The Bridges of Madison County

- Hi, sis. - Hey.

- Hi. - Hey, Carolyn.

Michael, if I could just get you to sign this right...

Whoops.

Here, which gives you the contents of the safe deposit box.

Fine. Thank you. And this one, which clears the bank...

of all responsibility for the contents.

It's kind of exciting, huh?

Maybe we'll find out that your mother had secret millions.

Why don't we get started? Your mother is interred...

at the Cedar Heights Funeral Home until arrangements can be made.

I thought it was arranged.

- Well, there's a problem. - What problem?

Well, your mother left explicit instructions to be cremated.

- Cremated? - Ew.

- I don't understand it either. - When did she decide this?

Oh, apparently just before her death.

- I don't know anybody who gets cremated. - Lots of people do.

Nobody in my family did. Dad bought plots at Prairie Hills...

one for him, one for Mom.

- The will clearly states... - I don't care what it says.

Maybe Mom was delirious. Maybe she didn't know what she was saying.

If she wanted to be cremated, why the hell did she let Dad buy two plots, huh?

She was very specific.

She wanted her ashes to be thrown off Roseman Bridge.

- What?! - Bizarre!

Mr. Peterson, are you sure Mom wrote all this?

It was notarized and witnessed by Mrs. Lucy Delaney.

- Maybe you could ask her. - Who the hell is she?

I remember her, I just don't...

I don't care if it's legal. We're not cremating her and throwing...

her ashes off some bridge where we can't visit her...

because she'll be blown all over!

- And people driving all over her, dogs... - We're not doing it.

I'm not even sure it's Christian.

Maybe it's an Italian thing. She was Italian.

Doesn't matter!

Move on.

We can come back to this.

Why don't we open the box?

Michael, look at these.

Have you ever seen these pictures?

Huh?

It was in this envelope from 1965.

She's not wearing a bra.

That's the Holliwell Bridge.

- In case anyone's interested. - Why are there two deeds here?

Oh, this is for the additional acres he purchased in '59.

And this?

Those were bills of sale from equipment your mother sold.

- This is for the original land parcel. - Beautiful picture of her.

- Michael. - Yeah?

- Michael. - What?

Could you come here for a minute?

What?

Where are we going?

She say anything in there about me? About leaving me anything?

No.

What's going on?

Um...

We were just wondering if it might be better...

if Carolyn and I looked at this stuff ourselves.

We don't want to keep you waiting around.

I'll, uh...

I'll contact your office about the legal work.

"I struggle to...

put it together in a way that allows me to continue...

knowing that we're on separate roads.

Then...

But then, I look through the lens of my camera and you're there.

I start to write an article and I find myself writing it to you.

It's clear to me now that we have been moving towards each other...

towards those four days, all of our lives."

I don't want to hear anymore. Burn the damn thing.

I don't want to hear it.

Throw it away.

What's he saying now?

He just goes on about how if Mom ever needed him...

she could reach him through the National Geographic magazine in D.C.

He was a photographer.

He promises not to write again.

And then, all it says is:

"I love you. Robert."

Robert.

Jesus.

I'll kill him.

That would be some trick. He's dead. That's what this letter is...

from his attorney.

He left most of his things to Mom.

And requested...

What?

That he be cremated and his ashes thrown off Roseman Bridge.

Damn him. I knew Mom wouldn't have thought that up herself.

It was some damn perverted...

photographic mind influencing her.

When did the bastard die?

'82.

Wait a minute, that was...

three years after Daddy... Do you think...?

I don't know. I'm completely in the dark.

That's what I get for moving away.

We were kids when this happened. I...

I can't believe it.

Do you think that she...

had sex with him?

Must be nice inside your head with Peter Pan and the Easter Bunny.

Don't talk to me like that. She was my mother!

Now I find that she was... She was a...

A what? Don't say that!

What am I supposed to think?

I can't believe she never told me.

We spoke at least once a week. How could she do that?

When did she meet him? Did Dad know?

Is there anything else in that envelope?

No, I don't think so.

You read it.

You read it.

"January, 1987.

Dear Carolyn:

I hope you're reading this with Michael.

I'm sure he wouldn't be able to read it by himself...

and he'll need help understanding all this.

First and most of all...

I love you both very much.

And although I feel fine, I thought I'd put my affairs...

...excuse that word, in order."

I can't believe she's making jokes.

"After going through the safety deposit box...

I'm sure you'll find your way to this letter.

It's hard to write this to my own children.

I could let this die with the rest of me, I suppose.

But as one gets older...

one's fears subside.

What becomes more and more important...

is to be known.

Known for all that you were during this brief stay.

How sad it seems to leave this earth...

without those you love the most ever really knowing who you were.

It's easy for a mother to love her children, no matter what.

I don't know if it's as simple for children.

You're all so busy being angry at us for raising you wrong.

His name was Robert Kincaid.

He was a photographer and he was here in 1965...

shooting an article for National Geographic...

on the covered bridges of Madison County.

Remember when we got that issue, how we felt like celebrities?

Remember when we started getting the subscription?"

That's Roseman Bridge.

That must be Robert Kincaid.

And that's Mom's medallion.

"I don't want you to be angry with him.

I hope after you know the story, you think well of him, even grateful."

- Grateful? - "It's all there in the three notebooks."

"it was the week of the Illinois State Fair.

The two of you were going with Dad to exhibit...

Carolyn's prize steer.

It was the Sunday night you left. I know it sounds awful..."

But I couldn't wait for you to leave.

You were going to be gone until Friday.

Four days.

Just four days.

Michael! Carolyn!

Richard! Dinner!

- What I tell you about the door? - Sorry.

Okay, so, would you like to say grace?

Grace.

- Uh. - Oh, more sauces.

A piece of bread.

Thanks.

That was The Shangri-Las with the number 10 spot...

and moving up to number nine on this week's nifty 50...

is "Baby, I'm Yours."

Damn drawer.

Here.

You can't get mad at it.

Sorry. Didn't mean to yell.

I want you to stay away from anything too spicy.

- Mm-hm. - And you promise me.

I swear. Only filters. No more than half pack a day.

- I've got my orders. - Doc Reynolds said so.

- I know, I'm only kidding. - Yeah.

- Are you sure you don't want to go? - I'm positive.

What are you going to do as a woman of leisure?

Same thing I do as a hired hand, except with less help.

I won't be able to sleep. I can't sleep without you next to me anymore.

It's only 4 days, hon.

Okay.

Oh, God, where have you been, huh?

You missed them, you know. They already left.

Why do you love me so much? You know I don't like you.

Get down.

God.

You like that song?

It's just you and me, buddy.

Just you and me.

Hi.

I get the distinct feeling that I'm lost.

Are you supposed to be in Iowa?

Yeah.

Well, then you're not that lost.