by Tim Tingle
Momma and I walked up the three wooden steps and entered the church. A single aisle ran down the center of the building. We found our place two rows from the front and to the right of the aisle, near the window. All the women sat to the right, the men to the left.
The windows were open and the curtains moved with the soft life of an old man napping. I sat on the end of the bench, where it touched the wall, and felt the sunlight warm my cheeks. More than anything, I liked these minutes of settling in, of smoothing my dress just so and lifting or lowering the window to suit the needs of rain or heat or bitter chill. I eased my shoulder against the pine planks of the wall and closed my eyes.
Since Reverend Willis occupied the pulpit, the Willis boys were guarded at either end of their pew by the Bobb brothers, Efram and Ben. They were strong-armed and stiff-lipped and no Willis boy would dare disturb their divine Sunday peace. They always wore identical black suits with knee-length coats and sleeves as thick as trees.
“God has a way of evening things out,” Pokoni always said. “He gave those Bobb boys all that arm muscle to make up for not giving them any necks.”
Beneath her gentle ribbing was a profound respect for the Bobbs, shared by all in the community. After their father died, Efram and Ben had given up schooling and courting to work alongside their mother on the family farm. The Bobb brothers were hard-working men and worthy of respect.
They kept their arms folded throughout the service, nodding and pointing with their lips while others shouted “Amen” and “Glory Be.” They joined in the hymn singing with voices straight from the caves, deep as the dark and awesome as an echo.
Three hundred people were in attendance that morning, squeezed into a church built for a hundred and fifty. Brother Willis moved to the altar, saying simply, “Hymn number 48.”
We sang “Amazing Grace.”
Shilombish Holitopa ma!
Ish minti pulla cha,
Hattak ilbusha pia ha
Ish pi yukpalashke.
Pi chukush nusi atukma
Ant ish okchulashke,
Ish pi yohbiechikbano;
E chim aiahnishke.
Shilombish Holitopa ma!
Pim anukfila hut
Okhlilit kunai hoka,
Ish pi on tomashke.
Pi chukush nukhaklo yoka
Ant pi hopohluchi:
Il aiashucheka yoka
Ish pi kashoffashke.
Brother Willis always knew. The singing was so soft and sweet at first, the words so tender to hear. Every Choctaw could choose to cry or smile, the words let us choose. Soon, with all those new voices, the singing was loud and every word clung to the air till the next one wriggled free. We sang our own stories, sang them to the listening Lord above.
Before Reverend Willis began his sermon, the wind picked up and the pine trees swayed, filling the church with a soft murmuring of whispers. He took more time than usual flipping through the pages of his Bible. He was aware that his words would be repeated over and over in the coming months, at supper tables and all manner of Choctaw gatherings. They would be seen as our response to the attack upon Amafo. Our earthly response had been announced by Amafo, but the all-important Divine interpretation of these affairs fell to the Reverend Willis.
Before announcing the chosen scripture, Reverend Willis adjusted his reading glasses. His eyes took in the entire congregation and when he spoke his booming voice stilled the wind.
“We turn now to the Old Testament, to the Book of Numbers, chapter twenty-one, verse five.
And the people spake against God, and against Moses, Wherefore have ye brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? For there is no bread, neither is there any water; and our soul loatheth this light bread.
And the Lord sent fiery serpents among the people, and they bit the people; and much people of Israel died.
Therefore the people came to Moses, and said, We have sinned, for we have spoken against the Lord, and against thee; pray unto the Lord, that he take away the serpents from us. And Moses prayed for the people.
And the Lord said unto Moses, Make thee a fiery serpent, and set it upon a pole: and it shall come to pass, that every one that is bitten, when he looketh upon it, shall live.
And Moses made a serpent of brass and put it upon a pole, and it came to pass, that if a serpent had bitten any man, when he beheld the serpent of brass, he lived.
Reverend Willis closed his Bible. He slowly removed his glasses and lay them on the pulpit. He lifted his head and his eyes roamed the church, till every one of us felt he was staring straight into our own souls.
“The serpents are loose among us. We have felt the sting of their bite and the poison of their venom. We have been left to die.”
He paused and a nervous shifting crept among the congregation. Quiet hmmms and ohhhs rose from bowed heads. The reverend waited. When he stepped from behind the pulpit and lifted his arms high, his palms to the sky, all heads rose.
“God will never leave his people!” the reverend shouted.
A deep and whispered Amen from Efram Bobb. His mother gripped his arm.
“God has given us a brass rod, made in the image of the serpent. Look upon this rod and life is yours. Forever, my brethren. We have been granted the rod of our faith, our everlasting faith that God is good and we are strong in the face of our tormentors.
“The fiery serpents have been loosed and we have felt their venom. But they are weak and we are strong. We are bonded by our love. Our love for our families, our love for our gathered brethren, our love for this good earth we walk upon, and most of all, our abiding and never-ending love for the good God that put us here.”
We stood as one to hear his words. Reverend Willis turned to the pulpit and took his Bible. He held it high and the Amens grew louder as we watched. He lowered the Bible and pointed to the door behind us. We turned, half-expecting Christ himself to enter. He then pointed the Bible to our left and to our right, all with slow deliberation, to the bright green leaves of spring and the graves nestled among the trees.
The image of what happened next will stay with me forever. Reverend Willis lifted the Bible in an arc, like the sun moving from morning to the evening purple sunset. We followed, mouths open and eyes pleading, as he moved the Bible high over his head, then lowered it to point behind himself, at the painting of the crucified Jesus on the cedar backwall of our church.
“He is risen and walks among us,” he said.
Stationmaster John
The Monday following, Pokoni and Amafo woke up long before sunrise. Pokoni filled a small pan with water while Amafo stoked the fire in the woodstove. When the water was bubbling near to overflowing, Pokoni spread two tablespoons of coffee over the boiling liquid.
The smell of strong coffee soon filled the house. Amafo leaned over the cookstove, tilted his head back, and drew in a deep breath. When the grounds settled to the bottom of the pan, Pokoni carefully poured two cups and placed them on a wooden table between them. As Amafo took a slow sip, she spoke the first words of the morning.
“Where will you go?”
“Maybe buy you something, Hester.”
“Nothing I really need. Maybe some thread. Blue, dark green. Don’t spend too much.”
“Mostly I’ll be spending time.”
“William, please stay away from the marshal,” said Pokoni.
“I can’t do that, Hester. I can’t show fear. You know that.”
“Then be careful. You can do that.”
“I’ll be careful. I have some new friends picked out. Hope they have time for an old Choctaw.”
“I ’spec they will. You purty good at picking your friends.”
“You know Maggie Johnston?” Amafo asked.
“One-legged Maggie?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, I hear she knows how to handle Hiram Blackstone,” said Pokoni. “I am thinking she’s a good one to have on your side.”
“That’s what I’m thinking too,” sa
id Amafo. Ten minutes later, while Pokoni gathered breakfast eggs, Amafo saddled and readied Whiteface for the three-mile trip to Spiro.
Awakened by the sounds in the henhouse, the yard rooster stretched his neck and turned his eye to the colors of the coming dawn. He scratched the ground, flapped his wings a dozen times, threw out his chest, and commenced his crowing.
“Guess you and me both got something to say,” said Amafo, nodding to the rooster.
“Just be careful how you say it,” said Pokoni. “Maybe don’t be so bold as that rooster.” With the coming daylight, she could see that Amafo’s cuts and bruises had turned the right side of his face into a swollen mass of blue and black flesh. His nose was purple and a dark spot of blood covered one eyeball.
“Let me make you some eggs. Just take a minute.”
“No,” said Amafo. “No need to put off going. I better get on with it.” He mounted Whiteface and patted her on the rear.
Pokoni walked beside him for the first quarter mile, then squeezed his arm to say good-bye. She stood in the road and watched till Whiteface disappeared in a wispy cloud of fog. The last thing she saw was Amafo reaching into his pocket and slipping on his eyeglasses.
“He didn’t want me to see his broken glasses,” she said aloud. “He thinks he looks fine except for his glasses. Please Lord, don’t let him know what he looks like. Don’t let him see himself in a shop window. He would die on the spot. Let me do the seeing for both of us, please Lord.”
On the walk home, Pokoni carried on a running conversation with herself, Amafo, and Please Lord.
“I hope you know what you are doing, you shy little man, you,” she said to Amafo. “You gonna be the talk of Spiro tonight.”
“Don’t let him go and get himself killed,” she said to Please Lord.
“Yessir, they will talk about my sweet William at the supper table tonight. Wonder how the talk will go at the Hardwicke household?” she said to herself.
“You go doing something foolish and I’ll bruise you on the other end,” she said to Amafo.
As Pokoni approached the house, she turned and faced the pink clouds to the east and offered her morning prayer. “Please Lord, if it be Thy will, get him home to me tonight. I’ll do anything you say. Bring him home safe.”
The sun had barely yellowed the tops of the pine trees when Amafo dismounted on a hillside overlooking the town. Still hidden from view, he stood in the shadows of a thicket. Spiro greeted him with a cool blue aura, somewhere between foreboding and friendly.
“This day can go either way,” he said aloud. “I ’spec I better keep a sharp eye out for flying boards. Not like last time.” Amafo laughed to himself.
Daylight soon replaced the long shadows of buildings. Sharp sunlight flashed upon brass doorknobs, glass windowpanes, weathervanes, silver hair combs, golden watch chains, knife blades, and gun barrels. Hypnotized by the symphony of light playing out in the valley before him, he leaned against the bark of the oldest elm in the grove. He was more exhausted than he knew. His knees gave way and he slid down the tree till his bottom settled in the leafy mulch of the forest floor.
Amafo welcomed the sleep that fell over him, a brief quieting of the mind in preparation for his return to Spiro.
Monday morning was in full swing when Amafo mounted Whiteface, patted her rump, and descended the gentle slope. He gave a soft tug to the reins and steered Whiteface in the direction of the train station.
“Might as well start at the beginning,” he said aloud. He lightly touched his cheek and laughed a nervous laugh. As he neared Spiro he heard the morning sounds, the cranking and rising of a store-front awning, the whish and whomp of a silver-haired woman beating dust from a floor rug.
Nahullos, thought Amafo. Some good, some bad, like Choctaws.
At the train station, Amafo tied Whiteface to the hitching post and stepped onto the platform. He walked past the tables and chairs lined up against the wall. When he came to the second table nearest the door, he stopped.
Two feet from the floor he saw traces of his own blood. Someone had scrubbed the wall where he had brushed up against it, but streaks of blood still shone from grooves in the wood.
He peered through the window and saw the clerk and a waiter sitting at a table, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. Amafo sat in the same chair he had occupied only two days earlier, with his back turned to the stationhouse. Ten minutes later the clerk glanced up and spotted him. He spoke to the waiter and the younger man strode through the door.
“Excuse me, I didn’t see you. What can I get for you?”
When Amafo turned and the waiter saw his face, he stepped back. “Oh. I’m sorry. I mean…I didn’t see you were hurt. May I help you?”
He stared at Amafo till a look of recognition crossed his face. “You were here Saturday with those children. That was you, wasn’t it?”
Amafo nodded.
“I’ll get you coffee.” The waiter touched his own face without realizing it, then retreated inside. A large bearded man soon appeared, holding two cups of coffee.
“I am John Burleson. I’m the stationmaster. May I sit with you?”
Amafo gestured to the empty seat in front of him. Burleson set the cups down and settled his bulky frame into the chair facing Amafo. Everything about him was massive, his hands, his prominent forehead, his large ears.
“We are sorry about what happened Saturday.”
“Thank you. For the coffee too. Thank you.”
“What is your name?”
“William Goode. Folks call me Amafo. It means grandfather in Choctaw talk, so you can call me Amafo.”
“Well, Amafo, you can have coffee here anytime. I mean that. I’ll tell my waiter that when you come to the station, you don’t pay for your coffee.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Burleson.”
“John, please call me John. I was in my upstairs office when the trouble started Saturday. By the time I came down, everyone had cleared out. I see the marshal broke your glasses.”
“They’re still good to see through,” said Amafo.
“You know the marshal is likely to spot you if you stay in town long.”
“I’m not afraid of the marshal,” said Amafo.
Burleson leaned back from the table in surprise. “Maybe you should be. I hope you’re not considering standing up to him. You ought to know better than anybody how crazy he gets.”
“I don’t mean to fight him,” said Amafo. “There are other ways to stand up to a man. I mean to be friendly to him.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“I need to let him know I am not afraid of him. I need that.”
“What will you do if he comes at you again?” asked Burleson.
“I ’spec I’d pray you’d be nearby,” said Amafo. Burleson laughed a long and friendly laugh. He sipped his coffee and studied this strange old Indian man.
“Well, I’m not really sure what you’re up to, my friend,” he finally said. “But I like your spirit.” He stood and gripped Amafo’s hand. “I wish you well and hope to see you often.”
The first passengers of the day were already lining up at the ticket window. As they passed Amafo, several people pointed to his face and spoke about him as if he were not there.
“Look at that old man.”
“Somebody sure beat him up.”
“You get a little too close to the tracks, Indian?” a young man said, turning to his two men companions and laughing.
Burleson moved between Amafo and the onlookers, letting them know with a quick glance to leave the old man alone.
“You gonna get those glasses fixed?” asked Burleson.
“Don’t think so, not just yet,” said Amafo.
“Hmmm. I think I know why you came back to town. Sort of a reminder to the good people of Spiro about their marshal. A different way of standing up to him, like you said.”
Amafo said nothing. Burleson picked his cup up and emptied it.
“You
have a friend in John Burleson,” he said, then turned to go.
The sun shone hot on Spiro when Amafo returned to Whiteface.
“Well, sorry to keep you waitin’, little lady, but I did alright. I had good coffee and made a new friend,” he told her. “Yessir, things went a little better than Saturday.”
Amafo was encouraged by John Burleson, but the cloud of dread that accompanied him was as dark as ever. With every passing minute his encounter with Marshal Hardwicke drew closer.
Leggy Maggie and Friends
How Things Came To Be
For twenty years, Maggie Johnston had suffered under the most despotic boss in Spiro—Hiram Blackstone, owner of the Spiro Drygoods Store. Hiram saw himself as a man in total control of his operation. Though he allowed Maggie to make small decisions, he reserved the large decisions for himself.
Maggie went along with this arrangement. She was simply waiting, after twenty years, for any large decisions to come along. So far none had.
Maggie was a stout woman, never married and in her mid-forties. According to the social customs of the day, this meant she was unlikely ever to be married. But more than one middle-aged gentleman in Spiro realized that a woman such as Maggie—smart, energetic, and earning a living wage—could prove to be a fine companion.
Magggie had other ideas. She had no desire to be anybody’s companion. She wanted a man who knew how to say “yes ma’am,” or at least a man like Hiram, who knew how to stay out of her way.
Maggie had one superficial flaw, her right leg. From just above the knee down, her right leg was wooden.
When Maggie was thirteen years old, she stepped on a thorny catclaw bush while drying off after a dip in the swimming hole. The small puncture wound grew into an ugly infestation. Her leg turned black, gangrene set in, and in an endless night of screams and tears, Maggie Johnston lost her leg.
But Maggie’s will was stronger than ever after the incident. To the surprise of dozens of lady well-wishers who flooded the Johnston house after hearing of her loss, she fought their pity with a vengeance.
“You eat their little coffee cakes!” she shouted at her mother. “I’m having grits and biscuits.”
