Tea and Tomahawks

by Dahlia Dewinters

  Her breathing accelerated, and she made a small sound in her throat. Grandmother was right. He was nothing but a demon, a devil who had bewitched her and humiliated her while he laughed with this other women. Annie blinked, caught between the two worlds. He had chased her to the motel in Ohio, two states away from New Jersey. Then now, in the present—or was it the past?—he had chased her from South Carolina to Florida.

  A life of wealth with no pleasure flashed before her eyes. Impossible things. The silk chaise in her Grandmother’s parlor on the Cape. But she was in Florida now, wasn’t she? And Grandmother was dead. Annie shook her head to clear it. Where was she now? When was she? The Seminole Wars. Wars between the white man and the black and red peoples.

  Was she a slave? Or—was she an enslaved housewife?

  Annie blinked to clear her head and Richard, her slave master? Her husband? Whoever he was, he was close enough for her to smell his blood.

  “Give me the hatchet, Mattie.”

  Holding it at shoulder height, she didn’t answer. Snippets of memories flashed through her head.

  The only clear thing was her enemy, in front of her. She steadied the knife and took a step forward. Haiola’s words echoed in her mind.

  If I should ever meet him, I would kill him.

  Richard reached for the tomahawk that trembled in her hands. “You give me the hatchet now, and maybe I won’t brand you when I get you back home.”

  “That is not my home,” she said. “It never was. You buy and sell stolen goods.” She took another step forward.

  “Annie.” Richard shook his head. “Do you know what will happen to you if you kill a white man? Anything I would do would be a blessing.”

  In her mind, she was far away, thinking about something that had happened in the future. Something she shouldn’t know about, but she did. The bruise on the side of Richard’s head, after Grandmother’s death. Realization hit her like a hammer. “You did it. Killer!”

  “Stop the foolish hoodoo talk.”

  “You killed Grandmother.” Without waiting for an answer, she swung the tomahawk, catching him in his side. The shock of metal scraping bone jarred her arm all the way to the shoulder.

  Richard screamed—a pure cry of painful agony— and it only spurred her on.

  Let him hurt like she’d been hurt.

  He grabbed the tomahawk with both hands, whether to keep it there or pull it out, she didn’t know.

  She only knew she was going to swing again.

  He’s your demon.

  She twisted the tomahawk as she pulled it out. Metal squeaked against the bone. A trickle of blood ran from the side of his lips, and he coughed, spattering her with droplets.

  Only you can kill him.

  Hesitating for a brief few seconds, she swung the blade into his shoulder, near his neck.

  He fell to the earth, taking the tomahawk with him.

  Annie stepped back and wiped her trembling hands on her skirt. She spit on the man writhing in pain and felt no sympathy, only a sense of triumph.

  His lungs rattled with the blood. “Mattie,” he gasped. “Annie…” He reached for her. “I wanted—what was best for you. Your grandmother—I had to do it.”

  “Damn you to hell,” she whispered, backing away. “Damn you to hell.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Annie opened her eyes and wiped at the dried tears. Muscles creaking with fatigue, she pushed herself up from the thick bedroom rug. Her throat was so dry from thirst that it hurt to swallow. She dragged herself into a semi-upright position using the bed linens and mattress as support.

  Breathing hard, she sat on the edge of the bed and gathered herself. The bedroom itself was different than all the other times she’d returned. The furniture was more modern, and the bedside lamps resembled a style she would have chosen herself.

  Feeling something wet, she put fingers to her face to swipe at what she thought were the remnants of tears. It was only when she glanced down at her fingers that she realized she was wiping away blood.

  Annie stood and turned in an uncertain circle. Where was the bathroom? After scanning the room, she spotted the door on the other side of the room, not next to the bed as she was used to. The bed was on the wrong side of the room.

  Under the soft light of the bathroom, it became clear the blood wasn’t hers. She wasn’t hurt. It was—It’s Richard’s blood.

  She stared at her blood-flecked face. I killed him.

  Flooded with relief, Annie smiled.

  I killed him. He killed Grandmother, and I hope he rots in hell.

  Who’s Richard, Annie?

  I…don’t know.

  She turned on the taps and adjusted the flow until it was warm. Still smiling, she took a dark blue washcloth, soaked it in the water and scrubbed her face until it was shiny-clean. When she was sure there was no more traces of blood, she rinsed the cloth in cold water several times before hanging it in a neat rectangle on the towel bar.

  It’s like Christmas morning.

  Annie closed her eyes to savor the feeling just a bit longer before she turned off the light and left the bedroom.

  At the top of the stairs, she heard voices from the kitchen.

  Hassee!

  She stopped on the first step. Why would her Grandmother’s handyman pop into her mind? She had seen him at the funeral, and that was it. Richard had kept her trapped in the house, isolated until she signed over everything to him.

  Annie placed her foot on the second step.

  Who’s Richard, Annie? The nagging voice wouldn’t go away. It seemed in one moment she knew Richard and in the next, she did not.

  Laughter floated up to her. Who was that?

  Steps two, three, four and five. Six to go.

  The fragrance of coffee, dark and hot, floated up to her.

  Grandmother had a one cup brewer.

  The remainder of the steps flew under her feet. She hurried through the foyer and down the hallway to the kitchen.

  “It’s about time you got up, girl.” At the butcher block kitchen table, Grandmother raised her tea cup to her mouth with a shaking hand. She took a sip and set it down. “You’ve been a lay about lately. Must be the heat. Or this husband of yours is working you out.”

  Heat rose to her face, embarrassment coupled with confusion. This must be a dream, some terrible dream in which she was blessed with seeing her Grandmother alive again. “Grandmother?”

  The old woman raised her eyebrows. “Who did you expect? A haint?”

  Annie took quick steps into the kitchen and embraced the old woman. The dream—for she was convinced it was a dream—got everything right, from the old woman’s lemongrass smell to the bitter black fragrance of her tea. “I love you, Grandmother.” A tear ran down her face.

  “AnnaLise, of course you do.” Lise wiped the tears from her face. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “It does make you sentimental. All the hormones, you know.”

  Annie laughed a little, sadness in her heart. Oh, she was going to enjoy the few minutes of joy this dream brought before she was sent back to harsh reality.

  The back door banged, and a heavy, determined tread clomped through the hallway and into the kitchen.

  “Annie, you’re up.”

  She glanced up from her Grandmother into the espresso colored eyes of Hassee. All the breath left her body, and she fumbled for a chair. “Hassee?”

  Grandmother laughed. “Girl, you don’t know your own husband?”

  Annie looked at her left hand. Instead of the platinum diamond wedding ring set Richard had insisted she wear, there was a plain bronze band. She put her face in her hands and started to cry for real. It was too much—too much to have such happiness a dream, to have it all taken away upon waking.

  “Annie, love, stop.” Hassee hurried to her side and cradled her wet face against his chest.

  Determined to enjoy every fleeting second of the illusion, she threw her arms around his waist and cried a little more. He smelled of the
forest after a rainstorm, where everything was sweetened anew.

  “First trimester,” Grandmother muttered. “Hormones can drive you nuts.”

  “Annie,” Hassee murmured against her hair. He lifted her tear- stained face and bent to kiss her.

  The very moment his lips touched hers, the reality around her shattered. Memories rushed back in urgent waves.

  She was married to Hassee and they lived in her Grandmother’s house on the Cape.

  Her first pregnancy was rough. Hormonal surges and morning sickness made her lightheaded and weepy, but this time her tears were tears of joy. She didn’t need to wake up because this was her new reality. Tightening her grip around her husband’s waist, she cried until Grandmother forced some of her black tea on her, and a worried Hassee made her something to eat.

  An hour later and calmed enough that Hassee could go on a job, she wandered into the parlor.

  Upon her entrance, Grandmother put out her cigar and waved the air around her. “Shouldn’t be smoking these inside, Annie, I know.”

  “It’s all right Grandmother.” She perched on the white silk chaise and gazed up at the painting.

  The scrap of yellow material she’d remembered in some other life no longer hung like a flag of surrender from a charred bush. The buildings still were burned, and if she looked closely, she could make out a black woman standing over a blond man with a tomahawk in his shoulder. The woman’s eyes blazed with triumph as if she were banishing demons from her soul.

  “I’ve always loved this painting,” she said, smiling. “It’s evocative and thrilling.”

  “Me too. White man gets what’s coming to him.” Grandmother clamped the stubbed-out butt of her cigar between her lips. “’Specially that blond devil.”

  AUTHOR BIO

  Dahlia DeWinters is an author, reader and gardener. She loves lipstick and good music. Her superpower is writing happily ever afters for my black grrl heroines. Find her at http://bohowriterchick.com.