“Yes,” I say. “I mean no. I mean . . .” I pause, trying to get my words right. I usually do not have trouble saying what I mean, but I am just so unsure where this conversation is going that my thoughts are tripping over each other like clumsy runners in a race. I take a breath. “Yes, I told my mother that I was going to visit you.”

“Even though she disapproved of it?” He asks that as a question to which he already knows the answer. And his tone is mild, his words followed by one of those warm chuckles that seem to be a natural part of his conversation.

“Osdadu,” he says, “it’s all right. Of course your mother would be worried about your wishing to see your crazy old father.”

I start to say something, but he raises his hand.

“I know what everyone says, that my mind is not right. Just as I know that it was not easy for your mother when we were together. She had good reason for ending our marriage. Just as I had good reason for staying on this path.” He looks out from the porch as if looking at something a long way away.

I follow his gaze, but all I can see is the road, the bare trees, the land beginning to slope down toward the river.

“But still your mother did not stop you.” My father is nodding his head again. “She has always been wise, your mother. She knows that trying to keep your child from doing something seldom produces the result you wish.”

He looks back at my carefully notched stick. “Do you know the story of the seven boys who were always playing chunkey?”

I think I do. I cannot remember a time when I didn’t love to listen to stories. My uncle Red Bird used to say that my hunger for stories was almost as great as my hunger for food. Red Bird.

I cannot keep a sad look from coming to my face as I remember my uncle. I’ve been missing him so much.

“What is troubling you?” my father says in a soft voice. And then, almost as if he can read my mind, he leans closer. “Are you thinking of your uncle?”

I nod. “How did you know?”

“I heard of his passing,” my father says, his voice almost a whisper, meant for my ears alone. “Red Bird was my friend, you know. We grew up together. Although I could not be there with you, I knew that he would teach you well. No boy could have had a finer uncle.”

I’m not sure what to say. My father’s sympathy has touched me so deeply that I feel a lump in my throat. Then a little voice from inside the cabin speaks up.

“Would you tell that story about the seven boys, Edoda? Please, Father, please!”

CHAPTER 7

The Chunkey Players