Bridging the Gap
1970
“Mama...Winnie, always told us the spring was poisoned; ever since we were little,” Michelle picked up a fallen stick from the leafy ground and dusted it off, “She said ‘if you drink from that spring you will cease to exist in this life and the next’. Mama always had a way with words.”
Jesse and the girl were walking the Tuck trail. Michelle was in front, leading him through the windings he once knew well. It was as if he had never been there, and she was to guide him. She twirled the stick in her hand, an obvious talent. She turned to walk backwards, “You can guess what I did.”
His brow creased, “What made you drink it?”
A look of anger took her soft jaw in a grip and she stopped suddenly, sure to jab the stick at him to stop as well, “If I tell you, you can’t laugh.”
He held his hands up in surrender, “Promise.”
Michelle huffed and let her anger melt away, “It was a suicide attempt.”
Jesse’s face froze in surprise. That was something he had not expected. Michelle struck a near by tree trunk with her staff before continuing, “We received a letter from the U.S. Army, my brother Robert had been killed in battle- we didn’t have an inkling as to where Michael was. My father was struggling to find a job. Winnie was severely depressed, even her money couldn’t keep us to high afloat. She began work in a factory, building bomber planes. Emile was sent to England as an Air Force engineer. For a long time it was just Mama and me.
“June sixteenth, nineteen-forty-three; we received news that my father had been wounded in a bombing, and my second brother, Samuel, had been wounded as well. Samuel was blinded by the Mustard Gas. Mama... Mama didn’t cry. But, she wasn’t herself.” Jesse had stopped walking to listen to her, and she had kept on shuffling forward; her voice was touched with melancholy. She stopped then and tossed the stick into a wild shrub. Michelle didn’t say anything else.
The local library housed reels of news paper scans from the past decades. The librarian running the afternoon shift was a green eyed woman with flittering white hair. Jesse was escorted to the backroom with the light box. The old woman switched on the box’s bulb and by the dim light pulled two reels from a metal shelf. Jesse sat in the cushioned chair as she explained how the reel worked, and not to touch the film itself. A twinkle set in her eyes and her wrinkled lips broke into a smile, “I know you. You’re a Tuck.”
Jesse flicked his gaze from the light box to the woman, “I’m a what?”
She laughed and slapped at his shoulder, “Don’t play that game, boy. I’m an old hoot and I know who you are. I remember the stories my mother told about how Mae Tuck killed that salesman, and then all of your clan disappeared. You can’t fool me. And that Foster girl, Winifred. Such a lovely one. It’s been two years now, yes?” She crossed the room and turned before exiting, “And what you’re looking for won’t be in the nineteen-forty-three papers. That Miss Foster-Jackson didn’t die here. Went off to the city, never came back. I’d check nineteen-seventy, New York Times. It’s the only reel of its kind here.”
The wisp of a woman left the boy in the dark room. Jesse skimmed over the nineteen-forty-three reel to find nothing important. The second reel, nineteen-twenty-five, only reported the birth of the first female Foster since Winnie herself- Michelle. Jesse wound the reel back and placed the film back in its tin. A thought came to mind; the nineteen-seventy New York Times issue was unreleased to the general public. The tin was marked and easy to find upon the shelves. Jesse set the reel up and twisted his way through the pages until he came upon an exposé on a young group of college radicals. The leader of the group was a Millie Platt, her picture was on the first page of the story, the head liner. She was hoisted upon a fellow member’s shoulders, free as a bird. Her long hair was pushed behind her ears, her eyes sparkled, her smile as bright as could be, and her arms slung wide with her bare chest thrust forward. Jesse’s eyes lingered upon her breasts and traveled to the small cross around her neck, to the purest look of happiness set on her cheeks.
The article read that Millie Platt was a feminist and civil rights activist. She had been plenty riled up over the assassination of Reverend Martin Luther King, and quite a powerhouse of strength in the fight for equality. Another picture surfaced of her bare chested wearing an olive soldier’s jacket, the very same which had been a good friend’s during the Vietnam war. She led her troops to victory with picketing and silent sit-ins. She was written as quite a charming girl. In nineteen-seventy, two months before the article was to run, Millie Platt mysteriously vanished. The public had their conspiracy theories, and others thought she had fallen dead-as-a-doornail into a backwoods ditch, no foul play. Jesse’s heart raced the more he read, with the multiple pictures of the tanned girl and the smile he knew fairly well. Millie Platt had resurfaced nearly thirty-two years later in the small town of Tree Gap, completely breathing.
Jesse and the girl were walking the Tuck trail. Michelle was in front, leading him through the windings he once knew well. It was as if he had never been there, and she was to guide him. She twirled the stick in her hand, an obvious talent. She turned to walk backwards, “You can guess what I did.”
His brow creased, “What made you drink it?”
A look of anger took her soft jaw in a grip and she stopped suddenly, sure to jab the stick at him to stop as well, “If I tell you, you can’t laugh.”
He held his hands up in surrender, “Promise.”
Michelle huffed and let her anger melt away, “It was a suicide attempt.”
Jesse’s face froze in surprise. That was something he had not expected. Michelle struck a near by tree trunk with her staff before continuing, “We received a letter from the U.S. Army, my brother Robert had been killed in battle- we didn’t have an inkling as to where Michael was. My father was struggling to find a job. Winnie was severely depressed, even her money couldn’t keep us to high afloat. She began work in a factory, building bomber planes. Emile was sent to England as an Air Force engineer. For a long time it was just Mama and me.
“June sixteenth, nineteen-forty-three; we received news that my father had been wounded in a bombing, and my second brother, Samuel, had been wounded as well. Samuel was blinded by the Mustard Gas. Mama... Mama didn’t cry. But, she wasn’t herself.” Jesse had stopped walking to listen to her, and she had kept on shuffling forward; her voice was touched with melancholy. She stopped then and tossed the stick into a wild shrub. Michelle didn’t say anything else.
The local library housed reels of news paper scans from the past decades. The librarian running the afternoon shift was a green eyed woman with flittering white hair. Jesse was escorted to the backroom with the light box. The old woman switched on the box’s bulb and by the dim light pulled two reels from a metal shelf. Jesse sat in the cushioned chair as she explained how the reel worked, and not to touch the film itself. A twinkle set in her eyes and her wrinkled lips broke into a smile, “I know you. You’re a Tuck.”
Jesse flicked his gaze from the light box to the woman, “I’m a what?”
She laughed and slapped at his shoulder, “Don’t play that game, boy. I’m an old hoot and I know who you are. I remember the stories my mother told about how Mae Tuck killed that salesman, and then all of your clan disappeared. You can’t fool me. And that Foster girl, Winifred. Such a lovely one. It’s been two years now, yes?” She crossed the room and turned before exiting, “And what you’re looking for won’t be in the nineteen-forty-three papers. That Miss Foster-Jackson didn’t die here. Went off to the city, never came back. I’d check nineteen-seventy, New York Times. It’s the only reel of its kind here.”
The wisp of a woman left the boy in the dark room. Jesse skimmed over the nineteen-forty-three reel to find nothing important. The second reel, nineteen-twenty-five, only reported the birth of the first female Foster since Winnie herself- Michelle. Jesse wound the reel back and placed the film back in its tin. A thought came to mind; the nineteen-seventy New York Times issue was unreleased to the general public. The tin was marked and easy to find upon the shelves. Jesse set the reel up and twisted his way through the pages until he came upon an exposé on a young group of college radicals. The leader of the group was a Millie Platt, her picture was on the first page of the story, the head liner. She was hoisted upon a fellow member’s shoulders, free as a bird. Her long hair was pushed behind her ears, her eyes sparkled, her smile as bright as could be, and her arms slung wide with her bare chest thrust forward. Jesse’s eyes lingered upon her breasts and traveled to the small cross around her neck, to the purest look of happiness set on her cheeks.
The article read that Millie Platt was a feminist and civil rights activist. She had been plenty riled up over the assassination of Reverend Martin Luther King, and quite a powerhouse of strength in the fight for equality. Another picture surfaced of her bare chested wearing an olive soldier’s jacket, the very same which had been a good friend’s during the Vietnam war. She led her troops to victory with picketing and silent sit-ins. She was written as quite a charming girl. In nineteen-seventy, two months before the article was to run, Millie Platt mysteriously vanished. The public had their conspiracy theories, and others thought she had fallen dead-as-a-doornail into a backwoods ditch, no foul play. Jesse’s heart raced the more he read, with the multiple pictures of the tanned girl and the smile he knew fairly well. Millie Platt had resurfaced nearly thirty-two years later in the small town of Tree Gap, completely breathing.