Tea and Tomahawks (3 page)

If she could make it through the night, then he would leave her with her grandmother and she would be free for a few days. Keeping that thought in mind, she managed not to flinch when he reached for her.

Richard pawed at her nightgown, pulling up the white cotton lawn to expose her nakedness to the cool sheets. After a few perfunctory kisses, he pushed himself inside her and moved until he had reached his satisfaction.

When he withdrew, she whispered flirtatious words and kissed his sweaty cheek before she hurried to the bathroom to clean herself. By the time she slid back into bed, he was asleep.

CHAPTER FOUR

A
nnie stared at the ceiling, listening to the abrasive snores of her husband. Gripping the edge of the sheet with sweaty palms, she pressed her eyes closed, hoping sleep would come. The rawness between her legs kept her awake, fueling the overwhelming anger she harbored against her husband. She was her bravest when he was asleep, when she watched the pulse beat in the vulnerable hollow of his neck. It was her most devious time, when she plotted to escape this miserable life.

She’d done it once, getting all the way to a hotel in Akron, Ohio. Paying cash for a train ticket from Trenton and staying in an anonymous hotel at her destination hadn’t been enough. He’d been there before dawn on her second day there. The greedy hotel owner had been swayed by a sob story and a couple of hundred dollars.

The sound of the opening door had made her open her sleepy eyes in confusion and the tinkle of the cut chain dropping against the door jamb made them fly open in fear. At first, she had thought she was about to be the victim of some robbery or rape, but it had been much worse.

When he’d gotten her home, he beat her so badly with his belt that she had to sleep on her stomach for three days. She’d pleaded sick to her volunteer obligations and her crochet circle. She had to. She wouldn’t have been able to sit down for more than five minutes at a time.

“You belong to me,” he’d told her, his face distorted with the effort of swinging his belt. “You belong to me.”

Pushing the bleak memories out of her mind, Annie chased the blessed blankness of sleep. But it was just too hot. Grandmother didn’t have central air and despite the storm raging outside, the house hadn’t cooled down a bit. The ceiling fan was moving around stale, sun-heated air leftover from the afternoon. Giving up on sleep, Annie got up and padded downstairs to the parlor, where it was cooler. A lamp was burning in the parlor. She found a comfortable position on the luxurious ivory silk chaise and gazed up at the painting over the mantel.

Annie smiled. It must drive Richard nuts, to see the whites being killed by darker-skinned people. God knows he thought he was the gift to all mankind, master of the universe, and all that came with it. To have such weakness portrayed so accurately must cause him serious grief. Given what she had read about the Seminole Wars, the Creek, and Muscogee Indians had been no one to trifle with.

Fanning herself, she lay back and closed her eyes. She would relax here until she got cool enough to sleep.

A crackling sound and the smell of something burning woke her from an unexpected sleep. Somehow, she was on her stomach, but when tried to get up, she knocked her head against something solid. Had she rolled under the chaise? Was the house burning? Had the lights gone out? A wave of hot air hit her face and instinct took over. Since she couldn’t stand up, she scurried backward away from the heat and nose-prickling smoke.

To her surprise, panicky screams mingled with high-pitched whoops in the soot-tinged air. There was gunfire—sharp cracking sounds—that made her jump. She stood up and looked around, realizing she was outside. How could this be? What was going on? Bodies pushed past, spinning her in a confused circle. Which way should she run? Above all, where was she?

Instead of her cotton nightgown, she wore a threadbare long skirt and top. She was barefoot. The high-pitched cries hurt her ears, and the smoke made her cough. Annie turned in a slow circle, trying to get her bearings. Several buildings, which she recognized as barns and a shed were on fire. The yellow-orange flames devoured the dry wood of the old structures. Shadows danced in the firelight, capering dark forms that darted here and there like ghostly shadows.

She must be dreaming.

“Run, girl, run!” A male voice urged her on. “Massa gon’ beat the bodies staying behind. Best get yo’self out of here.”

“What’s going on?” she asked, but the man was gone even before she pushed the words out. Running seemed like the best option. She picked up her skirts and ran in the general direction everyone else was fleeing. Smoke burned her lungs, and the harsh grass scraped her bare feet. The high-pitched whoops wouldn’t stop, seeming to gather strength from the increased screams.

With the glow of the fires at her back, she ran until the soil was cool under her feet. Though she had no idea where she was going, she pressed on through the slapping branches. Drawn by the sweat and heat of her body, mosquitoes stung her through her clothes. Still, she kept stumbling ahead, using the harsh physical task to quiet the questions running through her brain.

It was so dark. The brush snagged her clothes, impeding her frantic escape. The screams and whoops were quieter, which gave her some solace. Was she even going in the right direction? What was the right direction? Where the hell was she?

It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream.

Sobs of despair seized her chest. This was too real to be a dream. Shoulders heaving, she stopped in a clearing and looked around for anything that would help her navigate this bizarre situation. Only the dense, leafy foliage met her gaze. Annie sank to her knees and leaned against a tree for a moment, then pushed herself up. If she stayed there, they would surely catch her.

Who’s they, Annie?

I don’t know.

Annie didn’t know how much farther she had traveled when she sank to her knees for a second time. It was too much. She couldn’t go on. Her shoulders slumped with exhaustion. For all she knew, she was running right back the way she came.

“Where am I? What is happening?” she whispered aloud, desperate for answers. Sobbing with fear and exhaustion, she crawled forward through the sticky mud, tears streaming down her face. Reaching out, she grasped at a tree to make another effort to keep moving.

A pair of strong arms grabbed her and scooped her up.

Even in her exhausted, confused state, she fought against this new, unknown quantity, her breathless screams feeble in the dark. She was lightheaded from fear and terror sapped her strength. What more could happen to her now?

“
Hi-wah
.” The voice was a harsh whisper in her ear that both calmed and thrilled her. “Be still. Do not fight me. I am here to help.”

“Yes.” Annie closed her eyes, too tired to protest. She couldn’t see the man’s face; only feel the heat and sweat of his body. He smelled like the woods, earthy and fragrant.

She must have fainted because the next thing she knew she was lying on a soft pallet. A young, brown-skinned girl with beautiful, long eyelashes bathed her forehead with a cool, wet cloth. Around her, people spoke in low voices and the flickering fires illuminated the night. Annie drew her tongue across her parched lips.

“What is this place?” She reached out for the girl and touched her dress. The material was colorful, but rough beneath her fingers. Her voice scratched her raw throat, and she attempted to gather saliva in her mouth. “Please, where am I?”

The girl patted the back of her hand and said something Annie didn’t understand. Then, she got up and approached a taller figure.

Frightened something was going to happen to her, Annie struggled to get to her feet, but she was too weak and fell back to the pallet gasping for breath. The familiar fragrance of her rescuer preceded him and he leaned over her, his face in shadow. Annie shrank back against her covers, frightened of his overwhelming masculine presence.

“You are awake.” His voice was that of a man who was used to being obeyed. “Here. Something to drink.” The cup he held gave off a warm, soothing odor.

Annie tried to sit up.

The man slid a strong arm around her shoulders and eased her to a half-sitting position. Her rescuer held the cup of warm liquid to her lips.

The first swallow was bitter, and she tried to push it away.

But he was insistent. “You must drink. It will help.” He urged the cup against her lips.

Annie drank again. The drink wasn’t as bitter this time, and the earthy aftertaste reminded her of something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

“What is your name,
hi-wah
?”

“Matilda,” she whispered.
No…my name is Annie.
She tried again. “My name is—Matilda, Mattie. Where am I?” she whispered.

“
Hi-wah.”
He stroked her hair. “You are safe. And free.”

Free?

CHAPTER FIVE

A
nnie sat straight up in bed, gasping for air. For a moment, she was in between the waking and dream world, still imagining herself in the humid, hot environment of wherever her nightmarish dream had taken her. She turned her head from side to side, grateful to see the familiar walls and furniture in the early morning light. Breathing a slow sigh of relief, she drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around her calves.

It all had been so real! The fires, the mosquito bites, the mud on her feet, the rough texture of the tree trunk that she knelt beside and the strong arms of the man who rescued her.

Annie closed her eyes and took a final cleansing breath, banishing the too-realistic dream once and for all from her mind. She had the specter of her husband to deal with and that was nightmare enough. Given the light streaming through the lace curtains, she needed to get out of bed and get herself together for the day. Richard and Grandmother would be expecting her at breakfast. It was only the presence of her grandmother that kept her husband from yanking the quilt off and tumbling her out of bed. He hated when she overslept.

She swung her legs out of bed and stretched her bare toes toward the floor. They felt funny, as if there were powder or fine sand between them. Upon closer inspection, her eyes widened, and she gasped. Dried mud caked her feet and stained the hem of her white nightgown. “Oh, gosh,” she whispered. The last thing she remembered was falling asleep on the chaise in the parlor. How did her feet and gown get so muddy?

“Annie.” Richard shouted up the stairs. “Don’t keep me waiting. I want to get an early start.” An edge of impatience laced his voice.

She’d better hurry up. “Yes, Richard,” she called, forcing a note of cheerfulness into her voice. Anything to keep him from coming upstairs and seeing this mess. He would have more questions than she had herself, and his would be accompanied by a slap, or worse. Shaking with panic, she rubbed her dirt-caked feet on the sheets and jumped out of bed, pulling the bedclothes with her. She would wash them before anyone saw the mud stains.

Annie changed the linens with record-setting speed and stuffed the soiled sheets into the laundry chute, which would shuttle them to the basement. She hurried to the bathroom, grabbed her toothbrush and reached for her sleep bonnet on her head. It wasn’t there.

Still brushing her teeth, she looked in the mirror to find her curls a tangled mess. Her yellow silk sleep bonnet, which she wore every night to preserve the hairstyle Richard loved so much, was gone. No time to look for it now.

Fifteen minutes later, she appeared at the table, still flustered, but pulled together enough that she could chat and appear normal over brunch.

Never one for sweating over a hot stove, Grandmother ordered most of her larger meals from the catering shop in the next town over. The smell of biscuits, scrambled eggs, sausage and bacon made her stomach growl and Annie dug into the food with unabashed relish.

Richard gave her sidelong glances from time to time.

Grandmother Lise carried on and chatted about local gossip as if nothing were happening.

It was a relief to kiss Richard goodbye and watch his car disappear down the drive.
Five days of freedom, away from his watchful eyes.

“Good riddance,” Grandmother muttered, stumping down the wooden porch stairs to the graveled front walk. She jerked her head at Annie. “Walk with me, girl.” The old woman chose a well-worn path that followed the perimeter of the backyard before it snaked off into the woods behind the house. Grandmother was silent, the effort of negotiating the bumpy path with a cane taking much of her attention.

Still puzzled about the realistic dream and the mud on her feet, Annie remained quiet too. Around them, the birds sang in the trees and the insects buzzed past their heads, a normal summer afternoon. Annie bit at her lip, praying Grandmother wouldn’t say anything about Richard. This was the first time they were totally alone and her Grandmother wasn’t one to mince words.

“You’re doing laundry and you ain’t been here a whole day?” Grandmother ground the end of her cane on a white-flowered weed. “That ofay didn’t let you bring enough clothes?”

Annie stiffened at her Grandmother’s question. “He let me bring enough clothes.”

“Then why the laundry?” Grandmother knocked a stone out of her path. “Using up my electricity and water for nothing. Out with it.”

For a split second, she considered lying, but one look at the old lady’s probing expression knocked that possibility right out of her head. Grandmother always ferreted out the truth.

“I think I was sleepwalking. There was—mud on the sheets when I woke up. On my feet too.”

Grandmother Lise didn’t miss a step. “Mud on your feet, you say?”

Annie nodded, brushing away a strand of stick-straight hair. The hastily steamed curls were no match for the humidity and her hair hung lank around her face. Before he left, Richard had warned her to find a good hairdresser before he returned the next weekend.

“I figured I had been sleepwalking in the back yard.” She forced a laugh to chase away the sudden chill enveloping her. “I’ll have to cut back on the spiked lemonade.” Annie held her Grandmother’s arm in a light grip, amazed at the vastness of the property even before it reached the woods. The grass was so green that it nearly hurt her eyes, and the air was fresh, clear and Richard-free.

“It ain’t sleepwalking, little one.” Grandmother pointed with her cane at the back lawn. “You see any mud out here?”

“Maybe the dew on the grass? A bare patch somewhere…” Annie’s voice trailed off. Her explanations sounded weak.

Grandmother stopped and gave her a severe look. “Annalise, when was the last time you went sleepwalking? Come on, girl.”

“Never,” Annie admitted.

The two resumed their walk.

Grandmother Lise knew more than she was letting on.

“Grandmother—”

“Don’t say another word.” She steered Annie back in the direction of the house. “Time for a snack and a couple hands of rummy.”

After a mini-meal of finger sandwiches, delivered by the delicatessen and several hands of gin rummy that Annie lost three to five, Grandmother led her into the parlor. She flicked on the ceiling fan, which did nothing but circulate the sticky afternoon air.

Annie perched on the edge of the chaise, warily regarding the painting above the fireplace. Something about it seemed different today.

Grandmother Lise lit her cigar.

The smell of burning cherry tobacco sparked her memory. Annie searched for the barn in the corner of the photo. It had been whole the first time she had seen the painting, white in color with a double door as its entrance. She swallowed a gasp. The white barn was now a charred hulk. Wisps of whitish smoke rose from its burnt ruins, and only one door hung from its hinges. Annie continued to examine the painting, seeing details she hadn’t observed before. Several more bodies and a bloody tomahawk lay on the hard-packed dirt of the clearing. Then there was something else.

Annie stood in slow motion, her hands at her mouth.
It couldn’t be.
Last night’s dream rushed back to her.

Grandmother Lise exhaled a sharp plume of fragrant smoke. “Ain’t that your sleep bonnet, hanging on one of them bushes?” She pointed with the glowing tip of the cigar clamped between two pecan-colored fingers.

Annie saw but didn’t believe. Her sleep bonnet was upstairs, probably behind the bed or under it. “Of course not,” she replied, glad to bring some normalcy into the situation. If she could rebut her Grandmother’s ridiculous claims, reality would fall back into place. “It’s upstairs.” But it wasn’t. She remembered the huge limp mess sitting on her head as she brushed her teeth this morning. And she remembered the dried mud, how it felt like sand against her skin.

Though wanting to be dismissive, she couldn’t help but walk over to the painting to take a closer look at the scrap of yellow fabric clinging to a leafy branch. She raised her hand to her mussed, flat hair and began to tremble. The painting swam in front of her, and her vision became blurry.

“Annie, honey, sit down.” Her grandmother sounded alarmed. “Sit down, girl.”

Refusing to believe what her mind was telling her, Annie took two steps backward and sunk back on the chaise. “Grandmother,” she said in a shaky voice. “What is going on?”

Grandmother Lise took a few more puffs of her cigar before answering. “My great-grandmother, Mattie, was a Seminole Indian. Florida born and bred.” She cast her gaze on the painting. “Seminoles as a whole, didn’t go much for what the white man said. Didn’t want their women with them. Hated slavery.” She heaved a sigh. “The white man came into Florida, taking over land, trying to roust folks who was already living there. Greedy bastards.” She curled her lip. “They want their hands in everything, land, labor, shoot, everything.”

Annie’s eyes widened as she listened. This was the first time Grandmother ever discussed her past.

“Long story short, there was always unrest between the Seminoles and the white man. Escaped slaves from Georgia and Alabama, if they made it to Seminole settlements in Florida, they were free.” Lise smiled at her granddaughter. “So many slaves fled to Florida that the United States sent the army after the runaways. ‘Course, the Seminoles and blacks joined forces and fought those ofays back.” Her grin of complete satisfaction transformed her face into the one of someone twenty years younger. “Caused the white man a lot of trouble in those Seminole Wars.”

Annie drew her knees up, fascinated by her Grandmother’s story. Her mind kept circling the dream, picking out details, lingering on her rescuer whose face she had never seen. She remembered his hands, his strong arms and his fresh, earthy smell.
“You are free…”

Lise continued with her tale. “Mattie was an artist. She painted that picture there, so people would remember what happened,” she paused, pressing her lips together. When she continued, her voice was slower and softer, as if she were trying to prevent being overheard. “It’s not just a painting, girl.” The old woman thumped her cane on the hardwood floor. “Mattie mixed her blood into the paint. Used her hair tied to twigs to paint it.” Grandmother raised her eyebrows. “A lot of work went into that there. Respect it.”

Annie nodded, and her gaze darted to her sleep bonnet hanging off the bush, the look of triumph in the dark faces of the men and women in the portrait and the dead, bloodied white people. If she asked the next question, she could be taking a step into the abyss. All she had to do was say it aloud. “I had a dream about the painting. It was so realistic, more realistic than anything I have ever dreamed of.” Annie paused. “My sleep bonnet is there…in the painting. Tell me how that happened.”

Grandmother stared off into the distance. “Blood calls to blood that’s in trouble. You went back for a reason.”

“But when I went back, I wasn’t me, I was somebody else.”

With a thoughtful look on her face, Grandmother puffed on the last of her cigar and then ground it out in the chipped china cup. “You aren’t you when you go back. You can’t be. Annie is now, here.” She peered at her granddaughter. “When they asked you your name, what did you say?”

“Matilda.” Annie sucked her breath and chills traveled over her skin. “They asked me my name. I opened my mouth to say Annie, but Matilda came out instead.”

Grandmother nodded. “When you enter the soul essence, you are still
you
, but also them…” She paused, a distant look in her eyes. “It’s like living two lives at once.”

Her words both intrigued and frightened Annie. She gripped the edges of the cushion, scratching her nails across the fragile silk. On the surface, what Grandmother said was more than ridiculous, the stuff midnight scary movies were made of. Blood in paint, paint brushes made from human hair, slaughtering slave owners, runaway slaves and one weirdly realistic dream in which she had been running for her very life.

Still, her Grandmother’s gaze remained calm and level. There was no insanity in her expression and no indication she thought she was speaking anything other than the truth.

A long silence stretched between the two women. Beyond the window, the birds chirped and the summer breeze made the lace curtains flutter.

Annie stared at the painting, especially at the little scrap of yellow silk hanging from the bush. Her sleep bonnet.
There
, not here. Not upstairs under the bed or trapped behind the mattress.
There.
Wherever
there
was. Where she had been last night. It had not been a dream.

She shivered in the warm, humid air of the parlor. This was the moment when her reality shattered and the stable existence she’d led up till now was gone. “Oh, Grandmother—this can’t be real, it can’t be true.” Annie took quick breaths, fearful she would swoon. If she passed out, what would happen? Would she be transported back into that world? How did it work? She opened her mouth to ask these questions.

“Shush, now. Don’t say a word.” Grandmother Lise settled back onto the faded cushions of the old chair. “Now that you know the truth, AnnaLise, we shall see what you’re going to do with it.” She nodded in agreement with herself. “Reality will bend, but only for a good reason.”