”
“Have you altered the past yet?”
“By being here, I’ve already changed things.” Mrs. Mayberry shrugged. “As for my life in 1964, I’ll never know. Might be for the best.”
She added, “What I do know is the actions I’ve taken since 1911 haven’t affected me until this point. It’s almost as if I’ve always existed here.”
Millie crossed the room to stand behind the armchair. She gripped the top to steady herself. All this was too much.
Professor Mayberry continued. “What I’m trying to say is, I lived my life as I saw fit. You can do the same. Case in point, what will you do when you return to Charlottesville?”
“I’ll wait it out on the farm.”
“Then what?” The woman’s eyebrows rose. “You’ll time travel and just see what happens?”
“I have no choice. I’ll find my way . . . wherever I end up.”
“You will end up in 1758.” Professor Mayberry had said those words with authority.
“So you say,” Millie replied. “But you could’ve concocted all of this out of thin air.”
Mrs. Mayberry opened her satchel and retrieved a large envelope. She opened it and placed a photo on the table. “I thought my explanation would’ve been enough to convince you, but you’re a woman of reason.” Professor Mayberry waited for Millie to take it before she added, “I rather like that about you.”
Millie carefully examined the photo of what had to be an old document. The photographer had gotten as close as possible, revealing every detail. It took a moment for her to understand the elusive cursive, but there it was: a 1771 Albemarle County freedom paper registration for Emily Bridge. In the notice, a thirty-five-year-old Emily had stated she’d been born free and moved to Virginia from New York in 1758. Not only did the scars match up but the ages too. If Amelia fell through time to 1758, she’d be twenty-two then. Thirteen years later, she’d be thirty-five in 1771.
A hollow spot formed in Millie’s chest and spread until her breath caught. She sagged into the seat. Her grip on the photo briefly tightened before she remembered what she held. “How did you get this?”
Her teacher poured more tea into her cup. She added two sugar cubes and a spoonful of cream. “Would you believe me if I said I knew where to find it? It was with a bunch of county records in Charlottesville.”
Millie thought for a bit before she spoke. “Say that I am Emily Bridge, and I could do what I wanted. What if I go back to this Pocahontas Island and I end up killed?”
“You’re stuck in a time loop, my dear,” Mayberry said. “You do have some freedoms, but there are constraints too. You must give birth to your ancestor David, Luke’s younger brother, but I’m proposing one change that might benefit you and the other Bridges. What if you didn’t immediately meet John, and therefore not have Luke?”
“That’s a big change.”
“Yes, it is. But think about it. Say you do go home to Charlottesville right now. You will sit at the farm and wait to fall. Once you’re back in 1758, you will marry a man and bear his children over twenty years. You will never finish your medical training. You will live your life knowing every major event, including when you will die. Is that the life your brother would’ve wanted for you?”
Millie stiffened. “It’s what God intended. And anyway, there’s no institution that would accept me in 1758.”
“Not an institution, but what if you made a life for yourself before you returned to the farm? You’re a bright woman. What if you used 1758 to 1761 for yourself?”
Millie’s bunched shoulders relaxed.
Professor Mayberry continued. “Up to this point, you have written your story. You left the farm after your brother fell. You earned a degree in biology—something most Negroes in this time period will never have. You could’ve been a doctor like your uncle too. If you follow my directions, you can continue to do as you please. Then when the time is right, you can return to the farm, and history may continue as intended—after you’ve made one change.”
“One change.” Amelia turned away from the woman to face the window. She had much to think about and not much time to do it. She glanced at the photo, imagining what Emily’s life had been like back then. Millie couldn’t help but see her own face as Emily stood before the county clerk.
A frightful swallow tickled the back of her throat. Will I remember this day—this very parlor—in 1771 when I register myself? she thought.
“There is one more thing I must tell you before you decide,” Professor Mayberry added with a small smile. “There are mysteries in our family’s history that even I haven’t solved. In particular, the curse’s origin. I believe the Bridge family has always had it and the phenomenon simply manifested in 1817 with Nelson, Hiram, and the others. Now, when it comes to Luke, that’s when things get interesting. I don’t know why he fell forty years before the others. He’s an anomaly and we may never understand. Or perhaps it’s for you to find out. Something unexpected will happen, and you may learn how everything connects together.”
