Flying Lessons & Other Stories(28)

“You assume right,” said Uncle Kenneth. “But the rearview mirrors were still good, so AllChoctaw State Insurance replaced the Chukma car with a super cool minivan!”

I couldn’t let him get away with that. I covered my eyes with my hands and shook my head, Choctaw-telling him, My mom is right, you can’t believe a word Uncle Kenneth says.

“Excuse me, Uncle Kenneth,” said Keith, and the academic tone of his voice made everyone pause and look his way.

“Yes, my nephew Keith, son of my brother Billy,” said Uncle Kenneth. Sarcasm, I whispered in my fists, rocking back and forth.

“I am pondering the fate of campers who arrived the next day,” said Keith. “Nice families who could not read, or possibly read in another language?”

“You’re forgetting,” Uncle Kenneth replied, “those Bohpoli think of everything. They of course switched back the arrows. So, if there are no more questions…”

“But what happened to Naloosha Chitto?” asked sweet little cousin Cindy, waving her tiny hand in the air. “He is people, too.”

“Glad you asked,” Uncle Kenneth said, glancing at his watch and blowing his cheeks into one huge I am not believing this Choctaw bubble. “Yes, Naloosha Chitto is people, too. But he found himself running uphill till he came to the twenty-foot-long boulder stretched over the lake, ninety-seven feet below. The sign clearly said: DO NOT WALK ON THE OVERLOOK. IT IS CRACKED AND READY TO FALL AND WE DO NOT HAVE THE STAFF TO PROVIDE A LIFEGUARD IF YOU CANNOT SWIM. OR EVEN IF YOU CAN.”

“But Naloosha Chitto can’t read, Uncle Kenneth,” Cindy chirped.

“No, sweetheart, he cannot. He ignored the warning and stepped onto the overlook. He heard the CURRRrrRACKing sound, lost his balance, and fell kicking and screaming into the lake.”

“Kicking and screaming?” asked Trisha.

“It’s called a cliché,” replied Keith.

“I don’t like this!” said a determined little Cindy.

“Wait, hon, it’s not over yet,” said Uncle Kenneth. “A group of anthropologists, seeking proof that Naloosha Chitto was real, were paddling their canoe around the lake. When they saw not only the skeletal structure of the creature, but the actual creature, they leapt overboard. Naloosha Chitto climbed in the canoe and paddled safely to shore.”

“Why were they paddling around at midnight?” Keith asked.

“And did they live or drown?” asked Trisha.

“Yeah, Uncle Kenneth, and what kind of creamer did the park ranger serve the Chukmas in their coffee?” I inquired.

Uncle Kenneth stood up, looming six feet above me and my dozens of cousins. He took a deep breath and bellowed, “The END!”

Like good little Choctaw kids, me and my dozens of cousins all clapped and slapped Uncle Kenneth on the back. “Good story!” we told him.

“Wait,” he said, holding his palm aloft. “What could the Chukmas do that Naloosha Chitto could not do? What saved this family’s life?”

“Turtle Kid knows,” I said, raising my hand.

“Yes?”

I stood up and lifted my palm to Uncle Kenneth, in a sign of high respect, then turned to my dozens of cousins. “Our dear and wise Uncle Kenneth has told us a tale full of meaning. The Chukma family can do many things Naloosha Chitto cannot, but the greatest of these, my dozens of cousins, the greatest of these things is that they can—each and every one of them—tie their own shoelaces.”

Jaws dropped and no one said a word.

“If they couldn’t tie their shoelaces they would have tripped on the path, and who knows what would have happened?”

“Is there anything else they could do that Naloosha Chitto could not?” asked Uncle Kenneth. “Anything?”

“Well, hoke. They could read. Mary Chukma could read and so could her brother Ricky. They could read in the dark with flashlights. They could read even while they ate hamburgers.”

“And French fries!” shouted Cindy. “With lots of ketchup!”

“But they were always careful never to drip ketchup on the pages of the book,” Keith said. “Nobody wants to read a book with ketchup between the pages.”

“I told you never to listen to your uncle Kenneth!” my mother shouted, standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips. “Is he telling you to pour ketchup on your books?”

“No!” we all shouted, protecting our new and funniest favorite teacher, Uncle Kenneth. Mother closed the door and stepped inside, and I thought—for just a moment—that I saw her smiling.

“Hoke, Uncle Kenneth,” I asked, “how do you know so much about Naloosha Chitto?”

“Naloosha Chitto, the Choctaw Trail of Tears, the Choctaw Code Talkers of World War One, I know all about Choctaws, today and long ago. And other Indian nations, too. Anybody want to guess how?”

“Turtle Kid knows,” I said.

“I’m sure you do,” said Uncle Kenneth. “I’m sure you do.”

“You know all about Choctaws because my mother read to you when you were a little kid.”

Uncle Kenneth gave me a quiet Are you crazy? Choctaw stare, then his lips crawled into a grin. “Or maybe,” he said, “I learned to read before I learned to tie my own shoelaces!”