The Fallen Fruit, page 5
“I have clothes.”
Etta gave a half shrug. “You’ll see. When you go to college and associate with those people, you’ll understand why you must look different.”
As Auntie had told her repeatedly over the last three hours, she didn’t have the proper attire suitable for an “educated” young woman. Last she’d heard, folks learned just fine without fur-lined coats, velvet cloche hats, and leather lace boots.
“I’m here to go to college,” she said. “That’s all.”
Aunt Alma must’ve heard her. She replied, far too loudly, “Agreed. Good girls do not associate with the riffraff that comes out at night.”
“Goodness forbid she associate with that element,” Rosie added.
“Yes, ma’am,” Millie murmured.
“Rosie’s been down to Murray Palace Casino many a time,” Etta whispered with a conspiratorial smile. “She sneaks out of the house after Clara goes to sleep.”
Millie hid her grin and kept pace with Etta to hurry around a man campaigning for Harding. The gentleman belted out promises for a return to normalcy—which she welcomed after the war and the flu pandemic. Around them, U Street writhed with activity, its occupants carrying more than parcels and purses. They carried burdens. Whether she lived in the woods or the city—one thing was certain: everyone kept secrets.
Chapter 5
Amelia Bridge
August 1920
As temperatures rose, Aunt Alma shaped and molded Millie into “one of Dr. Oswald Bridge’s girls.” During those summer months, her cousins frolicked and socialized without a care—it was as if the family curse never existed to them. Millie hated to admit it, but she felt the same way. As August swept in, the birch tree forests and Virginia mountains began to feel more distant.
Much to her surprise, Aunt Alma finally gave Millie permission to join her cousins for a movie. The young women ran off to U Street again, eager for an afternoon of laughter. While Shoulder Arms, starring Charlie Chaplin, played on the big screen, she grinned like a fool. She’d never seen a movie before, and she almost pinched herself in delight. Nothing compared to the fine leather seats and the theater’s gleaming overhead lights. The audience devoured every quirky mannerism Chaplin threw at them. A couple to her left burst into laughter. Four men shouted protests when the actor bumbled down the wrong hallway.
She carried the laughter and joy with her right up to the entrance examinations in September. And she not only passed but also excelled, receiving a far more favorable score than dear Cousin Rosie. After the young women learned the results a couple of days later, Rosie stood in the kitchen and complained to Aunt Alma. She didn’t bother to lower her voice either. Millie heard every syllable from the parlor, where she sat with Etta.
“She told us she only had two years of high school,” Rosie said. “Makes no sense.”
Her aunt harrumphed. “You can’t take the backwoods out of girls like her. She probably cheated off Etta.”
Millie swallowed a laugh, but Henrietta couldn’t resist snickering. Why bother cheating when Millie knew the answers? And Etta hadn’t scored as highly as she did either—Millie had worked hard to reach this point. Over those five years her brother had written to him, Uncle Ozzie had sent her book after book. During the long winters when Ma, Isaiah, and Millie were stuck indoors, she’d learned geography, Greek history, and biology.
She wasn’t lucky, and she most certainly wasn’t a backwoods fool. She simply had put in the work.
After they’d passed their exams, the young women only had to wait a few days for autumn quarter to begin. On the morning of move-in day, Millie could think of nothing else but starting her studies in biology. After she obtained her degree, she planned to attend medical school. All those dreams began with her uncle. She never forgot that fateful summer when she was eight and Uncle Oswald had spoken of his time at Howard University. Day after day he’d trudged from his dormitory at Clark Hall to the Medical Building. And now it was her time. Nothing would get in her way—unless she faltered on her own.
While everyone ate breakfast, Uncle Oswald said, “Focus on your studies, and after you’ve adjusted to your first quarter, you can join me at the clinic.”
“But I’m not a doctor . . . yet,” she said to him.
“Don’t need to be a doctor to fetch supplies or do secretarial work,” he replied stiffly. “Will be good for you to listen and learn.”
She bowed her head and departed the house with lighter shoulders and joy in her step. None of the girls spoke while Mr. Parks drove them to campus, but soon enough they reached Miner Hall. A throng of chattering ladies surrounded them, for Rosie and Etta had many friends here. Millie faced the imposing brick building, with its columns and three stories, and marched up the steps. The girls’ dorm should’ve filled her with fear for all the long hours of studying to come, but she was ready for anything. There would be difficult days, but today no one could take her exuberance away.
Chapter 6
Amelia Bridge
January 1921
Winter swept in not long after the autumn quarter had ended. Millie had gotten high marks for her labors. Everything was as it should be until she stepped into Professor Patricia Mayberry’s classroom the next quarter.
Henrietta had taken Professor Mayberry’s Medieval European History course the previous quarter and she had warned Millie to stay away. “She’s the strictest teacher I’ve ever seen.”
Millie had tried to help her cousin study, and she quickly discerned Henrietta couldn’t remember dates if her life depended on it. So her poor cousin had fumbled through the verbal exams and barely passed. Millie, on the other hand, eagerly registered for the course. Mayberry’s teaching style didn’t frighten her. She wanted to learn from someone who required memorization and the strictest standards. Even though she was safe from falling through time, she’d learned that knowledge of the past was of the utmost importance.
It was a dreary, snowy day in January when she stepped into Main Hall. The previous quarter, the four-story building, perched on the summit of a hill, had intimidated her—for it represented years of exams and lectures. But now she marched inside with the rest of the students, her mind open and ready to focus on her studies.
Warm air from the building’s steam furnaces fogged up the glasses of one of her classmates as he hurried into Mayberry’s classroom to secure a front-row seat. She followed the less eager students and settled into one of the middle rows.
Millie wasn’t that eager to be a target for the teacher’s attention.
The woman in question scribbled classroom rules on the chalkboard. Her crisp handwriting was punctuated with each scratch and tap. From behind, Patricia Mayberry could’ve been any colored woman on campus. Her silk blouse, with the feminine lace border along the collar, softened the stiffness of her back. In contrast, the professor’s muted gray skirt reflected the bleakness of the expression she presented when she turned around.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning,” the class repeated.
“Welcome to—” Mayberry’s words were interrupted when a student hurried into the room with murmured apologies.
“Your name?” the professor asked, her voice devoid of emotion.
The student froze. He turned around and sucked in a breath. “Harold Sims, ma’am. I had to—”
“Your excuses are irrelevant.” Mayberry pointed to the rules she’d written on the first of two chalkboards. The first rule: ALL TARDIES WILL COST HALF A POINT. “Life as a student happens, but unlike you, I’m expected to do my job to earn a wage. Your tuition and your place in this school are sacred. Remember that next time.”
He removed his bowler hat and inclined his head. “Yes, Professor.”
“Be seated.” Mayberry paced the front of the room while she pressed on. “Mark and remember my rules. A laborer late for work will lose his job, but all you’ll lose is half a point.”
Millie had already written down the rules, noted the readings for the week, and tucked a bookmark in at the first page in the textbook. At least she got something accomplished.
For the rest of the hour, not a single student sneezed or made a peep unless the teacher asked a question. Millie glanced around and noticed, like in her other courses, that only four other women sat in class. She recognized two of them as fellow freshmen.
After a lecture on the barbarian invasions during the late first century, Professor Mayberry concluded the class. “I expect you to read the first two chapters in the Hargreaves book. Your homework is simple.” Her gaze swept over the classroom. “This is a medieval history course, but I want you to consider the past and the present. Do you believe history repeats itself? We will have a debate during the next lecture, and I expect everyone to participate.”
When Mayberry said “everyone,” she looked right at Millie, then she dismissed them. Millie hurried out, the weight of the woman’s stern eyes following her.
Class met twice per week, so she had only forty-eight hours to answer the question. It seemed simple: Did history repeat itself?
And yet from what she’d experienced, a simple answer didn’t suffice. Giving examples from the many failed Russian invasions came to mind, but she couldn’t help but consider the deeper meaning behind the question.
Wednesday morning snuck up on Millie, and she didn’t have any answers other than the ones she’d scribbled last night. This morning not a single person walked in late.
As on Monday, Professor Mayberry got right to the business at hand. “We will begin with our discussion on your homework topic.”
A few of Millie’s classmates sat up straighter, some adjusted papers full of notes. The woman beside her had three pages of arguments and rebuttals.
Her paper had five measly sentences.
“Let us begin our discussion with a practical example. If any of you have read George Santayana’s The Life of Reason, you will have read the line, ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.’ Consider the fall of the Roman Empire, as well as the demise of Han dynasty China. Each of these civilizations had a corrupt government, social unrest, and invasions from other countries. Yet they were thousands of miles apart, with differing philosophies. Why did this occur? Why couldn’t any of them have learned from the past and changed the outcome?”
Three hands shot up. Millie’s wasn’t one of them.
“Man is inherently flawed,” one man said, eager to make his point. “Power corrupts, and with that corruption, we make the same decisions we believe will benefit humankind, but these decisions only benefit ourselves.”
Professor Mayberry ignored the other two hands and pointed at Millie. “What do you think, Miss Bridge?”
All heads turned to her. Damn. She should’ve raised her hand like the others. Millie touched the papers on her desk, but the answer she had in mind didn’t come out. “We’re supposed to learn from the past, so we don’t repeat our mistakes, but what if every option will result in the same outcome?”
The professor approached her desk, weaving around the others. “True, but ‘in the midst of chaos, there is always an opportunity.’ ”
“Sun Tzu,” Millie dared to whisper.
“Correct,” Professor Mayberry said, her gaze flicking to Millie’s notes—or what few notes she had. With a nervous smile, Millie clasped her hands together and rested them on top.
The woman pressed on. “One of the greatest tacticians of all time also said, ‘There are not more than five musical notes, yet the combinations of these five give rise to more melodies than can ever be heard.’ Think about it.” She tapped Millie’s desk twice. “The Romans or the Han didn’t have to make the tried-and-true choices. Nothing is inevitable.”
“Nothing is inevitable,” a classmate murmured.
Millie begged to differ, but she listened while the professor continued.
“One alternate decision,” she said, “at the right moment, can change everything. Consider the late 300s Visigoth invasion you read about in chapter one. If their leader, Alaric the First, hadn’t sacked Rome in 410 AD, would Rome still have fallen?”
The discussion progressed over the material they’d studied. A few of Millie’s classmates eagerly jumped into the conversation, but she held back, her thoughts swimming with ideas she’d often thought about back at the farm: Who’d cursed the Bridges? How had all this madness started?
By the time the class ended, she had her book and notes stowed away. She rushed out of the room with more questions than answers.
Chapter 7
Amelia Bridge
November 1924
Five years came and went. Sixteen short seasons full of sunshine, rain, and snow. Millie completed her biology degree and began her first year in medical school. Much to Aunt Alma’s disdain, she didn’t bring home a swanky suitor from a fine family.
Etta had far bigger ambitions. In the time it had taken them to finish their undergraduate studies, she’d waltzed into Uncle’s house on the arm of the heir to one of the richest colored manufacturers in town. Rosie had less luck, but she still secured a position as a secretary to one of the few Negro-owned law firms in the city.
Millie returned home during Thanksgiving recess to a silent house.
Clara greeted her at the door with a stiff nod. The girl fetched the bag the driver had left nearby. “Welcome home, Miss Bridge.”
“It’s wonderful to see you again. Are you excited about the upcoming holidays?”
“Of course, Miss.”
Millie smiled, but there was nothing exciting about the holidays in this house. This place rarely stirred or twitched, which was nothing new. Over the years, she’d never heard their radio playing music. Occasionally, the electronic tinny sound in the form of a news broadcast had come from Uncle’s study. He seemingly lived at his practice while her aunt spent evenings at charity functions. He and Aunt Alma had separate bedrooms, ate at opposite ends of the dinner table, and never laughed or kissed. They were two ships that rarely shared the same port.
But today they were in the same room.
A heated conversation bounded down the hall and crashed through the parlor. Millie stood wide-eyed in the foyer. Clara beat a hasty retreat up the stairs with the bag. Usually, Millie didn’t eavesdrop, but when Uncle Ozzie growled out the word “dalliances,” the bitterness in the air drew her closer.
“This circus show between us tires me,” Uncle said, his voice smeared with drink. “I refuse to be seen with a two-faced adulterer.”
Alma’s sigh floated through the closed door and slipped down the hall. “I was weak back then.”
“You were more than weak.” A chair groaned as someone, likely her uncle, got up. “You were willing to lie with another man to get what you wanted.”
“I wanted what you didn’t care for: an heir.” Footsteps approached the door. Millie stumbled back, but Alma must’ve crossed the room. “Thanks to me, our daughters are respected. Our friends speak highly of your practice.”
“Those are not my children—”
The older woman harrumphed before she spoke again. “I did what you asked. I never had a son by you—to appease your far-fetched curse, the supposed legacy of all you foolish Bridge men. But make no mistake, husband, those girls are yours. They have your name and you will respect me in public and not destroy what we have built.”
Millie retreated until her back hit the far wall. A painting jostled, but she reached out and steadied it.
Dear God in heaven, she thought. No wonder her cousins didn’t live in fear. They weren’t Bridges after all. She stumbled up the stairs.
Relief should’ve followed her, but as the fall quarter progressed, new feelings settled in. Doubt. Fear. For now every time she met her cousins, she knew why she never saw features similar to Oswald’s.
Just like Millie’s features didn’t resemble her father’s.
* * *
Millie took after her mother more than her father, Alfred. Ma had always been short, unlike Bridge women, who were usually taller with square shoulders. Wherever she went, she was the shorter one, the petite woman with feet too small for grown women’s shoes.
“I never seen someone so tiny until I saw your ma,” Pa always used to say. Millie could still imagine her mother cooking in the kitchen when she was a child, but she never considered how she didn’t have Pa’s wry smile or his wide nose.
Alfred had raised her and instilled in her a drive to work hard. That inner strength had carried her through her studies. The stubbornness he’d passed on flared once in a while. Like this morning, when Millie left the house to trudge to the corner market. Clara could’ve done the errand, but Millie’s feet worked just as well. Five years ago, she could step out of the cabin to fetch what she needed nearby. The snow would crunch under her boots as she hurried to the chicken coop. Her path to fetch eggs was different now. Sludgy snow covered the roads, leaving vehicles trapped against snowdrifts. She darted around them, sure-footed in her boots, coat, and overalls. Farther down the street, men attempted to dig out a Model T from its wintry grave.
From Willard Street, she made her way northward to U Street. Even during the holidays, pedestrians huddled together to head to work or hurry home. Powdery snow partially covered signs and advertisements, but the flashing lights from the Murray Palace Casino still shone. The door to a restaurant opened as she walked by. Millie lingered, letting the rich smells of fried eggs and grits pull her away from her distracted thoughts. Before the door closed, the lively horns and piano from Bessie Smith’s “The St. Louis Blues” filtered out. That woman’s rich voice, singing about an unfaithful man, lulled her as she reached the busy intersection of U Street and Florida Avenue. Millie could still hear and feel the weight of loss. She’d never been to St. Louis, but she had her own blues. It was too easy for her mind to wander. Perhaps that was why she took a misstep on the curb and fell forward. She reached out to catch herself, but jagged glass in the road sliced through her glove and cut her hand. The blood pooled in the snow, and she stared at it—just like Bessie kept singing in her head about hating to see the evening sun go down.
