After they moved from Florida to Chicago, Roy’s mother hired a maid named Wilda Cherokee. Wilda, a sweet-tempered woman in her mid-twenties, had a son, Henry, who, like Roy, was seven years old. When Wilda could find nobody to take care of Henry, which was often, she brought him with her to Roy and his mother’s house. After Roy came home from school he and Henry played together. Roy asked him if he ever got in trouble with his school for being absent so much and Henry said, “Not so much trouble as when I’m there.”
“How come your last name is the name of an Indian tribe?” Roy asked.
“My mother’s people are from North Carolina,” Henry said. “They’re part Indians.”
Roy wished he had a great name like Cherokee and whenever he introduced Henry to someone he always said, “This is Henry Cherokee,” not just Henry.
“He ain’t an Indian,” said Roy’s friend Tommy Cunningham, “he’s a Negro.”
“He’s both,” Roy said. “His great-great grandmother was married to a Cherokee chief.”
“What was the chief’s name?” asked Tommy.
“Wind-Runs-Behind-Him,” said Henry.
“You’re makin’ that up.”
“No, I’m not. My grandmama Florence told me.”
Roy, Tommy and Henry were standing in the alley behind Roy’s house. Roy and Henry had been playing catch with a taped up hardball when Tommy came out of Jimmy Boyle’s backyard, which he’d been cutting through.
“How come you’re here?” Tommy asked.
“His mother works for us,” said Roy.
“What’s her name, Princess Summer-Fall-Winter-Spring?”
“Wilda,” said Henry.
“Can you do a war dance? Say somethin’ in Cherokee,”
A red Studebaker crept slowly up the alley and parked a couple of houses away behind a garage.
“That’s Mr. Anderson,” said Roy.
He waved at the tall, fair-haired man who got out of the car and the man waved back. Mr. Anderson walked over to the boys.
“Hello, Roy. And you’re Paulie Cunningham’s son, aren’t you? How’s your dad? He hasn’t been around Beeb’s Tavern lately.”
“He’s in jail,” said Tommy. “But my ma says he’s gettin’ out soon.”
“Tell him Sven Anderson says hello and that the first one’s on me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And who’s this?” Mr. Anderson said, looking at Henry.
“This is my friend Henry Cherokee,” said Roy.
“Do you live around here, Henry?”
“No.”
“His mother works for my mother,” Roy said.
Mr. Anderson fingered a cigarette from an open pack of Lucky Strikes in his shirt pocket, put it between his lips, then took out a green book of matches with the name Beeb’s written on it in white letters, and lit the Lucky.
“I hired a colored fella to work at the bottling plant,” he said. “Two years ago, I guess it was. He was a good worker. After about six months he didn’t show up one Monday, didn’t call in either. Turned out he’d been shot and killed in a bar Saturday night before.”
“Henry’s part Indian,” said Roy.
“His grandfather was a chief,” said Tommy Cunningham.
“My great-great grandfather,” said Henry. “His name was Wind-Runs-Behind-Him.”
“That’s poetry, that is,” Mr. Anderson said. “Our names aren’t nearly as colorful, or descriptive. He must have been a fast runner.”
“I don’t know,” said Henry.
“Nice meeting you, Henry. It’s not every day I get to meet the great grandson of an Indian chief.”
Mr. Anderson walked back toward his garage.
“What’s poetry?” asked Tommy.
“Words that rhyme,” said Roy.
“Wind-Runs-Behind-Him don’t rhyme.”
“What’s your father in jail for?” Henry asked.
Tommy, who was almost nine and a head taller than Henry, bent over and put his nose on top of Henry’s and said, “He’s a horse thief.”
Roy thought Tommy might try to beat Henry up so he got ready to hit Tommy in his head with the hardball, but Tommy backed off and began running down the alley.
“Does his father really steal horses?” asked Henry.
The sky had clouded over in a hurry.
“Come on,” said Roy, “let’s play catch before it rains.”