Pieces of Time

By Linda McKenna Ridgeway

Pieces of Time is the story of a childs grit as she evolves during the early 1900s in a Brooklyn family where she has been abandoned and terrified. This sensuous portrait of feisty perseverance delights and grieves us in the face of social prejudices and feminine oppression. This is the story of Anna Bennett who has reason to be caustic and hateful, yet evolves into a kind and loving woman with a sixth sense of the future. It could be anyones story if they knew, as Anna knew, they would live for more than one hundred years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 30, 2003
• ISBN: 9781410723437

Linda McKenna Ridgeway

Linda McKenna Ridgeway grew up on Long Island, New York. She loved to hear the stories her grandmother told about life in turn of the century Brooklyn. Ms. Ridgeway has a Masters in Educational Psychology and has been teaching for thirty years. She lives with her husband in California.

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Pieces of Time

By

Linda McKenna Ridgeway

AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN47403

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©

2003 Linda McKenna Ridgeway. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in

a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means

without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 2/19/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4107-2344-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4107-2343-7 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or

links contained in this book may have changed since publication and

may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those

of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher,

and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

In memory of Hilda Skidmore White

1899-1994

Heather Flower watched the waves ripple toward her, reach across the stony beach and cover her bare feet before retreating to the source. Again it approached, washed the land and retreated. She spied a clam wedged between the stones at her feet. Slipping her fingers around it, she pulled it free and wiped it dry. A dark shell, worth more than the lighter ones. She placed it in her pocket and gazed across the water to her people’s enemy, the land of the Pequot known as Conectecott. The Pequot had learned much about dealing with the Dutch. The Pequot sachem was held hostage for more wampum, and when it was paid, the Dutch killed him anyway. Father journeyed thirty-eight days ago to the villages of the Montauk and Shinnecock attempting to reach a trade agreement with other villages, an agreement that would not include the Dutch or the English. He said he’d return before the moon was full again.

These past days Mother’s tears washed the ground. The moon had fallen away to a tiny sliver.

CHAPTER ONE

Secrets

May 1903

Secrets, Anna thought. This book is filled with Mama’s secrets.

She stared at the letters that flowed across the page, one line after another, rising and falling, each loop hooking another. Some of the letters blurred like droplets on wet ink before moving on again.

Taking a pen from Mama’s bed table, Anna sat on the cool wooden floor. She opened to a clean page and flopped over on her tummy. The image in her mind took shape in the scattered circles and lines she drew.

I hope Mama knows this picture is me in a princess dress, she thought.

She looked toward the hall and sniffed. The house smelled of the fresh bread that browned in the oven and cooled on the table. She heard Mama slap another lump of dough on the board. Dropping the book, she got up and went to the kitchen.

You’re in my way, Ruth, Anna said stepping over her baby sister.

Ruth looked up and smiled, striking a pot with measuring spoons.

Mama stood at the table pressing and folding the next batch of dough.

Mama, how do I make princess in letters?

Not now, Anna. I’ve got to finish this bread and Mrs. Lamarre is coming by for her dress. You can make princess yourself.

"I don’t know how," she whined.

Anna! Run along!

Mama swept a wisp of red hair from her eyes, leaving a streak of flour. Soft wavy strands had worked free from the knot at the back of her neck and clung to her damp cheek. Mama’s skin looked smooth as satin but her mouth and eyes were pinched up tight like a fist ready to spring.

Sometimes, when Papa was in a friendly mood, he’d grab Mama around the waist, and holding her close he’d spin her across the room. Anna liked to hear Mama’s laughter and see her eyes sparkle bright as moonbeams. Most of the time, though, Papa came home big and loud and Mama would jump a lot. Anna knew to stay out of his way, but there were times when the welts on her body were proof of his touch.

Like snow falling, Mama sprinkled flour into the dough.

Just like Cinderella, Anna thought, with all of her baking and washing and sweeping. But Cinderella wore cinder dust, not flour dust. Besides, Mama couldn’t get up on a big ol’ horse. Mama wouldn’t leave me.

Mama? You don’t like horses, do you?

Anna! Stop bothering me! Mama looked up, and for just a moment Anna felt the touch of her mother’s eyes. Their softness warmed her, lifted her, hugged her, making her mother’s sudden shift back to work all the more startling.

I’ve never owned one, Mama answered, dipping her hands into the cracked blue bowl. Never will. Hardly been far in a buggy. Mama turned to the window, her eyes gazing toward the sky. Quickly, she turned to the bowl again and pulled out more dough.

No, I don’t like horses. I only go where my feet can take me. Now, scoot! I’ve no time for horses or princesses.

Anna spun around and skated on stocking feet to Mama’s bedroom and the picture she had drawn. pnss anna, she wrote and drew some flour dust at the foot of her princess. She snapped the book closed, stuffed it back between the bedclothes and quilt where she’d found it and smoothed down the rumple.

Good as new, she said and returned to the kitchen.

Mama’s skirts waved and rippled with her movements across the room like sheets in the breeze on the old wash line. She drew a brown loaf from the oven, popped in a doughy loaf, and with a quick yank, pulled an empty grain sack from the wall hook.

Anna, come here. I want you to bring this bread to your Grandma Buckman. Mama’s hands moved quickly and the loaf disappeared into the hidden folds of the old grain sack.

You go on now, Mama said, placing the bread in Anna’s open arms.

From the warm bundle Anna caught the fresh scent of rye bread and breathed it down to her tummy. She turned and bumped the screen door open with her bottom, quickly slipping through.

The path to Grandma’s began at the back porch and traveled under the gap in the high board fence, through the field, disappearing into the tall reds and yellows of the feather reed grasses. Anna’s first few steps were slow and cautious leaving small shoe prints in the dusty powder before changing to two long lines beneath her feet. A crooked path meandered through the rising dirt as Anna ran in small circles, then dropped to the middle, giggling as she hit the ground.

The sack forgotten, she gazed on the dry grasses that brushed in the breeze and the sunshine. Anna liked the rhythmic scratchy sounds the grass created against the wind and the insects. Rhythm, like the wind in the shutters, like the creaking of the old rocker, like the beat of the horseshoer’s hammer, was soothing in its melody. She pushed herself up and approached a tall weedy spot where the grasshoppers leaped about.

With cupped hands she reached out and scooped a hopper into her pocket, then started off again.

Anna! Anna!

Anna spun around searching the direction of the voice. Nothing but the grass dipping in the wind stretched in all directions. Returning to the ring of dust she snatched up the bread and paused at the sight of a hawk sitting on a stone boulder of twisted fissures and sharp points. It seemed to know her. It watched her.

Go ‘way, you ol’ bird! Anna yelled as she turned and ran the rest of the way, pausing only to kick rocks and dried dung along the path.

When Anna arrived at Grandma’s, she stopped on the first step to listen. Wherever she was, she had learned to listen first. She stepped again. Grandpa’s shouting voice cut through the air as the worn soles of Anna’s shoes slid against the stoop, stepping and pausing. With one hand to the screen and the other squeezing the bread to her chest, Anna stared inside.

Lazy old woman! Grandpa yelled. He raised his hand and struck Grandma’s face sending a tooth from her mouth as if propelled from a slingshot. Grandma doubled over and slid to the floor, blood spotting her dress.

Grandpa went on shouting and Grandma, silenced, held the side of her face. Anna pressed flat against the wall and dug her fingers into the bread. She heard Grandpa’s footsteps and smelled the meanness on him as he pushed through the door, his heavy boots stomping down the steps and onto the street. Anna slid one foot sideways and looked in again. Grandma sat there wiping her cheek on the blood stained apron.

Grandma! I saw your tooth! Anna said, rushing in, dropping the grain sack. It blew right out of your mouth! He did it! I saw him! Her balled fists tucked under her tiny chin. Her breath wheezed through clenched jaw.

It’s all right, Anna. Grandma’s jus’ fine.

But she watched Grandma’s tears fall and stain the front of her dress as her fat fingers pinched the tooth from the floor turning it over several times.

M’ tooth, she said.

Anna moved forward to see into Grandma’s palm. There the tooth lay large and gray. She wrinkled her nose and looked at the weathered, old face.

"This is my tooth," Grandma repeated.

Anna wanted Mama here. She wondered how Grandma would get up. Puckering her lips, she stared at the old woman and took a deep breath.

What have you got there? Grandma asked nodding toward the sack.

Mama sent this bread for you.

The aroma of rye emerged as Anna dropped the bread into Grandma’s hands.

Looks to me like this here bread’s been through some hard times, huh, Anna?

I was scared. Grandpa looked mean. He yelled. I saw it.

You pay no mind to your grandpa. Men jus’ got mean streaks they got to work through. Sometimes they take it out on the women and children. You go on home. Tell your mama that Grandma thanks her for the bread. I’ll send Carrie by later to help.

Anna smiled hearing Aunt Carrie would be coming. She was Grandma’s youngest child, and Mama’s sister who read to Anna and sang songs she loved to hear.

Okay, Grandma, and I won’t tell Mama what Grandpa did.

Good girl. You go on now.

Anna turned to leave, then hesitated. How will you get up, Grandma?

I’ll be fine. Go on.

Down the steps she rushed back through the field, crossing old footprints.

As soon as she touched her porch railing she called out, Mama! Mama! Grandpa hit Grandma in the face! She ran into the kitchen shouting, I saw it! Grandpa hit Grandma!

You stay out of his way! Mama said, punching the bread dough.

But Mama, Grandma’s tooth. I saw it.

Mama grabbed Anna’s arms and, picking her up, plopped her onto the rocker. Now you sit still! I’ll go see Grandma. I don’t want any trouble out of you!

Mama removed her apron, checked Ruth sleeping in the corner, then wiped her face and hands, leaving a small dusting of flour tucked behind her ear. When the screen door snapped shut, Anna began to rock, watching, as Mama hurried down the steps, her frayed hem brushing the ground.

A choking sob came up so fast Anna was startled and thought a tooth had escaped her too. But what she saw were droplets staining her dress and blending as each found another. She rocked harder, her head banging against the worn wood.

The rhythm of the rocker slowed as she watched the grasshopper pounce from her pocket and leap across her dress. It paused before jumping to the floor, chirping as it made its escape. Anna hopped from the rocker, went straight to Mama’s room, took up the writing book and turned to her picture. Ink marks blurred like wet droplets across the paper as two tears struck the page. Slowly the princess stretched long and thin like molasses dripping from a pot. Anna caught her breath and wiped her eyes with the hem of her dress. She touched her finger to the wet ink and smeared it over the page, her princess looking like plumes of black smoke. With quick arm movements, Anna added a sliver moon above the smoke-filled drawing. Then turning each page back, one after another, she washed Mama’s secrets with the tip of one wet finger.

Mother sat near the fire sewing deerskin front to back, a new dress for the ceremony honoring Father and those lost with him one year ago. Heather Flower, full of grief, walked along the water’s edge unable to comprehend the fact that Father was truly gone forever. She looked across the water to Conectecott, a shrill cry of Hawk piercing the sound of the soft ripple of water upon the beach.

CHAPTER TWO

Loss

September 1903

Anna spied on Mama and Grandma from under the kitchen table. She ran her fingers over the deep gouges in the thick wooden leg and looked down at her legs covered with welts. She shifted. The uneven floorboards squeaked beneath her small feet.

Grandma and eleven-year-old Aunt Carrie had moved in after Grandpa died. He was found on the floor of the outhouse, pants wrapped around his ankles, a whiskey bottle still clutched in his fist. Mama and Aunt Carrie had cried for their papa, even Aunt Till, Mama’s oldest sister, lost her pinched lip and blubbered into her tiny lace hanky, the one with all the stinky sweetness in it. But no matter how Mama coaxed, Anna refused to go near the coffin, never trusting Grandpa, even in death.

In a small box Grandma kept the old gray tooth that had popped from her mouth during Grandpa’s heated rage. Two more teeth had been added to that box before Grandpa’s death. Anna guessed Grandma’s remaining teeth would stay put.

Anna shifted again and smelled the grease and lye from the soap that had cooked earlier in the day. Mama sat at her sewing machine in a dark corner, the glow from the oil lamp mounted on the wall casting a deep shadow over her. Creamy as vanilla pudding, her cheek caught the lamplight. Her feet pressed the heavy, grated pedal up and down. A sound like whirring hummers filled the room with rhythmic comfort and created the most wonderful dresses of tiny buttons and fancy lace.

If I’m good and be real cute, maybe Mama will put a pretty dress on me, Anna thought. Mama never did. She always gave them to the ladies who came to the door with money or food to trade.

Stroking her drab green dress that had once been Aunt Carrie’s, Anna smoothed her hands over the skirt. Soft, she thought, my dress is fingery soft, and she manipulated it as if it were fine lace. She looked at Mama again and ducked from under the table. A pile of buttons, loops and leftover scraps lay heaped near Mama’s feet.

Anna touched the rocker, setting it in motion as she edged herself toward Mama. From the pile of bric-a-brac a shiny little button seemed to stare up at her. She plopped down on her bottom with a grunt, seizing the button and rubbing its smoothness with her thumb.

Anna, what are you doing? Mama asked.

I like this button, Mama. I’ll just hold it. I won’t keep it.

You go help Grandma. Get some water for her. She’s going to need some to wash the floor before dinner.

Anna slipped the button into her pocket and turned on all fours to push herself up. Her bare feet slapped across the floor, like the sound of dogs lapping water. She reached for the water bucket, sliding it across the counter top, and banging it against the floor as she dragged it out the back door.

Behind the water pump, the September sun glowed orange, a shiny slick cape draping out in folds across the muddy ground. Anna watched the glow drop behind the pump and slip away. The aura fading, the sky nearly gray, she carefully placed the bucket beneath the spout and positioned it just right. She stood back and studied the handle high above her head. She piled mud together and mounded it beneath the handle, her foot sinking deep as she stepped upon her mud stool. The cool slickness gathered over her foot, gently caressing it.

Oh, dear, she whispered to herself and glanced toward the back door.

She backed down the mound and focused on the handle. Taking a deep breath she ran, stretched out her arms, and leapt in the air. Her fingers hooked over the handle. Dangling, her body lowered next to the empty bucket and she dropped to the ground.

Oh, dear, oh, dear, she said staring at the mud clinging to her legs and dress. She glanced at the door again, then glared at the bucket. You ol’ bucket! she shouted kicking a muddy foot at its center. It rolled off the mound and hit the fence with a clang. Tears welled in her eyes as she reached for the thin metal handle and dragged the bucket to the front street.

From down the block she watched a thin old man approach. A rumpled little hat sat on his head and his shoulders leaned forward.

Hey, mister, the pump is too high over my head.

What are you doing out here, little one? he asked. You’re filthy! Don’t you have no mama to take care of you? The man placed his hands on his hips and his foot tapped the ground.

Mama’s making little dresses. She needs water. It’s too high. Anna stared at the man and waited. Here, she said. You pump it.

He turned his head to the side and spit tobacco juice into the road, then reached for Anna’s bucket.

Your mama send you out here for water? How she think you gonna carry it anyways? He spit again and followed her to the backyard.

"You can carry