NO-NAME

by Tim Tingle

  Earlier, before he came home, I’d spent the evening running stuff from my bedroom to my new home. I hung my picture of the Oklahoma City Thunder on a thick root sticking through the ground. I had enough snacks to last me through breakfast. And I could sleep on the blue-and-white Indian rug from Santa Fe.

  I fell asleep peacefully, with no nightmares. Then, just after midnight, it happened, like in the horror movies. Maybe my life is a horror movie.

  “I’m gonna kill him! Just wait till I find him. I’ll whip him so hard he won’t sit down for a year!” Hearing my dad holler—and not knowing it was a dream—I jumped up and got ready to run.

  Pow! (That’s the sound of my head bumping on the bottom of the door. It hurts way more in real life, trust me.)

  “Oooow,” I said, muffling my voice with my hand. I didn’t feel any blood, but I knew I’d have a fat purple knot by morning.

  “If he thinks he can stay out all night, he’s got another think coming!”

  Who is he talking to? I wondered. I looked through the pipe. Just like in the horror movies, the moon was covered in clouds and I could see only shadows. Dad was sitting on the patio. At first I thought he was yelling into his cell phone.

  Then the wind blew the clouds from the moon and I caught a glimpse of his favorite drinking buddy, Mr. Robison. He was a history teacher at the high school, but he worked with my dad at the lumberyard for the summer.

  “Thanks for coming over,” my dad said. Dad liked Mr. Robison, I figured out, because he only drank a can or two. He was always sober enough to drive.

  “Never too late for a nightcap,” Mr. Robison replied. “Besides, somebody had to clear your neighbor’s trash can out of the driveway. I tossed it in your garage so they’ll think somebody stole it.” He laughed at his own dumb joke.

  I could hear everything they were saying through the pipe. This was weird. I didn’t like it. I knew my dad hated me, but I didn’t like hearing him talk about me to somebody else.

  “If that kid hadn’t run away, I’d never have smashed the trash can,” Dad said.

  That’s crazy, I thought. He smashed the trash can ’cause he was drunk.

  But here’s the strange thing. Mr. Robison didn’t say anything. My dad thought he agreed with him, but I saw something else. Mr. Robison rolled his eyes back, like you do when you hear something ridiculous. He didn’t correct my dad, but he didn’t agree with him.

  Maybe there’s hope, I thought. Maybe not all grown-ups are crazy.

  Seeing the world from my hole in the ground was really strange at first. But I learned something very important that evening. If you watch people, really watch them, especially when they don’t think you’re watching them, you see them better. You get to know them better.

  I saw a Mr. Robison my dad didn’t know. Mr. Robison didn’t blame me for the trash can. He didn’t blame me for my mom leaving. He blamed my dad for everything that was happening.

  I could see it in the way he looked at my dad.

  I grew more and more sleepy. I pulled the lookout tube under the leaves and fell asleep. When I woke up, the lights were out in the house. I needed to stretch my legs. I lifted the door and crawled from the hole.

  My ankle was still sore, but not as bad as yesterday. I made sure the lights were out all over the house.

  No need to drag the door over the hole, I thought. I’ll do that when I return.

  I walked through the back gate and into the field. The clouds still floated across the moon like in those horror movies. I stood and stared at it for the longest time. But this was no movie. This was real.

  I didn’t know how real till I climbed into the hole an hour later.

  I settled against the dirt wall and curled up, ready to sleep. I pulled the door over myself and wrapped the blanket around me. I thought I heard something move. I shined my flashlight on the opposite wall.

  A face stared back at me, a strange, inhuman face. The head of the thing sat on a short, chubby body, like a dwarf. Large paws swatted the air, and it came for me.

  “Turn that thing off! You’re blinding me,” it yelled.

  I flipped off the flashlight. “Mr. Robison?” I said. “Is that you?”

  “Yes, it’s me,” he said. “And you need to be a little more careful, son. Didn’t your momma ever tell you to look before you climb in a hole in your backyard?”

  “No,” I said. “She never did.”

  I was still scared, even though I knew the movie monster was really my dad’s friend. “Why are you here?” I asked him.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” he said.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “Son, your dad doesn’t pay much attention, to you or anybody else. I saw that pipe sticking up from the ground. I helped your dad to bed and thought I’d do some exploring. Sure enough, I found this hole.”

  “How did you know it was mine?”

  Mr. Robison tilted his head and gave me a funny look. “Hmmm,” he said. “This is the backyard of your house. Your dad says you’re not around anymore. There’s a rug and picture from your room.” He laughed a friendly laugh and gripped my shoulder.

  “Son, you’re not a bad kid. Maybe you’ll come through this mess all right.”

  I wasn’t sleepy anymore. I was wide awake.

  “Are you going to tell Dad?”

  “No, not yet. I’ll tell you what. I won’t tell your old man. When you are ready, you tell him.”

  “I’m too scared to tell him. He’d whip me worse than ever. You don’t know what he’s like when he gets mad.”

  “Oh, yes I do,” Mr. Robison said. “You’re not the only one he gets mad at, trust me.”

  “I’m the only one he whips when he’s mad.”

  Mr. Robison didn’t reply. He gave me a look that said, You’re too young to know the truth.

  Kids my age see that look a lot.

  “You’ll know more when you get older,” he said. “If you have time to listen, I have a story for you.”

  I had to laugh at that. “If I have time to listen,” I said, laughing as I spoke. “If I have time to listen! Mr. Robison, you sneak into my secret house under the ground and ask me if I have time to listen? Where would I go?”

  Mr. Robison laughed too. Maybe this was the first time in my life I ever shared a joke with a grown-up. He wasn’t like my mom, always nervous. Or my dad, always mean. Mr. Robison was hoke.

  “Is it a short story?” I asked. “I have to sleep soon. Busy day tomorrow, you know.”

  “Yeah, busy day hiding from your dad. No, it’s not short, but I’ll grab your foot if you start to fall asleep.”

  “Great,” I said. “Hoke, let’s hear it.”

  Chapter 8

  The Boy with No Name

  “First off, Bobby, you have to understand,” Mr. Robison said, “this is an old Choctaw story, one I heard from my uncle. I’m gonna remember it as best I can.”

  I nodded and he continued.

  Hoke, a long time ago there lived this Choctaw boy with no name. In those days you had to earn your name by being really good at something, like maybe stickball or hunting or fishing. And the elders would give you a name.

  But No Name, and that’s what they called him, he wasn’t that good at anything. He was just an average kid. And his dad didn’t like that, not one bit. Every morning he’d wake him up, hollering, “No Name! No Name! How can I ever be proud of a son with no name?” That’s what he’d say, every morning.

  I knew where this was going and I didn’t like it. This was gonna be a story about me and my dad. I dug this hole to get away from Dad, not to hear stories about him. But I knew better than to interrupt a grown-up, so I just shut up and listened.

  And every morning No Name would run to a tree in the backyard and cry. But he wasn’t by himself. A girl called Whispering Wind lived nearby. She moved as soft as the wind and barely even rattled the leaves when she walked.

  And this is what she did. Every morning she crept up behin
d him, wet her lips, and kissed him, right behind the ear. “Yowwww!” he would holler.

  “Do you know what happened then?” Mr. Robison asked me.

  I shrugged my shoulders and wrapped my arms around my knees. Of course I didn’t know what happened next. Mr. Robison was one funny dude.

  Whispering Wind stood there with a sweet little smile on her face. And every morning she said the same thing: “No Name, No Name. I will always love you, even though you have no name.”

  But No Name was so mad. He rubbed his wet ear and shouted, “I don’t love you! Leave me alone!”

  Then he grew to be ten years old, and nothing changed. Every morning his father would shake him and wake him. “No Name, No Name, get up! Go hunting, go fishing! Play stickball, do something! I can never be proud of a son with no name!”

  And every morning Whispering Wind snuck up behind him. Every morning she wet her lips with her tongue and kissed him, right on the ear. And every morning he ran to the woods yelling, “Leave me alone!”

  Then he grew to be twelve years old. In the old days, when you turned twelve years old, you became an adult Choctaw. There was a special celebration day and families came from miles around.

  After a day of food and visiting, the twelve-year-olds were lined up on the banks of the river. A Choctaw elder stepped into the water and everyone grew silent. This was like a baptism, but it was before Christianity came to the Choctaws, way before.

  One by one the old man led the twelve-year-olds into the water. When the water was waist high, he put his arm around their shoulders and whispered in their ear. He whispered words for only them to hear, words for life.

  As No Name stood waiting, he looked for his father. He couldn’t see him anywhere. Everyone else in his family was there, his grandparents and cousins, but not his dad.

  Soon the elder led No Name into the water. He wrapped his arm around his shoulders and whispered, “Be brave and go into it. You will know when. He needs you.”

  No Name closed his eyes, held his breath, and the old man dipped him into the shallow waters. When he lifted him from the river, No Name was a grown-up Choctaw. He stepped to the shore and an old woman met him with a blanket. She dried him off and he sat close to the campfire.

  For hours the Choctaw elders told stories to the young ones, about other tribes, other nations that were our friends, and who our enemies were. They talked about the funny trickster Rabbit, and about giving to others—for that is the Choctaw way.

  As the ceremony drew to a close, the Choctaw chief rose to speak and everyone grew silent. “This is the most important lesson of all,” he said. “No matter how mean someone has been to you, you must always find a way to forgive them.”

  Mr. Robison didn’t say anything for a long time. He just looked at me. I knew who he was talking about. There was no getting away from my dad.

  “What if he beats you and tells you you’re a piece of dung?” I asked.

  “What if he loves you but doesn’t know how to say it?” Mr. Robison replied.

  “Shut up about my dad!” I shouted. “He doesn’t love me! I don’t want to hear this!” I pulled my shirt over my head and cried. I didn’t care if Mr. Robison heard me or not.

  “You’re no better than my dad!” I said. “Just go away. I never asked you here.”

  But he didn’t go away. He waited for me to finish crying and hollering. I wiped my face with my shirt and looked up at him. Mr. Robison had the saddest look on his face.

  “I’m sorry I made you cry,” he said. Even in the darkness I could see shiny tears on his cheeks.

  “I’m sorry, too,” I said. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

  “Do you want me to go?”

  Of course I wanted him to go, but I couldn’t say it. I just couldn’t be that mean to him. So I lied. Even though it meant he’d be around for who knows how long, I lied.

  “No, don’t go,” I said. “I want to hear the rest of the story.” (Another lie!)

  Chapter 9

  How Bad Can It Get?

  “Hoke,” he said. “Where were we? Oh yeah.”

  After midnight the ceremony was over and people were tired. Some curled up in their blankets and slept by the fire. Others started walking home.

  No Name’s mother said to him, “Son, I am going to your aunt’s campsite and taking your sister with me. You can walk home by yourself. You’ll be safe.”

  No Name nodded and started walking, all by himself. “This is my special celebration day,” he said to himself, “and I am alone, just like always.”

  But as he neared his house, he saw a fire in the fireplace. He wondered what was happening and looked through the window. His father was sitting by the fire! No Name smiled the biggest smile of his life.

  He looked to the starry sky and spoke aloud. “This was the plan all along,” he said. “My father was at the river, hiding in the shadows. He saw me go into the water. They wanted to surprise me. That’s why my mother is staying with her sister, so my father and I can have this time, just the two of us! We can have our first man-to-man talk! This is the happiest day of my life.”

  No Name stepped into the house, scared and happy at the same time.

  He had never really noticed how big his dad was. As he stood up, his father spread his arms. They cast huge shadows in front of the fire, shadows that wrapped around the whole room. No Name stood and stared, waiting for his father to speak.

  And when he did, his voice was deep and strong. “No Name,” his father said, reaching for him. “No Name, come to me, son. I am so proud of you.”

  But when his father said the word “proud,” something happened. He grew angry, just like before. He put his hand on No Name’s chest and closed his eyes. “No Name,” he said, spitting on the floor. “No Name! How could I ever be proud of a son with no name?”

  He shoved No Name so hard the boy stumbled backward, out the door and down the steps. He landed hard on his back and the breath left him. As he lay on the ground, No Name felt more grown up than ever. It wasn’t the tears running down his cheeks that felt grown up.

  It was the sobbing—deep in his chest—a sobbing that he knew would never go away. His father slammed the door and threw water on the fire. Smoke filled the house, and his father left through the back door.

  Mr. Robison stopped talking. I was crying again, just like No Name. I wrapped my arms around myself and rocked back and forth.

  “Make the hurting go away,” I said. “Can you please make it all go away.”

  I came to my senses and waited for Mr. Robison to tell the rest of the story. But he couldn’t, not yet. Mr. Robison was crying, too.

  “You are Choctaw too, Mr. Robison. Aren’t you?” I asked.

  “Yes, Bobby, I am Choctaw.”

  “Was your dad like No Name’s?”

  “No. I had a good dad.”

  “You were lucky,” I said.

  “I know, Bobby. I miss him.”

  Chapter 10

  Worse than You Think

  We both sat for a while without saying anything. Finally I spoke.

  “Mr. Robison?”

  “What?”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why are you telling me this? It won’t do any good. My dad hates me and that’s never gonna change.”

  “I agree with you about one thing, Bobby. Your dad is mean, as mean as anybody I’ve ever met. If he did in public the things he’s done to you and your mother, he’d be in jail. For a long time.”

  “Then why are you his friend?”

  “Sometimes I ask myself that, Bobby.”

  Neither of us said anything for a long time, but I knew he wanted to tell me something about my dad.

  “I have seen another side to your dad,” he finally said. “With your mother gone and now you out of his life, your dad has had to admit, probably for the first time ever, that he is the problem. He’s brought all of this on himself.”

  “Did h
e tell you that?” I asked.

  “Yes, he did, Bobby. When he’s sober, he’s a different man. But, hey, that’s enough about your old man. Let’s get back to the story, how about it?”

  “Gladly,” I said.

  “Hoke,” he said.

  No Name finally stopped sobbing. He stood up and walked to the tree where Whispering Wind was waiting for him. Somehow he knew she would be there.

  She touched his shoulder. “No Name,” she said, “I will always love you, even though you have no name.”

  He hung his head before speaking. “At least somebody does,” he said. “At least somebody does.”

  As he walked to the woods, she followed him. And for the first time, her feet crackled on the dry sycamore leaves. No Name could hear her. He took her by the hand and they walked to the river. They sat all night on the riverbank and watched the yellow moon sparkle on the water.

  And then he grew to be sixteen. The age of sixteen is another important time, for at the age of sixteen a Choctaw boy can go to battle if war is declared.

  The young boys were excited. “We can earn new and braver names,” they said, and No Name whispered to himself, “And I can earn a name at all.”

  But the older Choctaws, they prayed for peace. They knew that war brings death and they wanted none of it. But in this story, the young people had their way. A group of Creeks came far too close to Choctaw town, and Choctaw scouts were sent out to see what the Creeks wanted.

  When the scouts reported back to the Choctaw Council, they weren’t worried. “They have no weapons,” the scouts said. “They’re only cutting firewood. Maybe there is no wood in Creek country.”

  The older council members were not convinced. “There is more wood in the mountains of Creek country than in these Choctaw swamps,” they said. “Keep an eye on them.”

  But the young scouts didn’t listen. They returned to the Creek camp and fell asleep on their watch. As soon as the Creeks saw them sleeping, they gathered bundles of wood. Very quietly, they snuck to the edge of town and stuffed the bundles under Choctaw houses. Then they set fire to the wood and dashed away.