Two Roads

by Joseph Bruchac

  Despite that atmosphere of ease among the boys, order is being kept among the female students. Older women are herding them away from the boys.

  Pop notices me watching all this.

  “House matrons,” he says, smiling. “But they can’t keep watch all the time. You can’t count the number of marriages that have come out of old Challagi.”

  He studies the groups of male students now moving away from us in all directions. “I see another thing hasn’t changed much,” he says. “Those boys there look to all be full-bloods. And over there . . .” He nods toward a group of young men with much lighter hair and paler faces. “Ten to one, those come from families so mixed that they are less than one-eighth and don’t know a word of Indian, speak only English at home. You can bet they get called stahitkey.”

  “Stah-what?” That word was strange. Even the way he pronounced it was unlike anything else I’ve ever heard from his mouth.

  “Stahitkey,” he says again, saying it slower so I can get it. I notice that his lips don’t move as he says it. “It means white man.”

  I don’t have a white face. But until two days ago I thought I was white or stahitkey as Pop called them. Is that what the boys in the school will call me?

  “White man,” Pop says again. “Stahitkey.”

  As he speaks that word, a shadow falls across our feet.

  “William Blackbird? Is that you?”

  We turn to look up at the man who spoke. He’s standing with the rising sun directly at his back, so bright it is hard to make out his face. But I know who it is, having heard that voice of his so loud and recent. It’s the superintendent.

  Pop moves his pack off his lap and stands up. Superintendent Morrell holds out his arms, grasping Pop’s elbow with his left hand as he vigorously shakes with his right.

  “It is you, isn’t it?”

  “You could say that,” Pop replies.

  Superintendent Morrell turns to me, releasing Pop’s hand from his huge paw. “And who might this be? No, do not tell me. Your son from the look of him. The very image of his father.”

  “My boy, Cal,” Pop agrees.

  “Sir,” I say, nodding my head.

  Then I hold out my hand, ready to have it crushed. To my surprise, though, the superintendent’s big mitt makes mine disappear right up to the wrist, his pressure is firm but light.

  “Young man,” he says, “am I correct in assuming your father has brought you here to join us? Although it is . . .” his voice takes on a teasing tone “. . . far from the start of the regular school year?”

  “Yes, sir,” I reply.

  Superintendent Morrell nods down at me. “Good manners,” he says. “Excellent.”

  He’s so close I can smell something on his breath.

  Mints, I think.

  My conjecture is proven right away. He reaches into his coat pocket, extracts a red-striped lump, shucks off the cellophane, and pops the candy into his mouth.

  “Your father,” he says, sucking on the mint, “had quite a record here at Challagi. Unforgettable, some might say. A fair student in the academic realm, but top-notch in agricultural skills. Promising—when he was not running away. Two times in four years, was it?”

  “Three,” Pop says, “if you count when I enlisted.”

  Superintendent Morrell smiles broadly, disclosing a gap between his two front teeth.

  “I do not,” he says. “Answering the call of duty to one’s country cannot be called running away. Rather running to. From what I heard, you acquitted yourself quite well as a soldier, William.”

  “You could say that.”

  The superintendent nods, then gestures at me with an open left hand. “So,” he says, “why now?”

  My father breathes in and then out, the way he does when he means to make his words count.

  “We had a farm,” he says, his voice slow and clear. “Lost it to the bank. Cal was in school. That got closed down when there were not enough kids left. I have hopes now to get my bonus money and get us another farm. Until then I want Cal to be back in school.”

  The superintendent nods his head up and down when Pop finishes speaking, looking even more like a heron as he does so.

  “Ah,” he says. “Good enough. We are a bit down in numbers. There could be room. If he is a good student . . .?”

  “He is,” Pop says.

  “And a hard worker?”

  “That, too.”

  “Then, we may find a place for him here. Interested in agricultural science, young man?”

  “Yes, sir,” I reply. Then, seeing more of an answer is expected, I force myself to add, “I like farming.”

  The superintendent slaps his hands together, producing a sound so loud I almost jump back. “Excellent. As your son, an enrolled member of the Creek Nation, there’s no question that the government will subsidize him.” He shakes his head. “You might be amazed at how many—unlike your boy—have sought a place here in recent years with no degree of Indian blood or claim to being Indian . . . Negroes in particular. Unlike your years here, the number of full-bloods has declined greatly. Less than half. Your race might be bred out of existence before achieving the full benefits of civilization.”

  I wait for Pop to mention that I am already fully civilized, a gentleman of the road, and half-white. But instead he just sighs.

  “Are we set then?” Pop asks.

  “There are certain forms,” the superintendent replies.

  “Can I fill ’em out now?” Pop asks. “Hoped by coming this early I could settle my boy in time to catch a train.”

  Superintendent Morrell nods. He turns and makes a broad gesture toward one of the big-hatted women who’d been seated to his right. She’s a bone-thin lady, with brown hair framing an angular face that looks washed clean of all expression. She’s wearing white, from her hat to her calf-length dress, stockings, and shoes. She was watching us the whole time the superintendent was talking with Pop, sort of expectant. Soon as he gives her that wave, a purposeful look comes onto her face. She nods, stands up, straightens her shoulders, and strides off.

  The superintendent pivots back our way.

  “My office,” he says, popping another mint into his mouth. “We shall do the paperwork—despite it being a Sunday. I think the Lord will forgive us.”

  Then he turns and begins striding long-legged across the grass oval, us tagging along behind him.

  He didn’t notice the look I’m certain is on my face right now. I’m dizzied by how fast things are happening. I want to grab Pop’s hand and ask him not to leave me. But I am not going to make it harder for him to do what he’s decided he has to do. Even though I feel like I’m carrying a ton of weight.

  We have not walked twenty feet, though, before Pop puts an arm around my shoulders.

  “Cal,” he says, his voice is kind. “This is a lot for you to absorb all at once. You going to be all right?”

  “It’s okay,” I say, somehow keeping my voice calm. “I’m ready.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  THE TOUR

  Our walk across the wide oval is more or less in the direction of the big central building made of white stone. It’s where the smaller of the boys in uniform headed when they were dismissed. The others continued on to two other sizable buildings beyond that one.

  Those uniformed boys are disappearing into those three structures. Maybe to change out of those stiff-looking uniforms. Those duds seemed much too heavy for a hot, sunny day like this one is becoming.

  None of the girls went in the direction of the boys, though. Kept in tight order, they were herded along by the house matrons to three other buildings far off to the east.

  Like Pop said, keeping the boys and girls as far apart as possible is the order of the day here.

  As soon as I think that, Superintendent M
orrell speaks up.

  “Boys’ dorms ahead of us, Houses Two, Four, Six,” he says. “Girls, Houses One, Three, and Five off over to our right.”

  “East is east and west is west and never the twain shall meet,” Pop says.

  “Very good,” the superintendent says, nodding in approval. “You’ve kept your Kipling.”

  As we continue along, the superintendent points out more things. “Power plant. Laundry. Harness shop. Print shop. Dining hall.” He stops and a big smile splits his face as he gestures with both arms. “And there, there are our livestock barns.”

  There’s a note of genuine pride now in his voice.

  “The finest herd of Herefords in all of Oklahoma! Percheron horses that are the envy of the state fair. And our chickens, all Rhode Island Whites, are so many and such reliable layers that we now have at least one egg a day for every student.”

  “Better than when I was here,” Pop whispers to me as the superintendent strides ahead of us, unwrapping yet another mint and tossing the cellophane off to the side. “Back then I was lucky if I saw an egg a week in the dining hall.” Pop chuckles. “Though we did liberate quite a few eggs and more than one fat chicken from the henhouse at night and cook them at our camp back in the catalpa grove.”

  We’re beginning to run into groups of male students, changed now into work clothes. Sunday makes no difference to cows that need milking, chickens that need feeding, and clothes that need washing. More and more boys are heading off to their daily chores in the barns, the laundry, and other work buildings.

  All of them politely greet the superintendent, but none speak more than a word or two. Good morning and then a Yes, sir or No, sir to any question he asks.

  None show any interest in me other than the quick glance of an expressionless face. As far as I am concerned that’s aces. I would just as soon not be noticed. Being invisible would suit me just fine. Being anywhere but here would be even better.

  I also want to know more of what it was like when Pop was here. But everything is moving so fast that my head is spinning. I’m not going to get the chance to ask him anything.

  Pop has seen me taking notice of the other boys. And maybe he can see what I’m thinking as he so often does. He leans in my direction as we keep walking.

  “Sunday,” he says to me in a low voice that goes unheard by our enthusiastic guide still striding ahead of us and praising the civilizing virtues of his institution. “Sunday was always my favorite day. After morning service, drill, and taking care of chores, we were left on our own. No way they could keep an eye on us all.” Pop chuckles. “We went hunting in the woods, sneaked off and had our own fun. Like those boys you just saw there. Five’ll get you ten they’re planning some mischief.”

  “Now here we are,” Morrell says. “Building One.”

  We’ve come around to the broad steps of that big white building. Those steps are so wide at the top I’d bet every student in the whole school could sit on them all at once. Up top to one side is a small screened-in porch. It looks empty.

  But as we ascend the stairs, our long-legged leader two steps above Pop and me, I see a slight movement off to the side, inside that porch. Its screens are heavy wire mesh. A closed, bolted door leads into the wooden box of a room that’s no more than six feet wide and ten feet long. Someone, staying in the farthest shadowy corner, is locked in there.

  “One of our recalcitrants,” the superintendent says, looking back over his shoulder. His voice is matter of fact. “Another day to go in there for that young man.”

  “Not using the guardhouse anymore?” Pop asks.

  “Certainly not,” Morrell replies. “Discipline, of course, is still needed. But not in such uncivilized ways. Those unenlightened days are past at our school.”

  Then he walks on into the building.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  POSSUM

  Feeling like a lamb being led to the slaughter, I enter the building where the superintendent is waiting. He’s sitting at a square oak table, that mild smile on his long face.

  To my surprise, Morrell’s not alone. There’s an Indian boy with him. He looks to be about my age—maybe twelve or thirteen. Taller, though, and a good bit skinnier. To my further surprise, he’s someone I recognize. Even though he’s now in bib overalls and black sneakers rather than an army-style uniform and boots, I’ve noticed the scar on his sun-browned face. It’s the boy who was two rows back from the front, the one who winked at me.

  “Charles Aird,” Superintendent Morrell says, pointing his finger like a gun at the boy’s chest. Then he points back at me. “You will be in his class.”

  He swings his mile-long finger back in the scarred boy’s direction. “Mr. Aird, this is Calvin Blackbird. You will show him about. Make certain he is properly prepared for tomorrow.”

  Charles Aird replies with a nod of his head. “Yes, sir,” he says, clicking his heels together. “Superintendent Sir! At your command, Sir.”

  His face is dead serious. Somehow, though, the way he said those few words was almost as funny as if he’d just cracked a joke.

  Superintendent Morrell shakes his head. “None of your tomfoolery, Aird. Just do as you are told.”

  “Yes, sir, even if it means I die trying.”

  “The boy thinks himself amusing,” Morrell says. “Still, he is reliable.” He turns to Charles Aird and his voice takes on a firmer tone of command. “Now, take our new recruit about. The infirmary first.”

  “Yes, sir, Superintendent Sir,” Charles Aird says.

  Then, as the superintendent looks down to take another mint from his pocket, Aird leans his head close to mine to whisper one word.

  “Ouch!”

  I look at my father.

  “Go ahead, Cal,” Pop says. “It’ll take me a bit to fill out the forms. I’ll see you before I go.”

  Before I go.

  Those three words hit like arrows shot into my chest. But I don’t let it show. I just nod.

  I’m steered out the door by Charles Aird.

  Halfway down the steps, he turns and says something to me.

  I do not understand a word.

  He says it again. Once again it makes no sense. I just look at him.

  “Hmmm,” he says. “Looking the way you do, I thought you might talk it. Your pappy never taught you?”

  I still don’t understand.

  “Indian,” Charles Aird says. “You never learned to speak Indian.”

  Oh.

  Should I tell him until only a day ago I never even knew Pop was Indian? How can I explain that to him when I don’t really understand it myself? So I just keep my answer simple.

  “No,” I say.

  Charles Aird nods. “Okay,” he says. “Lots here never got taught nothing but English, especially if their folks went here. Even some who look as Creek as you do.”

  I follow him down the steps. At the bottom, he jerks his chin off to the left.

  “Come on,” he says. “This way.”

  I look in that direction. There’s another slightly smaller building a hundred yards away. It’s not built of stone like the one we just left. It’s wood, painted white as snow.

  “Building Four,” Charles Aird says. “Scalping shop. Infirmary’s in there, too. First stop.” He lifts his right hand, opens and closes his index and middle fingers. “Snip, snip. No barber today, but nurse’ll do as good a job of chopping off that long hair of yours.” He runs his palm back over his own closely cropped head. “Can’t have none of us looking like wild Indians and scaring the teachers.”

  His short laugh is more like a snort. “Ready to get shaved like a sheep?”

  He studies my face as he says that. Looking to see if I show any signs of anxiety about being shorn like Samson in the Bible story. I knew this was going to happen. But now that time is almost her
e, that gut shot pain is back. However, I keep my face impassive and merely nod.

  “Talkative, ain’t you?” Charles Aird says with a chuckle. He starts walking, me half a step behind. We don’t go far before he looks back over his right shoulder.

  “Cal?” he says. “That what your old man called you?”

  I nod my head.

  “Well, you might of heard my name back there as Charles Aird, right?”

  I nod again.

  “Okay. But that’s not what any but the teachers call me. Possum. That’s my moniker. Possum.”

  He stops dead in his tracks, spins on his heel, and favors me with a grin so big it about splits his face. It does sort of look like a possum’s wide, tooth-baring smile. I almost laugh.

  Charles . . . Possum, that is, raises an eyebrow, still waiting for a reaction. He doesn’t get one from me. I just stand there looking down at the ground.

  “Jeezum Crow,” he says, letting go of that grin. He starts walking again. I follow behind like a condemned man being led to the gallows.

  “Cal,” Possum says to himself. He presses his lips together and shakes his head. “Nope. That don’t sound right. Jay Bird’s more like it. Seeing as how Jays are always squawking. Just like you.” He turns again to make a face at me. “Man can’t get a word in edgewise with you around. Can he, Jay?”

  This time I can’t keep a smile from curling up my lips. It’s not just that it’s funny in an ironic way—like giving a giant the nickname of Tiny. It’s how he says it. The way he keeps changing the expression on his rubbery face. Plus I’ve always, like Pop, had a special fondness for birds.

  “Okay!” Possum chuckles. “So that face of yours ain’t made of granite after all. Even if I do have to keep up both ends of this conversation. My grampa, Big Rabbit, he claimed the best way to get a man to talk was to say nothing. I reckon he would have liked you, Jay Bird. You being living proof.”

  We’ve now reached Building Four. Four good-sized elm trees grow up in front of it. There are only eight steps here, nowhere near as steep as those of Building One. But they’re still long and wide enough to seat a small army. Doing things on a grand scale seems to be the rule at this place.