The Going Back Portal Page 5

  I had to persuade him without revealing the truth. Because if I told him the truth, he’d categorize me as a nutjob. And I wouldn’t blame him. Which meant he wouldn’t take me or the manuscript seriously. “It’s really important to me.”

  Momentary silence.

  “I can only work so fast,” he said. “It’s not like doing your multiplication tables. It’s more like solving a complicated equation where you have to think about each step, evaluate and check your conclusions.”

  I sighed.

  “I’ll do it,” he said. “On one condition.”

  “Condition?”

  “That you have dinner with me tonight.”

  Any other time, I would’ve jumped at the opportunity. I didn’t get invited out often. And when I did, it was someone I wasn’t interested in. But all I could think about right now was Amadahy. Still, I was asking him to push everything aside and focus on my project. I couldn’t exactly claim I was too busy.

  “I’ll drive to Atlanta and pick you up at six-thirty,” he said. “I’ll have you home by nine-thirty. Promise.”

  ~

  “How about popping over to Piccadilly Cafeteria for liver and onions?” Eric said as we pulled away from my apartment.

  As I struggled to come up with a tactful reply, wondering what in the world I’d gotten myself into, he busted out laughing.

  “God, the look on your face!” he cried. “Priceless!” And he laughed some more.

  “Okay, so that’s a test, right?” I said, rolling my eyes. “You begin every first date that way.”

  “I couldn’t resist.”

  We ended up at a tapas restaurant with rooftop seating where he’d made a reservation. I didn’t usually go to trendy places and was taken off guard when I spotted the too-famous-to-go-undercover Mallory Cleveland. I knew she had a lot of connections, but was surprised to see her with Reggie Edwards, a state senator rumored to have his sights set on the governor’s office. They stopped by our table long enough to make quick introductions and for Mallory to give Eric an appreciative once-over. She winked at me as they followed the maître-d’ to their table. Which made me blush thinking about the Monday morning third degree I’d have to endure.

  “Glad I’m not them,” Eric said when they were out of earshot. “Look at everyone gawking.”

  “Look closely,” I said. “They’re both eating it up.”

  “You may have a point.”

  When our waiter arrived, Eric ordered fourteen or fifteen little dishes, from chickpea pancakes to smoked carrots, accompanied by some good sangria.

  I steered the conversation in his direction as Spanish guitar music played in the background.

  “Tell me why you specialized in Cherokee Indian studies.”

  “Believe it or not, I have some Cherokee blood.”

  I examined him, looking for some telltale sign. He had dark hair and light brown eyes. But he looked like an American of northern European extraction.

  “Yeah,” he said, “I don’t fit the image. My dad used to say our family had Cherokee ancestry way back. My reaction was always – yeah, right, Dad.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “You know, there’s a label for that. It’s called Cherokee Grandmother Syndrome. A lot of Americans suffer from it. But when I was a senior in high school, I saw an ad for a DNA test kit. My dad split the cost with me. And guess what – the results showed I’m about one percent Native American. Who knew my dad wasn’t just blowing smoke!”

  We shared a laugh.

  “I was enthralled,” he continued. “I immersed myself in Cherokee culture in college and post-graduate studies. Along the way I discovered some test results aren’t always accurate, especially back in the late nineties. So I worked with a genealogist to trace my family tree.”

  “And?”

  “Apparently, Dad was right. My great-great-grandma had a family Bible that said her grandmother was half Cherokee.”

  “Wow.”

  “My half Cherokee ancestor was born in 1846, not long after the Trail of Tears.

  “Fascinating.”

  “And my test results also say I’ve got some African DNA. Not bragging or anything, but I’m what you might call fashionably multiracial.”

  He grinned and took a bite of potato tortilla.

  “My grandmother thinks we’ve got Cherokee ancestry too,” I said.

  “But you don’t believe her?”

  “I think she may have a case of that Cherokee Grandmother Syndrome you mentioned, along with early Alzheimer’s. Why are so many of us Native American wannabes?”

  Our second round of sangrias arrived and I realized how relaxed I was, sitting across the table from him.

  “One theory is that claiming indigenous ancestors absolves us of guilt,” he said, his voice buzzing with energy. “You know, if my fifth great-grandmother was Cherokee, then you can’t blame me for stealing their land and forcing them on that deadly march.”

  “I don’t think Nana has a guilty conscience.”

  “Some folks might think it makes them more interesting, more exotic, more American. Although there was a lot of intermarrying going on back then, so you never know. And, of course, there was the shameful reality of white men forcing themselves on women of color.”

  Then he asked me about my job, like he thought it was the most intriguing profession in the entire world. But I had the feeling he wasn’t trying to brownnose me. That he was the kind of guy who was interested in all kinds of things, including being a producer for an investigative news team at a local TV station.

  When his phone dinged, he waved our server over to order dessert.

  “I have to have her home by nine-thirty or she turns into a field mouse or something,” he told the waiter.

  My cue to roll my eyes. Again.

  We wrapped up with small bowls of cappuccino gelato and managed to pull up in front of my apartment at nine twenty-five.

  “I’ve got five minutes to escort you to your door and say good-night,” he said, keeping a straight face.

  Without a doubt, he was attractive and fun to talk to. But programming his phone to keep him on schedule? Really?

  I turned to thank him for dinner as I pulled my key from my handbag.

  “Better five minutes too soon than a minute too late,” he said. “A variation on William Shakespeare.”

  “Just out of curiosity, are you always Mr. Punctuality?”

  “Not on your life! I’m trying to impress you. I also have to rush home to work on an important translation project I’m doing for a hard-nosed boss.”

  Before I could think of a witty comeback, he trotted down the sidewalk and jumped in his car.

  “A deal’s a deal!” he called out, cranking the engine and pulling away with a jaunty dink of the horn.

  Pixie greeted me with a loud meow as I stepped inside.

  “It’s only nine-thirty,” I said.

  Another meow.

  “Yes, I like him.”

  She purred and rubbed against my leg.

  “You don’t have to be jealous.”

  As I picked her up, my phone rang. It was Nana.

  “You’re up late,” I said.

  “I can’t stop thinking about Forest Water. Did you call the authorities?”

  “Yes,” I lied. “Someone’s going to visit them soon. Can you tell me a little bit more about the man you saw?”

  “His eyes were mean as a barbed wire fence as Grandma used to say. And he had a messy beard that needed trimming. When he slapped her, he looked like he wanted to hit me too. But she told him I didn’t understand. She called me Old Grandmother.”

  “Tell you what – when I come over tomorrow, I’ll go check on her.”

  “I wish you would.”

  ~

  Late the next morning, after coffee and muffins with Nana and Jeannette, I announced I was walking down to the river to look for more artifacts.

  “And check on my neighbor,” Nana said.

  �
�Definitely,” I replied, feeling a little deceitful toward Jeannette who gave me a slightly exasperated look.

  I grabbed my backpack and headed into the woods, walking so fast I nearly tripped over a rock about halfway down the hill. I was wearing khaki capris and a white summer tank top which would work nicely as undergarments for the outfit I’d packed. It was an ankle-length, long-sleeved dress I’d worn for a crowd scene in a high school production of Les Miserables that was rotting in the back of my closet. Made of dark grey cloth, I thought it would help me fit in. I slipped on a pair of black flats – the best I could do on short notice. If anyone saw me, at least I wouldn’t look like a woman in her underwear. There were butterflies in my stomach as I prepared to go undercover to the nineteenth century.

  Leaving my backpack on a rock, I used a rubber band to pull my hair into a ponytail, then twisted it into a small bun.

  A ripe fig in my hand, I hesitated at the doorway, afraid of what I’d find on the other side. My dad was a doctor and I remembered him talking about the Hippocratic Oath. Before he died in a car wreck when I was fifteen, he used to talk about the importance of doing no harm. If you couldn’t cure someone, at the very least, you shouldn’t hurt them in the process of treating them. I wanted to help Amadahy, but I had to remember – if that wasn’t possible, I must do no harm.

  I bit into the fig and stepped over the bones, beads and feathers.

  6

  Once the buzzing subsided, all I could hear was my own angsty breathing. Standing inside the empty hut, I composed myself. There was the distant murmur of the river and the chatter of a squirrel. But no voices.

  Easing through the shack’s front door, there was no sign of anyone. I paused beside the well-tended garden where green cornstalks gleamed in the sunshine, with bean vines climbing the stalks and squash plants meandering in the rows.

  As I took a tentative step, I heard singing. It was a woman’s voice in the distance, off to my left where the trees abutted the clearing. I moved with as much stealth as I could manage, careful where I planted my feet, trying not to step on a twig, remembering all the movies I’d seen where that mistake brought down the wrath of the bad guys. The closer I got to the trees, the better I could hear the woman’s haunting voice singing softly in a language I didn’t understand.

  With the baby sleeping peacefully strapped to her mother’s back, Amadahy squatted by a bush at the tree line, her hands moving back and forth to a basket beside her. The word bucolic came to mind.

  Before I took another step, she turned with a start, cutting short her melancholy song.

  I’m not sure who was more alarmed – her, at seeing me once again, or me, upon noticing she had an ugly black eye.

  “You must go home,” she whispered, dropping a small bunch of herbs into her handwoven basket.

  “You’re the one in danger. You should leave him. Take your baby and run away.”

  She shook her head stubbornly.

  “You can’t let him do that to you,” I said.

  “I cannot abandon my land.” She slipped the handle of the basket over her arm as she rose, then gestured for me to follow her.

  “Who’s this trespassing on my farm?” Jonah called out from behind us, causing the baby to awaken in alarm.

  There was something about his gravelly voice that brought to mind bare knuckle fighting. I couldn’t help but flinch.

  Amadahy turned to face him as he drew close enough for the stench of his body to reach us.

  “She is lost,” she said.

  “Something shady going on here. What’s your name?” He rared back, looking down his nose at me.

  “Kathryn.”

  “Well, Kathryn, you’re interrupting my woman here from important wifely duties. She’s gathering special Injun medicine plants so she can birth me some baby boys. Which is what I need to run this here farm – some big, strapping sons. And the sooner, the better. So you skedaddle on outta here and let her get back to work. Understand?”

  My head nodded but my mouth apparently wasn’t on the same circuit.

  “I’m curious about how your wife got that black eye.”

  Amadahy tensed beside me. “I hit my face on the door,” she said.

  “Now, why would you go and tell a lie?” Jonah said, then turned to me. “I walloped her when she got outta line.”

  “But why would you hit your wife?” My mouth seemed to have a mind of its own.

  “You must be simple. A man’s got a right to beat his wife if she don’t act right.”

  “But you can’t…”

  “You telling me what I can’t do?”

  “She is from far away,” Amadahy said. “She does not understand our ways.”

  “You want me to beat you again?” he said, grabbing her by the wrist, causing the baby to cry.

  “You savage swine!” I blurted.

  He let go of her and turned his fury on me – swinging his arm in a mighty arc, his big grimy hand striking my face so hard, it knocked me backwards. I yelped in pain, covering my cheek with my palm, eyes stinging.

  “Ain’t nobody gonna talk to me like that,” he said, reaching for me, a malicious glint in his eyes.

  I dodged his grasp, racing along the edge of the garden. But how was I supposed to pick and eat a fig while navigating the time gate with Jonah panting and cussing right behind me? I’d never make it. I streaked by the hut, across the yard and past the outhouse. He was gaining on me and I was quite literally running out of options. Hearing the river in the distance, I poured on the speed, adrenaline pumping. I didn’t slow down when I reached the riverbank, taking a leaping dive into the water, praying I wouldn’t land on a submerged rock. I sank below the surface as I was swept downstream.

  Escaping that monster’s clutches didn’t mean I was safe. While I was a decent swimmer, the current was swift. Complicating matters, my long dress and shoes dragged me down. I held my breath, trying to pull the zipper down the back of the dress. But it was stuck and I struggled to surface again, sputtering and gulping air as I raised my mouth above water. I almost kicked the shoes off, but realized my city-girl feet wouldn’t last long if I had to find my way back barefoot. I curled my toes, doing my best to keep them on.

  The Broad River of Amadahy’s time was a far cry from the Broad River of my time. There was more water and it flowed faster. Now I feared it might be the death of me.

  I was tiring and needed to extricate myself from the current. Rather than fight it, I had to use it. I did a modified breast stroke, keeping my head above water as I aimed for the right bank. Bit by bit, I edged closer. Then my foot touched bottom. But the current was still powerful enough to push me along, so I used my foot like a pole, touching bottom and thrusting my body toward the trees again and again, until I reached the riverbank.

  Dragging myself from the water, I collapsed on the ground, lying on my back, eyes closed, chest heaving. But I couldn’t rest. I needed to get back to my own time.

  When my breathing returned to normal, I stood on shaky legs, hugging the riverbank as I set off for the farm. I had no idea how far I’d traveled downriver. At least I’d managed not to lose my shoes, which I was grateful for. But they were waterlogged and my dress was heavy and clung to my legs. Still, I didn’t want to remove it in case someone saw me.

  I stumbled along the bank, making brief detours into the trees because of thick underbrush. My wet clothing helped keep me cool in the midday heat, but it gradually dried out. I stopped from time to time to cup my hands and drink from the river, splashing water on my head. It was slow going, but I didn’t dare stray inland and become lost in the woods.

  My wild trip downstream had only taken a matter of minutes, but the return journey by foot took ever so much longer. The sun rose higher and higher as I staggered along, trying to avoid the tall grasses that scratched my ankles. Then, in the distance, I spotted the shoals mid-stream I’d noticed the first time I came with Nana and Jeannette, realizing now that was where Amadahy must’ve found Is
ham’s body.

  I ducked into the trees, listening and watching. The intense fear in the pit of my stomach was new to me. This was the first time I’d ever feared for my life.

  Moving slowly, I stopped every ten feet or so to listen and scan my surroundings. I wanted to emerge from the trees directly behind the shack so nobody would see me. The closer I got, the louder every sound became. My breathing, the swishing of my tattered skirt, the squishing of my ruined shoes. At last, I arrived at the edge of the forest, squatting behind a large pine tree. My skin prickled as my eyes darted this way and that. The last fifty feet would be across open ground – no trees or bushes to hide behind.

  I was disconcerted by the sound of a baby crying. Then Jonah’s voice shouting. They were in the house. I couldn’t make out the words.

  It dawned on me I should make a break for it while they were occupied. Oh, but I hated leaving Amadahy and her tiny daughter behind. For a split second, I imagined myself sneaking inside and hitting that ogre on his thick skull with a frying pan. Although if I dared to enter the house, I knew he wouldn’t be the one who got hurt.

  Lowering my head, I ran like a cat fleeing a vicious dog. I’d almost reached the small back door when their voices suddenly grew louder. They were outside now and it sounded like they were heading my way.

  “Don’t tell me no more that I ain’t allowed!” he shouted. “I’m the man of the house!”

  The baby’s crying grew louder.

  Yanking a fig off the bush, I stepped inside, immediately swinging around to exit the same way. There was a sound at the hut’s front door, Jonah’s voice roaring just beyond. Cramming the whole fig in my mouth, I bit down and charged through the portal.

  I nearly choked on the grainy fruit, scared witless that he was right behind me. But the shack was gone. His voice was silent. I was back in my own time. Leaning forward, I planted my hands on my knees to hold me up, allowing my heart to stop pounding in my chest.

  My backpack was right where I left it. I pulled off the dress, removed my ruined black shoes and stuffed them in the bag, slipping my hiking sandals on. The bun I’d fashioned was long gone, my hair snarled about my face. Because my muscles were sore, the normally easy walk back to Nana’s made me droop. I didn’t sit down to rest, though, knowing she would be worried.