A Thousand Voices

by Lisa Wingate

  The drummers struck their drums, and it was obvious that we were about to miss the grand entry. “I don’t know how,” I protested, looking around at the huge crowd of spectators and thinking that the last, last, last thing I wanted to do was get out there in front of everyone.

  Autumn frowned incredulously. “It’s easy. I’ll show you. C’mon.” She jittered on her feet, her fingers still clutched around mine in an I’m-not-giving-up grip. “C’mon. Please?” Her face pleaded in a way that made it impossible to say no. The moment suddenly seemed significant. This was something she’d always done with her mother, and now she was willing to share it with me.

  “Sure. Of course I will. I’d love to dance with you, but you’ll have to show me the steps.” My heart fluttered in my throat, and I silently prayed, God, please don’t let me make a fool of myself in front of all these people.

  “Get your shawl,” Autumn whispered, and my fingers shook as I grabbed the fringed fabric from my chair.

  Cody scooped up Benjamin, Autumn took Willie’s hand, and the next thing I knew she and Willie were leading me behind the rest of the Reids as the master of ceremonies explained that the evening would begin with the grand entry, then a ceremony in honor of Choctaw military warriors, and finally an address by the current chief of the Choctaw Nation. Festivities would then continue with competitive dances of various types. Willie bounced up and down in place as we reached the end of the line and waited for our turn to enter the circle.

  “Willie, stop it,” Autumn scolded, grabbing his shirt and yanking him back. “This isn’t anytime to be goofing around. Be respectful.” With her face close to his, she scowled and pressed a finger to her lips. “Now, ssshhh. You’re not a baby.”

  “I wanna go with Dad,” Willie protested, looking up at me and pointing to where Jace was standing with a group of men, ready to enter the arena. At the sound of Willie’s voice, he glanced back, seeming surprised, then pleased, to find his children with me, rather than Nana Jo or one of the aunts.

  “You can’t. You’re too little. You’re not a man,” Autumn hissed, smiling at her dad through clenched teeth, the silent message being Everything under control here, Dad. Don’t worry. “Let Dad alone now, and be good.”

  Willie was not to be dissuaded. “I wanna go with Dad,” he whined, pulling against Autumn’s hand. Ahead of us, Nana Jo glanced back, giving the outburst a scornful frown. In the arena, the opening ceremonies began and the crowd fell silent. Now was not the time for Willie to break into a full-scale fit, but Autumn had a death grip on his wrist, and the situation was about to turn ugly.

  “Hey,” I whispered, leaning close to Willie, “don’t leave me, all right? I need someone to show me how to do this.”

  His eyes narrowed, the wheels turning inside his head. Decision time—Throw a fit or go along quietly? “Okie-dokie,” he said finally, then tried to yank his arm away from Autumn again. “Leggo. I gotta help her.”

  “I have him,” I said, and Autumn released her hold, huffing and pursing her lips.

  Ahead of us, the line started to move and Nana Jo glanced back with a concern.

  “You gotta put on your shawl,” Willie whispered from the side of his mouth as we started forward. “With the stringy stuff hanging down.” He motioned to some of the women ahead, who had covered their shoulders with beautiful, brightly decorated shawls. The long, silky fringe swayed in time with their movements as they proceeded into the circle.

  I unfolded my shawl and slipped it around my shoulders, and Willie nodded his approval. My heart leapt into my throat as we reached the opening of the circle, and around me the members of the line became dancers, their feet taking up the beat of the drums, moving in a slow, swaying rhythm. Willie tapped my hand and demonstrated as we went in.

  Down on the left foot, up on the right, down on the right foot, up on the left, I chanted in my head as we flowed into the circle, swept along like floating leaves in a river of color and movement, breath and sound. The chant in my head faded as the drummers began singing, filling the air with a lyrical melody of the Choctaw language. The sound spun deep inside me, the drums finding unison with my heartbeat, the song overtaking my thoughts, causing everything else to recede, until I was no longer nervous and afraid.

  I was not one, but one of many, swept along on a tribal river that swelled from some hidden place deep in my soul.

  CHAPTER 19

  By the time the dance was over, I was exhausted, physically and emotionally. I stood swaying in place, trying to regain my bearings as the circle cleared.

  “I thought you said you didn’t know how,” Autumn remarked, and I looked around for Willie. I’d been so lost in the dance I’d completely forgotten about Willie and Autumn.

  “Willie’s with Dad.” Autumn pointed to Jace, who had just scooped up his son. Lana was beside him, leaning close to whisper something in Jace’s ear. Holding a shawl in one arm and a clipboard in the other, she was clothed in a beautiful buckskin dress with long fringes and intricate beadwork, her braided hair adorned with beaded rosettes that matched the dress. She looked like an artist’s creation, posed there, tall and svelte, beautiful and supremely confident.

  A wave of embarrassment washed over me, catching me in a powerful undertow of self-consciousness as Jace started toward us. “You’re quite a dancer,” he said, smiling at me.

  “I doubt that.” I could feel Lana watching us, but I forced myself not to look. Instead, I focused on Jace. “But I did have wonderful teachers.” I motioned to Willie and Autumn, and both of them grinned.

  “You did great. Nobody would know you’d never been before,” Shasta said, joining us. Wiping her forehead, she turned to head back to the lawn chairs. “That’s enough for me. I’m pooped. I’ve got to sit down.”

  “Me, too,” I agreed, anxious to put some distance between Lana and myself. Suddenly my legs were hollow and weak. Compared to Lana in her buckskin dress, I felt like an ugly duckling in the shadow of a swan. I wanted to melt into the crowd and disappear.

  “Sounds good.” Jace picked up Autumn, who, now that Jace was carrying Willie, had decided she needed Daddy time, too. He walked off the field, carrying one of them on each arm, and I followed in my shawl, thinking that we looked like one of the art show portraits of a migrating Choctaw family. I liked the way it felt, being part of the picture. When we reached the lawn chairs, Jace sat down beside me with the kids on his knees, and started explaining the upcoming series of competitive dances to me.

  “Thanks for taking the kids through the grand entry,” he said when his daughter wandered off to play go fish on a blanket with one of her cousins. “I figured Autumn would probably skip it this year.” He watched his little girl twirl in a spill of bright cotton, then fall, laughing, to the blanket with her cousin. “I never thought she’d put on that dress. I told Neenee not to send it.”

  “Neenees always know best,” I replied, and he smiled sideways at me.

  “I guess they do.” He rested his chin on his son’s hair, and Willie snuggled in, yawning. “You tired, little man?” Jace asked, and Willie shook his head. “Didn’t think so.” Glancing at me, Jace winked.

  Folding his hands under his chin, Willie sighed, his eyes drifting closed as the arena filled with military veterans preparing for a ceremony in honor of Choctaw warriors. Shasta and Cody left with Nana Jo and some of the other Reid women to sit by the arena entrance and help some of the Reid kids prepare to participate in upcoming competitive dances. Dillon wandered by carrying a paper plate with something delicious-smelling on it.

  “Hey,” he said, nodding at me in an interested-but-trying-to-remain-cool way that reminded me of high school.

  “Hey,” I replied, catching another whiff of whatever he had on his plate. My stomach responded with a bear growl, and both Dillon and Jace blinked at me, surprised. “That looks good,” I admitted.

  “Fried meat pie.” He held it closer, and my mouth started watering. “The Kiamichi Garden Club’s got ’em over
there.” He pointed toward the concession area on the other side of the circle, where various vendors were selling food from tents and portable trailers. “Want me to get you one?”

  “No, that’s all right.” I stood up and squinted across the way, trying to spot the garden club ladies. “I need a drink, too. I’ll just walk over there.”

  Dillon shrugged—“Cool”—then momentarily turned his attention to a group of teenagers passing by.

  “Maybe we can play some music again back at camp,” he offered, walking backward with his plate. “You can show me some more guitar licks.”

  “Sure. But I think I’ve shown you about everything I know. I’m not that good on guitar.”

  “Dang, I think you’re good.” Nodding to add emphasis, he gave a shy, flirtatious smile.

  “You should hear her play the piano,” Jace interjected. “She’s good. Like Carnegie Hall good.”

  Dillon looked surprised. “Dang,” he said again, then realized his friends were getting away. “Cool. Catch ya later, okay?”

  “See you after a while,” Jace answered.

  With a shot-from-the-hip wave good-bye, Dillon jogged off, chasing after his friends.

  I frowned at Jace, and he swiveled his hands, palms up. “What? You are good on the piano. It’s not a secret, is it?”

  “It’s not…” I was about to say It’s not something that matters anymore, but I knew Jace would probe into that answer, and it would open up a whole can of worms, so I finished with, “…something I usually just…bring up to people.”

  He studied me, his eyes reflecting an enormous orange moon climbing above the mountains to take flight in the deep blue twilight sky. “I can’t imagine why not.”

  He probably couldn’t, I knew. He couldn’t imagine how the music lessons, and the performances, and the schooling and the expectations felt like a heavy coat—a thick layer of wool between me and the rest of the world, something that made me look much larger than I felt, a costume that hid the real me. Somewhere deep inside was the silent fearful girl from the paper-thin house on Mulberry Creek. She knew that one day, when things got bad enough, she’d build a boat and sail down the river to Oklahoma, to the beautiful place her mama remembered.

  I couldn’t, of course, tell Jace about that girl. I couldn’t say that being here, where there were no music teachers, no symphonic directors, no adopted family filled with love and high expectations, I felt as if I could finally shed the costume and examine what was on the inside.

  “Very funny, Mr. Secret CD,” I joked. “Can I bring you anything from the concession stand?”

  Jace gave a chagrined smile. Clearly, he didn’t want to get into another conversation about his CD. “Whatever you’re having.”

  “All righty, then.” As I headed off, I caught Nana Jo watching us with that same wary, concerned expression she’d had in the café earlier—the one that preceded Shasta whispering in my ear, He’s too old for you, you know.

  I tried to put it out of my head as I worked my way around the fringes of the circle toward the concession area. I walked the long way around, so as to avoid Lana, who had settled into one of the chairs on the announcer’s platform and was busily managing papers and her clipboard. By the time I reached the garden club’s booth, the veterans had left the arena and lines at the concessions tables were growing longer. On the PA, the master of ceremonies announced that there would be a ten-minute break preceding the next event—a ceremony during which the current Choctaw princess would hand over her title to the incoming princess and bestow gifts to the chief and other dignitaries. Following that, the chief would deliver an official greeting and address to the crowd.

  I waited as a group of dancers ordered meat pies, homemade cookies, and iced tea, and chitchatted with the garden club ladies. At the head of the table, Cecil, who was supposed to be taking orders and money, was doing more chatting than charging. The entire line seemed to be made up of Cecil’s former students, or relatives of her former students, and each of them wanted to talk about everything that had happened since grade school. I gathered that she had been a very popular first-grade teacher—the type who made a difference in students’ lives and was remembered, even twenty and thirty years later.

  My stomach grumbled a complaint as Cecil began detailing her Hawaii retirement trip to a couple of former students in front of me. I considered moving to the booth next door, where the youth group from a Baptist church was selling hot dogs and canned sodas.

  “Well, hi there.” Nita, who was passing by with a restaurant-sized box of paper cups, spotted me as I stepped out of line. “You hungry?”

  “Starved,” I admitted, slapping a hand over my stomach.

  “Cecil,” Nita barked, tapping Cecil with the cups as she slipped behind the table. “Light a fire under your kettle, will you? We got starvin’ people at the end of this line, and the princess ceremony’ll be startin’ up any minute.”

  Cecil glanced apologetically around her former students. “I didn’t see you back there,” she said as the students moved away, and I finally stepped up to the table. “I thought they were the last customers, or I wouldn’t of stood there tellin’ them all about Hawaii.”

  “Yes, you would of,” Nita grumbled. “You tell everyone about Hawaii.”

  “That’s all right.” Slow service or not, I was glad to finally be at the front of the line. “I need two glasses of iced tea and two meat pies—well, make that three.” It probably wouldn’t hurt to get an extra, just in case Willie and Autumn hadn’t eaten yet.

  “Comin’ up,” Nita called.

  Cecil began totaling my order, muttering and reading the amounts off the price list repeatedly. “Sorry,” she said, after she became confused and had to start over. “Not the math whiz I once was. I used to do all this business in my head. Used to teach my students all kinds of good ways to memorize their math facts, and now I can’t remember beans.”

  “That’s what calculators are for,” I joked, waiting for her to give me the total, then counting out exact change while the ladies started making my order. They ran out of tea halfway through pouring my cups, and I stood to the side while they fixed more. The people behind me wandered off to buy hot dogs next door.

  Cecil took the opportunity to start up a conversation. “I’m sorry to hold you up. I just love the chance to see all my kids again. Once they’ve been through my classroom, they’re mine, you know, just like my own family. Reckon I’ve got more kids and grandkids than anyone in the county.”

  Her mention of teaching school started the wheels turning in my mind. “Did you ever know a Thomas Clay? His parents were Nora and Audie Clay. I think he must have gone to school around here.”

  Drumming her fingers on the table, she repeated the name. “Thomas Clay…Thomas Clay…” I held my breath as her lips formed a silent O, her eyes widening in an expression of Eureka. “Well, now, let me think….”

  She adjusted her glasses and she scratched the loose skin beside her ear. My hopes hovered in thin air, like a cable car suspended by a fragile thread.

  “Thomas Clay…” Squinting upward, she tapped a knuckle against her lips, then let out an exasperated sigh. “Now, isn’t this pitiful? Time was, I could tell you all of my former students, where they lived, who their parents were, what year they started first grade.” She rubbed her knotted brows in obvious frustration. “I know that name’s familiar, but I can’t quite place it….” Finally, she shook her head in resignation. “My memory’s just not what it used to be. I’m sorry. Sometimes I think I better have the doctor give me some of that Alzheimer’s medicine my sister Lindy takes.”

  As she set my order on the table in front of us, Nita gave her a concerned look, then turned to me. “I put it all in a box, so you could carry it. There’s mustard, catsup, straws, napkins, and silverware over there, so just help yourself.”

  “Thanks.” I focused on the food to hide the fact that my emotions were in free fall again. I picked up the box and moved to the end of
the table, wondering whether Jace liked mustard or catsup.

  “Nita?” At the end of the counter, Cecil paused while arranging the money in the cash box. “Did you ever have a Thomas Clay in middle school? I’m just sure I should know that name.”

  “Hmmm,” Nita mused, and my hopes crept upward again. “Well, I’ve had lots of Clays, Cecil. You know, I just never did keep track of all those kids like you do.”

  My emotions crested the hill and careened downward with a whoosh of air as I lingered over the condiments, afraid to hope, unwilling to give up and leave if there was any chance.

  “There was a Tommy Clay in middle school for a while. He had an older brother in the ninth or tenth grade. Seems like those boys transferred over from Clayton School. Imagine they lived out there on Cataway Creek—remember, that year there was all those arguments about where the school district boundaries were and who was supposed to go to what school?”

  Taking on a look of recognition, Cecil nodded. “Ohhhh, I do remember that now. That was the year Lane had to have all that surgery on his back, and I was gone so much.”

  “Ummm-hmm.” Nita nodded, satisfied that their combined memories had pieced together the events.

  “They didn’t stay long.” Nita chewed the side of her lip. “Something happened in that family—some kind of trouble—and they sent the kids off to Indian School, I think. I can’t recall exactly….”

  Cecil shook her head, letting out a soft whistle of air between her teeth and bottom lip. “I just don’t remember any of it, but that was a lost year for me. All I did was drive to the hospital down in Paris and then come home at night and try to keep my own kids fed, and washed, and homework done.”

  Nita nodded somberly. “We’ve all got times like that. Sometimes life gets away.”

  “Sometimes it does,” Cecil agreed.

  After folding a leftover order ticket neatly in half, Nita picked up a pencil and pointed the eraser at me. “You might try taking a drive out on Cataway Creek Road, where it winds way back in by the river, about fifteen miles off the highway or so.” As she spoke, she drew the route on the back of the folded ticket. “It’s a bit of a rough trip, but there’s Clays that still live back in there. I drove the school bus on that route many a time over the years. I wouldn’t swear to it, but seems like I might of even had Tommy and his brother on the bus that one year. Anyhow, the Clays I’m thinking of had a big ranch down by Cataway Creek, way back off the road. There was several families with houses on the place. The kids always got off at one relative’s house or other. Nice folks. End of the school year, their grandma gave me a basket with home-baked bread and wild plum jam that was sure enough good.” She turned the paper around and showed it to me. “You just go back toward Antlers and turn off on Cataway Creek Road, about eight miles before you get to town, then go another ten, maybe fifteen miles, until the road starts to follow Cataway Creek down through the holler. After the road moves away from the creek again, you’ll see what’s left of an old stacked stone fence, and then the driveway into their place. There’s some mailboxes and old rock pillars there, as I recall.”