The Going Back Portal Page 7

  “You do look like someone slapped you around,” he said.

  “I’m sorry. It was a total misunderstanding.”

  He opened the door wider, waving me in.

  We sat on opposite sides of the booth in his blue and white kitchen, small glasses of orange juice and a granola bar between us. Like we were kids having a sleepover and sneaking into the kitchen in the middle of the night for a snack. He tore the wrapper off, breaking it in two, half for him and half for me. Despite the peculiar circumstances, somehow it felt natural sharing a granola bar in our jammies.

  “That does look like a handprint on your face,” he said, then took a bite.

  “Mallory jumped to conclusions. She shouldn’t have called the cops. And she sure as hell shouldn’t have blamed you.”

  “But I can understand where she was coming from. At least she cares enough about you to…”

  “She was completely off base!”

  “Where’s the bruise on your arm?” he said.

  “Listen, here’s what happened. I stumbled as I ran down the path from my grandmother’s cottage to the river, and I fell, you know, fell headlong into this big tree. I didn’t realize I was so close to the riverbank as I staggered around holding my face, and I landed in the river. The current carried me a good way downstream before I was able to make it to shore again. I’ve got bruises and scratches all over me. Haven’t you ever fallen and banged yourself up?”

  “Yep. Plenty of bruises and scratches from cycling. But I’ve never had a handprint on my face.”

  “It’s not a handprint!”

  “Why do I not believe you?” he said, downing the rest of his juice.

  I closed my eyes, imagining what would happen if I told him the truth. But there was no way I could do that.

  “You really don’t strike me – pardon the pun – as the type of woman who would…”

  “I’m not!”

  I pulled my robe tighter around me, marching toward the front door, Eric trailing behind me.

  “This has something to do with that Cherokee woman, doesn’t it?” he said.

  I faced him, trying to come up with a believable reply.

  “It does,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes. But you don’t want to betray a confidence.”

  What was I supposed to say?

  “Jonah,” he said. “He’s the one who slapped you.”

  He was getting too close for comfort. I opened the door, not wanting him to read my thoughts.

  “So the journal is a fake,” he said.

  “It’s not a fake.” I replied, trotting down the front steps.

  “But it wasn’t written in the eighteen hundreds.”

  He followed me to my car as a man and a woman walked by, taking note of our pajamas, probably assuming we were a married couple having a spat.

  My car chirped as I unlocked it.

  “I guess I was right to be skeptical when we first met,” he said.

  There was no harshness in his voice. No anger. In fact, his voice was sympathetic, even though he didn’t understand at all. Which made me realize how much I really liked him. How much I wished we could continue seeing each other. He made me laugh. He listened. He cared. We had chemistry. The kind of chemistry I’d dreamed of. But now it was over before we ever really got started.

  “You’re too nice,” I said, realizing it would be much easier to drive away if he lashed out and accused me of deception.

  “I’m guessing something’s going on that’s not of your making.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “But I do have an open mind. And an open door.”

  He smiled, pointing at the front door of his condo standing wide open.

  I remembered thinking Nana was off her elderly rocker until I took a bite of that fig and walked through the invisible portal. Explaining wouldn’t work.

  “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow evening,” I said.

  8

  Tuesday mornings were usually busy. Especially for the investigative unit. But I closed our office door when I arrived and waited for Mallory to give me her attention. She was the picture of innocence.

  “You know who I hung out with last night?” I said.

  She shrugged, nonchalant as you please.

  “Two police officers,” I said, “who were convinced I was the victim of domestic violence. Because a certain well-known TV reporter called them and told them so.”

  “Listen, Kathryn,” she said, “we can’t have a member of the Watchdog Team going out in public with bruises on her face. It would kill our credibility. I also can’t sit by and allow a friend and co-worker to be victimized. Not gonna happen. So if you’re expecting an apology, forget it. You’ll just have to pray to the Lord for an attitude adjustment.”

  “I was not beaten up by a man!”

  “Bullshit. And everyone knows it.”

  Then she returned to her laptop like she had more important things to do than listen to me deny the truth. I was on the verge of getting really steamed but decided I might do the same thing if she denied a slap mark was a slap mark on her face.

  “Okay, Mallory, I get it that dealing with your sister has made you skeptical. But you can rest assured I would never let a man hit me.”

  It was obvious she didn’t believe me, but she zipped her lip.

  ~

  It was five till seven when I arrived at Eric’s condo. Per my instructions, he was dressed comfortably in khaki shorts and a green T-shirt.

  With the weather getting hotter now that it was the middle of June, I was dressed similarly, my hair pulled into a ponytail to keep it off my neck. We looked like a couple of summer camp counselors.

  He had way more restraint than I would’ve had if the tables had been turned, not asking once where we were going. He enjoyed the scenery, eyeing me occasionally, no doubt noticing my fingers tapping nervously on the steering wheel as I questioned my sanity.

  I pulled off the road a short distance from Nana’s cottage, parking behind a couple of scrub oaks. We cut across a field where cotton used to grow, now abandoned to tall grasses.

  Sneaking past the house, we took the path to the river. When we reached the clearing, I led the way to where the hut used to be, pointing at the vague outline on the ground. Then I picked two figs from the bush and handed him one.

  “Okay, I know this is going to sound strange, but you have to eat the fig as you step across the boundary. Right here.” I pointed to the spot. “I’ll go first. You follow me.”

  The look on his face told me he was asking himself if he was the butt of an elaborate joke.

  “You have to be quiet,” I said. “And it’s going to be kind of strange. Ready?”

  He fingered the fig in his hand.

  “Okay, let’s do it.” I put mine in my mouth.

  Stepping forward, I found myself inside the shack. A few seconds later, Eric appeared behind me, gasping. I forgot to warn him about the buzzing and dizziness.

  Confirming the hut was empty, I turned to look at Eric. His eyes were so wide, he looked like a little boy who’d been given a puppy for his birthday. He scanned the interior, taking in the blanket on the floor, the bird feathers tucked here and there along the walls, the cooking pot beside a small firepit, a handwoven basket.

  From outside, we heard an off-key male voice singing loudly nearby. I realized it was Jonah belting out an exceedingly drunken version of Yankee Doodle.

  Eric gave me a confused look as the singing came to an abrupt halt and Jonah shouted.

  “Come on over here, woman!”

  “I must get my Indian medicine,” we heard Amadahy reply.

  “Hurry up! Soon’s I’m done with this bottle, you and me going inside.”

  His singing resumed, even rowdier than before.

  I motioned to Eric that we should leave. We were turning to go when the front door of the hut swung open and Amadahy appeared. Seeing us, she swiftly stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind her.

 
; She gave Eric an inquisitive glance, taking note of his bare legs, then looked at me like I was an apparition.

  “Bad Brother said you drowned,” she whispered.

  “I can swim.”

  “Do you bring a gun?” she said, her eyes fixed on Eric.

  He was thunderstruck, face to face with the woman whose words he was translating. He struggled to make his voice work.

  “A gun?” he whispered.

  “No, we don’t have a gun,” I said.

  “You must leave,” she said.

  I tugged Eric toward the back door, plucking a fig for each of us from the bush.

  “Same procedure as before,” I whispered.

  As soon as we were outside, he did a one-eighty, looking for the hut that no longer existed. Mouth open, he shook his head repeatedly, searching all around for any kind of structure. He was almost panting in his excitement as though he’d just won a cycling Gran Prix.

  Lightning bugs blinked on and off in the deepening shadows as he scanned the clearing with fresh eyes, wandering around the space where the shack, the house and the garden used to exist. He returned to the portal and squatted down, touching the river rocks, the rusted hinge, the small bones, feathers and beads partially concealed under the pine straw. He plucked a fig from the tree and turned it this way and that in his hand, then put it to his nose and sniffed.

  The sun had set and I suggested we get going before it got too dark to see. Neither of us spoke.

  It was a quarter till nine when we emerged from the trees. We drove back to his condo in silence. He seemed to be in a state of shock.

  When we arrived, he invited me in. No granola bar and orange juice this time. He poured us each a big glass of red wine and set a can of mixed nuts on the coffee table. Gesturing me toward the blue sofa, he settled into a matching chair.

  He took a large swallow of wine and gave me a dumbfounded look.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” he said, “we just traveled back in time. I can’t believe those words came out of my mouth.”

  “I know.”

  “You were right about one thing. If you’d tried to explain, I would’ve thought you were…”

  “A nutcase.”

  He chuckled, turning his wine glass up again.

  “Figs,” he said.

  “Not any figs.”

  “Yeah, I remember she said her grandmother was a medicine woman and conjuror who grew figs using some kind of magic. And the taste. I swear those figs tasted like the past.”

  He was right. They had a subtle flavor. Not like the fruit I was used to eating.

  “I can’t believe I got to see an actual Cherokee menstrual hut,” he said, like an archaeologist might sound after discovering an unknown ancient civilization. “Cherokee women used to spend time together in those huts. It was a women-only environment that helped nurture their sisterhood, you might say. Traditionally, menstruation and childbirth were associated with spiritual power.”

  “Spiritual power?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Men knew better than to mess with women. Cherokees viewed bodily fluids as powerful, especially blood.”

  “Obviously, Jonah doesn’t have a clue.”

  He twirled his glass, lost in thought.

  “Now you know why I’m in such a hurry for the translation,” I said.

  “No kidding. So the drunk dude who couldn’t carry a tune was Jonah?”

  “Yep.”

  “And he’s the one who left the handprint on your face.”

  “Correct.”

  “And why did she ask if I had a gun? Did she think you brought me along to kill him?”

  “The thought did cross my mind.”

  “So,” he said, “we’re the only ones who know?”

  “My grandmother knows. She doesn’t know she knows. She’s the one who told me about Amadahy. But she doesn’t understand they’re in the past. She thinks they’re her neighbors. She wants me to call the police and have Jonah arrested.”

  “Wow.”

  “The thing is, she’s right. Amadahy does need protection. I told her last time I visited she should take the baby and run away. But she says she’s got to stay on the land. I talked with a psychologist, trying to figure out whether a man like Jonah could change his stripes. But the psychologist says it’s tough even with face to face counseling. And he says Jonah would have to want to participate. Fat chance of that.”

  “I’ll shift into high gear on the translation,” he said.

  ~

  Next morning there was an email from Eric time-stamped two fourteen a.m. with more translated pages. I lay back down on the bed, ignoring my full bladder and my empty stomach, and opened the file. As I read, Pixie wandered in, snuggling against me.

  Amadahy’s Journal – Part 3 (May 1840)

  On a warm day in Planting Month, as Bad Brother worked the fish traps and I picked early squash in the garden, Betsey on my back, I heard the familiar croak of a treefrog. I answered with my own whistle and trill of the cardinal, familiar to him from our childhood.

  He emerged from the trees dressed in deerskin leggings, a Cherokee shirt and moccasins, his long black hair on his shoulders, a bone-handled knife tucked into the skin belt at his waist. It was traditional Cherokee garb, not white man’s clothing like many among the Aniyunwiya wore to please our oppressors.

  Degataga – Standing Together – was a member of the Wolf Clan and one year older than me. I had not seen him since the Green Corn Ceremony of my fifteenth year.

  “Old Noon Day said you and your family marched west,” I said, speaking to him in Tsalagi.

  “I slipped away under cover of darkness with my cousin. We joined other Cherokee in the Mountains of Blue Smoke.”

  I remembered well his courage in stickball, his boldness speaking his thoughts. I also remembered dreaming of him, imposing and graceful in the Cherokee way. But that was in the Time Before.

  “Old Noon Day told me the white man you were forced to marry is dead,” he said.

  “I was not forced. He was a good husband, not like other white men. Now his brother claims the farm, calling me his wife.”

  Before I could speak more, Jonah arrived like an angry skunk, threatening to spray an attacker to scare him away.

  I switched to English.

  “This is my cousin, Standing Together,” I explained. “He is also a member of the Paint Clan.” I did not reveal his real clan, wanting Bad Brother to believe we were kin.

  Always shrewd, Degataga did not display surprise at my deception, understanding at once that it was necessary.

  “Ain’t you s’posed to be out there in Injun Territory with the rest of the Cherokee?”

  Degataga turned to me and said in our language that we should not let Bad Brother know he spoke English. He asked me to translate the words. I agreed it was better not to reveal too much. He asked me to tell Jonah he lived in the north now.

  When I spoke his words, Jonah asked why he came.

  Degataga replied that he was looking for farm work, which he was accustomed to doing.

  Bad Brother spat dark tobacco juice on the ground at Degataga’s feet, challenging him. But Degataga did not flinch.

  “All right,” Jonah said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Two bits for the week. Sleep in the barn and eat the leavings from our table.”

  I said the words in Cherokee.

  I knew Jonah agreed to pay him because he did not like to work. I also sensed Degataga did not come to earn money. He knew I would need help with the woman’s work during planting time.

  The next day we toiled side by side planting corn, squash and beans in mounds – the traditional Cherokee way. It was then that Degataga spoke his feelings.

  “You cannot remain married to the evil white man.”

  “We are not married.”

  I explained I did not sign my real name on the marriage paper and performed the Cherokee divorce ritual after the first night.

  “As is the custom of
the Aniyunwiya, you have the right to leave him if the marriage is diseased. You must not remain with such a man.”

  “It is my family’s home. Our burial ground is here. When my family returns, I must be here waiting.”

  He looked hard into my eyes. “What if they do not return?”

  I made no reply.

  “Forest Water…” he said, pausing a long time before continuing. “I would not say these words so soon after your husband’s death, but our lives have changed. Now we must kiss the boots of the white man. Washington City does not care about the Principal People. I must speak the words you are not ready to hear. Since I was a boy, I planned for you to be my wife. And then the removal came to pass. I was forced to march west to the Darkening Land. You were driven into marriage with a white man you did not know.”

  “His skin was white. His heart was like ours.”

  “And now he is dead and you are left with a man who has no heart. I have come to take you back with me. We can marry in the traditional way. I will be a good father to your daughter. The Wolf Clan is the protector clan. I will protect you.”

  “The Paint Clan is the clan of the medicine people. And I will use my grandmother’s strong medicine to keep our land.”

  He studied me to read my mind, then set his jaw.

  “I also thought you and I would one day marry,” I said. “It was you I waited for at the Green Corn Ceremony. But we are no longer children. You are free to marry another.”

  When the sun traveled below the horizon and the night owls roosted in the trees, I heard Degataga’s flute from the riverbank. A mournful song filled with unspoken words of love.

  9

  Eric’s voice was thick with sleep when he answered my call the next morning.

  “Kathryn?”

  “Even her childhood sweetheart wants to save her from Jonah’s clutches. But Amadahy told him the same thing she told me: she has to stay on her family’s land, has to take care of the family burial ground. Has to wait for her family to return.”