NO-NAME

by Tim Tingle

  “Wanna play some half-court?” Tallboy asked.

  “Be hoke,” Johnny said.

  “Cool,” said Tallboy. “Let’s see. We got six players. So who wants to play with the redskins?”

  The others shook their heads and laughed. “No way. I ain’t playing with those losers,” said one.

  “Then I guess it’s two on two,” said Tallboy. “Make it, take it. Whoever scores gets to keep the ball. You want the ball first?”

  “Sure,” Johnny said.

  Tallboy walked to him, as if to hand him the basketball. When he was only a few feet from Johnny, he flipped him a hard two-handed pass. The ball hit Johnny in the face.

  “Gotta be ready if you want the ball,” Tallboy said, and they laughed.

  Johnny clenched his fists. I knew what he was thinking. He was trying to decide if he should bust Tallboy in the jaw or let him get away with it.

  Part of me was hoping he’d smash the Nahullo punk in the face and bloody his nose. But another part of me knew what would happen. We were the Indian kids, the new kids. That would be the end of basketball for us.

  “What’s the matter? You got some chicken mixed in with that Cherokee blood?” Tallboy taunted.

  That told us everything we needed to know. If he knew Johnny was Cherokee, Tallboy also knew we’d been asked to join the team. Word gets around fast in a small town.

  Of course they knew. That’s why they came to our neighborhood.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” Johnny said. “OK, so you caught me by surprise. Let’s see what you can do with the ball. You take it first.”

  Johnny tossed him the basketball.

  “Bart, let’s take these punks,” Tallboy said. A short, muscled-up boy nodded and slapped his palms together. The other two moved off the court and the game began.

  Bart tossed the ball inbounds to Tallboy, who went to work right away. He backed into Johnny hard, almost pushing him to the ground. But Johnny kept his balance and pushed back.

  Tallboy swung his elbow at Johnny, but Johnny was ready. He knew Tallboy would play dirty.

  He dodged the elbow and went for the basketball. Before Tallboy knew what had happened, Johnny stole the basketball. He tossed it to me, and I sank a long shot from the corner.

  “You lucky pile of buffalo dung!” shouted Tallboy.

  “Yeah,” Johnny said. “He’s lucky. I never saw him do that before.”

  I stepped out of bounds and tossed the ball to Johnny. He had his back to Tallboy, so when the elbow came he didn’t see it. Tallboy smacked him hard in the jaw and Johnny’s lip burst open. Blood dripped on the leather basketball.

  “Let’s go, Johnny,” I said. “We don’t need this.”

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea, punk,” said Tallboy. “Go back to the rez where you belong!”

  “Not just yet,” Johnny said. He turned and faced Tallboy. Blood ran down his neck and covered his shirt. He didn’t do anything to stop it, like he didn’t notice. “I know you’re strong. I know you can play dirty. But I want to know if you can play basketball.”

  Tallboy didn’t reply. He looked at his buddies and laughed. “You hear that?” he said. “He’s dumber than I thought.”

  His friends laughed too. “He don’t know a tail-kicking from basketball,” said Bart.

  “We know the difference,” Johnny said. “But I guess we are dumb about one thing. When you said you wanted to play basketball, we thought you were serious. We want to see if you guys are basketball players.”

  “You still wanna play us?” Tallboy asked.

  “Yes, we do. And you got your punch in,” Johnny said. “I give you that. You’re the seniors. We’re the punks. OK. But no more. Clean, hard play. Can we agree on that?” Johnny wiped the blood from his mouth and reached out his palm for a handshake.

  Tallboy looked over his shoulder. His friends waited for him to decide. “All right with me,” Tallboy said, slapping Johnny’s hand.

  The next hour was some of the toughest basketball I’ve ever played in my life. I did get elbowed in the ribs, more than once. And I gave it back.

  Johnny was shoved to the court when Tallboy dove for the ball. But no more elbows to the mouth. No more laughing and name-calling. Tallboy was a good player, better than we thought. He had a smooth jump shot and could shoot a nice hook shot with either hand.

  But he went for every fake. He was easy to drive against, easy to shoot over.

  We split the first two games. “Next winner’s the champ,” Tallboy said. “And we get a substitution. Darrell, you ready to play?”

  A quiet Nahullo boy stood up. “I’m always ready,” he said. He walked on the court, rolling his arms around and lifting his knees to warm up. Johnny and I looked at each other. Darrell was Tallboy’s secret weapon.

  We took the ball first. I threw it to Johnny and he tossed it to me in the corner. Darrell was under the basket.

  He’s waiting for the rebound, I thought. He’s not even gonna guard me. I took a dribble and got ready to shoot.

  In the next two seconds everything changed.

  Darrell wasn’t waiting for the rebound. He was baiting me to shoot. I took my time, and when the ball left my hand, Darrell was ready. He took two long steps and jumped as high as the rim. He swatted the ball over my head and into the trees.

  “Wow!” I said.

  “Wow times two,” Johnny said.

  “Nice block,” Tallboy said. “By the way, my name is Jimmy. And me and Darrell are starters on the team.” He had a big grin on his face, a friendly grin.

  Johnny and I played as hard as we could, but Jimmy and Darrell were good. Darrell was too tall for me to guard. He leaped over me and banked the ball off the backboard for the game winner.

  “Nice game,” he said, and shook my hand.

  “Yeah, good game,” Jimmy said. “It’s time for us to hit the road.” As they crossed the park to their car, Jimmy walked behind the others. We turned to shoot a few more baskets before heading for home, so we didn’t see Jimmy return.

  “How’s your mouth?” he asked Johnny. “You gonna be OK?”

  “No problem,” Johnny said.

  Jimmy touched his fist to his chest and nodded. Though no words of apology were said, this was Jimmy’s way of saying “I’m sorry.”

  Johnny nodded back. I was proud of him, proud of us. Jimmy and his friends circled the park, honked and waved, and sped away. Johnny and I were now official members of the high school basketball team.

  And why? Because Johnny was smart enough not to fight.

  Chapter 14

  Peace Offering or Trap?

  “How did you do that?” I asked Johnny. We were getting close to my house and I saw Dad’s truck wasn’t in the driveway.

  “Do what?” Johnny asked.

  “Stay cool when he busted you.”

  “I learned that from my uncle,” Johnny said.

  “I never saw a Cherokee take it from a Nahullo,” I said.

  Johnny laughed. “Hey, not all Cherokees are hotheads. You’ve been listening to your dad too much. Besides, my uncle’s not Cherokee. He’s a white dude, married to my aunt. I used to spend summers with him, before we moved here. He’s a lawyer in Durant. At least he’s living there now.”

  “That’s the Choctaw capitol, Durant,” I said.

  “Yeah, my uncle’s working for the Choctaw Nation.”

  “Doing what?’

  “Some fight over who owns the water rights. He says the state of Oklahoma is trying to drain Choctaw lakes.”

  “Yeah, I heard the chief talk about that last Labor Day. Those lakes are in Choctaw Nation, Johnny,” I said, remembering Chief Pyle’s speech.

  “Hey, bro, I’m with you,” Johnny said. “Big time.”

  “But what does that have to do with taking a dirty punch?” I asked him.

  “Well,” Johnny said, “my lawyer uncle says if you pay attention, you can see who’s gonna win a fight before it ever starts. I looked around the basketball c
ourt this morning. I saw four of them and two of us. They outweighed us by maybe forty pounds apiece. And they are athletes. We didn’t stand a chance.”

  “Unless we could keep it on the court,” I said. “Smart move, Johnny.”

  “Thanks. Now, what’s up with your old man?”

  “Nothing changes,” I said. “He’s mad at me and happy with his beer.”

  “Something’s gotta change,” Johnny said. “You can’t live underground and play basketball. You have to go to school. Make good grades.”

  “Hey, Johnny! You my friend or not?” I shouted. “I don’t want to talk about it!”

  Johnny didn’t say a word for a long time. We walked around the house and climbed over the fence. “How long before Mr. Robison tells him where you are?” he finally asked.

  “I’m hoping he won’t tell him. Ever. He knows what my dad will do to me. He remembers the time I missed school for a few days. Dad got mad and kicked me. Cracked two ribs.”

  “What did your mom do?”

  “She lied for him,” I said. “She told the principal I fell off the roof. But she’s tired of lying for him. That’s why she’s gone.”

  Johnny stopped and stared down at the door. I could tell that he didn’t want to crawl underground with me.

  “Dad’s not home,” I said. “Let’s sit on the patio.”

  “Sure thing,” he said.

  “If he does come home, we can hear those mufflers from a mile away.”

  Johnny nodded and we sat down on the patio. He took the same folding chair Mr. Robison had sat in the night before. I sat where my dad always sat. I felt a little funny doing that. I was thinking maybe he could tell I’d been there.

  “Hey, what’s this?” Johnny asked. He lifted a sack from under the table.

  “I don’t know. What’s in it?”

  “Looks like a sandwich, potato chips, and a bottle of lemonade. And there’s a note on the sack.”

  “What’s it say?” I asked.

  He read it to himself and put the sack on the table.

  “You better read it,” he said. The look on his face was strange.

  “Hoke,” I said, reading out loud. “If you ever come home, this food is for you, Bobby. Your Dad.”

  Sometimes, no matter how bad things are, they are what they are. You know who likes you. You know who doesn’t. You wake up in the morning and know the world you live in.

  But this was one of those times when everything changed. I hated it. I hated him. I could not be in my hole anymore. I had to tell somebody.

  “I hate him!” I yelled. “I hate his guts!”

  “He left you a sandwich, Bobby,” Johnny said. “Maybe—”

  “Shut up! I hate you, too. You and Mr. Robison and anybody who thinks things can change. Just shut up! I don’t want my old man’s food. I want him gone. I want him dead!”

  Johnny lifted his head slowly. He looked at me like he had never seen me before in his life. He shook his head.

  “You don’t want that,” he said. He closed his eyes and hung his head. He felt bad for me, I could see it. He knew I had said something I would regret for the rest of my life.

  He was right. I didn’t want my dad to be dead and gone. I wanted him to care for me. I wanted him to care for my mother. But the first time he tried to show he cared, by leaving me a sack of food, what did I do? I yelled and screamed and said I wanted him dead.

  I stood up. I picked up the sack. I lifted it over my head, to fling it over the fence for the rats and ants to eat. But I didn’t fling it over the fence.

  “Yakoke, Johnny. You’re a good friend,” I said. I sat down and tore open the bag of chips. I split the peanut butter sandwich in half and handed him the lemonade.

  “We can share the lemonade,” he said. I nodded. We didn’t say anything for five minutes. We chewed the sticky sandwich. The peanut butter had melted and was running all over the table. We chewed the chips and traded swigs of lemonade.

  We never looked at each other. Then Johnny started laughing.

  What does he have to laugh about? I thought, staring down at the table. But that was strange—to be having a meal with your friend and not even be looking at him.

  I glanced up and saw Johnny licking peanut butter off his lips and laughing. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  But I felt a stupid grin creep across my face. Soon I was laughing too. My Cherokee buddy Johnny and I laughed till our bellies were sore.

  I took a drink, but I couldn’t keep it down. I spit lemonade all over the table. Johnny took a long drink of lemonade and spit it all over me!

  “Hey!” I shouted. “That’s not funny!” But of course it was. It was even funnier when I took a handful of potato chips and dashed around the table. I tossed Johnny’s Cherokee cap to the yard and crushed the chips in Johnny’s hair.

  We rolled on the ground, wrestling and laughing. After a while we lay back on the grass and tried to catch our breath.

  “This laughing takes a lot of energy,” Johnny said.

  “Yeah. Why are we laughing anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe laughing is better than crying.”

  “Yeah. I guess so,” I said. “I have plenty to cry about.”

  “You have plenty to be thankful for, too,” Johnny said. “When’s the last time your dad made lunch for you?”

  “Been a while.”

  “And we’re on the basketball team, Bobby!”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s hard to believe.”

  That’s when we heard Dad’s truck. The mufflers rattled and roared. He was turning into the driveway.

  “Hey man, I better be going,” Johnny said.

  “Yeah. Me, too. Going to my hole. See you later, Johnny.”

  Johnny climbed over the fence and I ran to the door. I slid it aside and jumped inside. I waited just long enough to give Dad time to park his truck. He’ll come to the patio to see if I ate lunch, I thought.

  I looked through the pipe and what I saw made me cry out loud.

  “No!” I covered my mouth and hoped he hadn’t heard me. I started to push the door open and run for it. But there was no time.

  Johnny’s Cherokee baseball cap was lying a few feet from the table.

  Chapter 15

  Johnny’s Dad

  Please, don’t let him come outside, I prayed.

  But I knew he would. He opened the back door and smiled. He saw the sack was empty and the food was gone.

  Then he did something I never saw him do. He put his hands together and bowed his head and closed his eyes, like he was praying.

  “You ate your lunch, son,” he said. “Thank you, Lord, for bringing him home.”

  I wished the sun would set and the day would end, with my dad thanking the Lord for me, his son. But the day was not over, not yet.

  My dad saw it. Johnny’s baseball cap.

  “Oh no,” I whispered.

  Dad picked up Johnny’s cap. Even from twenty feet away, looking through the plastic pipe, I saw his face change. I saw the red veins in his neck swell. His chest moved back and forth and I knew he was breathing hard.

  The dad I didn’t know, this thankful-for-his-son dad was gone.

  I closed my eyes and put my hands over my face. I couldn’t help myself. I knew he would hit me hard. What am I doing? I thought. He can’t get me here.

  But even in my secret room, Dad was never far away. He threw Johnny’s cap against the side of the house. He balled up his fist and looked ready to slam it against the brick wall. Then he remembered. The last time he did that, he broke two fingers. He had to drink his beer with his left hand for a month.

  Dad shook his fist and looked to the sky.

  He’s taking back everything he said, I thought.

  Dad kicked the folding chair where Johnny had been sitting only a few minutes ago. The chair flew through the air and landed on top of my room.

  “No, please no,” I said. I was afraid Dad would cross the yard and pick
up the chair. He couldn’t see my room, but if he stepped on the door I was in big, big trouble. He would rip open the door and I would be a trapped fox in the shotgun of my father’s fists.

  But he didn’t come for the chair. Instead, he grabbed Johnny’s cap and stormed through the house, slamming the door hard behind himself. I heard the mufflers roar.

  “He’s going to Johnny’s house,” I said. “He’s going to my best friend’s house and there is nothing I can do.” I gave my dad a few minutes, to make sure he was gone. Then I climbed out of my room and dragged the door over the hole.

  No time to waste, I thought. I hopped over the fence and started running. I took the shortcut to Johnny’s house, across the field. As I ran, I felt my cell phone in my shirt pocket, bouncing against my chest.

  “Yes!” I shouted. I sat down and made my first-ever cell-phone call, on my new phone!

  “Hello,” Johnny said.

  “Bad news, Johnny,” I said. “My dad just found your cap on the patio.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Yeah. Uh-oh is right,” I said. “He just pulled out of the driveway. He’s coming after you, Johnny. He thinks you found the food and ate it yourself. Are your folks there?”

  “My mom’s gone shopping, but Dad is here. What should I do?” Johnny asked.

  “Explain to your dad what happened. My dad will be there any minute.”

  “I better warn my dad,” Johnny said. “I gotta go. Trust me, Bobby, it’ll be okay. See you later.”

  Johnny hung up the phone and I just stood there staring at the phone. There was nothing I could do. I looked across the field. My eyes stopped on the hole where I had sprained my ankle.

  That seemed like years ago. I remembered dragging the door and digging the hole.

  “I am not helpless,” I said. I ran as fast as I could to Johnny’s yard. I slipped through the gate and hid behind some rosebushes in his backyard. Through a window I saw Johnny and his dad sitting at a table. Johnny was talking and his dad was nodding and listening. Johnny was waving his arms and talking fast.

  Suddenly Johnny stopped talking. His arms froze in midair. His dad looked to the front of the house. They heard the mufflers before I did.

  My dad was pulling into their driveway. Johnny’s dad stood up and left the room. Johnny stayed where he was, waiting for the storm. I ran across the yard and knocked on the window.