Bridging the Gap
One Hundred Years
The roads had been paved and painted, and widened to accommodate the new vehicles of the century. Buildings had been demolished and much of the wood had been torn up to make room for the growing population and modern businesses and homes, and the new school and gas station. The Foster home had not changed much in the one-hundred or so years of its existence. Now the homestead was abuzz with the makings of a wedding. In one week's time the youngest Foster would be married.
White roses were being carried from a pink painted van up the hollow steps of the little white house on the day Jesse Tuck returned to Tree Gap. He stood blocked by the old spear-topped fence, gazing in past the steel bars. A young woman in a vibrant blue blouse was skittering across the lawn, all up in a tizzy. The boy, for that is what he appeared to be, turned a weathered eye to the granite stone at his feet. His sleeve caught on the fence, his fingertips just close enough to brush against the warm headstone of his childhood friend. She had passed at the ripe age of one-hundred, two years prior. He had come for her, after so many years.
A screech of glee brought Jesse back to reality and he pulled away from the stone and the fence. He crossed the two-lane street to the parking meter where a motorcycle stood, his motorcycle. He kicked a leg over the seat and started the ignition, just to take off in what seemed a blur. He had not wanted his eyes to linger on the silhouette of the stone, and neither had he felt someone else’s gaze on him. A pair of eyes he would know.
She sat at a window seat in the local ice cream parlor, sucking on her red plastic spoon. Her eyes scoured his features; she was sure he was the same as the sketches Winifred Foster had played with all her life. He was the same boy Winnie had told stories of right up until her death. The girl smacked her lips and tossed her garbage away. No matter how big the town’s boundaries were, the population had never soared. It wouldn’t take much to find ol’ Jesse Tuck.
The Tuck family had not returned to Tree Gap in over ninety years; Jesse was the first. After Mae killed the man in the yellow suit, Winnie had helped Jesse, Tuck, and Miles break her out of the new jailhouse. The Tucks had found it high time to make themselves scarce. The family made their way to the West, particularly to the eastern region of Montana. They now lived on a Native American reservation, where they were neither exploited or hidden. The tribes there had heard of such curses as the Tucks’, but had no cure for the white man’s ailment. There was peace there.
Jesse had always been a restless traveler, however, and had spent many days and nights on the road seeing all walks of life across the country; he had taken note of beautiful places he would take Winnie one day, even if she’d been there before. But Winifred Foster had been a worldly girl; she had married, was a mother, and a grandmother, and had seen much in her lifetime, but she had not sipped from the spring. She had not been stuck as the Tucks were. Winnie had lived to her full extent. Jesse had loved her, did love her, but Winnie Jackson had not loved him.
White roses were being carried from a pink painted van up the hollow steps of the little white house on the day Jesse Tuck returned to Tree Gap. He stood blocked by the old spear-topped fence, gazing in past the steel bars. A young woman in a vibrant blue blouse was skittering across the lawn, all up in a tizzy. The boy, for that is what he appeared to be, turned a weathered eye to the granite stone at his feet. His sleeve caught on the fence, his fingertips just close enough to brush against the warm headstone of his childhood friend. She had passed at the ripe age of one-hundred, two years prior. He had come for her, after so many years.
A screech of glee brought Jesse back to reality and he pulled away from the stone and the fence. He crossed the two-lane street to the parking meter where a motorcycle stood, his motorcycle. He kicked a leg over the seat and started the ignition, just to take off in what seemed a blur. He had not wanted his eyes to linger on the silhouette of the stone, and neither had he felt someone else’s gaze on him. A pair of eyes he would know.
She sat at a window seat in the local ice cream parlor, sucking on her red plastic spoon. Her eyes scoured his features; she was sure he was the same as the sketches Winifred Foster had played with all her life. He was the same boy Winnie had told stories of right up until her death. The girl smacked her lips and tossed her garbage away. No matter how big the town’s boundaries were, the population had never soared. It wouldn’t take much to find ol’ Jesse Tuck.
The Tuck family had not returned to Tree Gap in over ninety years; Jesse was the first. After Mae killed the man in the yellow suit, Winnie had helped Jesse, Tuck, and Miles break her out of the new jailhouse. The Tucks had found it high time to make themselves scarce. The family made their way to the West, particularly to the eastern region of Montana. They now lived on a Native American reservation, where they were neither exploited or hidden. The tribes there had heard of such curses as the Tucks’, but had no cure for the white man’s ailment. There was peace there.
Jesse had always been a restless traveler, however, and had spent many days and nights on the road seeing all walks of life across the country; he had taken note of beautiful places he would take Winnie one day, even if she’d been there before. But Winifred Foster had been a worldly girl; she had married, was a mother, and a grandmother, and had seen much in her lifetime, but she had not sipped from the spring. She had not been stuck as the Tucks were. Winnie had lived to her full extent. Jesse had loved her, did love her, but Winnie Jackson had not loved him.