The Going Back Portal

by Connie Lacy

  “Why me?”

  “He must know you’re the fake teenage girl who got the goods on him.”

  “Not gonna happen. Besides, I’m positive his attorney told him to keep his mouth shut.”

  “We don’t care what his lawyer told him. And we really need you to come in tomorrow. We’ll do all the prep and follow-up. This would be a real coup.”

  She was right.

  “And,” she continued, “you’ll be interested to know eleven high school girls have now come forward in other cities where he used to work, saying Hobbs suckered them into his bedroom.”

  “Jeez.”

  “And police have intercepted offers from porn websites on his phone. That reporter from The Yellow Journalist is doing a story on that.”

  I closed my eyes, wishing I could avoid all that.

  “Kathryn, I know the timing’s not great, but we’ve got to get that interview with Hobbs. He’ll shop it around to someone else if we don’t play ball.”

  “All right, all right,” I said. “I’ll come in tomorrow. But I refuse to go to his house. If he wants to talk, he has to come to the station.”

  “But, Kathryn…”

  “But nothing. Not going anywhere near that house. Period.”

  There was a long silence before she gave in, saying she’d talk with Hobbs and see if he’d go for it.

  After wrapping up the call, I couldn’t help but wonder why things hadn’t changed more in the nearly two centuries since Amadahy’s time. Why was preying on women still so common? I silenced my phone and turned my attention to Eric again.

  He was one of the good guys. I reminded myself there were a lot of good guys. Even in Amadahy’s time. Isham Barnes. Degataga. Eli Berryman.

  Eric was incredulous I’d agreed to come in to interview Ed Hobbs. He thought Mallory should’ve pushed harder to do it herself.

  “She probably did,” I said. “She likes doing the splashy interviews. I’m sure it’s sticking in her craw. You’ll be interested to know there’s another interview she’s chomping at the bit to do that has me worried.”

  “With who?”

  “She wants to tape an interview with Amadahy and Degataga.”

  “Whoa.”

  “What if she goes over tomorrow morning and picks a fig?” Alarm bells were going off in my head.

  “You think she…”

  “I need to beat her there.” I hopped up, looking for my clothes.

  “It’s pitch black out there.”

  “True,” I conceded. “She would never hike into the woods at midnight. I don’t much like the idea myself.”

  “Tell you what – we’ll get up early, zip over there and pick every last fig before she rolls out of bed. I’ll set my alarm.”

  Which took him about ten seconds to accomplish. Then he lifted the sheet, motioning for me to slide in beside him. We snuggled together in our matching boxers and T-shirts, falling asleep wrapped in each other’s arms.

  27

  Trekking through the woods at first light reminded me of the previous morning when I’d slept under a tree and found my way to the farm. It seemed so much longer than twenty-four hours ago.

  When we arrived in the clearing, we pulled out two trash bags and stripped the giant fig bush of its fruit. There weren’t that many ripe ones since the first crop was fading. We also picked the small green ones, hard as hickory nuts, even though they wouldn’t be edible for a few weeks. I didn’t want to take a chance on Mallory finding even one that might ripen enough to navigate the portal.

  Finally satisfied we’d done a thorough job of it, we washed our hands in the river, the sun’s brilliant morning rays glittering on the water’s surface.

  “Jonah was like a malignancy,” I said.

  “Like the white man was a malignancy for all indigenous nations,” he replied.

  When we reached the cottage, I thought of Nana’s fig preserves. What if there were more jars?

  I used my house key to let us in. We stood inside the front door as I soaked in the colors and odors of the living room. Everything about it made me think of Nana – the aqua and white décor, the scent of cinnamon hanging in the air, the shafts of sunlight giving the room a warm glow.

  The sound of her cheerful, loving voice filled my mind. I pictured her rushing to hug me when I arrived, no matter how recently I’d seen her. She told me she loved me in so many ways. I desperately hoped I’d given her that message often enough.

  Eric placed his hand on my back, as though to remind me I was not alone.

  “What amazes me,” I said, “is that our Cherokee ancestry became invisible so quickly. Why didn’t we know?”

  “You’ve gotta remember, American Indians were classified as colored along with black people. They were persecuted and discriminated against. Considering the realities of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, it makes sense that many of those who lived among white people tried to blend in.”

  “What a travesty.”

  Searching the cabinets, I found two jars of fig preserves labeled in Nana’s neat cursive handwriting.

  “I’m going to hire a man to dig up that bush,” I said.

  “You sure?”

  “The last thing I want is for anyone else to go back to 1840 and throw a monkey wrench into everyone’s lives.”

  I had to go home to see about poor Pixie, hire someone to take care of the fig tree, and drive to the station for the interview Ed Hobbs had reluctantly agreed to do on our turf. Since Eric needed to go to work, we went our separate ways, him in his car, me in mine, after kissing good-bye two times.

  Pixie forgave me once I petted her for a solid hour while calling around to find a handyman for my weird little job along the Broad River. I found a guy who said he could do it on Wednesday.

  ~

  “What makes you think it’s okay to slip a drug into a teenage girl’s drink so she’ll black out while you rape her?”

  That was the first thing out of my mouth sitting across from Ed Hobbs in a small studio at the station. Not exactly what Mallory planned when she emailed me a list of questions. And, although she thought I was being extreme, I insisted on wearing my blonde wig and glasses again, to make it more difficult for that perv to recognize me in the future.

  “Miss Spears,” he replied, “I’ve never raped anyone in my life.”

  “Doctoring a girl’s drink with Rohypnol to incapacitate her before having sex qualifies as rape, Mr. Hobbs. There are now more than thirty girls who’ve given statements to authorities about what you did to them. Prosecutors in Georgia, Alabama, South Carolina and North Carolina are lining up to file charges.”

  “Those girls begged me – begged me – to teach them. I gave them what they wanted.”

  “Do you really believe they wanted to be blackmailed with pornographic videos after you drugged them and molested them?”

  “I don’t solicit business, Miss Spears. They come to me. Obviously, they’re looking for a thrill.” He slouched in his chair, giving me a cocky look.

  Disgust overwhelmed me. He felt no remorse.

  “Does your attorney know you’re talking with us today?” I asked.

  “I’m representing myself.”

  “So your defense is that these girls want you to drug them and rape them?”

  “Like I said, it’s not rape if they come to me and give me their consent. And pay me money!”

  I could see Mallory out of the corner of my eye, shaking her head as she stood beside Brandon who was shooting this disgusting interview with a handheld camera.

  “Would you want your daughter to be treated this way?”

  “I don’t have a daughter.”

  “Your sister?”

  “Don’t have a sister either.”

  “You must have a mother.”

  “Used to, but she’s gone.”

  “If she were still alive, would you want her to be treated like you’ve treated these girls?”

  “No one would want my mother
, Miss Spears.”

  “Do you really not understand that what you’ve been doing is abusing other human beings?” I cried.

  “Miss Spears…”

  “Were you abused as a child? Did your mother or father sexually molest you? Beat you? Neglect you?”

  He gave me a smug look like it pleased him I was upset.

  “Kathryn,” Mallory said.

  “I want to know!” I shouted. “Why in God’s name would a boy grow up to become such a lowlife sicko using his position as a teacher to hurt young women?”

  “God obviously has nothing to do with it,” Mallory said, hurrying to my side and putting her hand on my arm as if to restrain me.

  I yanked my arm free and threw my lavalier mic on the floor, not taking my eyes from Hobbs as I shouted at the top of my lungs.

  “You, sir, are a putrid pustule on the face of humanity! I hope you rot in hell!”

  I stalked from the studio, Mallory trotting after me.

  “Come back, Kathryn! We’ve got more questions.”

  “That guy wants us to help prove he’s crazy, hoping the court will go easy on him,” I said. “He’s not crazy. He’s nasty.”

  “But we need this interview.”

  “I’m done.”

  ~

  When I pulled up in front of my apartment, Eric was leaning on his car waiting.

  “I brought crackers and cheese,” he said, taking my hand. “And a bottle of Merlot.”

  We walked inside and he wrapped me in his arms. I was grateful he showed up without my saying a word. Like he instinctively understood I would need him. His existence gave me hope.

  He poured us both a glass of wine and we sat thigh to thigh on the couch, eating our crackers and cheese, Pixie curled up on the cushion beside me.

  “I finished translating the last pages,” he said. “You want to read them now or would you rather wait?”

  “Now.”

  He opened his laptop, draping his arm around me as we read.

  Amadahy’s Journal – Part 13

  The day after our marriage ceremony, Ginny ran into the house, hands in the air.

  “I found two gold pieces!” she cried, holding one in each hand for us to see. “They was in the barn, up high on a shelf. I had a suspicion he might’ve hid some. Then, lo and behold!”

  Degataga caught my eye and I knew we shared the same fear. It would be dangerous if people knew we had gold. Ginny was disappointed when we said we could not travel into town to buy sugar and cloth for new dresses, but she understood when I explained.

  “There’s one thing I was hoping for,” she said, an aura of sadness surrounding her.

  “What do you hope for?”

  “I know freedom is coming one day, but I was thinking one a them nuggets might buy my freedom so I don’t have to wait till my hair turns grey.”

  “The day Bad Brother died, you became a free woman.”

  “I did?”

  “You are my sister.”

  She threw her arms around my neck and kissed my cheek and ran from the house shouting to the trees “I’m free! I’m free!”

  I sent word with Degataga, asking Mrs. Berryman to return to drink coffee. When she visited, I told her about the gold.

  “I heard that’s why Jonah ran off,” she said. “To pan for gold way out in California.”

  But her eyes told me she knew the truth.

  “We wish to give you one piece of gold,” I said, “if you will buy what we need with the other one.”

  “Goodness sakes. That is most generous of you.”

  I also told her of our wish to make Ginny free. She said her husband would help us with the proper paper.

  And so it was that when Harvest Time Month (October) arrived, Mr. Berryman drove our new wagon into the yard, pulled by two horses that now belonged to us. In the back was a bundle containing two pieces of cloth, one for Ginny and one for me, a diary for me to write in and a large bottle of ink. There was also a plow and two books Mr. Berryman bought for us as I requested. And for Ginny’s happiness, we bought a sugarloaf so she could make her sweet foods.

  When winter arrived, Johnny knocked at our door. He looked the same as he did the day of my hurried wedding to Isham Barnes, when he and the other white men forced my family from our home – dirty straw-colored hair, unshaven face, the same meanness in his watery blue eyes.

  Degataga stood close beside me in the doorway. We did not ask him to warm himself by the fire.

  “Jonah owed me one a them gold nuggets he flashed around at the poker table,” he said. “I come to collect it.”

  “He is gone from this land,” Degataga said, his tone as bitter as the cold wind racing through the trees.

  “Well then, where’s that white woman he promised me?”

  “She returned to her home far away,” I said.

  He looked down his nose at me. “The colonel might be interested to know you’re the little squaw that got away during the round-up.”

  “I am not a squaw,” I replied. “My husband and I own this land.”

  “And you are not welcome here,” Degataga said, resting his hand on his knife as he stepped forward.

  Johnny’s boldness melted like the last snow of spring under a blazing sun. When he rode away, we hoped he would never return.

  The special shoe with the tall heel was ruined by the heat of the fire when the hut burned. Degataga made another one, carving a sole from the branch of an oak tree and attaching it with leather straps and glue to my new boot. It was good that I walked without pain because I was soon with child and Betsey lived up to her name, flitting like a butterfly from tree to tree.

  During the Cold Moon, I began teaching my husband and my sister to read and write. We read from the books Mr. Berryman bought for us – “The Last of the Mohicans” and a book with Ginny’s favorite story, “Rip Van Winkle.”

  ~

  I have not written in my diary for many years. Degataga says now is a good time since our children are grown and have children of their own. I sit at the table by the fire, no longer hiding in my hut to write as I did when I was young. I still use the Cherokee Syllabary, no longer to conceal my words in fear, but because it makes me feel as one with my ancestors.

  For ten years Degataga rode into town to pay our taxes. Then Mr. Berryman warned us that a man would come to find out who lived in our house as Washington City counted all the people of the country. We listened to his plan. And when the stranger came to our door, I told him my name was Amadahy Barnes.

  “And this is your husband?” he said, pointing at Degataga.

  “Yes.”

  “Jonah Barnes was listed on the 1840 Census as head of household,” he said, writing in his book.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  He asked the names and ages of our children. As he departed, I gave him venison and cornbread wrapped in cloth for his journey.

  We judged that using a white name would protect us. Mr. and Mrs. Berryman told the sheriff that it should be so.

  We honored Old Grandmother when we named our firstborn. I asked Mrs. Berryman and she explained that Edie was a small name for Edith. So our daughter’s name is Edith. But we call her by her Cherokee name, Adsila – Blossom.

  Our son is named Isham. His Cherokee name is Dustu – Spring Frog. I believe Good Husband from long ago would be pleased.

  Our last child is named Kathryn after my distant grandchild who lives in a time when there are no slaves. Her Cherokee name is Ahyoka – She Brought Happiness.

  We now have seven grandchildren. They keep their Cherokee names secret, saying it is better outsiders do not know they are Indian.

  Ginny married Degataga’s cousin Gawonii – He Is Speaking – who visited our farm from his home in the mountains. She told me as we sat weaving baskets one day that he had asked her to be his wife.

  “I told him I want to stay here with you,” she said. “Is that all right?”

  “It is the natural way for the Principal People tha
t sisters stay together. And you are my sister. You are a member of my clan.”

  So Gawonii cleared more trees and built a house for them on the other side of the garden. She had two sons and one daughter, who she named Maloree. Her Tsalagi name is Tohi Adedi, which means Freedom. Ginny and Gawonii have six grandchildren.

  After Ginny’s friend from the future spoke of the coming war, Mr. Murray told Degataga many things. His words were true ones. There was much death, hardship and hunger. Degataga learned that Johnny was killed in battle, which did not make me sad. But good men died also, including the Berrymans’ oldest son. I do not wish to write of that time. It is done.

  Degataga and I visit my family burial ground every year when the flowers bloom to honor our ancestors. We chant the old songs taught to us in childhood. We speak of our mothers and grandmothers, our fathers and grandfathers, our sisters and brothers, our aunts and uncles. We placed markers on the graves so our grandchildren and our grandchildren’s grandchildren will know who they come from. So they will not forget Nunahi-Duna-Dlo-Hilu-I – The Trail Where They Cried. So they will not forget the Cherokee Nation’s land was stolen. So they will not forget how they were marched west to the Darkening Land, too many dying along the trail.

  That is why I began writing my diary. I wished my descendants to learn my story. I also hoped the story of the Aniyunwiya would not be forgotten.

  When I called out after Isham died and Bad Brother forced himself into my home, it was my own grandmother I wished for – the powerful Medicine Woman who created the Going Back Portal. But another Old Grandmother came to help me. For that, I will be grateful until I join my ancestors on the other side.

  Now that our hair is grey, Degataga reads my thoughts.

  “You still wait for your Faraway Granddaughter,” he said yesterday as we shelled walnuts Mrs. Berryman brought us.

  “She is also your granddaughter.”

  “But she is of your clan – the Paint Clan, the clan of strong medicine.”

  “I believed she might return one day,” I said. “But she fears traveling through the Going Back Portal will do harm.”

  “She is wise.”

  “When she left that day, I did not say ‘until we meet again.’”