by Connie Lacy
“Pleased to meet you,” Ginny said, then turned her attention to me. “I can put a fresh rag on Betsey and take her for a walk. Your back must be plumb wore out.”
She helped me unwrap the baby from my body.
“Do not walk her by the river,” I said.
Understanding that is where Bad Brother would be, she talked to Little Butterfly as they headed to the house. Betsey responded in her small babbling voice.
“I see she is now your family,” Degataga said, once again revealing his wisdom. “She can travel with us to the mountains. We will adopt her as a member of the Aniyunwiya. She will be your kinswoman, a member of the Paint Clan.”
I admired his face, so full of Cherokee dignity and grace.
He set the large rock aside that he used for striking the post, then moved swiftly to sit beside me in the row, taking my soiled hand in his.
“I love you, Forest Water.”
His words echoed inside me.
“I will be a good husband. You will be a good wife. It is fated.”
Warmth filled my body. But before I could respond, there was a woman’s shriek, then Betsey’s wail and Jonah’s angry shout. I pulled myself up and hobbled toward the noise, Degataga running ahead of me.
Rounding the corner of the house, we saw Ginny lying on the ground, Betsey still in her arms. Bad Brother towered over them like a large rattlesnake ready to strike, a whiskey bottle in his hand.
“I said make that baby shut up!” he shouted.
“Yessir,” Ginny said, setting my daughter on her lap. “Hush, little one,” she said, her voice quivering.
Betsey cried louder, causing Jonah to threaten them with the back of his hand.
I touched Degataga’s arm so he would not rush forward.
“It is my fault,” I cried.
Jonah swung around and flashed his snake eyes at me. “I’m gonna give that baby something to cry about if she don’t shut her mouth!”
I hurried closer, lifting Betsey into my arms, rubbing her back and speaking soothing words in my language. “Do not be afraid, Little Butterfly. Mother is here now.”
She hiccupped and sniffled, her small body losing its stiffness as she leaned against my shoulder.
Degataga returned to his fence building, hiding the anger burning in his eyes.
“Ginny,” I said, “you may continue picking squash and beans.”
She put her hand to her mouth, wiping a trickle of blood as she hurried to the garden. Moving as fast as I could, I carried Betsey to the hickory tree where I often nursed her, sitting on the ground, facing away from the house. She calmed as I opened my dress.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Bad Brother glare about him as though his prey had escaped. Then he drained the last of the spirits, heaving the empty bottle toward the river.
When I returned to the garden, the bruise on Ginny’s face was plain. Her eyes were troubled but she said nothing. I sent her home with a piece of cornbread heavy with beans.
When she was gone, Degataga spoke quietly but with passion, not looking up from his work.
“I will kill him.”
15
There was no way I’d be able to sleep after reading the latest entry. Degataga loved Amadahy. Who could blame him for threatening to kill Jonah? Especially since she refused to leave the bastard.
But now, thanks to Nana, I knew Amadahy bore three babies with that walking bowel movement. Murdering him would kill off generations of their offspring, including me! What if Degataga made good on his threat? How many people would never be born?
My brain felt like the ball in a vintage pinball machine, getting whacked by paddles over and over, bouncing from bell to bell.
Pixie watched me frantically pacing circles around the living room.
“You should be worried too,” I told her. “What if I disappear? What if I’m never born? Where will you be?”
She flicked her tail at me.
I stopped in my tracks, a light bulb switching on in my brain.
“We’re not going to disappear! Degataga didn’t murder Jonah. Sure, he wanted to kill him. But just because he said it doesn’t mean he did it. Obviously, he didn’t because I’m still here. And so are Nana, my mother and hundreds of distant cousins. That family tree the genealogist created proves all those people were born.”
She meowed.
“Yeah. I’ve said things like that, myself. ‘I’m gonna kill him.’ Saying it doesn’t mean I’d ever do it. Not in a million years. I realize it wasn’t an idle threat when Degataga said it. He really meant it. But Amadahy must’ve talked him out of it. Or he came to his senses and realized he couldn’t murder the guy even if he was a despicable dickbrain! Or…” I whirled around, practically shouting, “…or Jonah killed Degataga first!”
Pixie cowered in fear.
“Sorry,” I whispered, sitting down on the sofa and stroking her fur. “But I can’t bear the thought of Jonah murdering the man who truly loves her.”
An urge to call Eric flitted through my mind. Who else could I talk to about Amadahy? No one.
I snuffed out my little flicker of longing, climbing the stairs to get my hamper. Laundry beckoned. Along with some other chores I’d been neglecting. I needed to do something to occupy my mind. Consumed with Amadahy’s plight, it was sometimes hard for me to focus on my own life. Including my social life. It might help if I spent time with friends.
But who would I call for a night out? Let’s see, there was Stacey, my old high school girlfriend. But she was married now and recently had a baby. She had “the hubs,” as she called him, and always had to find a babysitter. There was Kara, a fellow J-School student from my days at UGA. But she liked to party hardy and the heavy drinking made me feel like I was still in college. Ryan might be an option. But the last time I saw him, he thought I was coming onto him. I wasn’t. We were supposed to be buddies, not friends with benefits. There was a time when Mallory and I had gone out together. But she was a bigshot reporter now and I was her producer – her flunky, in her eyes.
There was always Pixie. She had the same taste in movies and TV shows. Plus, she never accused me of anything.
Although when I sat down beside her, my mind wandered, and instead of being satisfied cuddling with my cat, I imagined snuggling in Eric’s arms. But he’d revealed his true colors. Better that it happened sooner than later, I guess. Besides, he’d already moved on, judging by our unexpected encounter at The Grit.
~
My mother waved at me as she stepped off the escalator in the baggage claim area. Amazing how young she looked despite being in her mid-fifties. She had that sophisticated world traveler look in narrow black slacks, a cream blouse and a short layered haircut with silver highlights.
She gave me a brief hug. “I almost ordered a limo but I like to multi-task and thought I could use the travel time more wisely – catching up with you on the drive to Athens.”
“You’re so sentimental,” I said.
Which caused her to smile.
“So you have concerns about Nana?” she said as we arrived at the baggage carousel.
I gave her a look of mock exasperation.
“I’m doing pretty well,” I said. “Thanks for asking. How about you?”
“You’re too clever for your own good, you know,” she said. “Start wherever you like. I’m all ears.”
“To be honest, I’ve relaxed about Nana over the last couple of weeks. I got worked up earlier this summer. I still think she should be tested. They have meds to help slow the progression of the disease.”
“Couldn’t hurt,” she said.
“I think with Jeannette and you and me to look out for her, she’ll be okay. As long as we’re aware she’s having these issues.”
Her bags appeared and we stepped forward, each of us grabbing one.
We had plenty of time to talk on the drive to Athens. Time enough for me to tell her we should hire a second companion so Jeannette could have more time off. And to
talk about educating ourselves about Alzheimer’s.
Then she shifted gears, taking an interest in my life. Although not in the way I would’ve preferred.
“Mother told me what happened to you and your history professor boyfriend,” she said. “She told me there was a newspaper article. I found it online. I must say, it was a strange story. Neither you nor Dr. Murray came across in the best light. That’s the kind of thing that could tarnish your reputation, you know.”
“It’s no big deal, really.”
Nana was thrilled Mom had come, thanking her again and again for taking time from her high-powered life to travel all the way to little old Athens, Georgia to see her unimportant, inconsequential, elderly mother. Not her words exactly, but that’s the gist of it. I had to bite my tongue not to express my true feelings – that she should come more often than one measly time a year.
Still, at least she was here. And it was a relief.
Jeannette left in her own vehicle to visit her family as Mom cranked Nana’s car to drive them to the cottage. Leaving me some time to myself. Checking my phone, I found a voice message from Eric.
“Kathryn, I sure would like to see you. I need to tell you in person how sorry I am. Please, please call me back. Or send me a teeny-tiny text message telling me when and where to meet you so I can grovel at your feet. How about Jittery Joe’s? I miss you.”
But his comment about getting sucked into a time travel fantasy was still ricocheting around my brain. Every time I thought about his words, it ticked me off all over again. Condescending. That’s how he’d sounded. Judgmental and condescending. Judgmental, uncaring and condescending. Make that judgmental, uncaring, self-centered and condescending.
I deleted the message and drove home, stopping to pick up a couple of tacos on the way. As soon as I walked in the door, my phone rang. I thought it might be Eric, but it was Nana.
“Hi sweetie! We thought we’d go to Harold’s Home Cooking for supper. Can you meet us at six-thirty?”
“I was planning on joining you tomorrow evening for supper.”
“Sharon’s flying to New York tomorrow,” she said.
“You’re kidding.”
“A limousine is picking her up right after lunch to take her to the airport.”
The black cat clock Nana gave me when I moved into my apartment said it was four forty-five. If I walked right back out the door, I could make it to the restaurant in Royston by six-thirty. I was way too tired to drive all that way and then drive home to sleep before getting up and going to work in the morning.
“It’s really thoughtful of you to invite me, Nana. But I’m already back in Atlanta. I think I’ll let you two have some quality mother-daughter time.”
I stuffed my phone into my back pocket after we hung up, remembering the fall I started college when my mother put our house on the market, taking her first overseas job. She said she needed a change of scenery, that she was tired of being depressed. Which, admittedly, was her normal state after my dad died. At the time, I thought it was an excellent idea, figuring the adventure was exactly what she needed. I didn’t know she’d hardly ever come home again.
~
Controversy erupted Monday morning. The Watchdog Team, along with the Channel Seven news department, was being accused of airing “prurient” video shot by the sleazebag drama teacher. Mallory and I were called into the news director’s office.
“We’ve received more than a dozen emails complaining about our reporting,” Ray told us.
“Orchestrated, no doubt,” Mallory said.
“No doubt,” he replied. “One of the complaints is from a religious group, accusing us of doing the story for the specific purpose of boosting ratings.”
“It’s not the first time we’ve been attacked over a story,” she said, unimpressed.
“Nor the last,” he said. “But they’re picketing our station tomorrow on the sidewalk out front, and they’ve notified every media outlet in town.”
“I’d say they’re doing us a favor,” she said. “I’ll bet people out there who missed the story will be searching for it online.”
“We took it down.”
“We what?”
“As you know, we consulted our lawyers before airing the reports. And we were careful to use only short sections of the video that were deemed clean enough for a family audience. But even with our viewer discretion advisory beforehand, the footage could be seen as soft porn if it’s out of context.”
“Jesus, Ray!” Mallory cried, jumping up and leaning on his desk. “Are you saying the bigwigs don’t stand behind us?”
“No…”
“It sure sounds like it!” She spun around to leave.
“And another thing,” he said, raising his voice. “Someone apparently told our neck and neck competition about your concerns that Kathryn might be in an abusive relationship. And now the religious group organizing the protest is also accusing us of condoning domestic violence aimed at one of our producers. Apparently, the Channel Thirteen reporter’s brother goes to the same church as the leader of the religious group.”
Mallory stopped in her tracks.
“Any idea who told Channel Thirteen?” Ray said, a mocking tone in his voice.
Mallory chewed her lip as she turned around.
“How could you?” I snapped.
She stared at the ceiling.
The stony silence was broken when Ray cleared his throat.
“On your immediate to-do list, Mallory – tell your friend at Channel Thirteen that you were wrong about Kathryn’s situation. Also on the to-do list for both of you – figure out how to deal with this. There’s a lot to be said for a cohesive team that gets along and looks out for each other. The protest is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. I want you both gone by noon. Don’t want to risk having any kind of run-in. Which gives you an extra half-day off leading up to July fourth. You’re welcome.”
As we returned to our office, it was all I could do not to let her have it. I was pissed. And she knew it. As soon as we walked in the door, she closed it behind us and apologized as Brandon scrolled on his phone, trying to be invisible.
“I’m sorry, Kathryn. I was talking with…” She paused, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Doesn’t matter who I was talking with. We were on assignment, chatting about that county commissioner… anyway, I won’t do it again.”
“The damage is done.” I was in no mood to forgive.
Despite the boss’s suggestion, that’s as far as we got toward ironing out the kinks in our relationship.
The next installment of Amadahy’s diary hit my inbox right before lunch. I went to a sandwich shop, opened the document and read as I ate, reminding myself that, so far, at least, the events she was describing occurred before Nana showed up.
Amadahy’s Journal – Part 7 (May 1840)
“If you kill Jonah,” I said, my eyes on Degataga, “I will be torn from my family’s land. White leaders will not allow a Cherokee woman to own a farm. It must be a white man who owns the land. If you kill him, I will also suffer.”
“If I do not kill him, you will suffer as the fawn suffers when the mountain lion attacks. I will adopt Isham Barnes into the Wolf Clan and avenge his death.”
His eyes were like a bolt of lightning thrown by the Great Thunder.
I did not reveal that I could feel Isham’s ghost wandering the farm, that I knew his spirit could not rest. I also did not tell him I feared if he killed Jonah, the sheriff would hang him from a tree.
“Degataga, I also feel a bond between us. But we must not stumble and fall into a ravine from which there is no escape.”
“You have clung to this land, hoping your family would one day return. But they will not return.” He shook his head. “I offer you love and a home on Aniyunwiya land.”
I looked down at my dirty hands. He returned to his work and did not speak again.
He fixed the chicken coop and completed the fence enclosing the garden by the time darkness
fell. The next morning he was gone when I rose to do my early chores. I was alone again with Little Butterfly and Bad Brother.
After nursing the baby, feeding the chickens, gathering eggs, cooking corn and bean bread over the fire pit and roasting squash for the day, I moved to the river to wash clothes. With Betsey strapped to her cradle board. I tried to warm my spirit by singing a traditional chant. I was startled when a woman’s voice spoke behind me. Even more so when I looked upon her.
“I’m picking some figs,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
She spoke English, but it was not the kind of English I was accustomed to, even when I attended Mission school with the Methodists. She stood erect but she was very old, her silver hair cut short like a white man’s. She also wore pants like a man and a shirt. But the shirt was the color of a sunflower.
“My goodness,” she said. “You’re doing laundry in the river? You don’t have running water in your house?”
When I did not answer, she continued talking.
“My name is Edie. I live up the hill.”
She waited for me to speak. But words would not come.
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” she said, her voice like the sparkling burble of a mountain stream.
I watched her for a sign that she was a spirit. She did not seem of my world. Or the white man’s world. If Bad Brother saw her, I feared what he would do.
“Oh, dear. It appears you don’t speak English,” she said.
If she was a spirit, I decided she was a good spirit, not a bad one. And I knew how she traveled to my home.
“I speak English,” I said, peering around her toward the house.
She looked over her shoulder as she spoke again, more softly. “You look like a mommy who’s worried the noisy neighbor might wake up someone who’s taking a nap. I’ll keep my voice down.”
She squatted on the riverbank and talked to Betsey.
“Hi there, little one. What’s your name?”
My daughter responded with her baby words.
“Her Cherokee name is Kamama, which means Butterfly,” I said.
She clapped her hands together like a small child when she learned we were Cherokee.