The Going Back Portal Page 16

  “Louise isn’t like that,” Jeannette said.

  “Louise isn’t really Louise anymore! And once you’re not yourself anymore, what’s the point?” She frowned as she spread another cracker with peanut butter.

  I walked around behind her and hugged her and kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry the visit upset you, Nana. I love you.”

  So much for Mom’s plan to gradually get her used to the idea of moving into assisted living. And so much for my nagging Mom to come for a visit and make some decisions. As a meddler, I was an abject failure, both with Nana and with Amadahy.

  As they walked to the front door after their short visit, Jeannette told me the new companion would spend time with them over the next couple of days, before going solo.

  “It won’t be the same without you,” Nana said to Jeannette, sounding like a little girl.

  “I think you’ll like Sofia,” Jeannette replied. “She’s got a great sense of humor.”

  When I got to work the next morning, I did my best not to let anyone know I was hurting. It occurred to me that any kind of injury might raise eyebrows. Especially Mallory’s perfectly tweezed and gelled eyebrows. As it turned out, she was way too distracted to notice I was using my left hand for everything from holding my coffee to opening doors.

  She was on her phone when I got there, in full argument mode.

  “Listen, Jack, our report was tastefully done, carefully vetted and served an important service to our viewing audience. That’s all I’m going to say about it. You can speak with the news director.”

  There were sparks in her eyes when she hung up.

  “Prick!” she snarled at her phone.

  “Who was that?” I sat down at my work station across from hers.

  “A pushy stringer for a tabloid entertainment website who’s bound and determined to do a story on our reports about that X-rated teacher.” She snorted in a very unladylike manner. “I can only guess the crank who organized the picketing outside the station is the one who called him!”

  “Dang.”

  “And, get this, the website he works for is called The Yellow Journalist!”

  “Why would people believe anything they write?”

  “Exactly! And their reporter accuses us of hyping ratings by showing some of that video. But you know as well as I do, we chose the most harmless scenes and then blurred the images so nobody could see anything. I mean, give me a break!” She stormed from the office.

  Once she briefed the boss, we spent the morning in research mode, prepping for our afternoon meeting on new story ideas. We gathered in Ray’s office after lunch, along with Antonio, another investigative reporter, and his producer, Sandy. Everyone tossed a couple of ideas into the hat, except for me. Which didn’t sit well with Mallory.

  “You’re like a sixth grader on summer break,” she said. “What’s with?”

  “I’ve actually been thinking about doing a story on who owns the land stolen from the Cherokee and Creek Indians in Georgia.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “That’s where my mind has been lately.”

  “I don’t think we can spend the Watchdog Team’s time and resources on a history lesson,” she said.

  Ray tapped his pen on his desk several times before weighing in.

  “I like the story about the school board chairman who’s got a bunch of relatives on the payroll. Mallory, your team can delve into that. Antonio, your team can dig into that judicial appointee with the phony law degree. Meeting over, except for you two.” And he pointed at me and Mallory.

  As the others cleared out, I had a feeling of déjà vu.

  “Okay, ladies. The shit’s about to hit the fan. The Yellow Journalist is a website that other sites follow, and I fully expect this story to pop up all over.”

  “Unbelievable,” Mallory said.

  “I know for a fact you’ve been briefed more than once,” he said, giving Mallory a look of exasperation. “You cannot – I repeat – cannot speak with anyone doing a story on our reporters or about any story we broadcast. Zero interviews. Understood?”

  She responded with a chastened look

  “You are not to let someone goad you into giving any kind of statement, even a ten-second answer referring him to me,” he continued. "Do I make myself clear?"

  “Got it.”

  “Now, Kathryn,” he went on, turning to me, “the reporter who called me this morning also accused us of being two-faced – airing a story about a man taking advantage of young women, while employing a producer who’s the victim of domestic violence. He’s trying to dig up some evidence to that effect.” He rolled his head around like he had a stiff neck. “Is it possible he’ll find…?”

  “Of course not,” I replied without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Good. Because if he finds any police reports, for example, indicating your boyfriend beat you up, that would…”

  “The only police report was when Mallory called the cops because I had a bruise on my face!” I wrinkled my nose at her. It still pissed me off.

  “Tell your boyfriend we’d appreciate it if he didn’t talk with any reporters who might contact him,” he said.

  “We broke up.”

  “On friendly terms, I hope.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then call him and ask him very nicely not to talk with any reporters who come sniffing around. Or if he does, if he could keep it short and sweet.”

  I gave him a thumbs up, although I was confident Eric wouldn’t say anything to cause problems.

  “All right. Get to work!”

  Mallory headed for the door, but I did not.

  “You know what, Ray?” I said. “If that website does the story, then so be it. There’s nothing we can do to stop them. Instead of trying to hide – which is impossible – why don’t we milk it for all it’s worth? Do a follow-up on how prosecutors in other cities are now investigating the teacher?”

  “I like it,” Mallory said. “Better to be bold than act like a wimp. That’s what I always say.”

  Ray contemplated me over the top of his reading glasses.

  “How many other jurisdictions are investigating him?” he said.

  “Three that we know of,” I replied.

  He drummed the desk with his pen.

  “The reporter who called me says their story will be posted within the next couple of days,” he said. “You guys have your report ready to air during the seven o’clock show Wednesday morning, with two other versions for later in the day. Mallory, I know you don’t usually do live shots during morning drive, but I want you standing in front of that guy’s home for your live shot.”

  “Yes sir,” she said.

  “I’ll alert the legal team,” he said.

  We worked our tail feathers off the rest of the day and all day Tuesday, calling district attorneys in cities where Hobbs worked before moving to Atlanta. Which tipped me to his job-hopping history. He only stayed at a job a couple of years before moving to another city. I managed to set up Skype interviews with two assistant DAs. We updated the status of the case in our own jurisdiction and finished writing our scripts by Tuesday afternoon – in time for the station legal team to check them over. Mallory recorded several standups in front of the school where Hobbs taught and recorded her voice overs. We were ready.

  It was nearly nine o’clock by the time I got home that night. Pixie demanded food – loudly. While I was tired, I was glad we were fighting back. I didn’t like the idea of being pushed around by some clickbait website.

  That’s when I remembered Ray’s order to call Eric.

  He answered on the first ring.

  “Kathryn!”

  “Just got home from work. Need to tell you something. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  He hesitated a few seconds before answering.

  “Actually, I’m heading out the door. A rather urgent errand. Can I call you back in about an hour?”

  “Sure. Talk to you then.”

/>   Which made me think I really had interrupted something. He might be with that attractive, vegan PhD candidate.

  But it gave me time to shower and change into my comfy beach dress, then nuke a frozen lasagna and sit down at the kitchen table. I realized how good it was to hear his voice again. His rich, intelligent, thoughtful, witty, wise-cracking voice. Which matched the ever-present glint in his eyes. I was suddenly overcome with longing.

  Funny, now that I’d been humbled time and again by my well-meaning ineptitude, I could better understand his point of view, even if I didn’t agree with how he delivered it.

  I checked my phone several times, waiting for it to ring.

  At a quarter after ten, I was still waiting, wondering if he’d given me the brush-off with no intention of calling me back. If he didn’t want to talk to me, then I’d have to send him a text to give him a heads-up about the web reporter. I’d begun typing a message when my doorbell chimed.

  Quickly, I double-checked that my security system was on, then took stock of my appearance. I was barefoot and braless beneath my shift, without a speck of makeup on. Plus, my hair was still damp. Not exactly presentable. I tip-toed to the front door to get a look-see through the peephole before deciding whether I should run upstairs and get a robe or maybe call the police. It was Eric.

  I deactivated the security system and opened the door.

  “God, you look beautiful,” he said, his voice catching in his throat.

  Which, although patently untrue, made me go all misty. I opened my mouth to speak, but didn’t know what to say.

  He stepped inside, immediately closing the door and locking it. Then he invaded my personal space so completely that we were nose to nose.

  “You were right not to turn your back on her,” he said, his voice husky.

  I could see tears welling in his eyes, which took me by surprise and softened my heart.

  “And you were right,” he continued, “about me kissing my boss’s ass when he turned all pompous and judgmental on me.”

  “Eric,” I whispered.

  “I really need for you to forgive me because…”

  “Eric…”

  “Because I love you, Kathryn.”

  He waited for me to push him away and when I didn’t, he kissed me softly.

  “I hope you won’t be offended,” he said, “when I admit I also crave you.”

  He wrapped me in his arms and put his mouth on mine, demonstrating in the most persuasive language possible how much he wanted me. I returned his passion, pressing myself against him. We made love on the sofa like two teenagers, panting and moaning, me doing my best not to hurt my injured shoulder.

  Afterwards, we clung to each other as though some unseen force might separate us if we didn’t bind ourselves together.

  “I’m hoping you feel something approaching the depth of my ardor,” he said, his mouth on my ear.

  Which caused me to chuckle.

  “Only an academic,” I whispered.

  “You shouldn’t laugh at a man as besotted as I am.”

  My chuckle turned into a giggle.

  “I can’t help it,” he said, “if I desire sexual congress with such a comely wench.”

  Which caused my giggle to escalate into laughter.

  Pulling back, his eyes locked onto mine, searching for my reply.

  “Yes,” I conceded, feeling slightly dizzy, “I share the depth of your ardor. It seems I am besotted as well.”

  The passionate kiss that followed whetted my desire for more.

  ~

  My alarm went off at five the next morning. Which was a killer since we hadn’t gotten to sleep until late. He had to drive to Athens to teach a class. I had to help Mallory with her live shot and grind out the second and third versions of our report.

  I kissed him good-bye at the front door and watched as he trotted down the steps toward the parking lot. But then he returned like he’d forgotten his shoes or something, enveloping me in his arms, pulling me close, breathing into my hair.

  “Wanted to make sure it wasn’t a dream,” he said.

  I closed my eyes, savoring his embrace.

  “I’ll be back tonight,” he said.

  “You will?”

  “It’s not just sexual congress I crave, you know. I also need conversation with the woman I love.”

  He kissed me, then dashed to his car. I watched him drive away, already anxious to see him again even before he was out of sight.

  Closing the door, I noticed Pixie watching me.

  “Yeah, I know. You told me so.”

  ~

  After doing two live shots on the morning show and another one at noon, Mallory was pumped. When The Yellow Journalist report hit the web, we exchanged high fives for beating the bastards to the punch. Mallory slapped my hurt shoulder in her excitement.

  I tried not to flinch.

  “What!” she said. “I hardly touched you.”

  “Just a little sore. Nothing serious.”

  “Pray tell.”

  I did my best to hide my pain and annoyance, making a quick getaway. We’d planned to wrap up early after working long hours over the last couple of days, so I didn’t feel bad about clocking out. I wasn’t going to hang around for another interrogation.

  Late that afternoon, I had to sign for delivery of an unmarked package. I knew before opening it that those loathsome gold nuggets had arrived. I hadn’t told Eric about my latest visit. He didn’t know I was over a barrel the size of Stone Mountain. I hid the package in my bedroom closet.

  19

  “Yes, he’s on his way over,” I said to Pixie as she eyed me in the bedroom mirror. “Yes, that’s why I took a shower and put on my new white shorts and my spaghetti strap top.”

  I turned this way and that, checking my reflection, bubbling like a glass of champagne.

  “Need a touch of lipstick.”

  Pixie meowed her approval as I applied Plum Pretty and fluffed my hair.

  My phone dinged. Thinking it might be Eric, I checked, finding instead an email from Nancy with another journal entry. I sat down on the bed and opened it.

  Amadahy’s Journal – Part 10 (June) 1840

  Six days after her first visit, Old Grandmother returned. But her smile faded as she rounded the corner of the house in time to see Bad Brother slap my face, knocking me to the ground. Jonah heard her cry out, turning and shouting harsh words.

  “Get off my property, old hag! You ain’t welcome here!”

  Fear shone in her eyes, but she appeared uncertain about leaving me.

  “You must stay away, Old Grandmother,” I cried from where I lay. “Go home as you did before.”

  She saw the urgent look on my face and swiftly ran behind the house. I hoped she would remember to eat the fig.

  “So, you’re sneaking friends round here when you think I ain’t looking,” Jonah said, weaving as he moved closer. “Remember this, woman! You ain’t got no friends, ‘less I say so! Specially not a woman dresses like a man!”

  “She is an ancient one.”

  “Get inside the house!”

  “I must feed the baby first or she will cry.”

  He could not abide her crying, so he granted my request.

  I carried her into the hut, speaking soothing words as we settled onto the blanket. But as she nursed, there was a strange whisper in the air and a young white woman appeared before me like a spirit, stepping from the back door. She had brown hair that fell on her shoulders and wore undergarments as though she had lost her clothing. I knew at once that, like Old Grandmother, this woman was not of my world. She had traveled through the Going Back Portal.

  Before we could speak, Jonah yelled for me to come to his bed. I left the hut and told him I was still bleeding and needed to wait another day. He was angry, but allowed me to remain in my hut.

  When I returned, my strange guest questioned me in a soft voice. Like the grey-haired one, she spoke the white man’s language in an unfamiliar way. />
  She asked if an old woman had visited me. I told her I warned Old Grandmother she was not safe here. I repeated my warning to the brown-haired woman and plucked a fig for her journey.

  “I have so many questions,” she said.

  My grandmother conjured the magic tunnel to save herself from the white man. Perhaps her portal brought these good spirits to help me. I paused to think on this before giving her my written words – the missionary teachers called such writing a diary. That way she would know me, would know my family’s story, would know my oppressor and the injustice my people suffered.

  Then I pushed her through the doorway and she melted like fog in the warmth of the sun.

  ~

  I was shaken as I closed the document. She thought I was a good spirit too. A spirit who could save her. God.

  When the doorbell rang, I rose from the bed, eyes unfocused. All this bounced around inside my brain as I trotted down the stairs. I stalled for a second to put Amadahy out of my mind. I wanted to focus on Eric.

  When I opened the door, he greeted me with a kiss on the lips while the yummy smell of Chinese take-out wafted from the paper sack in his hand.

  “The Yellow Journalist guy emailed me today,” he said as we sat across from each other at the kitchen table. “Said he wanted to ask me a few questions.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Not your fault.”

  “By the way, I saw one of your reports. Well done. Mallory’s good on the air.”

  “True.”

  “Even if she is a pain in the ass?”

  We both laughed.

  “She called me today,” he said.

  “About The Yellow Journalist story?”

  “That’s what I assumed. But she wanted to talk about your shoulder.”

  I could feel my blood pressure rising.

  “She asked me if I did that to you,” he said.

  “Who does she think she is?” My hand flailed as I spoke, knocking my fork off the table. I picked it up, depositing it in the sink.

  “That was my gut reaction when she first asked me. But after talking with her a few minutes, I decided she’s sincere.”

  “Mm-hm,” I muttered as I retrieved a clean fork and sat down again. “I have half a mind to call her up this very minute and chew her out good!”