Effigies Read Free Page B

cocked his head to an angle that signaled how off-balance he felt. Faye wanted to warn him not to tip his hand, but he was an honest man. Nothing was going to stop him from laying his cards on the table and asking for what he wanted. This was the problem with being forthright. Once a man has forced his adversary to say, “No,” it becomes very difficult to find a face-saving way to get to “Yes.”
    Dr. Mailer plunged ahead anyway. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if we just walked over the mound? We wouldn’t dig. We wouldn’t take anything. We just want to look at it.”
    Calhoun shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe such a smart man had painted himself into such a tight corner. Faye could hardly believe it herself. Surely the professor could see that the answer to this question had to be “No.” But that wasn’t the answer that came out of Calhoun’s mouth. Instead he said only, “If that mound wasn’t standing over there, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, now, would we?”
    Then he slung his binoculars around his neck, folded his lawn chair, and walked away.
    The archaeologists exchanged uncertain looks before turning to go back to the Nail house. As they skirted Mr. Calhoun’s soybean field, dusk spread through air that was oppressive with humidity. Spreading oak trees threw shadows over the Nail house, and Faye could see something flickering in those shadows. It was a lit cigarette, arcing through the air as Oka Hofobi’s father raised it to his mouth, took a deep drag, and lowered it to his side, again and again. He stood watching until his son led the archaeological crew across the road, then he disappeared into the house. He was nowhere to be seen when they trooped through the front door, and he never reappeared, not for dinner, and not during the high-spirited conversation that filled the dining room afterward. From time to time during that conversation, Faye noticed Oka Hofobi’s eyes stray toward the darkened hallway that must lead to the house’s bedrooms.

Chapter Two
    Faye’s hopes that Mrs. Nail would cook some traditional Choctaw foods were quickly dashed. She’d had hominy once, cooked outdoors with pork and chicken, and she’d enjoyed its soul-satisfying taste. The very notion of banaha fascinated her. She’d been told that Choctaw cooks made banaha by mixing field peas and corn meal together, then wrapping the resulting mush into corn husks and boiling them. It was as if Mexican tamales had been transported to the Deep South, then adapted to available ingredients—and perhaps they had. The trade routes of America’s indigenous cultures had snaked far and wide. Why wouldn’t a tasty, nutritious recipe make its way across a continent?
    But there was no banaha on the Nails’ table. Only a tremendous platter of fried chicken and a wealth of vegetables fresh out of the garden. Several chickens had given their all for this spread. And quite a few cobs had been scraped clean to fill the bucket-sized bowl of cut-off corn. Not to mention the bushel of squash that had been sliced, rolled in corn meal, and fried.
    The table had been set for eight, but when Oka Hofobi’s older brother appeared, Mrs. Nail had hurriedly squeezed a ninth chair into place. The long, broad farmhouse table easily accommodated the crowd. Breathless, Mrs. Nail had said, “Davis, introduce yourself,” then disappeared into the kitchen.
    Davis seemed taken aback to find a crowd of strangers at his mother’s table. He looked a great deal like Mr. Nail, minus the stooped shoulders and wrinkles. Tall and lean, the muscles in his shoulders and chest showed clearly through a tee-shirt that read Choctaw Fire Department .
    Davis wasn’t a big talker. Mrs. Nail, who seemed to be the only big talker in her family, was busy in the kitchen, so Faye took it upon herself to break the awkward silence. “I’m Faye. Are you a firefighter?” she asked.
    “Yes,” was his succinct answer, but Mrs. Nail’s voice wafted