“Like, duh,” said Keith, the smartest cousin.
I just sat back without saying a word, folding my arms and Choctaw-saying with my pursed lips and tilting head, Hoke, so where is this going?
Uncle Kenneth pretended not to notice me, but I saw a smile creeping over his face.
“But if the Chukmas were gonna make it alive and not into the belly of Naloosha Chitto, they had to make sense out of this confusion. The Big Dude was fast and getting close. But he couldn’t read, and when a sign pointed right or left, he followed the arrow. Didn’t matter what the sign said, he followed the arrow.”
“How did the Chukmas know which way to go,” I asked, “if the arrow pointed the wrong way?”
“Glad you asked,” said Uncle Kenneth. “I didn’t tell you about the Chukma kids yet. They were smart young ’uns, real smart. Mary Chukma was twelve years old and she loved geography. Whenever they traveled, she always carried a state map. And did it come in handy on this night!”
“How could she read in the dark?” Keith asked.
“Thank you for asking,” Uncle Kenneth said. “Ricky Chukma, Mary’s little brother, had a camper’s manual which he had read from cover to cover. It advised what to carry in case a Naloosha Chitto smashed your car and you were stranded in the woods at midnight. He remembered chapter two, ‘The Importance of Flashlights in the Dark,’ so of course he carried a flashlight.
“With Ricky shining the light and Mary reading the map, the Chukmas knew which way to go. They dashed across the parking lot to the park headquarters, pounded on the door, and a park ranger ushered them inside to safety.”
“What happened to their car?” Keith asked. “I am assuming it was totaled?”
“You assume right,” said Uncle Kenneth. “But the rearview mirrors were still good, so AllChoctaw State Insurance replaced the Chukma car with a super cool minivan!”
I couldn’t let him get away with that. I covered my eyes with my hands and shook my head, Choctaw-telling him, My mom is right, you can’t believe a word Uncle Kenneth says.
“Excuse me, Uncle Kenneth,” said Keith, and the academic tone of his voice made everyone pause and look his way.
“Yes, my nephew Keith, son of my brother Billy,” said Uncle Kenneth. Sarcasm, I whispered in my fists, rocking back and forth.
“I am pondering the fate of campers who arrived the next day,” said Keith. “Nice families who could not read, or possibly read in another language?”
“You’re forgetting,” Uncle Kenneth replied, “those Bohpoli think of everything. They of course switched back the arrows. So, if there are no more questions…”
“But what happened to Naloosha Chitto?” asked sweet little cousin Cindy, waving her tiny hand in the air. “He is people, too.”
“Glad you asked,” Uncle Kenneth said, glancing at his watch and blowing his cheeks into one huge I am not believing this Choctaw bubble. “Yes, Naloosha Chitto is people, too. But he found himself running uphill till he came to the twenty-foot-long boulder stretched over the lake, ninety-seven feet below. The sign clearly said: DO NOT WALK ON THE OVERLOOK. IT IS CRACKED AND READY TO FALL AND WE DO NOT HAVE THE STAFF TO PROVIDE A LIFEGUARD IF YOU CANNOT SWIM. OR EVEN IF YOU CAN.”
“But Naloosha Chitto can’t read, Uncle Kenneth,” Cindy chirped.
“No, sweetheart, he cannot. He ignored the warning and stepped onto the overlook. He heard the CURRRrrRACKing sound, lost his balance, and fell kicking and screaming into the lake.”
“Kicking and screaming?” asked Trisha.
“It’s called a cliché,” replied Keith.
“I don’t like this!” said a determined little Cindy.
“Wait, hon, it’s not over yet,” said Uncle Kenneth. “A group of anthropologists, seeking proof that Naloosha Chitto was real, were paddling their canoe around the lake. When they saw not only the skeletal structure of the creature, but the actual creature, they leapt overboard. Naloosha Chitto climbed in the canoe and paddled safely to shore.”
“Why were they paddling around at midnight?” Keith asked.
“And did they live or drown?” asked Trisha.
“Yeah, Uncle Kenneth, and what kind of creamer did the park ranger serve the Chukmas in their coffee?” I inquired.
Uncle Kenneth stood up, looming six feet above me and my dozens of cousins. He took a deep breath and bellowed, “The END!”
Like good little Choctaw kids, me and my dozens of cousins all clapped and slapped Uncle Kenneth on the back. “Good story!” we told him.
“Wait,” he said, holding his palm aloft. “What could the Chukmas do that Naloosha Chitto could not do? What saved this family’s life?”
“Turtle Kid knows,” I said, raising my hand.