Flying Lessons & Other Stories(25)

I don’t even hesitate.

“The Beans and Rice Chronicles of Isaiah Dunn,” I say.

“Hmm, haven’t heard of that one,” he says.

I smile.

“Not yet.”





Choctaw Bigfoot, Midnight in the Mountains


TIM TINGLE





Blame my uncle Kenneth. Everybody else does.

Saturday afternoon, sitting under the trees in the backyard of Mawmaw, my Choctaw grandmother. The family was gathered for our weekly Saturday meal, dozens of cousins and aunts and uncles and everybody kin to us. Barbeque cooked on the grill, beef and chicken and fat sausage links, my favorite.

“You know better than to listen to anything that man says,” said my mother, sliding the glass patio door open and hollering loud enough for everybody to hear.

My little cousin Cindy had just run in the house screaming about some swamp creature from Mississippi.

“But Uncle Kenneth said…”

“I don’t care what your uncle Kenneth says, now or twenty years from now.”

Uncle Kenneth sat on a chair by the fishpond, with his head resting on his chest. He was pretending to be asleep, but nobody bought it. As soon as Mom stepped inside to check on her pot of beans, Kenneth smiled and waved a finger at me. The other grown-ups looked at each other and shook their heads.

That’s when you know, really know, you’re surrounded by family. Nobody has to say a word. They just look at each other and you know what they are thinking.

I sauntered across the yard like I was searching for fallen pecans on the ground. When I reached Uncle Kenneth, I sat down by his chair and wrapped my arms around my knees.

“You know your mother is a smart lady,” Uncle Kenneth said.

I looked up at him and waited. He didn’t say anything, but the way he looked to the house and back at me told me, but she doesn’t know everything. He didn’t say it, he Choctaw-said it. We’re Choctaws and we have our own ways, trust me.

I laughed and nodded a Choctaw yes.

“So, I already told you about the Bohpoli, those Choctaw little people,” Uncle Kenneth said. “And you know not to trust them. They aren’t gonna go hurt anybody, no broken arms or sliced-off fingers—that’s not what they’re about.”

“They’re funny, aren’t they, Uncle Kenneth?”

“That’s right, Turtle Kid,” he said. “The Bohpoli like to play jokes. And they can be invisible when they want to, so they’re really good at joke-playing. Uh, you don’t mind me calling you Turtle Kid, do you?”

“No, I like that name.”

“Good, that’ll be your Choctaw name for now. So anyway, the Bohpoli were following a family down the road. They might have been driving a wagon pulled by horses or maybe a car, I can’t remember.”

“I think it was a car, ’cause it happened last year,” I said. “And it was in those Oklahoma Kiamichi Mountains and it was almost midnight.”

“You know this story?”

“No, uh, sorry,” I said, zipping my fingers across my mouth, the Choctaw sign for I’ll shut up.

“Hoke, then. But it was last year, it was the Kiamichi Mountains, and it was near midnight, so the night creatures were prowling. The driver, Mr. Chukma, pulled to the side of the road. He spotted a clearing under the trees and thought it would be a good place to spend the night. He stepped from the car, getting ready to open the door for his wife and wake up his three kids. That’s when he heard it.”

I wanted so bad to ask, Heard what? But I’d already zipped my mouth shut. Instead, I leaned forward.

“Yes,” Uncle Kenneth whispered, looking about the yard and making sure nobody else heard what he was about to say. “That’s when he heard it.”

I nodded. Slowly.

“POW!” he hollered, slapping his hands together.

I fell over backward, and everybody within a mile laughed so loud my mother stuck her head through the back door again.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said. More laughter.

“Pay no attention to them, Turtle Kid,” said my dear uncle. “I want this to be a story you’ll never forget.”

I sat up and said quietly, “You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Achukma, good. Now where was I? Oh, so Mr. Chukma heard the POW noise and jumped back in the car. He pulled his wife close to him and told the kids to get down on the floorboard and stay quiet. They didn’t have long to wait. Mr. Chukma was leaning over the seat and assuring his kids that everything was gonna be all right, so he had his back turned to the front windshield.

“Mrs. Chukma tapped him softly on the shoulder and whispered, ‘You need to look.’ Mr. Chukma was about to ask, What is it? but he didn’t get a chance. He heard a growl so loud the kids screamed and Mrs. Chukma screamed and finally Mr. Chukma himself screamed.

“Naloosha Chitto, the big hairy man of Choctaw country, stood right in front of the car.”

“Oh no.”

“That’s right, Turtle Kid, the Big Hairy Man, Naloosha Chitto. That’s what we Choctaws call him. He circled the car, waving a log so big no human could have carried it. But he swung it back and forth, from his shoulder to his palm, slapping it like it was a foot-long ruler, like you have in school.”