Effigies

by Mary Anna Evans

  “Not that I could tell,” Neely said, “although I did have more pressing worries.” Chuck didn’t respond, since she didn’t provide him with the information he needed. Instead, he went back to the buffet for seconds.

  Dr. Mailer’s cell phone trilled, and he retreated to a corner to take the call. Neely lowered her voice and continued. “I know that Chuck isn’t the only person in these parts that cared more about that mound than he did about Carroll Calhoun. If any of you wants to talk to me in private about that, I’m all ears.”

  Dr. Mailer approached their table, handing the phone to the sheriff. As she took it, he cocked an eyebrow at his crew. “It seems that we have been summoned by the Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indians.”

  “What for?” Toneisha asked.

  “The Tribal Council would like to hear more about Carroll Calhoun’s mound. They’ve heard what their lawyers have to say, but their cultural committee wants to hear what we archaeologists know. And they’re asking Sheriff Rutland to come, because they’re exceedingly interested in her take on the law and how it pertains to that mound. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Chief himself was there.”

  The group was quiet for a moment, remembering what they’d learned about his forty-year tenure in tribal government. During his tenure as elected Chief, the Choctaws had built casinos and resorts. They had attracted manufacturing interests that ranged from plastics to automotive components to greeting cards. They weren’t just the largest employer in Neshoba County. They were among the largest employers in the state of Mississippi. Yet when the Chief entered tribal politics, a third of the homes on the reservation had been without electricity and only a tenth had indoor plumbing. It was a safe bet that they all had those things now.

  “I’d like to meet the Chief,” Bodie offered.

  “I don’t know how much ‘meeting’ we’re going to get to do,” Dr. Mailer said. “I expect they just want to pick our brains. Now why don’t we go try to get a little work done?”

  Faye wanted to crawl into the shady spot underneath the trailer and get a little sleep, but her pride wouldn’t let her, so she just kept her eyes on her work. Sometimes she had trouble getting those eyes to focus, but she stayed upright and mostly awake.

  Toneisha and Bodie, who hadn’t suffered through the same difficult night as Faye and Joe, were energetic and chatty half the time. Now and then, as if they suddenly remembered that a man had been murdered not far from where they stood, they fell silent. The absence of their youthful banter only served to highlight the poignance of the silent Calhoun house across the street.

  Under other circumstances, it might have been a glorious day at work. They’d found a soil stratum that was peppered with varicolored flakes of stone. It didn’t take much imagination to picture long-ago flintknappers, lots of them, gathered here to make stone tools. Dr. Mailer had expected to find activity centers like this—separate areas for sleeping and toolmaking and pottery manufacture. Judging by this single snapshot in time, he just might be right. He was buzzing around, happy and nervous, rubbing his hands together like a man trying to erase his anxiety. Faye was happy for him.

  Chuck, on the other hand, was absolutely getting on her nerves. He, too, could hardly be happier. They were digging up the stuff of his dreams, the physical evidence of ancient toolmakers. He had chastised everyone present at least once for violating his notion of proper field technique, and he was starting in on Oka Hofobi for the second time when the young Choctaw cracked.

  “Chuck. I know what I’m doing, just as well as you do. Maybe better. Would you get out of my face?”

  Then, instead of waiting for Chuck to back off, Oka Hofobi had brushed the red dust off his pants legs and stalked off to the trailer. More than an hour passed before he emerged. In the meantime, Chuck ruled over the team with obsessive care, and Dr. Mailer let him.

  Oka Hofobi was taking a little too long to clean his gear and put it away for the night. Faye walked over intending to help, but when she saw his face, she realized that the man had simply wanted a little privacy. It was too late to back away gracefully, so she just said, “Did you have a hard day? I thought I was going to have a heat stroke, and I’m from Florida.”

  “My day started out fine, but it took a turn for the worse about lunchtime. Ma called. She and my father heard about the council meeting tonight. Word sure gets around fast in these parts, but I should be used to that by now. They want to come, and I reckon they will. The Council’s not big on closed meetings.”

  “You’re worried about what your parents will say?”

  “No. They probably won’t talk at all. They’ll probably just…sit there.”

  Faye hefted a box of cleaned equipment and walked alongside Oka Hofobi toward the shed, saving him a trip. “I remember when my mother could embarrass me just by the way she sat. You’ve got a Ph.D. now. I think you can move past that.”

  “It’s not that I’m ashamed. It’s more that I don’t want to make them ashamed. I’m sure you know that indigenous people and archaeologists have never gotten along all that well. Things have eased up since the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act passed. At least we’ve got some legal assurance that human burials will be treated with respect. Unfortunately, that’s not enough for people like my brother.”

  “Davis?”

  “Yeah. When Ma went away to school, she came back proud. She wanted to learn as much about her culture as she could. Then, when the time came, she wanted that for Davis. Instead, he came back mad. These days, he’s especially mad at me.”

  “Because you chose to be a ‘graverobber’?”

  Oka Hofobi’s eyes flicked toward the ground at the insulting sound of the word. “It’s more than that. Historically, there’s been a lot of racism sort of built into archaeology. Take the wheel. None of America’s indigenous peoples invented the wheel. For a long time, that meant they were considered to be less technologically sophisticated than the rest of the world. Then somebody said, ‘Hey! They didn’t have horses, or any other animal big enough to haul a cart. And a lot of those civilizations were built in muddy or hilly places where wheels just wouldn’t roll. They didn’t invent the wheel because it didn’t work for them.’ I became an archaeologist to correct those mistakes. Davis just got mad. And I think he’s going to stay that way.”

  “Maybe I’m biased, but your way seems to be more constructive. You could open so many doors.” Faye knew she sounded as optimistic and naïve as Dr. Mailer, but she wanted her words to be true.

  “Yeah, well, when the Tribal Council is staring me down tonight, I’ll try to remember that.”

  “Sounds to me like your mom and dad will be staring right back. Is that why they want to go? To make sure the Council knows you have their support?”

  “That’s why my mother’s coming. She listens to me when I talk, and I’m starting to make her see my vision of archaeology. It’s a way for me to pay respect to my ancestors by getting to know how they lived.”

  “Your father doesn’t agree.”

  He set the box he was carrying on a shelf and pulled out a bandanna out of his back pocket to wipe the sweat off his neck. “My father—well, that explanation doesn’t fly with him. He says he knows all he needs to know about his ancestors, because his father explained it to him with the ancient stories he learned from his own father. Now, bear in mind that our family’s been Baptist for just about ever. My folks have found a way to reconcile their ancestors’ stories with the Christian Bible, which I think is pretty cool. I’m looking for a way to reconcile all those things with science, but that’s just a little too much for my dad. Digging up his ancestors’ possessions is disrespectful, he tells me. It shows that I doubt the old stories that are so precious to him. And to my mother, too.”

  “You’ve really been able to sway your mother’s opinions that much?”

  “Not so much. She just wants me to be happy, so she goes along with my foul modern notions. Just because my parents have got fancy executive
jobs, it doesn’t mean that they aren’t very traditional people. I mean, just look at my name.”

  “I’ve noticed that most Choctaws have plain old English-sounding names like Sam and Martha.” Faye set her box down on top of Oka Hofobi’s. Everyone else had stored their tools and hurried away, so she pulled out her keys and locked the door as they left.

  “Yeah,” he said, wiping his dusty hands on the seat of his khakis, “my brother and sisters have names like Sarah and Jane and Davis, but I came last. Not that they don’t have Choctaw names, too. We all do. It’s just that their birth certificates show names that the rest of America can understand. My parents got serious about their heritage just in time to give me a legal name that screamed ‘Choctaw!’ every time I wrote it on a high school term paper.”

  “So you don’t like it?”

  “No, I do. Quite a lot, actually. I just feel like I’ll spend a whole lifetime growing into it.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Uh…it means ‘Deep Water,’” Oka Hofobi said, wrinkling his brow as if he felt pretentious even saying such a thing.

  Faye pictured a small boy playing alone outdoors, digging up arrowheads, rinsing them in the clear creek waters, turning them over and over in his hands to admire the wet stone. She remembered her mother saying that she, Faye, had been born with the fierce and thoughtful personality that still marked her. You were your own self from the minute you opened your eyes, her mother had said. Maybe Oka Hofobi’s parents had seen the depth in their baby’s eyes and chosen just the right name for him.

  “Dr. Mailer calls you Oke. Do you like that? Or do you prefer to go by your whole name?”

  “Oke doesn’t really mean anything. If I’m going to be hung with a name worth living up to, then I’d rather use it all instead of chopping it up. Ma and Pa wouldn’t dream of calling me anything else.”

  “Aren’t they proud of their son the doctor?”

  “Ma does look for reasons to mention that Ph.D., but she does worry about the people I have to associate with. Both my parents are pretty sure most archaeologists are graverobbers. Besides me, of course. That’s why she invited you all to dinner. She wanted to check you out.” When Oka Hofobi smiled, his dark hooded eyes looked very much like Joe’s.

  “Now I’m afraid to look your mother in the face.”

  “Then don’t look behind you. She’s walking this way. But don’t worry about Ma. She likes you. In fact, she told me to ask you out to a movie.”

  Faye sneaked a glance over her shoulder. Mrs. Nail was a hundred feet away, but moving fast for a woman of her bulk. Oka Hofobi kept talking. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing worth seeing at the theater in Philadelphia, but why don’t I beat my mother to the question she’s hustling over here to ask? Would you like to stay for dinner?”

  Thirty seconds later, Mrs. Nail asked her the same question.

  Dinner was very tasty. Oka Hofobi had exaggerated when he said that his mother fried everything. She also stewed vegetables thoroughly and well. Sitting, once again, in the cozy, wood-paneled dining room, Faye had been made to feel welcome by the friendly woman, who had quizzed her politely about her work in a friendly, parental way.

  About every five minutes, Oka Hofobi interrupted, urging his mother to share some more of her grandfather’s tales. Maybe he was just trying to steer the conversation away from the personal questions his mother liked to ask—“You live alone with young Mr. Mantooth? But you’re not dating?”—or maybe he knew just how much Faye enjoyed the woman’s old stories.

  “Later,” Mrs. Nail kept saying. “I’ll tell the tales, and I’m so glad you want to hear them, but they’re better told when the sun gets low.”

  “Ma would be happier if we’d just go outside and light a campfire. That way, her ghost stories would be much more effective.”

  Mrs. Nail swatted a hand in the air, as if to smack her lastborn on the shoulder, but the blow connected with nothing but air. Faye didn’t think she was capable of swatting a fly.

  “You used to run screaming to your room when I told the story of ‘The Girl and The Devil.’ And let’s not even talk about ‘The White People of the Water’…” She turned a wide, warm smile on Faye.

  Her hospitality made Mr. Nail’s silence all the more glaring. Faye guessed that he would prefer not to eat with someone he regarded as a graverobber, and she could see his point.

  Mrs. Nail had been so thrilled to hear that Faye’s great-great-great-great-grandmother was half-Creek that she’d felt like a long-lost cousin—but a very distant cousin who still might be a suitable match for a son who should have gotten married long before the clock tolled midnight on his thirtieth birthday. Mrs. Nail didn’t have to speak that concern out loud. The photos of children and grandchildren and nieces and nephews that papered the walls delivered her message quite well.

  If Faye had been a trifle uncomfortable with the way the dinner table conversation constantly veered back to matters of marriage and children—she’d been told more than once that two more Nail grandchildren would arrive before the end of the year, and the eldest grandson planned to marry immediately after his college graduation—she quickly learned that there were far worse topics of discussion. For example, any mention of Oka Hofobi’s work was a distinctly terrible idea.

  When Mrs. Nail asked, “Did you two have a nice day at work?”, Faye made the ghastly mistake of actually answering her. Later, when she had time to think about the question, she realized that it was just the conversational tactic of a meddling mother strategically highlighting their similar interests. Faye, in her straightforward way, presumed that the woman was actually interested.

  “We found evidence today that your property was the site of a toolmaking center a couple of thousand years ago. Pretty cool, don’t you think? Of course, Oka Hofobi had been telling us that all along, so this just makes him look like a genius.”

  “I can’t see any reason to dig up my ancestors’ goods, just to prove something you already know,” Mr. Nail rumbled. “And I don’t think people should keep telling my son he’s a genius, either. Look where it’s gotten him.”

  Faye wanted to point out that they had disturbed nothing more than a little bit of trash, in the form of stone chips, but it wouldn’t have helped. Mr. Nail knew as well as she did that they could find personal treasures tomorrow—jewelry, art, religious objects. Certainly, they could find bones. Faye knew that Dr. Mailer would rigidly adhere to the laws governing the discovery of human burials, but it would be too late, from Mr. Nail’s point of view. His ancestors’ rest would have already been disturbed.

  Oka Hofobi pushed his chair back. “What would you like me to do? Wander in the woods until I meet a magic spirit that’ll tell me what to do with my life? Well, maybe I did. Did you ever ask me why I do what I do?”

  Oka Hofobi was rising to his feet, ready to stalk out of the room, but his father beat him to it. The older man slammed the hall door behind him, leaving his son half-crouched at the table. Oka Hofobi awkwardly lowered himself back into his chair, saying, “Well, that was fun. Maybe we can consider it a dress rehearsal for the Tribal Council meeting. I’m betting they pretty much agree with Pa. Only there are twelve of them. We’ll be taking flak from all sides.”

  Faye got out of the back seat of the Nails’ minivan at the Tribal Council Hall and slid the door shut behind her. She’d enjoyed their drive through the reservation, probably because Mr. Nail had decided to drive separately, in his own truck. Time spent with Mrs. Nail and Oka Hofobi alone felt like time spent among newfound friends.

  The reservation, with its material trappings of the modern Choctaws, had been an effective setting for Mrs. Nail’s stories. The old tales simply flowed out of the woman, and the language they were told in varied from story to story. It was as if she were channeling the spirit of the person who had originally told the tale to her. Or maybe this was just what a gifted storyteller did—let the story tell itself the in the best language possible.

  Faye
would have felt crass taking notes, but she’d once known a very talented oral historian named Carmen Martinez. When Faye got back to the hotel, she was going to write down every scrap of every story that she could recall. It was the least she could do for Carmen’s memory.

  Outside the van’s windows, Faye saw that evidence of the Choctaws’ growing prosperity was everywhere. Mrs. Nail and Oka Hofobi had proudly driven her past the neon-lit casinos and the brand-spanking-new fire hall where Davis worked. Choctaw-owned businesses were poised along the highway to sell gasoline and groceries and souvenirs to the legions of tourists drawn by the resorts.

  Turning off the main highway, they drove through the industrial park that housed the tribe’s manufacturing interests. Entering the portion of the reservation devoted to tribal government, Faye saw one building after another that advertised the efforts being made at social and economic change. These buildings housed agencies dedicated to public transportation, housing, employment, and health. Near the Choctaw Justice Complex, also brand-spanking-new, Oka Hofobi took a detour so that Faye could see new housing developments filled with spacious houses on large lots.

  “They just can’t build housing fast enough,” Mrs. Nail said, “and it’s hard on the young people. A lot of single people live with their parents while they wait their turn. Families have priority, so you just about can’t get reservation housing until you get married. Davis has been waiting a long time since his divorce.”

  “And you, Oka Hofobi?” Faye asked.

  “If I can keep getting contracts to do work around here, I may just buy a place near Ma and Pa. I like it out there.”

  Near the governmental center, some of the reservation’s buildings were older, showing that the tribe’s economic progress had come in waves. The Tribal Council Hall was one of them. Smaller and less grand than the tribal offices that stood right next door, the Council Hall had a more intimate feel, but Faye was intimidated, nonetheless. Seeing Mr. Nail park his truck and walk alone into the hall troubled her even more. He couldn’t abide even being in the van with her? Or, even worse, maybe he couldn’t stand the company of his own son.