was. Faye was shaken, but she slipped an arm around his waist and guided him through the crowd, saying only, “Nice shirt.”
As Faye and Joe straggled behind, she watched their colleagues break up into companionable pairs. Oka Hofobi and Dr. Mailer looked to be deep in some kind of scholarly conversation. Bodie and Toneisha, like most 23-year-olds, were as high-spirited and gangly as yearling colts. By now, they were far ahead of their older friends, hurrying from one novel sight to the next. Chuck, too, was drawing away from his slower-moving colleagues with his long, economical stride. As far as Faye could tell, he had been successful at avoiding eye contact with anyone in the teeming crowd.
Dr. Mailer, on the other hand, was making good on his plan to charm the natives. He nodded at anyone he could get to look at him. His manner was naturally so appealing that a couple of people stopped in their tracks to shake hands and introduce themselves, but he was oblivious to the miniature dramas staging themselves just a few feet away. Oka Hofobi, a lifelong resident who by rights should have found many acquaintances to greet, walked quietly with his head slightly bowed. Twice, Faye saw him crowded and jostled by people she thought she recognized from the confrontation at Mr. Calhoun’s mound.
It occurred to her that the rest of them could pack up and go home when their summer’s work was done, but Oka Hofobi would have to live here, among farmers who saw his work as a threat to their way of life. While she was pondering that uncomfortable possibility, she saw the young Choctaw take a staggering step to the right as he was jostled again, hard.
This had to stop.
A distinctive figure appeared in the distance, walking toward them. Unless Faye missed her guess, it was Davis, and she was glad. He must have seen Oka Hofobi’s discomfort. Older brothers weren’t known for tolerating mistreatment of their younger siblings, even when those siblings were past thirty.
Davis wore the traditional Choctaw broad-brimmed black hat with a beaded band, and so did the shorter man walking next to him. As they passed Oka Hofobi, the two men kept their eyes straight ahead, never acknowledging Davis’ own brother. If Faye wasn’t mistaken, the shorter man spit on the ground as they walked past.
She looked up at Joe, who said, “He’s okay, but I’m watching. I can get to him if he needs me, but I think he’d rather deal with this his own self.”
Oka Hofobi turned his head toward Davis and spoke a couple of words, but he kept moving. There would be no confrontation this morning.
The two men didn’t pause when they brushed past Faye and Joe, either. As they passed, Faye was almost sure she heard Davis say, “Graverobbers.” Then, as if he wanted to show off for someone he looked up to, the shorter man echoed him. As if afraid they hadn’t heard him, he raised his voice a little more and said, “Ghouls.” Then the two men were gone.
So the farmers saw Oka Hofobi as a threat to their property rights and the Choctaws—or two of them, at least—saw him as someone who’d be willing to desecrate their ancestors’ bones.
Poor guy. He was taking grief from everybody.
The Pavilion was crowded with people waiting for a look at one of Neshoba County’s most famous natives. Never mind that he hadn’t set foot in the county—no, in the state—since he graduated from high school forty years before. When a local boy does good, people like to bask in the reflected glory.
After a fawning and flowery introduction, Lawrence Johnson Judd, former U.S. Representative from the state of Michigan and high-ranking official in the Democratic Party, rose to address the excited crowd.
“My friends,” he began, “when you reach my advanced age, you develop mental clarity. Or,” he said as he chuckled and shook his head, “you try to do so.”
He pulled a pen out of his breast pocket and fumbled with it to avoid looking at his audience.
As Faye and Joe straggled behind, she watched their colleagues break up into companionable pairs. Oka Hofobi and Dr. Mailer looked to be deep in some kind of scholarly conversation. Bodie and Toneisha, like most 23-year-olds, were as high-spirited and gangly as yearling colts. By now, they were far ahead of their older friends, hurrying from one novel sight to the next. Chuck, too, was drawing away from his slower-moving colleagues with his long, economical stride. As far as Faye could tell, he had been successful at avoiding eye contact with anyone in the teeming crowd.
Dr. Mailer, on the other hand, was making good on his plan to charm the natives. He nodded at anyone he could get to look at him. His manner was naturally so appealing that a couple of people stopped in their tracks to shake hands and introduce themselves, but he was oblivious to the miniature dramas staging themselves just a few feet away. Oka Hofobi, a lifelong resident who by rights should have found many acquaintances to greet, walked quietly with his head slightly bowed. Twice, Faye saw him crowded and jostled by people she thought she recognized from the confrontation at Mr. Calhoun’s mound.
It occurred to her that the rest of them could pack up and go home when their summer’s work was done, but Oka Hofobi would have to live here, among farmers who saw his work as a threat to their way of life. While she was pondering that uncomfortable possibility, she saw the young Choctaw take a staggering step to the right as he was jostled again, hard.
This had to stop.
A distinctive figure appeared in the distance, walking toward them. Unless Faye missed her guess, it was Davis, and she was glad. He must have seen Oka Hofobi’s discomfort. Older brothers weren’t known for tolerating mistreatment of their younger siblings, even when those siblings were past thirty.
Davis wore the traditional Choctaw broad-brimmed black hat with a beaded band, and so did the shorter man walking next to him. As they passed Oka Hofobi, the two men kept their eyes straight ahead, never acknowledging Davis’ own brother. If Faye wasn’t mistaken, the shorter man spit on the ground as they walked past.
She looked up at Joe, who said, “He’s okay, but I’m watching. I can get to him if he needs me, but I think he’d rather deal with this his own self.”
Oka Hofobi turned his head toward Davis and spoke a couple of words, but he kept moving. There would be no confrontation this morning.
The two men didn’t pause when they brushed past Faye and Joe, either. As they passed, Faye was almost sure she heard Davis say, “Graverobbers.” Then, as if he wanted to show off for someone he looked up to, the shorter man echoed him. As if afraid they hadn’t heard him, he raised his voice a little more and said, “Ghouls.” Then the two men were gone.
So the farmers saw Oka Hofobi as a threat to their property rights and the Choctaws—or two of them, at least—saw him as someone who’d be willing to desecrate their ancestors’ bones.
Poor guy. He was taking grief from everybody.
The Pavilion was crowded with people waiting for a look at one of Neshoba County’s most famous natives. Never mind that he hadn’t set foot in the county—no, in the state—since he graduated from high school forty years before. When a local boy does good, people like to bask in the reflected glory.
After a fawning and flowery introduction, Lawrence Johnson Judd, former U.S. Representative from the state of Michigan and high-ranking official in the Democratic Party, rose to address the excited crowd.
“My friends,” he began, “when you reach my advanced age, you develop mental clarity. Or,” he said as he chuckled and shook his head, “you try to do so.”
He pulled a pen out of his breast pocket and fumbled with it to avoid looking at his audience.
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