by Connie Lacy
“Don’t be alarmed,” I called out as I stepped through the back door of the cottage. “I’m okay.”
“Kathryn!” Nana cried. “What happened to your face?”
“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” I said, rubbing my sore cheek.
“You look like you’ve just been voted off the tribe on Survivor.” Jeannette shook her head, looking me up and down.
“I took an unexpected swim in the river.”
“I was worried about you,” Nana said. “Afraid that bad man might’ve hurt you.”
“I’m a mess,” I said, “Gotta go home, take a shower, put some anti-biotic cream on my scratches.”
“You need a power wash,” said Jeannette, wrinkling her nose.
“Love you, Nana.” I kissed her cheek, keen to make my getaway.
“I’ll walk you out,” she replied.
She didn’t speak until we were nearly to my car.
“Is she okay?” she whispered.
“Yes,” I lied.
“And the baby?”
“She’s fine too.”
“Thank heavens.”
“Don’t worry.”
“The police should arrest him,” she said. “I cannot abide a man hurting a woman.”
“Me neither, Nana. Me neither.” I sat carefully in the driver’s seat, my aching body complaining with every movement. “I’ll take care of it.”
Waiting till I reached the first stop sign, I texted Eric.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got any more pages translated?”
My phone rang almost instantly.
“I got a few more translated today,” he said. “I was going to email you tonight.”
“I know I’m being pushy. It’s kind of a weird situation.”
“I’ll send you what I’ve got. It’s pretty dramatic stuff. Picks up right where the last pages left off in the fall of 1839.”
“Thank you.”
“You sound exhausted,” he said.
“I’m fine. And thanks again for last night.”
Setting the phone on the seat beside me, I pulled over and waited. I didn’t have to wait long.
Amadahy’s Journal – Part 2 (October 1839)
Pulling his body from the water took all my strength. Once on the riverbank, I searched for a wound, but found none. As weakness spread through my limbs, I wished only to lie upon the ground with my baby in my arms. But I could not.
I saddled the horse and attached the pole sled, then dragged Isham’s body onto the sled, tucking a shovel beside him. With Betsey on my back, I stood on my sitting rock to haul myself onto the horse. I rode slowly all the way to my family burial ground. Isham Barnes was not born a Cherokee, but he was a Good Husband to me and the father of my child. I chose to bury him where I would one day rest beside him.
First, I dug the grave. Then I wrapped him in cloth and lowered his body into the earth facing west toward the Darkening Land. After covering him with dirt, I hauled rocks from the stream that ran alongside the meadow, building a small mound to protect him from animals.
With no Medicine Man or Beloved Woman to perform the death rituals, I sang the song of lamentation, calling out Isham’s name over and over.
Betsey joined me, crying out in sorrow for her dead father. I nursed her and we returned to our empty home. After tending to the horse, I immersed myself seven times in the river, facing east, then west each time, as is the Cherokee custom.
When the sun set behind the trees, I had no strength left to purify the house. Neither did I have the desire to remove the smell of my husband and the objects he used – his razor, his comb, his clothing. My eyes overflowed with tears as I lay on our bed with only Little Butterfly beside me. My husband was dead. My mother and my family were far away. I prayed to the Great Spirit that my family would return. I called out to Selu, the Corn Mother, for strong medicine to help me.
When I awoke the next morning, Jonah stood in the center of the room watching me. He walked to the table, looking for food.
“Where’s my brother?” he said, eyeing the empty fry pan.
My voice remained silent.
“I didn’t see him in the barn or by the river,” he said. “He gone into town?”
I scooped Betsey into my arms and crossed to the hearth, laying her on a quilt. Adding a new log to the embers, I used the poker to build a new fire with dried bark.
“Gone hunting?” he said.
I shook my head.
“Where is he, woman?”
My eyes met his and I knew the truth. Bad Brother killed Good Brother, like the story the Missionaries told from the white man’s Bible.
“I do not know,” I said, unwrapping day-old bread and setting it on the table.
I carried my little daughter to the riverbank, nursing her there, waiting until Jonah ate before returning to the house. Later, I told him I could run the farm alone until Isham returned. But he would not leave, demanding food every day, watching me work the field and the garden, watching me haul water.
After three moons, he rode into town, returning with a piece of paper.
“Since Isham ain’t coming back, the judge done ruled that he’s dead.” He flashed the paper at me.
“He will return.” I lowered my eyes so he could not look into them.
“He ain’t coming back and you know it.”
I kissed my baby’s soft head.
“I did this for your sake,” Bad Brother said. “Cause if you ain’t married to a white man, they’ll send you out yonder where all the Injuns live now. Ain’t exactly a good place, from all I hear. And I happen to know a feller name Johnny who told me you was s’posed to go with your family when they rounded ‘em up, but you snuck off in the middle of the night. I’m making you a damn good offer. We get hitched and you don’t have to march way out to the Oklahoma Territory with that bum leg of yours. Pretty sure you’d never make it.”
Betsey held tight to my fingers.
“Not many men want a woman looks like you,” he said. “But I don’t mind much. Your face is pretty enough. And you got a fine body, ‘cept for that leg. You tend the field and garden, do the cooking and birth me some sons, we’ll do all right. That way, I don’t have to tell the sheriff you’re living here against the law.”
I held my head high but did not speak.
“Isham was my brother. He married a squaw who ain’t legally got a right to this here land. So it’s mine now.”
The next day, we rode into town on Isham’s horse with Betsey strapped to my back. It was a bitter cold winter day and wind whipped my face. After the small-eyed judge spoke the words of marriage, I watched Jonah make his mark on the paper. Then I took the quill pen, dipped it in ink and signed the paper with the Cherokee Syllabary. Instead of signing Amadahy – Forest Water – I signed Immokalee – Tumbling Water. Thus, I did not marry him since I did not sign my true name.
In bed that night, Jonah was rough and uncaring. He did not shave his beard nor wash his unclean body. He would not let me answer Betsey’s cries from her basket on the floor. From that night, she was not allowed to sleep with me.
When he left the house the next morning, I cleaned myself before removing all his belongings and setting them in a pile outside the front door. It is the Cherokee custom when a woman divorces her husband.
I now had only Little Butterfly to warm my soul. Sadness filled my spirit that Kamama would not remember her father’s tender love. That she would only remember the evil man who stole his place in our home. Bad Brother destroyed the harmony and balance in our lives, taking his own brother’s life, forcing me to serve his needs, shouting at my daughter and making her cry. I tried to teach her to ignore his cruel voice, telling her I would soon return to hold her close.
This is when I began to write in the diary Isham gave me, saying he believed I would have much to say. I hide it in the strong box he buried inside the menstrual hut.
7
While carefully applying makeup before work the next morning, I
decided to talk with the psychologist I interviewed for our report on the high school teacher. Dr. Vargas knew his stuff.
I sent a tactfully worded email, asking him if he could spare me a few minutes by phone to discuss a friend of mine in an abusive relationship. We’d given him some valuable free PR on our primetime newscasts. Hopefully, he’d be okay doling out a little pro bono advice. I wouldn’t mention any names. Or that I was referring to a woman who lived nearly two centuries ago.
Coffee in hand, I strode into the newsroom, bracing myself for Mallory’s needling. People were already staring at me. She must’ve blabbed about my date Saturday night as soon as she walked in the door.
When I reached our office, I found her sipping her daily cappuccino, engrossed in a video report on her laptop.
“You’ve got to see this,” she mumbled, eyes trained on the monitor.
“See what?”
Looking up, she narrowed her eyes like I was an interloper into the rarified domain of the investigative news team.
“God, not you too!” She cried.
“What?”
“That slap mark on your face.”
“I don’t have a slap mark on my face.”
“Jesus, Kathryn! I know a slap mark when I see one. You’ve also got a bruise on your arm.”
I twisted around to view my reflection in her private mirror. In my bathroom at home, three coats of Erase, a layer of foundation and face powder seemed to have done the trick. Not under the intense newsroom lights.
“Not a slap mark, Mallory. I hiked down to the river behind my grandmother’s house yesterday and had a run-in with a tree. As for the bruise on my arm, I’ve probably got several other bruises – and scratches too – because I fell into the water and went for an unexpected body surfing expedition.”
She rose from her chair and stood close in front of me, inspecting my face.
“Remember last year when I interviewed that county commissioner’s wife who accused him of hitting her?” she said.
She was way too close, so I scooted over to my desk to put some distance between us.
“Her face looked a lot like yours,” she continued. “Anyone can see that’s a handprint.”
“It’s not a handprint! I’m not even in a relationship with a man.”
“Oh, right! That fine college professor I met Saturday night appeared to be a man.”
“Eric?”
“Very much a man.”
“Well, I’m not in a relationship with him.”
“I saw the way he looked at you,” she said, giving me googly eyes.
“Please!”
“Bottom line – Saturday evening your face was normal, now it’s not. Don’t forget I’ve been through this with my sister. I can spot domestic abuse a mile away.”
“I appreciate your concern, but the fact is, I managed to do this all by myself yesterday impersonating a klutz!”
That’s when my phone rang. It was Dr. Vargas. I said hello as I made my escape to the hallway.
I’ve always hated lying. Unless it’s a little white lie to avoid hurting someone’s feelings. Like when Nana bakes me brownies and I don’t want them in my apartment because they’re a huge temptation. I ooh and ahh, give her a thank-you hug, then deliver them to the break room at work. Okay, I eat one, then take them to work. Or when it’s something as important as saving Amadahy from a certain Stone Age tyrant. I was making it up as I went along with Dr. Vargas.
“Yes, I told her she should leave him, but she says she can’t do that. I think it’s the financial side of it. She doesn’t want to give up the property and she doesn’t have any money. Plus, she’s got a baby to take care of and no family to lean on. Are there techniques, you know, for re-education?”
“Ms. Spears, I wish I could tell you there’s a quick fix – medication that could be administered, a class the abuser could take. But you’re talking about having to psychoanalyze each man, find out what kind of upbringing he had, what kind of influences he had, what kind of abuse he, himself, might have suffered, whether his father or some other adult in his life abused women, thus setting an example. The list goes on and on. As much as I’d like to give you a twelve-step program to rehabilitate this guy, it’s challenging even when a professional works with someone like him. Can you convince him to see a counselor? If not myself, then someone else who specializes in treating abusers? I could give you a list of practitioners. There are support groups too. For him, and for her.”
“I…”
“Tell you what – I can email you some resources for your friend.”
And that’s how we left it. With me feeling like a totally inept dumwad.
~
It was after ten and I was in my pajamas when the doorbell rang. I couldn’t imagine who might be at my door this time of night. Putting my robe and slippers on, I looked through the peephole and was baffled when I saw two police officers standing on my front porch – a man and a woman.
“Is something wrong?” I said, as soon as I opened the door, thinking there might be some kind of emergency in my apartment complex.
“Kathryn Spears?” the woman officer said.
“Yes?”
“I’m Officer Rimes,” she said, “and this is Officer Williams. May we come in for a moment?”
“What’s this about?”
“We’re just checking up on you. We got a report that your boyfriend may have hit you.”
My mouth fell open.
“I think you must have the wrong apartment,” I said. “First, I don’t have a boyfriend. And, second, as you can see, nobody has beaten me up.”
“May we step inside for a moment?” she repeated.
I moved out of the way and reluctantly ushered them into the living room. They didn’t bother to hide their interest in my cheek, now devoid of makeup and obviously bruised. So I gave them my spiel.
“I went hiking yesterday and stumbled into a tree. Which made me lose my balance and fall into the river. The current was strong and I ended up taking a very uncomfortable swim before finally making my way back to the riverbank. No one hit me.”
I wasn’t about to admit what really happened. If anyone went looking for Jonah Barnes, they’d think I was lying since nobody lived on that plot of land anymore. I guess I could’ve claimed some hiker or vagrant hit me, but they’d want a description and there was the possibility some poor man might actually be arrested. Jeez!
The self-assured Officer Rimes did the talking while Officer Williams, a stocky guy with a tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve, took notes.
“Ms. Spears,” she began.
“Who called the police, I’d like to know,” I butted in. “If it was my co-worker, I’m gonna be pissed. She knows good and well I would never in a million years tolerate any kind of violence.”
“She was worried about you,” she said, her voice filled with concern. “She said she called a psychologist you interviewed for a report your station did recently and he said he talked with you about a friend being abused.”
I could feel the heat rising in my face.
“That’s a very common ploy by women,” Officer Rimes continued. “Appealing for help by describing her own abuse like it’s a friend she’s talking about.”
“You know what? I was talking about a friend. A friend I’m very worried about. And, by the way, I thought psychologists and psychiatrists and doctors were supposed to have rules about privacy. You know, patient confidentiality?”
“Are you a patient?”
I grunted under my breath in frustration.
“No offense, but are we through?” I said, trying my best to maintain a modicum of civility with these poor officers who were only doing their jobs.
“No, actually,” she replied. “Dr. Eric Murray is currently being interviewed by Athens police about what may have transpired over the weekend to leave you with a bruised face.”
“He’s being interviewed?” My voice was shrill.
“As we speak. Now,
the question is – and consider carefully before you answer – do you want to press charges?”
“As a matter of fact, I do want to press charges! I want to press charges against the tree that I ran into and I want to press charges against the Broad River, specifically the section in Madison County behind my grandmother’s cottage, for causing all these bruises and scratches all over my body!”
I yanked my front door open and gestured with a flourish for them to leave.
“Thank you for checking on me,” I said.
Officer Rimes handed me her card on their way out.
“In case you change your mind,” she said.
They headed for their cruiser, which was parked right in front of my apartment so everyone would know who they came to see.
Mallory was going to get it. She was going to get it so bad. I had half a mind to drive over to her expensive Ansley Park home and let her have it with both barrels. I was steaming!
But then I thought of Eric. What must he think of me? He’s the one I needed to focus on. To apologize for my stupid, buttinsky reporter friend!
I found my phone, clicked on Eric’s number and listened as it rang and rang, then rolled over to voice mail. I hung up. He was probably still being grilled by the cops.
“Dammit!” I screamed.
Besides being understandably upset, he was probably also deciding at this very moment to stop translating the diary, figuring I was a bona fide kook.
What if I drove over to his place? He lived somewhere in Athens. Sitting on my bed, I used my laptop to search for his address. Only took a couple of minutes.
An hour later, I rang his doorbell, looking down at myself in alarm. I was still in my PJs, robe and yellow bunny slippers. I could only imagine what his neighbors would think.
No answer. I rang again. Still, no answer.
Had they hauled him down to the police station? Was he sitting in a little room, a bright light hanging from the ceiling as a tough investigator interrogated him? I rang again, then knocked on his door.
A moment later, I walked back down the steps, considering whether to drive to the police station. The door opened behind me. Turning around, the first thing I noticed was the frown on Eric’s face. The second thing I noticed was his bare feet, pajama shorts and white wife-beater T-shirt. Naturally.
