by Tim Tingle
Chipisa lachi, they seemed to say. See you in the future.
Spiro Town
Amafo's Spiderweb Eye
Rose • April 1897
One early Saturday morning in April, two weeks before Easter, Amafo quietly slipped into our bedroom. He nudged me in the ribs and grabbed Jamey’s left foot, the one always hanging off the bed. Amafo was already dressed, but not in his usual clothes—a white shirt and worn-out blue coveralls. No, he was dressed in his reddish-brown Sunday-only suit.
“Get on up outta bed now,” Amafo said. My sleepy eyes stared at his green tie with the big white circles on it, too tight around his neck. I knew that Pokoni was part of the day’s design. Amafo never tied his own tie, but liked to fuss and squirm till Pokoni pinched his nose and made him stop.
“Don’t be laying around all day!” Amafo said. “Somebody come last night and did all the chores. Nothing fer us to do today but go to town. Figure we kin watch the trains come in at the depot.”
We were out of our beds like a house afire. We made our beds quick too, folding back the sheets and covers and fluffing up the pillows, just in case Momma thought about overruling Amafo on the chore-doing business. We put on our going-to-town clothes and tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen.
Momma heated up last night’s cornbread and we dipped it in buttermilk for breakfast. Jamey and I didn’t say a word at breakfast, ’cept for when Jamey said, “Sure is good cornbread. Yes ma’am.”
I shot him a look to say, That’s enough, now. Don’t push our luck.
After breakfast I cleared the table and was just about to fetch pump water for washing, when Momma stopped me in my tracks.
“That’s all right, hon. You go on with Amafo. I can do the cleaning.”
“Yakoke,” I whispered, then gave her a good long thank you look, the one I knew she felt right through her skin.
Amafo already had Whiteface hitched up and pulled around front, ready to go. Jamey and I climbed onto the back bed of the wagon and off we went. We were so excited we lay on our backs and stared at the treetops, barely speaking all the way to Spiro.
The trains came in late evenings every night of the week, but they were mostly delivering goods and mail, with very few passengers. But on Saturday sometimes as many as five trains would unload passengers—passengers dressed up and coming from Little Rock or Memphis or even as far away as New Orleans.
It was just past nine when we arrived at the train station. Amafo nestled our wagon to a spot behind the depot. He stepped down and around to the tying rail to secure Whiteface, all the time stroking her neck and ears and talking that soft cooing talk that only Whiteface and Amafo understood.
I climbed down on my own and Amafo helped Jamey to the ground. We ambled along at Amafo’s pace. I did my best to walk slow and respectful, seeing as how our excitement grew at the noise of the oncoming train. It was bigger than I ever remembered, seeing it so close-up like we were.
The brakes screeched and the train came to a stop near enough for us to smell the grinding metal and feel the hot air rising from the steam engine. We stood and stared gap-mouthed at the train and the people waiting. We climbed the platform steps and Amafo found an empty outside table tucked up against the depot wall. He bought us a bag of roasted peanuts to share, so salty you had to lick your fingers after eating, and a tall glass of lemonade apiece.
Folks crowded to the edge of the tracks as passengers unloaded. A quarter hour passed and an easy calm settled in. Passengers waiting for a connecting train found tables inside the depot and a dozen or so men strolled up and down the platform, smoking pipes and mopping their brows.
Long after everyone else had come and gone, a tall gentleman dressed in a black suit appeared at the door to the final car. A Negro porter rushed to help him from the train. The gentleman was followed by two porters carrying his luggage—three large brown-leather suitcases.
“That’s the new Indian agent,” we heard someone whisper when he walked by. The agent seemed not to notice that everyone was staring at him. He pulled out his pocket watch and shook his head as he looked up and down the platform. He spoke to a porter and soon a wagon appeared. The agent climbed into the passenger seat as his luggage was loaded in the wagon bed and off they rode.
Less than five minutes after the agent left, the town marshal, Marshal Hardwicke, came driving a wagon pulled by two fidgety black horses, sleek and sweating. He leapt to the platform from his wagon, pushed open the depot doors, and strode to the ticket counter. After speaking to the ticket agent, he slammed his fist on the counter and stormed outside to the platform.
“Did anyone see the new Indian agent?” he said, turning his head from side to side as he spoke. “Was the train early?” Marshal Hardwicke shouted, but no one spoke to him. The marshal was a big man with powerful arms and a mustached face that grew more and more puffy-cheeked and red. Everyone on the platform moved to give him a path, but no one spoke.
A tall, thin lady in a shiny blue dress, the final passenger, stepped from the train. Her face was soft, but her eyes were outlined in black and her cheeks were pink circles of face powder. She craned her goose neck up and down the platform before turning and struggling to drag two large suitcases behind her.
“Hold on, ma’am,” a young porter called out, skip-stepping through the depot door. Judging from his size and bright, innocent eyes, he looked to be maybe sixteen years old. “I’m here fer ya.”
The porter gave a wide berth around the marshal, but not wide enough. Marshal Hardwicke grabbed his collar from behind and jerked the young man backwards and off his feet. He slammed him against the wall and slid his hand up the porter’s neck and under his chin.
“You, boy. You seen the new agent get offa this train?”
The porter nodded as best he could, being pinned up against the wall by his throat. The marshal relaxed his grip and the porter steadied himself, saying, “He left just a minute or two ago. Called hisself a wagon. Probly be at the hotel by now.”
Marshal Hardwicke staggered for a moment, as if trying to decide what to do next. That’s when I realized he was drunk. I had seen plenty of drunk men before, Choctaws and Nahullos both, but never at this hour in the morning. Drinking was something men did after dark, and mostly in quiet places away from women and children. The marshal cursed at the porter and told him, “Get on away from here if you know what’s good for you!”
From where he sat, Amafo kept his back turned to the marshal. When the shouting grew louder he kept his head down. I could tell he did not want the marshal or anybody else to notice us.
Marshal Hardwicke turned to the door, slamming it so hard a piece of cedar door facing, four feet long at least, popped loose and fell to the platform.
“Time we go,” Amafo said, thinking the marshal had entered the stationhouse. He rose and stepped around the table to help me with my chair. At that moment the marshal whirled and knocked Amafo against the table. Though violent in its result, I am convinced this was an accidental act. But something about bumping against another man, a weaker man, seemed to breathe new life into the marshal.
He glared at Amafo. His eyebrows wrinkled and his mouth drew tight. He slowly stooped and picked up the door facing with both hands. Amafo huddled with the two of us behind him, holding us back with his arms.
As the marshal stood up, he swung the board in a loop, catching my grandfather on the side of his head and knocking him to the ground. Amafo’s eyeglasses scooted almost to the edge of the platform. The marshal drew back the board and slapped it hard against the building, shattering the wood and showering Jamey and me with splinters.
The marshal stood glaring over Amafo. His face was red and his eyes were bloodshot. His fists were clenched tight and shaking. I had heard Pokoni speak of the devil taking hold of somebody, and I think I was seeing the devil come alive in front of me. I looked around for help.
The platform was full of people now. The stationhouse had emptied. Men and women circled us, but no one moved
to help. I cried out and the marshal looked at us, Jamey and me, trembling and cowering against the wall of the building. His face suddenly changed, as if he was seeing us for the first time. His eyes slowly moved to Amafo, who was struggling to stand up.
“Ooohh,” the marshal moaned, dropping the board to the platform. The ticket master hurried through the crowd and picked it up.
“It’s sharp as a butcher knife. He could kill somebody with this,” he whispered, shaking his head.
Amafo was too dizzy to make it to his feet. He fell back to the platform and lay on his side, breathing hard and squinting his eyes. The marshal reached for my grandfather as if he were about to help him, but he stopped himself. In that moment something unspeakable settled on the railroad platform, some new level of meanness. I was afraid, but not too afraid to look squarely at what was occurring.
The marshal stood straight up, slowly and deliberately, dusted the splinters from his shirt and turned to face the gathering crowd. For the first time in my life I saw the power that evil and fear exercise over people. The marshal stared at the crowd. Better said, he stared at each and every person there, every man and every woman, challenging anybody to say a word, to move a muscle. Everyone in their turn took a step back.
When he was satisfied no one dared confront him, the marshal tipped his hat, turned smartly and walked to his wagon.
I knelt over Amafo and realized how old and helpless he was. He looked like a stranger, a tired and fallen stranger.
“My glasses,” he said. “Please, where are my glasses?”
I turned to the platform’s edge where I had last seen his glasses. A short young man in a tan suit, an out-of-town traveler, stepped from the crowd. He took his hat off as he approached me, in a sign of respect.
“Here you are, young lady.” He handed me the glasses. The right lens was shattered, but still snug and tight in the frame. The glass was broken in the shape of a spiderweb, with a small circle in the center surrounded by jagged lines.
“Yakoke,” I said. He looked at me strangely. “I am sorry. I meant to say thank you.” The man smiled with good humor and nodded to my grandfather.
“Is he—the old man—is he alright? Will he be okay?”
“Yes, I think so. He is my grandfather, my Amafo. We need to go. Can you help me lift him?” The man nodded as Amafo tried to stand.
“Give me my glasses,” Amafo said.
I had never looked at Amafo’s glasses before. They were part of his face, nothing more. I lifted the glasses high. The frames were much heavier than I had imagined. I watched the sunlight flash against the broken lens and was suddenly overcome with the desire to see through my grandfather’s eyes.
The time to be afraid was over and I knew it. Now was the time to see, to truly see what had happened. I turned to the crowd and held the glasses in front of my eyes. Everyone appeared normal through the left lens, blurred and slightly misshapen, but normal to look at.
Through the right lens, the shattered spiderweb lens, everyone was distorted. Legs and arms were broken and people seemed ugly and freakish. I turned to look at the young man who chose to help us, expecting him to appear like the others.
At first glance he did. But then he smiled and I saw through the spiderweb lens that this was a good man. I lowered the glasses from my face and the man nodded to me, as if we shared a secret.
“Are you sure you want to help us?” I asked.
“Yes. Give the glasses to your grandfather and let’s get him to his feet.”
Each of us took an arm. We counted to three and huffed and puffed and lifted my grandfather to a standing position. Jamey appeared like a rabbit from his hiding place, brushing the dirt and dust from his britches.
“I can see you home,” the man said.
“You have a train to catch.”
“There will be other trains. Will you be safe?”
“Oh yes,” I heard myself saying. “No one would touch us now. No one wants to be part of this.”
“You have a wagon?”
“Yes. And I can drive it.” I was lying, of course. I had never driven a wagon before. But I knew that in an hour I would know how to drive it, if we were to make it home.
The man tipped his hat once more. I saw respect in his eyes. He turned away and joined the throng of people crowding around the doors of the departing train. I now had the task of getting Amafo to the wagon.
“Here, Jamey,” I told him, “come over here by Amafo. Don’t get in his way, just walk next to him. He’s gonna rest his hand on your shoulder.” I positioned Amafo’s right hand on Jamey’s shoulder, squeezing it soft to let him know I loved him, then I stepped in front of my grandfather in case he fell forward.
The three of us rambled across the platform. Excepting for the shameless and unspeakable horror of what had just happened, we might have been a medicine show act, a horse with a make-believe head and tail and two funny men under a blanket trying to walk in step.
I walked directly in front of Amafo and he rested his left hand on my shoulder. With every few steps I could feel the pressure grow lighter. I knew Amafo was beginning to move under his own power.
“Ho,” he said as we stepped to the street. His head slumped and we eased him against the side of the stationhouse. He held his head and wrinkled his face and I knew he was still dizzy.
Amafo looked haggard and ancient, leaning against the white boards of the building. The whiteness seemed to drown him, looming twenty feet above us. His red-brown suit, so crisp and churchly only a few minutes earlier, was now wrinkled and dirty. Two large circles of dust decorated his pants legs, marks of his fall. His broken glasses nestled halfway down his nose.
We lifted Amafo onto the wagon and began the long trip home.
I was only a young lady of eleven years, but I was old enough to know that our Choctaw world was changing. Maybe this day turned out to be one of the best days of my life after all. I learned to see as Amafo saw. I learned to see through Amafo’s spiderweb eye.
Night Gathering
By the time I eased the wagon into the barn and unhitched Whiteface, I think every Choctaw within fifty miles of Skullyville knew about Marshal Hardwicke striking Amafo. That evening more people crowded into our living room than ever before, some families who had not visited our home in years. The McCurtains, the Folsoms, folks who held high positions going all the way back to Choctaw days in Mississippi.
Brother Willis and his family were there, of course, with his oldest son Samuel, and several used-to-be shopkeepers, who always seemed to be talking about rebuilding their stores. They never recovered after the burnings. Many families had also lost their barns to nighttime fires.
“It’s not the work that keeps everybody from rebuilding,” Pokoni often said. “It’s hard to find the will to start up again after you’ve lost everything.”
“And the fear,” I once heard Amafo say.
Pokoni was dashing to and from the kitchen, trying her best to keep everyone’s cups and bowls filled with hot coffee and steaming pashofa corn soup. Amafo found himself a spot on a step halfway up the stairs to the second floor. He barely moved a muscle, holding his coffee cup with both hands and softly blowing. His hat was pulled low over his eyes, discouraging anyone who might try to draw him into a conversation.
To some, he might seem to be sleeping, but not a word escaped Amafo’s attention. The stakes were high. We were all Skullyville Choctaws, and our lives were threatened by what had occurred.
I learned much by watching Amafo that night. To the hotheaded young men he was as meaningless as a tree stump—an old man whose youth and usefulness were a thing of the past. I saw Amafo bide his time, allowing one argument after another to fizzle and die.
He already knows what he’s going to do, I realized. He will wait all night if he has to, till everyone else has burned themselves out, before he tells us what he’s thinking. For the first time, I saw a Choctaw elder at work. And I understood—for the first time—why our way is a p
owerful way. It is a way of waiting and watching, and Amafo was as wise in the ways of survival as a great black cat of the woods.
I was determined to stay up and see what Amafo would do. I set about helping Pokoni. We washed empty cups, of coffee and pashofa both, refilled them and returned them to our guests before they knew they were gone. All this we did without a word between us.
The hours dragged on. It was approaching midnight when I heard Mister Yeager cough, like he always did when he had something to say. He had spent his younger days chasing bootleggers with the Lighthorsemen, our Choctaw posse. “Sure we are peaceable folks,” he said. “We’re churchgoers, all of us, and we gonna do the Lord’s will, best we know it.”
He nodded in the direction of Brother Willis, with a tone of embarrassed humility. Brother Willis appeared not to respond. But if you watched him after everybody else had looked away, you saw him take a deep breath and look into his coffee cup with sad eyes.
I was carrying a tray of coffee cups from the living room to the kitchen, where Pokoni was washing with a fury. When Mister Yeager spoke, she dried her soapwater hands on her apron and moved to the doorway to listen.
“I’m just saying we ought to keep our guns near our bedsides,” he said. “We got to protect ourselves from the Nahullos, all of ’em. We can’t let our guard down.”
I sat the tray on the kitchen counter and asked Pokoni, “Why would they want to hurt us? It was a Nahullo that hit Amafo.”
She leaned towards me and whispered, “Hon, listen good to what I’m telling you. People who are bullies are driven to punishing those they have harmed the most. And the bullying will usually get worse.
“Look around you. These Choctaw families are gathered together at our house for safety. By the time the marshal and his friends spread their talk about what happened at the train station, every Nahullo in Spiro will be fussing and fuming. More than likely they gonna blame us, hon. But the real thing we got to worry about is this. Choctaw hotheads, that’s where the real danger is. All Choctaws are not like your grandfather.”
