by Barbara Best
“Mornin’, Mistah McKenzie,” Lacy says cheerfully. “Come on in an’ have a seat.” She waves a spatula like an orchestra conductor’s wand toward a center island where several wooden stools are lined up evenly in a row.
“I’ll stand, if you don’t mind.” Bryce had just come from a small library, slash computer room that had a lumpy sofa on which he tossed and turned all night. He twists his back, trying to flex muscles that were cooped up in a cramped space. He would bite his tongue before complaining, though. It was a hell of a lot easier than the nights he passed sleeping on the ground, rolled up in his bearskin, surrounded by annoying insects and prowling nocturnal animals.
“Man, somethin’ smells mighty good,” he offers brightly. The crackle of bacon and smoky aroma in the kitchen makes Bryce’s mouth water and his stomach gurgle.
“Breakfast will be ready in a jiffy.” Lacy turns her attention back to the range and a large pot of slow bubbling grits. She opens a container, deposits a hefty scoop of butter into a frying pan, then turns to the kitchen island and commences cracking eggs from a carton into an orange bowl.
“Biscuits be ’bout done,” she announces, checking the digital timer on the oven.
Bryce stares at the quaint setting as if it is his first time to witness such a thing. The abundance of food, the cleanliness in its preparation, the expediency in which it is being served up. How could he forget?
“I heard you coughin’ last night.” Lacy says, without looking up.
“God, really? I didn’t mean to wake anyone.” Bryce immediately feels his throat constrict. His coughing can be triggered by the slightest mental suggestion and lead his thoughts to a parasite worming its way into his liver to reproduce. It is enough to make him vomit, yet another symptom of the disease.
“I heard you too.” Kat saunters into the room. She is dressed in blue jeans and a loose fitting blouse with a strawberry print. The sleeves are rolled up to her elbows and seams are creased as if an iron had been applied to them.
“Morning, y’all,” she greets with a sunny smile.
Bryce whirls round, “Mornin’.”
Wyatt follows on the heels of his mother, rattling a cardboard box of Legos.
“Hey, whatcha got there, Wyatt?” Bryce asks.
Wyatt halts and shoots a glance at his mother.
“It’s okay, sweetie.”
“Legos.” Wyatt proudly holds up his box with a colorful image of a pirate ship. In his other hand, he is clutching a sheet of paper with a diagram for its assembly. “MiMi bought this for me.”
“Pretty cool. I used to play with Legos for hours when I was a kid.”
The boy grins at this and turns to his mother. “Combien de temps avant que nous mangions?”
“Go ahead and play, Wyatt, you have time. We’ll call you when breakfast is ready. Will you have coffee, Mr. McKenzie?”
“He speaks fluent French?” Bryce is honestly surprised. He frowns when he catches Lacy’s chuckle as she crosses to the fridge. Their exchange is temporarily interrupted by an obnoxious crash of hundreds of tiny pieces of plastic on a glass surface in the other room.
“Bien sûr nous faisons. Nous parlons tous le français,” Kat says. “Vous parlez français, oui?” She props one hand on her hip and arches an eyebrow to punctuate her question.
“Wow, that’s pretty darn impressive.”
When Miz Logan cocks her head, Bryce adds, “What, me? Parlez vous français? No,” he laughs. “Heck no, not a bit.”
“Really. How did you manage that?”
Bryce is puzzled by the question. “I took a year of French in high school,” he lamely offers.
Kat’s attention moves on, “Looks like they fit you. And, you made good use of the razor.”
Bryce runs his hand along his jaw and chin where his beard used to be. “The shower was fantastic,” he smiles, thinking they have no idea how fantastic it really was. “I appreciate the loaner.”
He tugs at the blue and white striped sports shirt and looks down at the jeans Lacy laid out for him. Bryce had rolled up his old clothes with Jane’s small frame still in the pocket of his trousers and stuffed them into a plastic bag Lacy provided. The past is the past, over and done. He is inclined to toss everything in the trash the first chance he gets.
“Wyatt’s father is slimmer than a fishing pole,” Kat says with a chuckle. “How did you get so tan?” There is no excuse for overexposure to the sun’s rays when there are so many products on the market. A dark tan is considered excessive, and even reckless.
“I guess it is part of being a reenactor.” Kat cuts around Lacy to a cabinet, pulls out two bulky mugs and opens a drawer for a spoon. “Anyhow, I was wondering what I’d do with the ex’s stuff and was about ready to give it all to charity. I’m glad the clothes came in handy after all.”
“Thanks again.” Bryce wonders what ‘the ex’ looks like. He has never thought of himself as slim. But then, months of untold hardships and a poor diet can knock the pounds off. Bryce grips his cup’s handle in anticipation.
“Tell me when, sir,” Kat says pleasantly, and tips the coffee pot over Mr. McKenzie’s cup.
“When. Mmm, I can’t tell you how good that smells.”
The heavenly brew evaporates into a swirling vapor and Bryce stops to take it in. Something so simple is so different from the thick concoctions they called coffee in the 19th Century. Ground coffee beans, when they could scrounge some, and Lord knows what other substitutes were heated to a consistency of mud over a flame in a flaking, lead-based kettle, caked with soot. It was the main staple of Civil War troops, mentioned in diaries more often than rifles, cannons and bullets. They made their coffee any time, anywhere and by any means because no man could soldier without it.
“Do you take sugar? Or, cream?”
“No thanks, black is fine. This is great. Perfect, in fact.” Bryce surveys the kitchen again in a moment of contentment and breathes in the bold, yet inviting aroma that awakens his taste buds. He takes a sip, enjoying the warmth going down.
“So, what is the coughing about?” Kat asks.
“It’s not contagious,” Bryce reassures, knowing he is skirting the question.
“Well, that’s good.” Kat tilts her head. “I wouldn’t want to bring the plague into my house.”
Bryce should probably laugh at this and say it is only an allergy of some kind, but decides not to compound his growing stack of lies. “I’m sorry if I kept you awake.”
Kat comes back with a bottle of vanilla creamer. “Is there anything I can do to help you, Lacy?”
“No ma’am, I’m jus’ about done here.”
“Your coughing?” Kat continues her conversation with Mr. McKenzie. “It didn’t bother me at all. Wyatt’s father snores like an outboard motor. I got used to it. Not much wakes me once I’m out.”
“Wish I could say the same. I tend to sleep with one eye open.” Bryce cannot remember when he has had a good, peaceful rest. In his other life, sleeping was likened to a series of catnaps with him ready to spring into action, rifle drawn, at the slightest rustle. The spells of coughing and chills only added to his discomfort.
“Are you sick, Mr. McKenzie?”
Bryce straightens. “Do I look like I’m sick?” he asks in a sharp voice he would like to take back.
“You’re the doctor or should I say, doctor-to-be,” Kat counters evenly. Her spoon makes a tinkling sound as she stirs in half a spoonful of sugar. Testing her coffee, she peers over the rim, cradling her favorite cup in her hands. “Just an observation. You would know if you are sick, of course.” Kat wants to add that Mr. McKenzie’s eyes are glazed like Wyatt’s when he runs a low fever.
Lacy speaks up, “Miz Kat has a family of doctors and nurses.”
“Is that so?” Bryce takes another draw on his coffee and swallows. “Then you probably know about malaria.” There’s no point in mincing words. If he is thrown out on his ear, then so be it. This is only a temporary break from his cold reality
, anyway.
“Malaria,” both women retort in unison.
“You are kidding, right?” Kat’s eyes dart to the sound of her son playing with his Legos in the other room.
“Well,” Bryce’s muscles tense. He thinks he has not only made an unnecessary blunder, but is also confused by the reaction. He shrugs and tries a smile. “Whatever I have, it’s more of a nuisance than anything else.”
“Who has malaria these days?” Kat asks in amazement, not letting it drop. “Malaria was wiped out years ago.”
“Maybe it’s eradicated here in the states, but in other countries—”
“No. Cured everywhere, all over the globe, sir. It’s non-existent, last I heard.”
“Are you serious?” Bryce frowns.
“I couldn’t be more.” Kat’s face forms a mask of skepticism. “Where did you say you were from, Mr. McKenzie?”
“You remember. Medical school in Athens. I attend class and work at the hospital there, at St. Mary’s. Have you heard of it?”
“Perhaps,” Kat says. She pushes the napkin holder, neatly filled with squares of white absorbent paper, to the center of the counter. Lacy begins to set out their plates and utensils.
“Come on, it’s just a dumb thought on my part,” Bryce continues. “Reenactors are normally out in the elements and those damp old forts have their share of biting mosquitoes.” Bryce scratches one arm in response and hopes he can smooth things over.
“You doctors should know better than to self-diagnose, especially with something as crazy as malaria. Why, I am on the verge of calling the public health department,” Kat chuckles.
“Whoa now, don’t go that far. You’re right, I should know better. I thought I read they found evidence of the disease in some third-world country,” Bryce slyly proceeds.
Kat shakes her head decidedly, no. “Your material must have been outdated or fake. Mosquito-borne diseases are a thing of the past. You know, yellow fever, encephalitis, zika . . . even heartworms in dogs. With genetic modification the pesky insects no longer pose a threat. Although you are right, they can still bite like the dickens.”
“Breakfast, Miz Kat,” Lacy cuts in.
Kat is not distracted, “If your cough is bothering you, I am sure my mother has something in her medicine cabinet to tide you over. At least, until you can get to your own clinic. She is a regular Phoebe Pember when it comes to distressed souls. Stray animals included.”
“Yeah, the mom that throws hissy fits,” Bryce smirks. He wants to ask, who the hell is Phoebe Pember? But instead, “That’s nice of you to offer, Miz Logan, but I should probably be on my way, anyhow.”
Bryce has no idea what he will do next. Should he head to Vidalia and search for his family, or should he make his way to Athens to see if he can piece his life back together? His most immediate problem is the fact he has no money and no credit card. Does he even have a bank account? What about everything he has worked for? His mounting trepidation makes him impatient to be off. He has to begin somewhere and the sooner the better.
Kat senses an easy letdown and instantly feels disappointed. You’re being ridiculous, she tells herself. “What’s the rush?” she asks. “I would love to show you Sea Oaks. You wanted to see it, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“Help ya’self now,” Lacy says. “We eat buffet style in this house. Sit right down here at this counter. There’s plenty. I’ll go get Mastah Wyatt, Miz Kat. He’ll need washin’ up before he eats.”
Bryce flinches at Lacy’s use of the word, master. Things are definitely different. He is dying to know what else has changed. Jane had done the right thing by giving up her key to him. With a breakthrough in insect-transmitted diseases, fingers crossed, there is a cure for his miserable ailment to go with it.
“Have a seat, Mr. McKenzie.” Kat pulls a stool to the opposite side of the island and takes a plate with her to the stove to spoon small portions for her son. “Well, what about my offer?” She shoots a glance over her shoulder.
It is a surprise to Bryce that Miz Logan is still set on a trip to Sea Oaks.
“Well, if you are sure you want my company. I’ll need some cash, though. There’s usually a charge to get inside a place like that and I’d like to help with gas. Maybe I can have it wired from my bank. Is there a place in town?”
“Of course,” Kat’s spirits rise. “But sir, I insist you go as my guest. I have full access to Sea Oaks. If we don’t want to get my mother in an uproar, Uncle Hal lives right next door to her. He has a practice in his home. You know, small-town doctors, they are the best. He is also good at keeping secrets,” she says with a wink in Bryce’s direction. “We should probably stop there first.”
“Sounds like you have my day planned for me.”
Bryce seasons his food with salt and pepper, stabs his four-pronged fork into a hot, fluffy omelet, and scoops a small bit of grits. Before shoveling it into his mouth, he takes a bite of bacon.
“Oh my God, this is good,” Bryce chews, trying to remember his manners and savoring the taste. He wipes the corners of his mouth with his napkin and glances at Lacy who has settled Wyatt next to her and is scrutinizing his every move.
“Thanks, ma’am. Best breakfast I’ve had in a good while,” he nods sincerely at Lacy, and turns to Miz Logan. “I really would like to check out that plantation. It looks like I’ve stumbled upon the perfect guide. And, without a doubt, the most perfect Southern hospitality.”
“Deal,” Kat grins happily, choosing to ignore Lacy’s icy glare.
Chapter 11
BRUTAL CONSEQUENCES
“Your uncle’s a nice guy, Miz Logan,” Bryce says, attempting to break the stony silence. He knows he hasn’t said two words since they dropped Wyatt off at school. His mind has been held captive by a mounting set of problems. Fortunately, getting help for his medical condition is not one of them.
The folksy country doctor with a pocket-full of corny jokes and cozy home practice was as astonished as his niece when Bryce suggested malaria. Of course, right off the bat Miz Logan chirped, Mr. McKenzie is a med student, which brought on the typical myriad of questions.
After his examination, the man with tremulous thumbs and a ruddy nose refused to concur with Bryce’s self-diagnosis. A firm, “Impossible,” followed by a non-committal, “We’ll see,” was the best the doctor would do.
Harold McIntosh, MD, the name and acronym embroidered on the pocket of his crisp white coat, is a jovial, down-to-earth kind of guy in spite of his general appearance of hard living. Bryce would guess somewhere in the man’s past is a good bit of scotch whiskey. Judging his moral fiber, though, he is ninety-nine percent sure ol’ Uncle Hal can keep a physician-patient confidence without a problem. He does not seem the type to alert the center of disease control or run his mouth to authorities at the public health department.
Kat takes an exit off a main highway onto the two-lane road that leads to Sea Oaks Plantation.
“Uncle Hal is a gentle soul,” she sighs, seeing a different side of her father’s brother than most people. Kat adds, “He seems more eccentric since Papa died. They were pretty close.”
“Sorry to hear about your father.”
“Yes, Wyatt was only two and doesn’t remember him,” Kat reflects, thinking what is it with men in her life?
“Hey,” she perks up, brushing off her sadness. “I am glad you are talking again.” She glances sideways at her passenger. “You will know where you stand when Uncle expedites that blood work. Until then, you have something to ease your symptoms.”
“It was generous of him to provide a service without compensation. He doesn’t know me from Adam.”
“But he knows me. Beside, healthcare is free, silly. Government financed.” Kat’s mouth twitches at getting mixed signals. The man does not know the simplest of things, yet he has a rich Georgia accent and is knowledgeable about the region. Out of curiosity, she had checked the call log on her phone. The numbers Mr. McKenzie dialed were all Georgi
a area codes. She is also convinced he is studying medicine and works in the field. He intelligently conversed with Uncle Hal on a number of related topics that impressed them both.
“Oh, yeah. Free,” Bryce rasps through gritted teeth. He is getting tired of the head games and maneuvering between bumbling idiot and plain stupid. There appears to be a mounting list of unfamiliars in this time. The thought of hanging around for the weekend puts him on edge.
Miz Logan had agreed to take Bryce into town to get cash, but he has only just discovered there’s no need. Frustration churns beneath an exterior of pleasantries. Deep down, he harbors resentment and feels like punching the daylights out of something.
It seems he has no account at the bank in Athens and no job at the hospital. The admin faculty at school said there is no record of him. In other words, he’s erased.
Calls he made on Miz Logan’s phone, while she packed for a weekend stay at the plantation, had proved a disastrous consequence. He must face the staggering fact he is an intruder in this time. The key riding against his ankle has landed him in a dead zone. Whatever dimension this may be, the cruel actions of Sophie and Ben Downing and his own inexcusable meddling in history have totally derailed his life.
As the suburban reaches cruising speed again, Bryce squirms to get comfortable. He has always liked the stomach-in-the-throat thrill of rapid acceleration. But now, his boot is stomping the floorboard like the imaginary brake of a backseat driver. Stationary objects zooming by at a dizzying rate and a kink in his depth perception have thrown his equilibrium off. It is so different from the slower pace he adapted to. He leans over just enough to check the speedometer — fifty-five miles per hour.
Watching the blur of scenery outside his window, he tries for a more neutral topic. “Fall is finally here, I think,” Bryce casually regards. He moves slightly in his seat to appear attentive.
Evidently, his new friend has the gift of gab and he is more than happy to let her talk. While Miz Logan launches into stories about her favorite fall festivals and how she loves her son’s school holiday programs this time of year, he takes note of the changing seasons.
