The Cherokee Rose, page 4
Dear Mother,
I pray this letter reaches you before much more time has passed, whether you be in the West or still here in the East. I hope it can be read to you, for when we last saw one another, neither of us could speak or read the English language. My mind turns to you on this tenth anniversary of the death of my godmother in Christ. I could not accept the loss of her then, as I could not, a lifetime ago, accept the loss of you.
I do not blame you, Mother. Do not blame yourself. You had no means to feed me. The mission school at the fort took me in and placed me among their pupils. At the tender age of eleven years, I was one of the eldest. I learned the ways of civilization and tried my best to be good, but ghosts haunted me at the school; fiends grasped at me. They pulled my gown in the dark, split my braids in two, unfolded my insides, and stole me from myself. I had a child. She did not survive. What was I to do?
I set the place on fire and watched it burn.
They would not let me return to you, would not let me see your face, even when you came to beg for my return, even when my uncle came dressed in white men’s clothing to strengthen your entreaties.
And so I was exiled to the Cherokee Rose and given the gift of a second family.
I have lately heard the news from my godfather that our lands in Alabama will soon be claimed by that same ravenous horde who settled our lands within the borders of Georgia, and that more of our people will go west. I cannot come to you, Mother, despite my affection, which forever abides. I must remain here always, to do the Lord’s work and tend the graves of my other mothers. Even as I write you, I sit in my godmother’s chair, reading the pages of her Bible, worn from the tread of her finger: “Whither thou goest I will go, and whither thou lodgest I will lodge. Thou people shall be my people and thy God my God. Whither thou diest, I will die, and there will I be buried.”
I seek only to do the bidding of the Lord. I pray that you and my uncle are safe, that my brothers and sisters care for you even as I would have done. I pray that the new land in the West is fertile and rich and that a future may be possible for our people.
Yours forever in the wounds of Christ Jesus, MAB
Jinx dragged her eyes from the page. MAB. Mary Ann Battis.
Deb Tom was watching her with that same intense stare. “We’ve been waiting close to two hundred years to learn what became of young Mary Ann. That’s damn sure long enough, even on Indian time. I believe you’re the one who can find the answers. The question is, will you?”
Deb was not the first person to ask Jinx for information in the five years since she had been back in Oklahoma. People had started coming to her with their research questions the day she stepped foot in town. “Your great-aunt Angie used to say you’d know this,” they’d begin as they put a question to her about a fifth cousin, once removed. “Your aunt Angie said to ask you, if she wasn’t here,” they’d explain when they inquired about a rift on the nineteenth-century Tribal Council. That was how Jinx came to know that she had inherited not only a house but a role as well: family historian. Because the Creek Nation was one big family of families, all interwoven through the cartilage of kinship and history, and because Jinx was not just Creek, but Cherokee, too, on her father’s side, the role of family historian could be the work of a lifetime. Aunt Angie had devoted herself to the study of history and this cause.
Jinx had failed at both.
She replaced the letter in its envelope and handed it back to Deb Tom. She reached inside her pocket for a ten-dollar bill, placed it on the counter, and took one last long swig of Coke. Beneath the tinkling of the diner’s bell, Jinx made her escape.
* * *
*
“When are we heading over to Deb’s for dinner?” Jinx’s cousin Victor, who was like a brother to her, said on the phone.
Jinx had spent the afternoon on the back porch of the bungalow typing up her column. Now she was in the living room fiddling with Aunt Angie’s ceramic figurine collection.
“I thought I might go to Applebee’s or cook at home. Do you want to come over? I can make Indian tacos.”
“You don’t cook, which makes that last statement mighty suspicious. Spill it.”
“Long story or short?”
“Shorter than short, because I’m hungry.”
“Deb Tom is pissed about my last column, and she wants me to rewrite it.”
“I read that one. A little dry, maybe, but that’s no crime.”
Jinx paused. “I might have gotten something wrong.”
“And you can’t stand to make mistakes. I know. Ask your editors to print a correction. I see it done all the time.”
“Deb wants me to go down South and trace a student I mentioned—just as an example, I keep pointing out—at the end of the column.”
“A road trip? Now you’re talking. Does Deb Tom pay mileage?”
“So you think I should go?” Jinx said, freezing in front of the figurine shelf.
“I think you want to go, or you wouldn’t be so upset about it. And I think you could use a vacation. It’s like a mausoleum in that house, and you’ve lived in there alone for five years. If you don’t watch out, twenty years will pass by and you’ll turn up on Hoarding: Buried Alive with a wall of old newspapers and files blocking your door. If Deb Tom is giving you a reason to get out of there for a while, I say go.”
“I’d have to get time off.” Jinx walked into the bedroom to pace in front of her great-aunt’s dresser mirror.
“You know Eva—”
“Emma.”
“—lives to cover for you. If you give me a week to arrange things, I’ll come too,” Victor said, then added, “Where are we going?”
Jinx smiled at that. “Georgia.”
“The Coca-Cola capital of the world, and Jinx Micco’s still sitting in her auntie’s living room?”
“Wrong. I’m in the bedroom. Standing.”
“When do we leave?”
“You’re a Hotshot, and it’s still fire season. You can’t just take off on a wild goose chase.”
“Copy that. But you can.”
* * *
*
Jinx spent the late afternoon making plans in Victor’s trailer and pledging to call him daily from the road. Since Emma agreed to cover her hours during what was already a slow time of the year, and the library would be closed on Monday for the holiday, their boss had given Jinx a full week off. If she took advantage of the long weekend and got as far as the Arkansas border tonight, she would have ten days before the library needed her back.
At home, she stuffed a duffel bag with T-shirts, cargo pants and shorts, underwear, and athletic socks. She packed her messenger bag with the Mary Ann Battis file, a Craig Womack novel, and a Nancy Clue mystery. She stuck her toothbrush and deodorant into a plastic baggie and left a voicemail message telling her mother not to panic.
She didn’t contact Deb Tom. It would only make things harder if she failed.
Grabbing a fresh can of Coke and an unopened bag of Twizzlers, Jinx headed out. She climbed into her Chevy, the same truck she had driven cross-country thirteen years ago, setting off for graduate school with Aunt Angie beside her. Jinx could still picture her indominable aunt riding shotgun, with burgundy curls, soft-veined hands, and thick eyeglasses.
Headlights blazing, gas tank full, Jinx flew out of town.
TWO
Cheyenne Rosina Cotterell read the auction details aloud, bracing herself for the onslaught. She had come across the notice in a North Georgia antique market while scouting for the interior design firm where she worked. The country-road market had been cluttered and dusty, and the flyer, which must have been hanging on that bulletin board for weeks, still left gritty particles of dust on her fingertips. She folded the flyer and lodged it on the table beneath the pepper grinder, delicately patting her fingers on her white cloth napkin.
“Forty acres?” her friend Toni said in her pushy attorney tone. “You can’t be serious, Cheyenne. All you’d need next is the mule.”
“Fourteen acres,” Cheyenne corrected as her girlfriends listened with facial expressions ranging from shock to concern. “Below the Cohutta range of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It used to be a massive estate back in the 1800s, but most of it was parceled out and sold off over the years. The original plantation house is still standing, along with some cabins, a peach orchard, and a whole lot of mosquito-ridden river cane. And yes, I am serious. I’m bidding on the place next week.”
“Now I know you’ve lost your mind. You can’t live in the mountains, girl. You’re one hundred percent city.” Toni leaned back in her chair and raised the smooth arch of an eyebrow. She savored the crispy end of a sweet potato fry that would go straight to her hips, Cheyenne thought.
De’Sha nodded, sipping her chardonnay.
Layla adjusted her black-frame glasses and skimmed the state auction notice that Cheyenne had placed on the tabletop.
Cheyenne eyed her three closest friends, a tableau of Black urban chic. Toni wore a sleeveless tangerine sundress that showed off the deep tone of her shoulders and complemented her sultry bleached-blond hair. Layla was dressed in hand-dyed jeans and impossibly high heels, a look that punctuated her short natural haircut and stylish glasses. De’Sha was still wearing her crisp navy suit from work, her hair coiled in shiny black ringlets that touched the collar of her jacket. Cheyenne knew she had thrown a Molotov cocktail into their weekly dinner conversation. The four of them had met in a reading group for single Black women and instantly hit it off. Now they got together every Friday night at Aria, a hip new eatery in Buckhead with too many rich desserts on the menu for Cheyenne’s taste.
“I thought that place was a public museum of Cherokee history,” De’Sha said. “I remember going up there for a field trip in grade school. Is it even habitable?”
“I have to say I agree with them, Cheyenne. Isn’t this a little unrealistic?” Layla said. She was a graduate student in public policy at Georgia Tech and took it upon herself to play the role of the thoughtful one in their group. “Why would you buy an old house up in the boonies? An old plantation house. You just got promoted to lead interior designer. Is this the right time for a job change?” Layla nibbled on a warm ginger cookie with a dollop of fresh organic cream. She had inhaled her meal and moved straight to dessert, Cheyenne noticed, indifferent to the effect on her waistline.
Cheyenne sipped her lime-freshened sparkling water. “I thought I was dreaming when I first saw that flyer. My grandmother’s people came from that part of the state, maybe from that exact plantation. It was a museum when we were in school, De’Sha, but the building’s been sitting empty for years while the director of some inefficient state office weighed what to do with it. The Parks Department can’t manage the property anymore. But I can. I’ve always wanted to design and run a bed-and-breakfast. This, ladies, is my chance.”
“But have you thought this all the way through, Chey?” Toni asked, her gold hoop earrings rocking with the emphatic motion of her jaw. “Where would you get your nails done? Where would you get a Frappuccino? How would you even find the staff to run the damn place? I hear they have a Dunkin’ Donuts up in North Georgia. And a bunch of Billy Bobs. Maybe you could get used to that, but I doubt it. You like expensive coffee and fine men too much.”
“Fine men?” Layla pounced. “Did I miss a breakup story while I was away at that conference? And does this mean I can have Devon now?” She paused at a look from Toni. “Yes, Toni. I take Cheyenne’s leftovers. Her men are always beautiful, and you know I don’t have time to meet people while I’m working on my dissertation.”
“Girl, that dissertation is working you,” Toni said. “What is this, year six?” She took a sip of Fresca and returned her attention to Cheyenne.
Cheyenne forked a leaf of baby arugula. “I am serious, ladies. Atlanta is less than an hour away in good traffic. I can drive back on Fridays for our dinners. You’ll hardly know I’m gone. And you can come up to the B&B after it’s open, relax for once.” She shot a cool look at Toni.
“If you open a B&B, you can say bye-bye to meals at Aria and hello to a new identity as Butterfly McQueen, who got famous, I’ll remind you, for playing a maid on screen,” Toni said. “You’ll be slaving away twenty-four seven, washing other folks’ linens and handing out maps for hiking trails. Bet.”
Layla tipped a finger to her chin, signaling that she was about to speak as she gave Cheyenne an evaluative look. “I think you’ve got the wrong take, Toni. Cheyenne’s not Prissy-the-maid in her version of the story. She’s Scarlett O’Hara.”
De’Sha sucked in a breath of realization. “You want to live on a plantation. That’s the point of this?”
“I want to save a plantation,” Cheyenne said. “Because it means saving my family history.”
“Which version of Gone With the Wind did you watch?” Toni pressed. “Tara was a romanticized slave labor camp, and the last time I checked, we were all Black—even those of us who think they’re Native American because they have good hair and ordered a DNA test.”
“We all have good hair, girls,” Layla inserted in a warning tone.
Cheyenne ignored Toni’s dig. She directed her words toward Layla and De’Sha. “Honestly, it is time for a change. I’m tired of working at a rarefied boutique, helping the society set pick out three-hundred-dollar throw pillows. And yes, Layla, I’m tired of Devon. You can have him. Buying this plantation house and bringing it back to life would finally give me real direction. Saving my family history and sharing that history with guests could be the most important thing I ever do.”
“If your Native American ancestor legend is true,” Toni said, her voice dripping with skepticism.
Layla was watching her with patronizing disbelief, De’Sha with barely disguised sympathy. Cheyenne was hurt, but she refused to show it. She knew Toni had always been jealous of her. Toni craved attention, and she was used to receiving it. But as striking as Toni was, she couldn’t hold a candle to Cheyenne. Cheyenne drew open, naked stares from men—and a few women too. People were transfixed by her willowy figure, toffee-toned skin, and swirling dark tresses. The hair was her inheritance from the mysterious Cherokee ancestor whom jealous women, including Toni, loved to dismiss as mere fantasy. Most female friends she’d ever had were just like Toni—secretly wishing to see her fail, but hoping her charms would rub off on them.
Cheyenne smoothed the skirt of her Lilly Pulitzer floral dress and flicked back the ponytail she had pinned with a rhinestone-studded clip. She reclaimed the auction notice and tucked it into her handbag. She was ready to go.
“It sounds like you’ve made up your mind,” Layla said, reading Cheyenne’s body language. “I’ll come visit you, but only after you’ve fixed up the place. You know I don’t do rustic.”
“Call me if you need a small business loan,” De’Sha, a banker, added with a wry grin.
“I just hope you don’t regret it,” Toni said, wanting to have the last word.
But Cheyenne wouldn’t let her. She slid a hundred-dollar bill onto the table, enough for the sweet and salty treats her friends had been scarfing down and an ample tip for the waitress. She tossed her ponytail over her shoulder. “I’ll see you in the country, ladies. Desserts are on me.”
* * *
*
Cheyenne arrived home late that night, after first stopping to fill the gas tank of her silver sports coupe. She planned to hit I-75 at dawn and beat the other drivers heading to quaint inns and cabins in the Blue Ridge Mountains for Labor Day weekend. She wanted to get a feel for the Hold estate before it was auctioned on Tuesday.
Opening the door of her condo and slipping off her pumps, Cheyenne sank her feet into the shag carpeting. Her glass-walled townhouse in Candler Park was sleek and modern, with views of the city skyline. She looked around at the Eames side chairs and angular cranberry couches. Maybe she was 100-percent city, as Toni claimed, but who said she couldn’t bring city to the country? The Hold House could be completely redone in a modernist style—straight lines, nickel fixtures, shagreen finishes, textured accessories. The contrast between nineteenth-century architecture and the clean look of her interior design would be to die for.
Cheyenne dropped her dress in a tent on the floor, showered, and blow-dried her hair until it fell arrow-straight. She changed into satiny pajamas, stepping over the crumpled dress. Gretchen, the domestic help whose visits were a gift from her parents, would be in tomorrow afternoon to tidy up. Cheyenne settled onto the leather couch, tucked her feet beneath her, and turned on Lifetime. The made-for-TV drama about a divorced couple’s new lease on marriage after taking in an orphaned child was a repeat. It was Friday night, after all. Nothing was on. Cheyenne flipped through last month’s Cosmo, then picked up the racy urban romance she was in the middle of. She plunged back into the story of Diamond, the gorgeous girl who grew up too fast in the Chicago projects, and Jay, the would-be poet turned drug dealer who sold crack to satisfy Diamond’s gold-digging appetites. Cheyenne tried to ignore the hungry ache she felt in the pit of her stomach. A salad at Aria and a Nutri-Grain bar were all she had eaten that day. As she often found in the dim hush of nighttime after the rush of the workday had passed, she was starved for more.
* * *
*
Cheyenne had been lying to herself when she pledged to hit the road at dawn. She never woke a minute before nine o’clock. She packed her suitcases and makeup bag, dressed in a skirt and fluttery blouse, then waited in line for ten minutes at the nearest Starbucks drive-through. Damn holiday travelers. She sipped her light latte as she peeled onto the highway behind a line of cars. It took her thirty minutes just to clear the city sprawl on the way to her dream home in the foothills. Listening to the wistful strains of Sade’s “Sweetest Taboo,” Cheyenne sped up I-75 with the top down on her Mercedes-Benz and a Jackie O–style scarf tied around her head. The view of dense buildings gave way to green space; flat land rose into hills and dipped into shallow valleys.
