Little Brother of War (3 page)

As I tried to fall asleep that night, the talk with my mother and everything that had happened at school swirled around in my head. On top of that, I also remembered it had been about a year since Jack had died. All that stuff mashed together in my mind made it hard to go to sleep.

My weird first day of high school was followed by a weird night of sleep. What was so weird? Jack appeared to me in a dream. I usually don't remember my dreams. But I remembered this one.

In the dream I was standing on a rocky hilltop. It didn't look like anything where we lived. Dragging his rifle behind him, Jack climbed up the hill toward me. He was wearing his combat uniform. When he got to
the top of the hill, he saw me and rushed over to me.

“I've been looking for you,” he said. “I need to tell you something, little brother.”

I tried to speak, but couldn't.

“Don't follow in my footsteps,” he said. “My path led to war. You can be a different kind of warrior.”

Again I tried to speak. “But Dad and the coach—” I said. That was all that came out of my mouth.

“Don't worry about them,” he said. “Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life. Be your own man.”

He looked away, as if he heard something, and nodded.

“I've got to go,” he said. He looked back at me. “Remember this dream, little brother. Everything's going to be all right eventually. You'll see.”

With that, he faded away, and I woke up. The next morning, as I dressed for my second day of high school, things seemed somehow different. It felt as though a cloud
had lifted. A fog had vanished. The shadow I had been living under had disappeared.

Or was I just imagining this? I certainly couldn't tell Mom and Dad about the dream. They'd think I had gone nuts. Or they'd tell me it had nothing to do with reality.

Nothing was really different at the breakfast table. Dad was still Dad. Mom was still hopeful. I could tell by the little smile she had.

The rest of the week was pretty much the same as usual. I don't know what I expected. Jack did say things would be all right “eventually.” Not right away.

I settled into the new school routine. Mrs. Jimmie took me and Jennifer to school in the morning. Then she drove us home again in the afternoon. Sometimes Jennifer rode in the front with her mom. Other times she rode in the back seat with me. It was all okay.

At breakfast Saturday morning, Mom said, “The Choctaw Cultural Fair is being held at the Red Water Community Center today. Do you want to go with me?”

“Nah, not really.”

“Jennifer might be there,” Mom said.

“That's okay,” I replied. “I see her every day.”

“They're serving Indian tacos for lunch.”

“Well, that's different,” I said. “I guess I don't have anything better to do.”

“We'll leave about ten o'clock.”

“Just so we don't stay too long, okay?” I said as I got up from the table.

“Okay,” Mom agreed.

At ten o'clock we drove the few short miles to the community center. A banner over the front door announced “Choctaw Cultural Fair” and had Choctaw designs all over the background.

A few Choctaw people were going inside. I recognized some of them from different tribal events and last year's Choctaw Fair held in July. There were kids, parents, and grandparents. Traditional Choctaw songs played over a loudspeaker.

“I'm going to watch the elder women making Choctaw dolls,” Mom said. “What are you going to do?”

“I'll just look around and see what's here,” I replied. “How long do you want to stay?”

“A couple of hours, at least,” Mom said as she headed for the doll room. “We'll have lunch about noon. They're serving those Indian tacos in the cafeteria. See you then.”

She walked on down the hall, leaving me on my own. What was I going to do to kill two hours? There probably wasn't much here I was interested in seeing.

I wandered to the gathering room where the music was coming from. Couples dressed in traditional Choctaw clothes were dancing. I think it was the Snake Dance. I had seen that a few times before. Holding hands, the dancers formed a long line that coiled and uncoiled like a snake.

A girl at the end of the line of dancers saw me standing near the door. She waved for me to come join in the line. No thanks. That was my signal to leave before I got sucked in.

I didn't find anything really interesting in the front part of the building. So I wandered down the hall and toward the back door.

An elderly Choctaw man sat at a table near the door. He wore a pair of striped overalls. He was hard at work carving a piece of wood. When I got up near him I saw that he was making a stick for Choctaw stickball.

Of course, I'd seen people playing Choctaw stickball before. Lots of times. The game had been around for centuries. But I'd never seen anyone making the sticks. I moved in closer to get a better look.

“Do you play?” the man asked me.

“No, just watch,” I answered. “Those look hard to make.”

“Not when you've been making them as long as I have,” he said. “My name's Albert Isaac.” He put out his hand and I shook it.

“I'm Randy Cheska.”

“Pleased to meet you, Randy.” He picked up a pair of sticks sitting on the chair beside him. He held them out to me. “Why don't you see how these feel in your hands?”

I took the sticks from him. The wood had been sanded smooth. It was a light tan color. “What kind of wood is this, Mr. Isaac?” I asked.

“Call me Albert,” he said. “Hickory. I only use hickory. It's the best wood for making ball sticks.” He continued carving the stick he held.

“Do you know the Choctaw word for this game?” Albert asked after a moment.

“No. If I did, I forgot,” I admitted.

“
Toli
,” he said. “And the stick is called
kapoca
.”

I looked closer at the curved ends of the sticks. Each had several strands of leather stretched across the rounded opening. It made a little net. That's where you catch the ball.

As I turned the sticks in my hand, I saw that there was a letter stamped into the bottom of each stick. There was an
A
on one and an
I
on the other.

“What are these letters doing on the bottom of the sticks?” I asked.

“That's my trademark,” he answered. “A for Albert.
I
for Isaac. I stamp that into every pair of sticks I make.”

Next he handed me one of the small leather balls he'd made. It was a little bigger than a golf ball, but softer.

“The Choctaw word for this ball is
towa
,” Albert said. “Let me hear you say all three Choctaw words I just taught you.”

“Toli, kapoca, towa,” I repeated. “Is that right?”

“Very good!”

Just then I heard people outside hollering. They were excited about something. I looked out and saw there was a group of guys playing a ball game, I mean toli, in the field behind the community center.

“I have an idea,” Albert said. “Why don't you take that pair of kapoca and try them out for me? I like to make sure all my sticks work properly before I give them to the person who ordered them.”

“Oh no, I couldn't,” I protested. “What if I break one?”

“That would mean that I didn't make this pair strong enough.”

“But I don't know the rules of the game, or even how to catch the ball, er, towa,” I said.

“The rules are easy,” Albert said. “You can't touch the towa with your hands. You have to use the two kapoca to pick up and throw the ball toward the goal. You can hit other players with your body to block them. But you must never try to hit anyone with your kapoca. That's it.”

“Okay, I guess I'll give it a shot.”

“Good luck,” Albert offered. “Have fun.”

I moved out the back door and toward the field. It looked like about twenty players were in the game. Ten on a team. Another ten or fifteen people watched from the sidelines.

At either end of the field stood a wooden goalpost. Each post was about ten or twelve feet tall.

The two teams lined up facing each other near the center of the field. One team wore red armbands. The other wore blue ones.

Between the facing rows, at the center of the field, stood a player from each team. There was a man in between them holding the towa. When he thought both teams were ready, he threw the towa up in the air and backed out of the way.

The two center players jumped up trying to catch the ball in their ball sticks. They missed
and the ball hit the ground. Immediately a few players from each team rushed toward the towa. Their sticks were stretched out in front of them.

They crowded together trying to pick up the ball. The group became a large moving mass as they circled the ball. Their kapoca clattered against one another. Each group tried to capture the ball.

Finally one player grasped the towa with both sticks and pulled out of the crowd. He flung the ball to another teammate who stood closer to the opponent's goal. A player from the opposing team got hold of the ball instead.

Cupping the ball with his sticks, he shot the towa in the opposite direction. And the play of the game continued like that. Players whooped and hollered in their excitement. Spectators yelled out the names of players to encourage them. It was all very exciting.

The man who had thrown up the ball noticed me watching from the sidelines. He came over.

“I see you have a pair of kapoca,” he said. “Do you want to play?”

“I guess so,” I answered. “I've never played before.”

“That's okay. We've got to get someone to go in on the other side so the teams won't be uneven.”

He signaled to another boy who stood nearby. The boy grabbed a pair of sticks that lay on the ground and ran over to us.

“James, this is—what's your name?” the man said.

“Randy,” I answered.

“This is my son, James, and I'm Carl Tubby.”

We shook hands all around.

“James, Randy wants to play. He's new to the game, so go easy on him.”

“Yes, sir,” James replied. “We can jump in after the next point.”

We focused back on the game just as the ball was tossed from a player on the left end of the field. The towa whizzed through the air.
Surprisingly, his teammate caught it between the cupped ends of his sticks.

Immediately he turned toward the upright goalpost at the end of the field. He heaved the ball at top speed and it hit the post. His team screamed a victory yell. So did a few spectators.

Others moaned and complained. I guessed they were supporting the other team.

“Let's go line up,” James said and ran onto the field.

The players lined up as they had done before. James joined one line of players and pointed to the other line across from him.

“Stand over there.” He pointed to a gap in the other line of players.

Meanwhile, I saw Mr. Tubby talking to the captain of my team. He pointed at me and the captain nodded his head. The captain walked over carrying a red armband.

“Welcome to the team. Put this on.” He handed me the armband. “Just stay mostly in the middle of the field. If the ball comes near
you, join the battle to get it. Toss it on to one of our players closer to the goal.”

“I'll try,” I said as the captain walked back to his position.

“Watch your back,” James called over to me. “I wouldn't want you to get hurt your first time.”

“Thanks. Wish me luck.”

“No way. I want my team to win.”

Just then the referee threw up the ball and the next round began. I panicked. What was I doing? I was no good at sports! Too late. The ball was in play and so was I!

The action moved up and down the field really fast. First one team had possession of the towa, then the other. The players ran back and forth and tossed the ball back and forth many times before anyone made a goal.

The whole thing was exciting and exhausting at the same time. I can't remember when I'd had so much fun. It turned out that you didn't have to be a pro to play this game. You just had to do your best. The more I played, the more I got the hang of it.

After each point was scored, the teams gathered on the side of the field for a few minutes to rest and drink water. Each team had its own bucket of water to drink from. A ladle that hung from the side of the bucket was used to get a drink.

As I waited for my turn with the ladle, I saw that the score was eight to six, our favor. Wow, I was on a winning team! How unusual.

The captain, whose name was Travis, stood nearby as I sipped a scoop of water.

“You're not doing bad for a beginner,” he said. “We'll be playing again next Saturday, if you want to join us.”