Brandon Hobson
Tenkiller
I live on a winding dirt road by Lake Tenkiller, in a hardwood forest of persimmon, oak, and hickory trees near the Cookson Hills, in Oklahoma. Many years ago, the Cherokees came to this area after the Trail of Tears to build a nation, where they developed a tribal government, constructed buildings and schools, and invented a syllabary. I grew up near here, in a town called Tahlequah, home of the Cherokee Nation. I live alone.
Every day I work at my job in social services, and every day I return home to my house here in the woods and sit on the back deck, by myself. Despite enjoying my work, I am a very lonely person. My father, a sweet and caring man, built the back deck with his own hands. It overlooks the slope of trees down to the edge of the lake. I do not want to be alone here, but I am unfortunately by myself most of the time, unless I visit my parents who live down the road.
I live here in this house made of rock and brick with its slanted roof and chimney full of spirits. This is my house, here in the woods, where I sleep under the blue light of the moon in the dark sky, listening to the sad howl of a wolf’s spirit, waking sometimes to see a deer at the edge of the yard. I remember seeing a family of deer gather down the hill near the water last winter. And how sad it was when they never returned.
My job keeps me busy and is quite fulfilling. I do care about helping kids who are less fortunate. For several years I have worked with troubled teenagers who come in and out of the shelter. Sometimes the court places them in the custody of social services where they sit in detention and wait to be placed in group homes. Then they might run away from the group homes and return to the streets, and the whole cycle starts over again. When these kids are brought in to the shelter and I meet with them, after they’ve changed out of their street clothes and showered and put all their money and jewelry in baggies, after they’ve carried their bed sheets and pillows down the hall past the medical supply room to their rooms, they tell me everything that happened on the streets. They open up to me, which is a sort of gift. Part of my job is listening to them, these kids who had seen enough in six months to provide a lifetime of nightmares.
But it is a job that is difficult not to think about. The world can be a very cruel place. Here near the Cookson Hills, I see the people who are addicted to methamphetamines, the ones with rotted teeth and sagging pants, thin and pale. I see the ones who walk along the highway out by the pow-wow grounds, where cars rip by them without stopping. They are the lost, our brothers and cousins, our uncles and aunts. They are our friends, our neighbors, our family. We can only hope the world will be less cruel to them, that they will be less cruel to themselves.
On Saturday I walk with my mother and father down the edge of the road when we think we see a fox up ahead, crossing the road, heading into the woods. We hear a girl’s voice calling out for her dog. She is running toward us, calling out, “Wolfie! Wolfie!” and when she reaches us she is out of breath.
“Have you seen my dog?” she asks, breathing hard. “His name is Wolfie.”
“What kind of dog is he?” I ask.
“He’s a shepherd mix,” she says.
“Okay, settle down. We can help you find him.”
“But he ran away. Wolfie ran away. He has light-brown fur and a collar with his name on it.”
“Is he microchipped?” my father asks.
She doesn’t know. The three of us head down by the water. We cross the fence and walk past the old abandoned Chevrolet that has been there so long mice have built nests around the engine. We walk down a path in the trees, calling Wolfie’s name and whistling. We head down to the water.
“Where is he?” the girl keeps asking us. My father is calling for Wolfie. We are all calling for him but can’t find him.
My mother kneels down to the girl and asks what her name is.
“Sarah,” the girl says. “I live with my daddy in that house over there.” She points to a gray house across the lake. “He’s looking for Wolfie, too. He’s looking over there.”
The girl is near hysterics by now, breathing heavily, terrified of losing her dog. I think of the dog probably rummaging around in the woods, smelling for squirrels or mice. I think of whistling but I can’t whistle. I ask my father, and he puts two pinkies in his mouth and tries to whistle but can’t.
“I used to whistle this way,” he says.
We wait while he tries again with failure. He looks down to see Sarah’s face wet with tears, and I can see the understanding, his compassion for the girl. The girl has lost her dog. The girl is afraid of her dog never returning, and it is a feeling he understands, we all understand, and how, in such a moment, there is never enough comfort to soothe that fear.
We decide to split up. My father and I will start in the direction back toward their house while my mother takes Sarah toward her house to find her father, looking for Wolfie on the way.
“Maybe her dad is on it,” I say. “Surely the dog is microchipped. The dad must’ve lost Sarah, too.” It occurs to me I’m talking more to myself than to my father. We walk back to the house without ever seeing the dog, though we stay to the trail. The woods can be thick in parts, and also dark.
When we reach my parents’ house, my father goes inside while I wait on the back porch. Soon I see my mother down the road talking to Sarah and a man I assume is her father. He is dark-haired and rugged looking, wearing a vest and boots. It is difficult to see exactly what he looks like from where I’m standing, but in a way he reminds me of someone I’ve seen in a movie. I can make out his face a little, but not entirely. From afar he looks to be built, in shape, and in a fatherly way he leans down to comfort Sarah as she embraces him, all the while talking to my mother. And then my mother turns and heads back, and I watch the guy walk the other way with Sarah.
“Well?” I say when she reaches the porch.
“That was Sarah’s dad, but we couldn’t find the dog,” she says. “Poor thing, she was so upset. Her dad’s name is Eric.”
“Well, that’s good,” I say. “Is he married?”
“Married? He didn’t say.”
“Did he say how long he’s lived over there? I haven’t seen him before.”
“He didn’t say,” she says. “Nothing else we can do to help. The dog isn’t microchipped. I hope the dog isn’t gone forever.”
My mother goes inside to be with my father. They are getting old and tire easily. They need to rest, so I go for a walk down to Barnacle Bill’s Marina, which is on Lake Tenkiller, where I sometimes go to drink coffee or eat lunch and read. The place is busy during the summer months when people vacation and go there to listen to live music.
The sun is out and the sky is a clear blue. The air is thick with humidity, insects trailing in a light breeze. I see geese flying low to the water. A few ducks are walking away from the kids who are playing near the edge of the water, and a father of one of the kids keeps telling his son not to step into the mud.
Inside Barnacle Bill’s it is empty mainly because it’s fall and the weather is getting cooler, which means fewer people are staying at their lake houses. Barnacle Bill’s is closed from November through February due to low lake attendance. I order a cup of coffee and sit by the window, thinking about Sara and her lost dog. The sunlight is slanting in from the west, the last few hours of the day. From my small table, I look out near the edge of the water, where I can see the same kids who were playing. There are five of them, all boys, and one of them is significantly smaller than the others. As I sip my coffee I watch them. They throw things into the water. It becomes a game, taking things out of their pockets and throwing them as far as they can into the lake. I wonder how many lost things are at the bottom of the lake. I think again of Sarah and her lost dog, and how sad it feels to lose a pet or other loved one.
Two of the boys pick up the smallest boy and carry him up the slope toward the trees, while the whole time the small boy struggles to break free. They drop him and then run back down the slope to the other two boys, and those four then start walking away, following a different trail. The small boy stands up and runs after them, along the trail back into the trees until I can’t see any of them anymore.
I feel very alone, but I wonder if I could feel at home anyplace else. In truth, I am afraid of leaving. I am afraid of losing my parents who are getting old. I am afraid, afraid. This is Cookson Hills, Cherokee Nation, on Lake Tenkiller, my home. It is a quiet life here, one easily forgotten about. I try to put things in perspective.
Tomorrow I will go back to work and see what the world holds. I sip my coffee and look out over the water, which, like the world, beneath its darkness is full of many lost things.