Bridging the Gap
Sketches
The evening hadn’t let up the breeze of the earlier day, but it had cooled considerably. The currents tugged at Jesse’s dark hair and the hems of his clothes. The top button of his shirt flopped as he walked with his hands in his jacket pockets, head down. The streets were different and several times he had found himself lost in the maze of residential streets. There were so many people there now. His heels pounded down on the concrete walkway. As he got closer to the little white house, he could smell the trees and dirt he had once known so very well. Now the scent of roses filled the air. His nostrils flared as they all hit.
He neared the house where music and laughter could be heard from the street. Beneath the dim street lamp ahead sat a bench looking on to the lawn. Jesse scuffed to a stop and sat on the green painted wood. It was the Fosters’ outdoor dinner. Across the lit grass ran children playing games in their dresses and trousers. Jesse leant his elbows on his knees and placed his face in his hands. He was beginning to wonder why he had resurfaced the memories of Tree Gap, and why exactly he had come back. He had only ever had the faint hope of Winnie having drank from the spring. He always knew she never would. She was just a child.
“Are you feeling alright?”
The same rustle of leaves. Jesse lifted his chin to see the brunette girl standing in front of him; she couldn’t be more than eighteen. His hands pressed to his temples before sliding down to his lap. She was smiling at him for some odd reason.
“You’re really a Foster?” He asked.
Michelle nodded and smiled, her hands on her hips. She cocked her head to the side and stared at him with a crooked smile, “You really a Tuck?”
He nodded. She straightened up and seated herself silently next to him. He kept forward, looking to the house. Michelle watched him with her hands in her lap. She adverted her eyes to the house as well and finally spoke, “Would you like to come in?”
Jesse Tuck had only once before crossed the iron fence of the touch-me-not home, and it had only been to say goodbye. The gate did not creak like he expected, and the latch had not rusted either. The path to the house was made of flat stones laid in the green grass. Children twirled about him as he followed Michelle to the door, smiling and giggling. As they approached the porch, Jesse let his eyes wander to the far left window, which had been Winnie’s room. A tug on his wrist pulled him to the view of a little blond girl at his feet. She smiled and pulled on his sleeve once more, begging him to follow her.
Inside the house was stuffy, almost musty in scent. The little girl pulled him past groups of adults in polo shirts and khaki slacks, and a small table of toddlers in highchairs spilling their food across their faces. The blond girl giggled and let go of his wrist to run along side with a cousin. Jesse turned full circle looking for his guide, but was instead met by Michelle with two glasses in her hand. One for him and the other for herself. He took the glass; she smiled in the noise and took his hand in her’s. She led him to a quieter hallway in the home, one lined with photos and paintings of the generations of the Foster and Jackson families. Michelle’s footsteps made no sound on the wooden boards as she walked. She did glanced over her shoulder at his mesmerized face and smiled. No one had really seemed to notice the two had slipped away.
“That’s Emile Jackson: Winnie’s husband.” She nodded to a black and white photo of a young couple. The man was tall with a strong jaw, slicked black hair, and a grin as bright as could be. Winnie was just as round faced as she had been when Jesse had known her, though her hair was short and curled, and her lips were tinged in color. He took a sip from his glass and grimaced at the bitter taste of the tea.
The frames were dusty and worn pale with age. There were several pictures of Winnie’s two sons. Both were in the military during the Second World War. Michelle said the youngest had died in France. Jesse ran a finger across the glass of a photo at the end of the hall depicting a girl who looked quite a lot like Michelle. Possibly from the late 1980s. Michelle drained her glass and bumped her shoulder into Jesse’s, “That’s my mom. I was named after her, you know.”
“You could be sisters.”
She hummed a laugh, “You just don’t know what else to say.”
This brought a smile to his lips. Michelle sat down her glass on the hall table next to a land-line and pulled Jesse through a narrow door. Once inside the dark room she loosened her hand from his and left him by the door. The bedroom was frilled in white lace and dark wood. A window seat was bathed in the blue light of the moon. Jesse set his glass on a shoulder height dresser and scanned the room for Michelle. She was sitting on the floor just under the window, pulling a book from a shelf. She glanced up at him, her eyes shining in the light, and motioned for him to come sit. As he did she opened the book. Its pages were yellowed at the edges and it smelled just as old as it felt. Graphite strokes rounded into eyes and noses, creating faces of several people Jesse had met before.
“That’s you,” She pointed to the long haired face in the middle of the page, “Most of this one is you. Once you left she went on a trip to Paris and picked up the art. She’s been sketching ever since. I’m pretty sure you were her favorite.”
Michelle passed Jesse the book and sat back to watch his reactions to the faces. His eyes moved over the canvas just as smoothly as his fingers. The way he pressed the paper and smoothed away wrinkles from the faces with such desire. She curled her knees to her chest and rested her chin atop her forearms. The room was quiet despite the proximity to the loud banquet not but ten feet of hallway away. A small smile crept on to her face as Jesse’s own lips parted in joy.
He neared the house where music and laughter could be heard from the street. Beneath the dim street lamp ahead sat a bench looking on to the lawn. Jesse scuffed to a stop and sat on the green painted wood. It was the Fosters’ outdoor dinner. Across the lit grass ran children playing games in their dresses and trousers. Jesse leant his elbows on his knees and placed his face in his hands. He was beginning to wonder why he had resurfaced the memories of Tree Gap, and why exactly he had come back. He had only ever had the faint hope of Winnie having drank from the spring. He always knew she never would. She was just a child.
“Are you feeling alright?”
The same rustle of leaves. Jesse lifted his chin to see the brunette girl standing in front of him; she couldn’t be more than eighteen. His hands pressed to his temples before sliding down to his lap. She was smiling at him for some odd reason.
“You’re really a Foster?” He asked.
Michelle nodded and smiled, her hands on her hips. She cocked her head to the side and stared at him with a crooked smile, “You really a Tuck?”
He nodded. She straightened up and seated herself silently next to him. He kept forward, looking to the house. Michelle watched him with her hands in her lap. She adverted her eyes to the house as well and finally spoke, “Would you like to come in?”
Jesse Tuck had only once before crossed the iron fence of the touch-me-not home, and it had only been to say goodbye. The gate did not creak like he expected, and the latch had not rusted either. The path to the house was made of flat stones laid in the green grass. Children twirled about him as he followed Michelle to the door, smiling and giggling. As they approached the porch, Jesse let his eyes wander to the far left window, which had been Winnie’s room. A tug on his wrist pulled him to the view of a little blond girl at his feet. She smiled and pulled on his sleeve once more, begging him to follow her.
Inside the house was stuffy, almost musty in scent. The little girl pulled him past groups of adults in polo shirts and khaki slacks, and a small table of toddlers in highchairs spilling their food across their faces. The blond girl giggled and let go of his wrist to run along side with a cousin. Jesse turned full circle looking for his guide, but was instead met by Michelle with two glasses in her hand. One for him and the other for herself. He took the glass; she smiled in the noise and took his hand in her’s. She led him to a quieter hallway in the home, one lined with photos and paintings of the generations of the Foster and Jackson families. Michelle’s footsteps made no sound on the wooden boards as she walked. She did glanced over her shoulder at his mesmerized face and smiled. No one had really seemed to notice the two had slipped away.
“That’s Emile Jackson: Winnie’s husband.” She nodded to a black and white photo of a young couple. The man was tall with a strong jaw, slicked black hair, and a grin as bright as could be. Winnie was just as round faced as she had been when Jesse had known her, though her hair was short and curled, and her lips were tinged in color. He took a sip from his glass and grimaced at the bitter taste of the tea.
The frames were dusty and worn pale with age. There were several pictures of Winnie’s two sons. Both were in the military during the Second World War. Michelle said the youngest had died in France. Jesse ran a finger across the glass of a photo at the end of the hall depicting a girl who looked quite a lot like Michelle. Possibly from the late 1980s. Michelle drained her glass and bumped her shoulder into Jesse’s, “That’s my mom. I was named after her, you know.”
“You could be sisters.”
She hummed a laugh, “You just don’t know what else to say.”
This brought a smile to his lips. Michelle sat down her glass on the hall table next to a land-line and pulled Jesse through a narrow door. Once inside the dark room she loosened her hand from his and left him by the door. The bedroom was frilled in white lace and dark wood. A window seat was bathed in the blue light of the moon. Jesse set his glass on a shoulder height dresser and scanned the room for Michelle. She was sitting on the floor just under the window, pulling a book from a shelf. She glanced up at him, her eyes shining in the light, and motioned for him to come sit. As he did she opened the book. Its pages were yellowed at the edges and it smelled just as old as it felt. Graphite strokes rounded into eyes and noses, creating faces of several people Jesse had met before.
“That’s you,” She pointed to the long haired face in the middle of the page, “Most of this one is you. Once you left she went on a trip to Paris and picked up the art. She’s been sketching ever since. I’m pretty sure you were her favorite.”
Michelle passed Jesse the book and sat back to watch his reactions to the faces. His eyes moved over the canvas just as smoothly as his fingers. The way he pressed the paper and smoothed away wrinkles from the faces with such desire. She curled her knees to her chest and rested her chin atop her forearms. The room was quiet despite the proximity to the loud banquet not but ten feet of hallway away. A small smile crept on to her face as Jesse’s own lips parted in joy.