by Connie Lacy
The rain pummeled the huge umbrella, filling my ears with a pounding that reminded me, for an instant, of Indian drums. I breathed in the earthy scent of decaying leaves and pine needles underfoot. As I got closer, I caught a whiff of the Broad River.
There was a tightness in my chest as I approached the time portal. Before I chickened out, I pulled a fig from the bush, put it in my mouth, closed the umbrella, tossing it on the ground, and entered the invisible doorway.
The noise of the cloudburst was replaced with the usual buzzing in my ears. Instinct told me right away I was not alone. Three pairs of eyes gaped at the colorful rubber boots I’d forgotten to take off. There sat Amadahy, Ginny and little Betsey.
I let my skirt fall around my ankles.
“I came to speak with Mr. Barnes.”
“You the one brought them gold pieces,” Ginny said with a look that suggested she thought I was rich. “Mister Jonah fetched one to Master Wheeler so he signed my bill of sale. Then he rode into town and gambled the others away in a poker game. Came home stinking drunk, swinging his fists at anyone who got in his way.” She turned her cheek, showing me a fresh bruise.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
Betsey crawled closer to her mother, then plopped down on her bottom again, looking at me uncertainly.
“Mister Jonah says one of my jobs is having babies,” Ginny added. “But there’s only one man on this here farm.”
Amadahy’s expression betrayed her discomfort.
“I want to help,” I said. “Is Mr. Barnes here?”
“It is not safe for you to speak with him.” Amadahy lifted Betsey onto her lap, smoothing her fine, dark hair with her fingers.
“I have to try.”
“Where is your husband?” she said.
“He was wounded.”
She blinked, but made no move to stand.
I slipped off the wet garden boots and put my shoes on, then fluffed my skirt as I stepped around them and into the yard.
Late morning sun filtered through the trees in the distance. But the sun was already hot in the clearing. Halfway to the house, I was damp with sweat, partly from the heat, partly from dread.
“Believe you must be one a them women that likes a rough hand, Miz Murray.” It was Jonah calling out to me as he hiked his suspenders up emerging from the outhouse. “My wife likes that too.” A vile grin spread across his face.
My hands patted my skirt, feeling for the pocket where I’d deposited the can of Mace.
“Why you here?” he said.
“I’d like to talk with you, Mr. Barnes.”
“About what?”
“Can we sit down?”
“Too hot inside.”
“By the river.”
I continued along the path, rounding the house and making a beeline for the riverbank. He followed, carrying a ladderback chair.
“Your husband ain’t with you?” he asked, turning the chair backwards and straddling it, his legs splayed wide, elbows on the top rung.
“Not today.”
“He don’t keep very good track a his wife.” He looked me up and down before continuing. “What’s on your mind?”
“I want to talk about how you can become a good husband and father.”
He guffawed like I’d told a sidesplitting joke.
“You with the church?” he said when his laughter trailed off.
“No, I…”
“You one a them temperance nags.”
“No, but there’s something to be said for cutting back on drinking. It’s been proven too much alcohol leads to…”
“Nobody tells me how much to drink.”
“Believe me, I’m not trying to do that. It’s just that men who drink a lot often lose control so they aren’t considerate of their wives and children.”
“Considerate?”
“You know, gentle and understanding.”
“That’s a woman’s job.”
“It’s a man’s job too.”
“I ain’t got time for this horse shit,” he said, getting to his feet.
“Please, Mr. Barnes. Give me a few minutes.”
He looked at me like I was crazy – and I had to admit he might be right – but I pressed on.
“Drinking can also cause a man to have financial problems because he spends too much money on alcohol and he’s not able to work.”
“You must be a Yankee.”
“Mr. Barnes, alcohol can make a man lose control and hit his wife.”
“A man rules over his wife. Says so in the Bible.”
I caught myself as I was about to lose my temper. “Don’t you want your wife to love you?”
“I want her to spread her legs when I…”
“That’s not love!”
“And cook my food and wash my clothes.”
“Were you beaten as a child?” My voice rose a couple of notches.
“Spare the rod, spoil the child,” he spat. “That’s in the Bible too. Believe someone should’a whupped you when you was a young’un.”
“One day, when you have children of your own, don’t you want them to love and respect you?”
“They’ll respect me, all right. I don’t take no backtalk from nobody. Now I ain’t listening to no more of your preaching.”
He charged me, grabbing my arm before I could react.
“Let me go!” I cried.
“Your husband ain’t got a lick a sense letting you come back here. If you snuck behind his back, then you’re the one who’s slow in the head. Cause now I’m gonna finish my business deal with Johnny. He was right peevish after riding all the way out here and finding you was gone last time.”
He twisted my arm up behind my back, nearly pulling it out of the socket.
“I’m not done talking yet!” I shouted. “The least you can do is hear me out!”
He hustled me into the smokehouse, the stench of his body filling my nostrils.
“You don’t really want to be an evil man, do you? You don’t want your family to hate you!”
“Don’t make me no nevermind.”
I squirmed, trying to free one of my arms, but his hands were like a vise grip. I gasped in pain. So much for the Mace.
“Mr. Barnes, I can pay you more than Johnny can.”
He shoved me onto the dirt floor.
“You got more gold?” he said.
“I don’t have it on me, but I can get some.”
“How many nuggets?”
“Two.”
“Four!”
“I might be able to get three.”
He paced in circles around me.
Although by now I didn’t hold out much hope for my original mission, I decided to keep trying.
“I hope you’ll reconsider how you treat your family, Mr. Barnes. Would you treat a friend like you treat Amadahy?”
“My wife ain’t my friend!”
“Your wife should be your best friend. Nobody respects you if you beat your wife. Tenderness doesn’t make a man weak.”
His answer came in the form of a shove with his stinking shoe. I toppled over, landing on my injured shoulder.
“You talk too damn much,” he said. “Must be why your husband left you.”
He continued pacing as I struggled to right myself.
“You bring me four gold nuggets, I’ll let you go.”
I actually dithered a few seconds, then realized what an idiot I was. Like I should argue with him when he was on the verge of giving me to a man planning on making a sex slave out of me.
“All right,” I whispered.
“I’ll go with you to get ‘em.”
“That’s not possible.”
“The hell it ain’t!”
“Honestly, Mr. Barnes, if you come with me, there’s no way I can get the gold.”
He stopped in front of me, the toe of his shoe almost touching my nose. This close, it smelled like he spent too much time in that outhouse.
“If you ain’t back with the
gold in one week, my squaw or my slave might have a bad accident. Ain’t decided which one yet. You take my meaning?”
“Yes, but, Mr. Barnes, I’d like to remind you of the Golden Rule. I’m sure you’re familiar with it.”
Silence.
“Do unto others,” I said, “as you would have them do unto you. Straight from the Bible.”
“Make sure you come alone.” He adjusted his pants and sauntered out the door.
A deep and abiding loathing welled up inside me.
~
Back in my own time, I tried, but failed, to dodge the puddles on the sodden forest floor. The dark clouds seemed angry as they bombarded the earth with more rain than the ground could stand. I was angry too, tucking Nana’s oversized umbrella under my arm, hoping the raindrops would purge the disgust from my body. As water soaked my shoes I realized I’d made such a hasty exit that I forgot the gardening boots. But, no way was I going back to get them.
It was conceivable that Eric was right. The past was gone. All those people were dead. Who was I to play God, as he put it. Or try to play God. Every time I went back to their time, I botched something. And now what had I done? I’d promised to bring Jonah more gold! And if I didn’t deliver? I didn’t want to contemplate what he might do if I broke my promise.
Plodding through the woods, rain blurred my vision. I felt like a little girl wearing ten-pound ankle weights. But it was more than physical. I was weighed down with uncertainty, with feelings of inadequacy and self-doubt.
Was it even possible to turn a raging, unrepentant asshole into a decent human being? I was ninety-nine percent certain an average TV news producer like myself would never achieve anything approaching the transformation of Mr. Hyde into Dr. Jekyll.
I stood on the back porch of the cottage for several minutes, letting the water drip from my body, forming a puddle on the floor. Opening the umbrella to let it dry, a stabbing pain shot down my right bicep. It hurt to turn the key in the back door. Peeling the dress from my wet body was a painstaking process. My shower consisted mostly of letting the warm water pound my body.
After wrapping the dress and shoes in a trash bag, I dashed to my car, holding my small umbrella over my head. I wanted nothing more than to be at home with a heating pad.
No way would I go to the hospital where Eric was treated for his sorta-kinda gunshot wound. Some local reporter might write a story about me! I used my left hand to drive back to Atlanta.
First stop was an urgent care clinic. When the doctor asked how I was injured, I concocted my latest lie, telling her I fell off a ladder and caught myself with my right arm. She said I might have a torn rotator cuff but I’d need an MRI to confirm. She advised me to follow up with my doctor and suggested I take something for pain, use ice packs and go easy with my right arm in the meantime.
Needless to say, I was in a blue funk when I got home.
Pixie rubbed against my legs, nearly tripping me as she meowed for her supper. Once I filled her dish, I took a couple of pain pills and fixed myself a bowl of cereal, collapsing at the kitchen table. The two of us ate in silence while I scanned messages and emails.
There was a brief email from Nancy, saying she’d had time to translate a bit more of the diary. I hesitated clicking on the attachment. What good would it do?
Pixie meowed.
“I know,” I said. “I can’t abandon her.”
I opened the document.
Amadahy’s Journal – Part 9 (June 1840)
Degataga noticed my painful walking upon his return. When Ginny revealed how I had been kicked, the aura surrounding him was like fire consuming the forest, forcing the animals to flee.
He hid his fury when he met with Bad Brother.
Jonah was the taller of the two, but he puffed out his chest like a bear standing on his hind legs to appear larger. He agreed to pay Standing Together to repair the hole in the roof where rain poured in and small creatures sometimes entered.
After eating two plates of food, Jonah rode into town. With his departure, calm descended upon the farm like a soft breeze after a violent storm.
That evening, as I washed Little Butterfly along the riverbank, Degataga approached. He squatted beside me, watching her as she splashed the water playfully. Then he turned to me.
“I will find a way,” he said.
He moved closer, speaking to me without words, sharing his love. Then he put his lips on mine, touching my cheek with his hand.
“You must be mine,” he said. “And I must be yours. I cannot let you or your daughter suffer.”
I imagined living as man and wife, a deep desire for love and tenderness burning within me.
~
Closing the document, I couldn’t help but think that perhaps Jonah did deserve to die. Still, I couldn’t condone murder even if Jonah did kill Isham. But it made me feel guilty that part of my opposition stemmed from an urge for self-preservation.
“I don’t want to save that good-for-nothing’s life,” I said, looking down to where Pixie sat staring at me.
She jumped on my lap, purring as I stroked her soft fur.
“Degataga wouldn’t believe me if I tried to explain.”
She meowed again.
“I hope you have a brilliant suggestion because I’m fresh out of ideas. Telling Amadahy to run away didn’t work. Trying to lure Jonah away with gold was a waste of my hard-earned money and nearly got Eric killed. Trying to teach him to be a caring person was downright stupid. God, it pains me to think I’ve got to try to protect him so he can keep on abusing her! And now Ginny too! More than likely, he’ll also beat his children and drink up every dime that little farm makes. Dammit!”
Pixie jumped down from my lap, dashing from the kitchen to the living room.
“I’m sorry,” I called after her.
18
The following afternoon I received a text message from Jeannette: “Just so you’ll know – Edie and I are en route to your apartment. She’s irritated you didn’t meet us at the assisted living place to see Louise. She’s also upset about the visit. Be there in a few.”
“Dang,” I whispered.
So much for my laid-back Sunday, trying to rest my mind and body while icing my shoulder. I’d been moving in slow motion all day. I did manage to go online and order the blasted gold pieces, dreading my return trip to 1840 with every fiber of my being.
I picked up my lunch plate and glass from the coffee table and carried them into the kitchen, loaded the dishwasher and wiped the counter. The doorbell rang as I hung a fresh towel in the downstairs bathroom
“You’re not even dressed.”
That was the first thing out of Nana’s mouth. Not like her at all.
“It’s comfy to wear around the apartment,” I replied, aiming for a perky tone.
She was more than irritated or upset. As she swept past me, she reminded me of a hornet whose nest has been knocked to the ground.
Jeannette raised her hands in surrender, following her into the kitchen.
“Would you like a cup of tea? I asked, trailing after them.
“I’d like a glass of wine and some crackers and peanut butter,” Nana replied, her tone defiant.
I set a bottle of Cabernet on the table, along with a wine glass.
“Cup of tea, Jeannette?” I said.
“Love one.”
Thankfully, Nana poured the wine. I wasn’t sure I could pull the cork out with my right hand. As I microwaved two cups of water and got the tea bags, crackers and peanut butter, Nana charged ahead.
“I called you Friday and asked you to meet us at the retirement home at one-thirty. Where were you?”
“I’m sorry, Nana. I don’t remember being invited.”
The microwave dinged and I busied myself setting everything on the table. I knew they’d planned to visit her former next-door neighbor, but didn’t know when.
“I’m sure I called you,” she said.
Jeannette and I dropped tea bags into our mugs, both
of us fighting the urge to exchange a glance while Nana sipped her wine.
“I guess Mrs. Johnston was glad to see you,” I said, bracing myself.
“Poor pitiful Louise,” she said, putting several crackers on her plate. “I don’t think she even knew who I was. She didn’t remember living next door to me for thirty years. It was so sad.”
She spread peanut butter on a cracker and took a bite.
“I think she recognized you after we’d been there a few minutes,” Jeannette said. “She laughed like she always did when the two of you were together. She seemed in good spirits to me. And what a lovely apartment she has!”
“What’s it like?” I said.
“It’s only one room, divided into a bedroom and a little sitting area by a Japanese screen,” said Nana.
“It’s decorated so nicely,” Jeannette said. “It looks like her living room used to look, filled with those pretty Japanese figurines in that black lacquer curio cabinet.”
“But it’s not a house,” Nana complained, taking another drink.
“True,” Jeannette said, “but she doesn’t have any housework to do and she never has to cook or do dishes. On nice days she can sit outside in the garden, right by the fish pond if she wants to and visit with some of the other ladies.”
Nana wrinkled her nose in disapproval.
“I know she appreciated your visit,” I said.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to live there.”
“Mrs. Johnston’s daughter said they moved her there and sold the house after she accidentally caused a couple of kitchen fires,” I reminded her. “And they were afraid she’d wander off.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Which wasn’t true. We discussed all that when Mrs. Johnston moved away. But I wasn’t going to bring that up now.
“I don’t like Alzheimer’s one bit!” And she slapped her hand on the table.
“Me neither,” said Jeannette.
“Likewise,” I agreed.
“If I get like that,” Nana said, “just shoot me!”
“Nana!”
“I’m serious. I don’t want to start kitchen fires and have to move to… what’s the name of that place?”
“Rosewood Manor,” Jeannette said.
“I don’t want to move to Rosewood Manor and sit there in the lobby staring into space.