by T. Isilwath
The prospect got her to thinking and the idea disturbed her. She hated to think that Norman had pretended to be friendly with her in order to gain her trust. She much preferred to believe her original assumption that he’d been assigned to her because he was Native American. But if he had been a spy, she was fairly certain that she hadn’t let anything sensitive slip, and that belief was supported by her being allowed to leave. If she hadn’t passed whatever tests they’d put out for her, surely she’d still be an “honored guest” at Fort Bragg.
Maybe the other sergeant, this Sergeant Billings, had other reasons for keeping his distance. During the long ride to Waynesville, she had plenty of time to think about the numerous possibilities. He could be uncomfortable around her because she was Cherokee, or female, or a civilian. He could be uncomfortable around her because he knew something she didn’t. Or he could be angry that their trip to Fort Campbell was being interrupted by the need to ferry her to Waynesville. Or, she supposed, there was the remote possibility that he was angry because he and Sergeant Eister were secret lovers, and her presence meant that they couldn’t have wild monkey sex in the Humvee.
Stranger things had happened.
“Is everything all right, Ms. Tindall?” Sergeant Eister asked her, snapping her out of her woolgathering. “You’re awfully quiet back there.” She took a deep breath, her awareness coming back to the present.
“Sorry. I was just thinking,” she apologized, raising her gaze high enough to see his reflection peering at her in the rear view mirror.
“I’ll bet you’re happy to be getting home by Thanksgiving.”
“Yes,” she agreed.
“Hmph. I thought your people didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving,” Sergeant Billings said, a note of contempt in his voice.
So he was distant because she was Indian. She relaxed immediately. Prejudice and hatred she could deal with; she’d dealt with it from both sides for years.
“That is true,” she replied. “And many of my people celebrate it as a Day of Mourning or call it Native American Holocaust Day, because it marks the day when an act of mercy led to the genocide of millions of Indians.”
“So it wasn’t all feasting and brotherhood, eh?” Sergeant Eister commented jokingly. It was obvious that he was trying to diffuse the rising tension in the vehicle.
“Oh it was,” she confirmed, her voice taking on a harder edge. It was unfortunate for them that this particular subject was a specialty of Michael’s, and he had taught her well.
“That first Thanksgiving did happen, more or less the way it’s reported, although the Wampanoag were the ones who brought most of the food. But the feast was never repeated, and the camaraderie between the two peoples didn’t last long. In fact, it wasn’t too long after that the Pilgrims were giving thanks to God for the Smallpox epidemic that had wiped out most of the Wampanoag by 1623. Although, since capturing and selling Indians into slavery was so profit-able for them, I would have thought they would have been unhappy to see so much potential capital waste away and die,” she continued, sarcasm dripping from her lips.
Sergeant Billings snorted. “The Pilgrims did not sell Indians into slavery!” She pursed her lips and bit back an ugly retort. Even after tremendous effort on the part of Native American advocates, falsehoods about the history between the pilgrims and the natives they encountered were still being taught in schools.
“Yes, they did. They were so successful that it spurred them to start raiding the Ivory Coast of Africa for black slaves. The American slave trade was born out of capturing and selling Indians-Indians whose tribes had saved the Pilgrims from starvation not a generation before,” she countered calmly.
“I don’t believe it. It sounds like liberal, politically correct bullshit to me,” Sergeant Billings spat.
“That’s enough Tom,” Sergeant Eister warned. “How about them Steelers?”
The man’s attempts to redirect the conversation to football made her angry.
She wanted to flay them with facts, make them see that the Pilgrims were a radical sect of Puritans who escaped religious persecution in England, only to inflict the same persecution on the people in the New World, but she held her tongue.
Michael was known for his Thanksgiving tirades, and he had no qualms about engaging someone in a battle of historical facts versus romantic revisionist history made up mostly to appease individuals who didn’t like their “pious” ancestors being portrayed as lying, thieving murderers.
Elisi, however, would preach silence. She would not enter a battle of words with anyone unless she had no choice, and even then her words would be few and weighted carefully. She could hear the old woman reminding her that this man’s hatred was his cross to bear, not hers, and she should not sully herself, or her peace of mind, by worrying about what he thought. He was a stranger, not a member of her tribe, and it was unlikely that she would ever see him again.
“Believe as you wish,” she said coolly. “It’s no concern of mine. And I have no idea how the Steelers are doing. I’ve been out of the country since May.”
“Looks like they’re gonna win another Superbowl,” he said proudly.
She smiled. Those who loved football, loved it passionately. “That’s great.”
“So if that’s how you feel, how come you celebrate it?” Billings snapped.
She didn’t want to tell him that Michael and Elisi had never celebrated Thanksgiving until she had come to live in North Carolina. That, in her grief and black depression, the maintaining of traditions that she had been brought up with had been important to her recovery, and that the only reason Michael and Elisi made any fuss about the day at all was purely for her benefit. Such admissions were too personal and too private for present company.
“We honor our dead and give thanks for the things we do have. We give thanks for family, and friends, and a good harvest. We give thanks that we are still here as a people, and thriving, when the Whites tried so hard to wipe us off the face of the earth,” she answered. “And you should give thanks for that as well. If it weren’t for the Navajo Codetalkers of World War II, we might all be speaking Japanese.”
Sergeant Billings started to say something, but Sergeant Eister cut him off.
“That’s enough Tom. You never did know when to shut your mouth.”
“Hmph,” grunted the man. “Yes, Sir.”
“Thank you,” Sergeant Eister said.
She remained silent afterwards, enjoying her verbal victory. There was nothing more to say anyway, and she reclined against the back seat. Outside the small window of the Humvee, the sandhills were giving way to the Piedmont, and she began to feel a nervous anticipation.
The not-so-civil disagreement about Thanksgiving had distracted her from thinking about what was really happening, but now she had no excuse. She was going home. Michael was meeting her in Waynesville, and Elisi was waiting for her at the house. Soon she would be returning to the life she had left, but she had no idea if it would be the life she continued to lead.
Now that she was leaving military jurisdiction, Akihiro should be able to reach her, but so far there had been no sign of him, and she wondered when he would reveal himself. Did he have ways of knowing when she would be leaving Fort Bragg? Would he be at the truck stop and intercept her? She didn’t like that idea. She wanted to see Michael, and she desperately wanted to see her grandmother. She didn’t think she would be happy if he tried to keep her from going home at all.
Would he come to her grandmother’s house? Was he already there, waiting? Or would he hold off until after Thanksgiving? Would he come to the apartment she shared with Michael? Or to her school? Or to her doctor’s office?
Would he write a letter or appear in person? She didn’t know, but she looked for any sign of him in every car they passed and every face that looked at her.
Since the Humvee was one of the new hydrogen fuel cell vehicles, they didn’t have to stop for gas, and the atmosphere in the truck was chilly. She stayed quiet, lettin
g the two soldiers chat about whatever they were chatting about. She kept her gaze on the window, watching the road and the world outside, mentally counting the exits as they passed. They were traveling up Rte-421, heading north to where they would join I-40/I-85 just outside of Greensboro. From there they’d head almost due west until they reached Waynesville.
She’d been to Greensboro a couple of times, but she had no real fondness for big cities, and even less for the urban sprawl and “Generica” that surrounded them.
She spent most of the trip in silent contemplation, letting her mind wander and imagine any number of scenarios regarding Akihiro’s appearance. She felt an odd mixture of both breathless anticipation and dread. She did want to see him, she was almost desperate to see him sometimes, but she also feared seeing him because she knew it would mark the end of the life she had known for eleven years. It would mean having to honor her promise, and she knew that Michael would be horribly hurt in the choosing. It was unavoidable and the knowledge pained her deeply.
There was always a chance, she knew, that Akihiro had not survived. The thought of him being dead made her shiver, and she had a dim memory of hearing something that had suggested that he might not have made it through the centuries. There was a coldness associated with the memory, and a flash of someone sitting in shadows while he spoke to her in a condescending manner.
She shook it away, forcing down the irrational fear that came with the images.
If he was dead…
If Akihiro was dead, then she had lost yet another person who had become vital to her happiness, and she would have to grieve him as she had grieved her family. She only hoped that he had left her a message of some kind so that she would know for certain that he was dead, and she did not spend years wondering if he was out there unable to reach her for some reason, or worse, hurting or suffering somewhere, alone and abandoned. Of all the scenarios that ran through her mind, that one frightened her most of all.
So far she had taken comfort in knowing his silence was because it was not safe for him to contact her. But if she didn’t hear from him within the next week, she would begin to worry and wonder, and she didn’t know how she would explain herself to Michael and Elisi. It would mean having to reveal everything, and she had been expressly forbidden from saying anything to anyone about the time travel portion of her trip. For now, she knew that Michael and her grandmother had been told some sort of cover story wherein she had been sent to an outlying archipelago by mistake, and they had no knowledge of the true scope and breadth of what had really happened. She was sure that they suspected that they were being lied to (very few Indians trusted the government to tell them the truth), but she had no idea what they actually believed. If she were to tell them about Akihiro, then they would learn that she had been sent back in time, and they might all be in great danger.
While she was certain that her grandmother and fiancé could be completely trusted with the information, she had no way of knowing if any of the government agencies involved had bugged her things or had some other way of knowing if she talked, and, frankly, she wasn’t interested in finding out. Especially if Akihiro was dead. If he was alive, then she could trust him to protect and hide her (and her family if necessary. Although that might be highly entertaining if both men in her life had to live in close quarters). But if he was dead, then she would have no such recourse and hiding from the government was still an extremely difficult thing to do. No, she didn’t know what she was going to do about the situation. She only hoped that Akihiro would be alive to help her sort through the pieces.
When they passed Hickory, she began to pay more attention. They had been on the road for about three hours, and she knew they were getting close.
Very soon they would be entering the Blue Ridge Mountains, and, sure enough, they passed into McDowell County just twenty miles east of Marion 40 minutes later.
As the land began to rise, the rolling fields being replaced by the thick green of the mountain forests, she began to choke up. Seeing the trees, knowing that very soon she would be back with her grandmother and her tribe, was enough to bring tears to her eyes, and she sat closer to the window. Another forty minutes later, they passed the exit for Asheville, and she knew they were only thirty or so miles away. By now they were thick into the Blue Ridge Mountains and the view out the Humvee window was breathtaking. She let out a strangled sob.
“Are you all right, Ms. Tindall,” Sergeant Eister asked her.
She smiled. “Yes. I’m just so glad to be going home.”
“I hear that,” the solider agreed.
Home. In less than twenty miles they would be exiting off I-40 and turning into the truck stop in Waynesville. She began counting down the miles, searching for each marker and taking note of it, until she was counting down from ten.
Exit 24 announced itself at the two-mile marker, and she gripped the edge of the seat. The exit was actually listed as Lake Junaluska, but that was just above Waynesville. The Humvee exited the interstate, and she could see the truck stop up ahead.
Was Michael already there? Knowing him, he’d left home shortly after they’d hung up the phone and had probably been there for hours. She craned her neck to look for his pickup as they turned into the truck stop. Michael drove an old 2007 Ford-150 XLT with the SuperCrew 4-door cab, and she spotted it a few moments later, parked near the one side.
“Do you see him?” Sergeant Eister asked.
“Yes,” she answered. “His truck is over there. The blue Ford.” The soldier nodded and turned the Humvee towards the vehicle. At the same time, the truck’s door opened and Michael stepped out. She thought her heart would stop beating. He looked exactly the same as she remembered him, although maybe a little thinner and a little more careworn, but that was to be expected. He was dressed for the cool November day in a long sleeved shirt and jeans, but he wore no coat or scarf to ward against the autumn chill, and his hair was loose and blowing free.
The Humvee pulled into a spot two spaces down from where Michael’s truck was parked and came to a stop. Her hand trembled as she fumbled with the door lever to open it. Her mouth was suddenly dry and her legs barely held her weight as she stepped out. At first she just chalked it up to being seated for five hours, but when she had to lock her knees so she wouldn’t collapse, she knew that wasn’t all.
She used the side of the Humvee to get her balance as she took several deep breaths and tried to calm herself down. Sergeant Eister was opening the back of the Humvee and taking out her things, but she wasn’t able to help him.
Then a hand, deeply tanned and long fingered, gently took hold of her elbow.
She looked up and Michael was right there next to her, his body shielding her weakness from the two soldiers, his strength offered to her without question or recrimination.
“Michael…” she breathed. She had no words to express her joy.
She wanted to throw her arms around him and clutch him close to her body, but she would not, not in front of strangers. There would be time for that later, when they were home and among family. For now all she allowed herself was a deep sigh and a moment where she leaned against the solid weight of his body.
He bent his head down to touch her forehead with his own, and she heard him breathing sharply through his nose: a clear sign that he was holding back some strong emotion. He was shivering with fine tremors that she was certain no one but she was even aware of, and she pressed herself just a little closer.
“We should get your things in the truck,” he said, his voice rough and low.
She nodded and pulled herself together, taking a small step away, and nervously smoothing back her hair with her hands. Their eyes met, his asking the silent question if she was all right to stand on her own, and hers answering in the affirmative. He turned away from her and walked to where Sergeant Eister had placed her backpack and luggage on the ground behind the Humvee.
“Careful. That’s heavy. Someone stuffed a cast iron frying pan into it,” she warn
ed, attempting to tease as he went for the frame and pack.
He flashed her a brilliant grin that said he wasn’t at all sorry, and deftly picked up the heavy pack with one hand. He slipped the pack straps over his shoulder and reached down to grab her rolling suitcase.
“I’ll get Iris and what’s left of my laptop,” she told him, moving to get the guitar and the laptop case.
“What’s left of it?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.
“It’s completely smashed. I’ll have to see if we can get the data off it.” Michael nodded and carried her things to his truck. She turned to the two soldiers and shook Sergeant Eister’s hand. “Thank you for all of your help.”
“It was no trouble, Ma’am. I’m glad we were able to help you get home,” he replied, taking her hand in a firm grip.
“Safe travels to Fort Campbell.”
“Thank you, Ms. Tindall. Safe travels yourself.”
Michael returned to her side and nodded to the soldiers. “Thank you for bringing my fiancée back to me,” he said, shaking both soldiers’ hands. “I am in your debt.”
“It was no trouble. You take good care of her,” Sergeant Eister said with a smile.
Michael smiled back. “I intend to.”
“We should be going,” Sergeant Billings commented.
“Yes, we have a schedule to keep,” Sergeant Eister agreed.
“Thank you again,” Michael repeated.
“Yes,” she added, “Thank you.”
The soldiers nodded and got back in the Humvee. Michael put a hand on her shoulder, saluted as they pulled away, and they watched until the vehicle left the travel center parking lot.
“How’s your blood sugar?” he asked her suddenly.
“It’s fine. It was 110 this morning.”