Shell Shaker

by LeAnne Howe

  Until very recently Isaac’s personal income came solely from buying and selling livestock. But when he debuted his latest column, Advice to the Choctaw Lovelorn, he began to actually make money on his paper. Indians from all over southeastern Oklahoma wrote to him for advice concerning their love life. And they subscribed. When people began calling him “The Indian Ann Landers,” overconfidence swelled him up like a tick. He became careless; he knew it was wrong at the time, but lust had him all charged up. That’s what he told Susan when he got tangled in the “Billy media affair,” as it had come to be known at Emo Jim’s cafe.

  Isaac looks up at the column on the wall and thoughtfully re-reads his mistake.

  Dear Isaac: I am a chunky but beautiful Choctaw old lady. My husband is the closest thing to a soul mate I have found, but he’s eighty now and sex no longer interests him. Until recently I’ve been saving myself, but sex still interests me. I would like a fling, but have no intention of leaving my soul mate. What should I do?

  —Disappointed.

  Dear Disappointed: Follow your heart and a healthy five-foot-six-inch tall Choctaw old man. There is someone near your age, someone you can trust, who won’t want to break up your happy home. That way you will make everyone contented.

  Isaac sighs. He never intended anything serious to come from this liaison. He’s known for many years that true love has escaped him, that he might as well make the best of it alone. Besides, he would have gotten away with the affair if he hadn’t put his own height in the paper. Of course, Susan knew right away who the woman was. It seemed the woman had told everyone about her problems. When Susan read his column she bawled him out.

  “One of these days, you’re going to get that big white cowboy hat of yours knocked off your head, old man! I don’t care what she’s telling you. Her husband is not feeble and he’s not blind, either. You’d better put a stop to this before we have to lie about you on your tombstone.”

  He chuckles. If only Susan were here to scold him now. He chugs cold coffee and opens another letter, marked “Very Personal.”

  Dear Isaac: I am a Choctaw teenager, age eighteen. My boyfriend is twenty-five, and a Crow. He has asked me to marry him. He wants to take me to Montana. Should I do it? I am scared of leaving my mother and father because I am the youngest of four children.

  —Uncertain in Durant

  Dear Uncertain: Choctaws don’t marry birds.

  He whistles while he types his response. He never got along with Crows. Custer lovers. Just as he is about to put away his typewriter, he stops and thinks about what he’s written. Perhaps this Crow fellow is her true love, and he’s discouraging her. If only someone had given him good advice about marrying his true love. Isaac tears up his response and writes a new one.

  Dear Uncertain: It has long been my feeling that Indians only find true love once. Since you mentioned the age difference, I can say that it should never matter when two people are meant for each other. I have observed that while Crows do not like to fly (but Choctaws can and do), there are many airplanes available to you that come and go between Montana and Oklahoma. If this man is your true love, then don’t let anything stand in your way of finding happiness. Life is too short.

  At that moment his trailer door swings opens and Hoppy Billy pokes his head in. He is followed by Nick Carney, the artist who created Durant’s Big Peanutmobile. Isaac acknowledges Nick, but looks skeptically at his nephew’s leprechaun-green colored hair. The short bangs are spiked up in front and look kind of stiff.

  “Eendians don’t have green hair!” he snorts. “What happened to you? Women paint your hair while you were drunk? They did that to me once. I woke up after an all-nighter and the women had painted my fingernails bright pink. Ooo-ee-e, did the fellas give me heck. Come in. It’s late, bad spirits are out after dark. Better shut the door... how’d you know where to find me?”

  “I knew where I’d find you. Besides a Chickasaw guy at the gas station in Bokchito told me he saw your truck.”

  “How would he know? Chicks got no medicine. I got medicine. Maybe you got the wrong Isaac. That’s me, Isaac medicine man, not Isaac paperboy. Yup, you got the wrong man.” Isaac grins.

  His nephew does not crack a smile. For an instant, Isaac sees Presley War Maker reflected in Hoppy’s eyes. Yup, Hoppy sure looks a lot like his grandfather.

  “Has anyone told you, Uncle Tonto, that you should have been an actor?”

  Isaac bursts out laughing.

  “How ya doin’, Mr. Billy?” says Nick. “I just came along for the ride, and well,... to ask if I could park my car in back of your trailer. Me and the Big Peanutmobile are on the lam.”

  “Sure,” says Isaac, smiling, “all enemies of the state are welcome.” Turning to Hoppy, he asks. “Where’s your mother?”

  “She went to pick up Aunt Adair at the airport in the City. After that, they were going to meet some Indian lawyer who flew in from Tulsa. Then the plan is to spring the women from prison.” Hoppy opens a cabinet door and rummages through the sacks of corn and salt. “Got any fresh coffee, Uncle? Not this dirty dishwater you’re drinking.”

  Isaac dotes on his nephew. Many times he’s wished he had a son, but that was not to be. “You two warriors ready to take on the spirits?” asks Isaac.

  “That’s why we’re here. Nick’s got to lay low, and someone has been following me around lately, a kind of woolly-headed old woman. Last night I saw her at the bar where we were playing.”

  Isaac mulls it over. “Could be one in the same. Some call her Divine Sarah. They say she speaks old-code Choctaw, and a whole bunch of languages I don’t. She might be over at Talihina Way.”

  “I’m ready,” says Hoppy. “As soon as I have something black and decent to drink.”

  Isaac points to his blue metal coffeepot on the stove. Hoppy gives him a disgusted look and retrieves a one-pound bag of finely ground espresso and a plastic Melitta filter out of the grocery sack he’s brought in. He walks to the sink and pours Isaac’s coffee down the drain. Boiling fresh water, he works over the brown powder.

  “Ooo-ee-e,” laughs Isaac, inhaling the aroma of dark-roasted coffee. “You young warriors sure know how to live.”

  It is very nearly midnight when Isaac, Hoppy, and Nick drive north toward Talihina, a small town on the edge of the Ouachita National Forest.

  “How long until we get to this wild woman’s place?” asks Hoppy.

  Isaac shrugs. “About an hour and a half. You know, ninety-five percent of the people living in Talihina are Choctaws,” he boasts. “Not to change the subject,” he says, clearing his throat, “but does your mother know that you’ve been seeing ... um, visiting, other Choctaws besides myself on the weekends?”

  “Like who for instance?”

  “Well, Nick, and that Kampelubbi gal from Red Oak?”

  “How’d you find out about us? Emo Jim’s?”

  Isaac chuckles. “Yup, I get all my newspaper leads there. Even the pictures on the walls talk. The coffee may be too weak for young warriors like yourself, but the gossip is strong.”

  “Men my age should have some secrets from their mothers, don’t you think?” says Hoppy. “Besides,” he adds defensively, “the only reason she took the job in Dallas was so I could be close to the family, and Choctaw people. So, I’ve gotten close.”

  Isaac smiles. “I’m only checking in case your mother asks me about our weekends in Durant.”

  “Imoshe, why didn’t you ever marry?”

  “Did once. She died. TB got her. Met her at boarding school. When your grandmother and I packed up to go home, WaNima Jefferson, who had no family of her own, came with us. We married a week before I left for boot camp. She died while I was overseas and is buried in Poteau. I visit her grave now and then.”

  “I’m sorry. Mother never mentions WaNima, and well, it’s just that...”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Say what’s on your mind.”

  “Well, it’s just a
feeling...but somehow, that seems all wrong.”

  Isaac guns the truck up a mountain road that twists and turns like a snake. His nephew is looking intently at him. “I’m sure some of the family has mentioned WaNima, you just weren’t paying attention.”

  Hoppy shakes his head, no. Nick looks out the window of the truck, sensing that this is none of his business.

  “The truth is, WaNima wasn’t meant for me,” says Isaac. “I shouldn’t have married her, so when she died I said, ‘Ataha.’ Means finished.” Isaac pulls his cowboy hat down low on his forehead, as if protecting himself from a strong wind. “You see, it’s like this: when you have nan i hullo, which means ‘true love,’ then traces of that one woman linger on you the rest of your life. Every other relationship is doomed.”

  “And your nan i hullo is—,” Hoppy stops short. “Sorry Uncle, I was about to be disrespectful.”

  “Like I was saying,” says Isaac, “when you find nan i hullo, make sure you marry her, and that’s all I have to say about that.”

  They drive in silence the rest of the way until they reach the Talihina Way Retirement Center. Isaac parks his truck in the lot in front of the main house, an office where two Choctaw nurses live. The big purple and red neon signs proudly say that Talihina Way was built with Casino of the Sun money. Further down the path, there are rows of individual houses, situated on wooded lots, and lit up at night by large street lamps.

  Hoppy seems dumbstruck. “This is a nursing home!”

  “I thought we were going out in the deep woods to visit the spirits,” quips Nick.

  “Not exactly,” answers Isaac. “Auda built this retirement center with casino money. Small cottages every so many feet, where old people can bring all their belongings and animals and live in peace. She worked hard making the Choctaw Centers a reality. We have three of them in the Nation. One in each district. McAlester worked hard for ‘em, too. A blind hog finds an acorn every once in a while.”

  “What does that mean?” asks Hoppy.

  “McAlester wasn’t all bad,” explains Isaac. “He turned bad. Greed got him. Say, where’d you expect Divine Sarah to live, in a shack somewhere, all by herself? That’s not our way. Auda wanted these communities to be situated like our old towns once were. Little houses spaced not too far from each other, but far enough to keep down jealously. Ooo-ee-e,” says Isaac. “There is nothing more violent than a jealous Choctaw woman.”

  “Why is she called Divine Sarah? That’s not Choctaw,” Hoppy says, getting out of the truck.

  “It’s not her real name, either. She has lots of different names. Legend has it that when Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders came through Oklahoma he met this wild-looking Indian gal standing outside his hotel in Bokchito. She was dressed in this long turkey-feather shawl and spouting Shakespeare, or so the story goes. Supposedly she said to him, ‘To be or not to be, that is the question.’ From that day forward she started calling herself Divine Sarah, the nickname Sarah Bernhardt used.” Isaac winks. “I told you the Choctaws always liked the French best.” Isaac closes his door quietly and they walk toward the small houses.

  Hoppy looks skeptical. “Jeez, she must be about a bazillion years old.”

  “Who knows? The Rough Riders used to be the mascot for Bokchito’s High School, before they changed to Mustangs. But Divine Sarah wasn’t quoting Shakespeare. I think she must have said, ‘Hatak nakni nuhullo ma Abi chi buna hoh-cho keyoh.’”

  “What does that mean?” asks Nick, pulling his long brown hair into a ponytail.

  “Kill the white man?” replies Isaac, not even cracking a smile. “Or not.”

  They meander around the grounds trying not to step in the vegetable gardens growing beside the houses. Finally a tiny woman dressed in a blood-red evening gown and gold sequined shoes appears before them in the moonlight. She cackles with a lungy smoker’s laugh, then greets them in Choctaw, “Halito chi kanas achukma?” Hello my friends, are you well?

  “Aiyobank keyu,” responds Isaac. Not good.

  She is nearly toothless, and puffs on a cigarette between two spidery fingers. “I knew it was you, Nitakechi,” she wheezes, tonguing her words together. “I’ve been waiting centuries on you to come back.”

  “She looks like Yoda with hair,” whispers Hoppy to Nick.

  “Meet my green-haired nephew, Hopaii, and his friend, Nick. Hopaii’s the one in the family with panache.” Isaac scowls, embarrassed that Hoppy has spoken before he was spoken to.

  “Oh, I know the short one,” she retorts in a hoarse voice. “I heard his band, the Chocozombies, play last night. You were correct, prophet boy, that was me in the audience.”

  Isaac is not surprised; this is why he’s come to a trickster. They can shake things up. He quickly pulls a pouch of tobacco out of his pocket and offers it to Divine Sarah, who accepts it, then pokes him in the chest with her cigarette holder.

  “I know why you’re here, Nitakechi,” she says smiling, revealing white cotton gums. “Come inside and meet the rest of my clan. Bring along the Chocozombie, and the tall handsome artist, too. I love big men.”

  Nick smiles. As they follow her, Hoppy complains that he’s not short. Isaac doesn’t question anything she says, or why she keeps calling him by another name. Indians are always getting new names and, besides, Nitakechi is a name that belonged to one of his ancestors.

  Divine Sarah strolls in front of them with all the stylish slothfulness of an aging diva. Her skin is the color of pecans. Inside, Isaac looks around the room and is amazed. The floor, tables, cabinet tops, and windowsills are completely obscured by a dozen dozing cats, five rabbits, seven raccoons, and a baby duckling. Countless birds of all kinds are perched on the tops of curtain rods. Isaac wonders why the floors aren’t covered with feces.

  He takes off his hat and smoothes his hair. The old woman giggles as if she’s embarrassed at the mess. She pushes cat food cans, plastic beads, and buttons off her chairs to make room for them to sit down.

  “Even in the old days we had nice cabins,” she puffs. “Not as nice as these, but the people lived in either bark houses or green cane houses with roofs made of palmetto leaves. We were so cozy. Like living in a basket.”

  Hoppy and Nick make no attempt to sit. They seem wary of the strange-looking woman and her menagerie. Finally, Isaac says, “Abenili,” sit down. They quickly comply.

  Divine Sarah positions herself on an overstuffed white Naugahyde chair, unmistakably shaped like a molar, now badly stained. She looks at the movie poster of Last Tango in Paris tacked on the wall and gestures toward it with her cigarette holder. “I was in that.”

  “Never saw it.” Isaac smiles sheepishly, then to be polite he adds. “But I always wanted to.”

  “Would you like some peanuts?” asks Divine Sarah.

  “No, thanks.”

  “C’mon, they’re delicious. It’s the salt that really gets to me. Porcupines will do almost anything for it,” she says, pointing with her lips to the large object across the room.

  Isaac is stunned. Sitting next to the wall is the four-foot-long silver peanut: Durant’s Big Peanut.

  “Jesus Jones, we’ve been looking all over for that!” shouts Nick.

  “How did she manage to get that all the way out here?” asks Hoppy.

  “Big Mother Porcupine can do almost anything,” she says, proudly. “How now, Horatio? You tremble and look pale, well, as pale as an Indian can look. Is not this something more than fantasy? What think you on’t?”

  Divine Sarah lets out another lusty cackle. “O God, Horatio, we had such fun making Hamlet. Back then I was a big star, a goddess really. After I performed in Victor Hugo’s Hernani, I was the queen of Paris. Victor was mad for me. Life at the Theatre de l’Odeon was magical and I was etre cousu d’or. Filthy rich. Sounds so much nicer in French, oui?”

  Divine Sarah pauses for a moment. “Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing to what I shall unfold.”

  “Speak, I am bound to hear,” answers Ho
ppy.

  “You know Hamlet?”

  “My mother’s an actress. I had to help her memorize her lines. But you know that, don’t you.”

  The diva cackles, “Psychic Indians are such fun. C’mon, let’s play. What else do you know?”

  “We’re in a lot of trouble,” says Hoppy, slowly. “There is a war going on, but hardly any Choctaws know that it’s a real war, except for me, and Uncle, and Nick.”

  “That’s about to change,” says Divine Sarah, in a matter-of-fact tone. “And your mother, Haya, she’s become a great actress. Her performance opening night of A Doll’s House was divine. Simply divine. Her talents will also help us win the war.”

  “But her name is Tema,” says Hoppy.

  “Details, details.”

  Isaac squints at Hoppy as if to say, no use trying to pin down tricksters and actresses. They never tell the whole truth. Hoppy seems to understand and lets it drop. Isaac fills his pipe with tobacco and pulls smoke into his lungs. He passes the pipe to Divine Sarah who exhales singing:

  “Tobacco I will smoke, bring me fire, I will dance.”

  Divine Sarah trills in a smoky voice. Her kohl-rimmed eyes swerve toward Hoppy. Abruptly, she stops singing and hands the pipe to him. “It clears the house of bad spirits. Smoke and song keep them out, but it won’t stop them from lurking around. Last night in Dallas, I also saw a mean one stalking Haya. A shape shifter. At first, it slithered around the room, then skulked like a big black dog walking on his back legs.” She demonstrates by raising her arms and slowly strutting about like some stiff-legged creature, then returns to the tooth chair and flops down, as though exhausted. “Your mother sent it away. I knew she could do it, she’s a powerful woman, a granddaughter of Shakbatina.”