A Thousand Voices

by Lisa Wingate

  As I climbed into the front seat, Willie folded his legs under himself, so that he could see the picnic table. “It looks mad.”

  Unplugging my cell phone from the cigarette lighter, I pushed the power button and waited for reception.

  “Of course it’s mad. I’d be mad, too, if someone shot me with a rubber-band gun.”

  “I was chasin’ it away.”

  “You don’t chase skunks away, Willie. Don’t you remember when old Tank got hisself messed up with a skunk, and then got up under Nana Jo’s house? That stink went in everything, and after they got Tank out, Nana Jo had to keep her windows open, and that stink wouldn’t go away one little bit.” Autumn dramatized one little bit by pinching her thumb and forefinger in the air. It was obvious that they spent a lot of time this way, Autumn leading and Willie soaking up her valuable life advice, reveling in her attention, even if it wasn’t entirely positive.

  The phone lazily came to life and began searching in vain for a signal as Autumn went on with her story. “Mom went and helped wash every bit of the stuff in Nana Jo’s house, and—”

  “Mom did?” Willie interrupted. “How come?”

  His sister followed with a thoughtful pause. “Just because, I guess. Mom always did things for people. Besides, Tank was our dog, and—”

  Outside, a woman’s scream split the morning quiet, a cacophony of anxious voices rose in response, and the woman screamed again. The cell phone slipped from my hand, and I scrambled to pick it up again, then stopped with my fingers halfway to the floor. No need to call the Department of Parks and Wildlife. The intruder had just been discovered. On one side of my campsite, the lady from the motor home stood frozen with her hands in the air, fingers outstretched, eyes wide beneath neat rows of pink plastic curlers. On the other side, the men of Camp Reid collided like cars in a traffic pileup. In the middle, the skunk raced from one side of the tabletop to the other, alternately fluffing its tail and looking over the edge for a means of escape.

  “Hey, there’s Dad!” Before I could stop him, Willie popped the door open, jumped out, and waved. “Hi, Dad!”

  The skunk whirled in our direction, and I held my breath. A dog barked in Camp Reid, the motor home lady screamed again, and Willie began explaining, long-distance. “Dad, we heard a bear by the tent, and—”

  “Willie, don’t—” As I turned to silence Willie, my rear end hit the steering wheel, and the car horn blared through the campground.

  Faced with insanity in all directions, the skunk made a break for it. Leaping from the table like a flying squirrel, it circled the barbecue grill, darted past the screaming motor home owner, and promptly disappeared into a large plastic pipe connected to the underside of her RV.

  The park ranger’s truck skidded into my campsite with lights flashing as the woman stumbled away from her RV, screaming and pointing. Hooking her slipper toe on a twig, she stumbled forward toppled like a falling log.

  Uncle Rube snaked out a meaty arm and caught her on the way down. “Whoa, there. Don’t hurt yerself. It’s just a little varmint.” He helped her to the picnic bench beside the table vacated by the skunk. The snaps on her housecoat, already strained to the breaking point, burst free as she sank, and Rube stood with his big hands suspended in midair, his eyes politely averted.

  The park ranger rushed in, holding his belt holster. Stopping next to the picnic table, he took in the crowd from Camp Reid, the heavyset woman sitting dazed on the bench with her housecoat flopping open over a Cross Your Heart bra, Rube standing over her with his hands dangling in the air, and my car, where Willie had launched into a rapid-fire defense testimony involving bears outside the tent, his rubber-band gun, and a skunk chasing him and his sister into my campsite.

  I could only imagine what the ranger was thinking.

  Autumn bolted from my car like a victim escaping a hostage situation, dashed across the camp, and threw herself into her father’s arms, sobbing about how scared she was, and how she thought they would be trapped forever, and it was all caused by Willie and his stupid rubber-band gun. Stiff-armed, Willie marched after her, contradicting her story, while Jace looked from one child to the other, thoroughly confused.

  The woman in the housecoat turned ashen-faced toward the motor home, wagging a finger. “S-skunk…dr-dryer v-vent, my…my hus-hus-husb-b-band.”

  “What in the devil is going on out here?” Nana Jo waded through the crowd into the clearing, wearing a filmy cotton muumuu that allowed the morning light to outline her stooped frame. “Lord o’ mercy, you bunch could wake the dead in January.” Waving her walking stick authoritatively toward the park ranger, she demanded, “What’s the problem, Officer?”

  The park ranger pulled off his hat and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, then blinked, hoping, no doubt, this was all a mirage. “Ma’am, I wish I knew.”

  “S-skunk, d-dryer vent,” the woman on the picnic bench stammered.

  I opened my car door, then climbed out and walked to Nana Jo and the park ranger, all the while carefully watching the accordion-shaped plastic pipe into which the skunk had made its exit. “This is going to sound a little strange,” I began.

  The park ranger rolled his gaze toward me, setting his hat loosely on the back of his head. He crossed his arms over his chest and rocked onto his heels. “Ma’am, I can’t wait to hear.”

  CHAPTER 10

  By the time I’d finished relating the saga of Autumn, Willie, and the stranded skunk, the Reids looked like an audience at a comedy club, except for Jace, who stood over his children wearing an expression of parental reproach.

  The park ranger surveyed the scene once more, then turned back to me, struggling to keep his composure. “Sounds like your morning’s stunk so far, but just…” A puff of laughter convulsed from his mouth, and he pretended to cough behind his hand. “Just for future reference, it’s not wise to leave food around the campsite, especially at night. Unattended food is a major attraction for indigenous animals—skunks, raccoons, even the occasional coyote.”

  “And bears,” Autumn whispered as an aside to her father. “Willie heard a bear outside the tent, but I guess the skunk scared it away.”

  Willie tugged at Jace’s belt loop. “Daddy, Uncle-who kilt a bear?”

  Jace pressed a finger to his lips. “Ssshhh. We’ll talk about it later.”

  The park ranger went on with his lecture about proper wildlife relations. “Chances are, if there’s no food available, the animal will just sniff around the campsite and move on. It would be a good idea to keep edibles in the car from now on.”

  “I will,” I said, too chagrined to admit that I’d spent years in the woods and knew better than to leave food lying around. “Sorry about the disturbance.”

  The ranger gave a backward wave of his hand. “No problem, ma’am. You shouldn’t have any more trouble.”

  “No more trouble? No more trouble?” The lady in the housecoat suddenly regained her senses and came to life. Standing up, she flailed a hand toward the motor home, then realized her robe was hanging open, and snatched the loose ends in a furious gasp. “She honked her horn and chased that creature up my dryer vent.” Her shriek sent a flock of starlings into a cackling frenzy overhead. “Raymond’s asleep in there, and without his hearing aid, he won’t know a thing.” She kneaded the front of her robe with one hand and braced the other on her hip. “What am I supposed to do now?”

  Pulling his flashlight from his belt, the park ranger moved toward the vent hose and carefully squatted down to peer inside. “I don’t see anything in there, ma’am.”

  “Oh, it’s in there, all right.” Positioned safely behind the ranger, the woman bent over, trying to see into the pipe. “She chased it right up my hose, I’m telling you. You better get it out before it goes after poor Raymond.”

  Behind her, Uncle Rube braced one hand on his hip, clutched his T-shirt with the other, and bent down, wiggling his rear end and mouthing, “You better get that thing out’a there.”


  The onlookers from Camp Reid chuckled, and Autumn squealed, “Uncle Rube!” then started giggling.

  Nana Jo cleared her throat sternly, and Uncle Rube straightened up as the park ranger rose and scratched his head. Clearly, a skunk up a dryer vent was not the usual everyday problem. He surveyed the pajama-clad crowd, looking for suggestions.

  Uncle Rube moved closer to the pipe and squatted down to have a peek inside. He looked like a Native American sumo wrestler, feet spread for balance, hands braced on his meaty thighs, long dark hair falling around his shoulders. “Yup. It’s in there, sure enough. I can hear it scratchin’ its way up the tube.”

  The woman gasped. “Lord have mercy! What if Raymond wakes up and goes looking for clean undershorts?”

  Uncle Rube glanced back at the ranger. “I think you’re gonna have to leave it be, till it decides to crawl back out.” His suggestion drew a disdainful hiss from the motor home owner, and Rube shrugged helplessly.

  “If I wanted advice from you people, I’d ask for it.” Turning a shoulder to Rube, she faced the ranger. “I want that creature out of my dryer vent. Now.”

  The ranger lifted his hat, scratched his hair, then set his hat back in place. “Well, ma’am, you’re going to have to talk to the skunk about that, I’m afraid. My best advice is to leave him be. When it turns hot later in the day, he’ll probably get a little warmish in there and decide to crawl out. For sure by this evenin’ after dark, he’ll be getting hungry and thirsty and ready to get out and move around. As long as nobody leaves any food around tonight, he’ll wander off.”

  “And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” The woman’s voice rang through the campground, shattering the morning quiet.

  A muscle twitched in the ranger’s cheek. “My suggestion would be that everyone pack up for the day, go get breakfast somewhere else, head for the Labor Day festivities in town, and don’t come back until well after dark. When that little fella does head out of there, he’s gonna be confused, and probably in a pretty poor mood. Y’all don’t want to be around for that. The less noise there is, the more likely he’ll relax and decide to—”

  “I don’t want that thing relaxing in my dryer vent!” The woman shrieked.

  Uncle Rube’s hands jerked toward his ears, and he popped to attention with surprising agility.

  The park ranger momentarily squeezed his eyes shut. Hooking his thumbs on his belt and holster, he took on an air of decisive authority. “Ma’am, you don’t want him mad in there, either. I wouldn’t make too much racket in the trailer as you’re getting your things together.”

  “It’s a motor coach,” she corrected, glaring at the pipe as if she might tear it off with her bare hands.

  “Yes, ma’am. In the future, it’d be a good idea not to put a vent pipe out like that. It’s against camp regulations to have open ventilation or drain pipes lying on the ground.”

  “The dryer going makes the motor coach hot.” She bit out each word separately and crisply, the emphasis on motor coach. “We have to ventilate it away from the floor.”

  “I understand how that could be a problem, ma’am, but snakes love warm, enclosed places, too.” Straightening his hat, the ranger turned and headed for his truck. “Have a good day, y’all.”

  The woman gaped at her vent pipe. Her face went pale as she took one last look around our circle, then tiptoed toward the motor home, calling her husband’s name in a strained whisper. “Ray-mond…Raaa-monnnd…”

  Grasping her walking stick in the middle, Nana Jo turned back to her circle of bystanders. “All Reids up and dressed. We’re going to see Aunt Maemae at the café.” She swept her arm through the air like a drum major lining up a band. Willie and two other boys snapped to attention and saluted, and Nana Jo winked at them. “I see my boys are remembering last night’s bedtime story about our grandfathers, and how they used the Choctaw language to fool the enemy in the World Wars. It wasn’t only the Navaho who relayed secret messages for the army. The very first to carry secret messages in their native language during World War One were young Choctaw men. Can anyone tell me what we call those honored soldiers?”

  “Code talkers,” Autumn answered.

  Nana Jo nodded proudly. “Very good. And can you tell me the Choctaw word for a brave red warrior, which gives our Choctaw capitol grounds its name?”

  Three children replied in unison, as if Nana Jo quizzed them often. “Tushka homma.”

  Tapping her walking stick on the ground, Nana Jo bent forward, and the children fell silent, anticipating the next question. “That is very good. Now, tell me, if you can, how might a code talker begin his message? Remember, no English words now, because the enemy is near. Only Choctaw. They do not know our secret language.”

  “Halito,” Willie answered, his wide eyes sliding upward, waiting for approval.

  Nana Jo nodded. “Hello. Yes, that is good. He might begin with hello, and what next?”

  An older boy of perhaps ten or eleven answered next. “Chim achukma?” He brightened under Nana Jo’s silent approval.

  “Oh, yes. Your great-grandfather may have asked, Are you well? All of those men who left from here were brothers and cousins and friends. They were all part of the tribe, and they loved each other very much. Their jobs were very dangerous, and each man knew that he must sacrifice his life rather than allow himself to fall into the hands of the enemy. They were sworn to protect our secret language, and they did. Never was the enemy able to break the Choctaw code.” Her voice trailed off mysteriously, and she breathed deep, gazing upward into the trees. The lake’s fog-laden morning breath rippled her cotton nightgown, outlining her form and lifting her fine gray hair, so that she looked unreal, a picture-book illustration of an ancient woodland spirit. Overhead, the pecan leaves scratched and rattled like static on a field radio.

  Nana Jo looked closely at each child. “This is why you must not believe people who say those Choctaw words are old things that don’t matter, that learning them is too much work. When the code talkers were young boys in the missionary schools, they were forbidden to speak their Choctaw language. When they used Choctaw words, they were beaten and punished for cursing, yet they would not surrender the language of their ancestors. Those words are your history—the soil in which your lives are rooted. They were so valuable that your grandfathers fought to protect them.” Her eyes were clear and wise as she leaned close to the children again, singling out Autumn in particular.

  “Remember this when other children make fun of you and say that you spend too much time learning old things. Those friends are like the blossoms on a tree. They come with their pretty colors and their sweet scents. They turn our heads, but when the seasons change, they blow away to somewhere else. Only the soil remains to nourish the tree. A tree can live for months without blossoms, but without roots, it dies quickly.” Tapping a finger to Autumn’s forehead, she leaned down to catch her gaze. “You remember that, my girl, when that Kaylee Peterson makes fun of you at school.”

  Autumn nodded.

  Overhead, the trees fell into a hush. A slice of cool air crept under my T-shirt, raising prickles on my skin. The talk about history, ancestors, and roots brought back an old pain, a nagging presence that sometimes sat on my chest when my own family was gathered together and the air was filled with stories about the past. There were no stories about me, no roots that drove deep into the soil of family memories and shared experience. Only part of me belonged there—a recent part that began when I was adopted. Another part of me belonged somewhere else, yearned for some other soil I could only guess at. That yearning always came wrapped in a misty layer of guilt that said families are about love, not about bloodlines.

  Nana Jo’s gaze caught mine for just an instant, and everything stood still. I wondered if she could see what I was thinking. What did she think of me, this strange girl, camping next to them alone in a car, with a borrowed quilt and no food?

  Nana Jo broke the connection between us, turned to the children, and cl
apped her hands. “Now why are all of you still standing around? Let’s get ready to go to the café for breakfast. While we’re getting dressed, we will pretend we are soldiers, like Great-grandfather. Remember, the enemy is outside listening, so no English. Only Choctaw. Everyone get ready. We’ll leave for breakfast in”—she checked her wristwatch—“thirty minutes.”

  Uncle Rube stepped close to Dillon, making the motion of synchronizing wristwatches. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Dillon rolled his eyes as they turned around and headed for camp.

  Jace offered his arm to Nana Jo, to help her across the uneven ground. Patting his hand, she swiveled momentarily in my direction. “You, too. Thirty minutes.”

  Jace shrugged over his shoulder, then gave me a quick wink and a smile. I liked the way his eyes glittered when he did that. Watching him walk back to Camp Reid, taking short, slow steps so that his grandmother could keep up, I had the sense that the walk fit him, that he was steady, unhurried, careful.

  When they were gone, I grabbed my duffel bag from the car and jogged up to the restroom to shower and dress. Back in high school, when the emphasis was on looking perfect, and acting perfect, and being perfect, I might have been worried about getting ready in thirty minutes. The months in Ukraine, sharing dormitory-style bathrooms and bathing in lukewarm or cold water only at designated times, had taught me that very little preparation is required to get through the day. Surrounded by girls who owned almost nothing and didn’t expect things to improve much, I’d come to understand that so many of the things I’d always focused on—fitting in at Harrington Academy, earning accolades for my music, driving the right kind of car, wearing clothes that made me acceptable to everyone else—didn’t really matter at all.