Reservation Blues - Alexie Sherman

by Alexie Sherman

"I wonder what it's like," he said.

  "Wonder about what?" Chess asked.

  "What's it like to be a half-breed kid? How do you think it feels to have a white mom or dad? It must be weird."

  "My grandmother was a little bit white," Chess said.

  "Really?" Thomas said. "What kind?"

  "German, I guess. Achtung."

  "What was she like?"

  "She hated to be Indian," Chess said. "She didn't look very Indian. That white blood really showed through. She left my grandfather, moved to Butte, and never told anybody she was Indian. She left her son on the reservation, too. Just left him, and they hardly ever heard from her again."

  Thomas shook his head, closed his eyes, and told a story:

  "A long time ago, two boys lived on a reservation. One was an Indian named Beaver, and the other was a white boy named Wally. Both loved to fancydance, but the white boy danced a step fancier. When the white boy won contests, all the Indian boys beat him up. But Beaver never beat up on the white boy. No matter how many times he got beat up, that white boy kept dancing."

  Thomas opened his eyes, smiled, and shrugged his shoulders.

  "Wally and Beaver were half-brothers, enit?" Chess asked.

  "You got it."

  "What's that mean?"

  "Don't know. Maybe it means drums make everyone feel like an Indian."

  ***

  From The Wellpinit Rawhide Press:

  Coyote Springs Home

  Coyote Springs, our own little rock band, returned

  to the reservation late last night, with the addition

  of two Flathead Indians, Chess and Checkers Warm

  Water. The two sisters reportedly sing vocals and

  play piano.

  Lester FallsApart saw the familiar blue van pull

  in about 3 A.M., Standard Indian Time.

  "They was going the speed limit," said FallsApart.

  Father Arnold of the Catholic Church called

  early this morning to offer a prayer of thanks that

  the band returned safely.

  According to an anonymous source, Michael

  White Hawk, recently released from Walla Walla

  State Penitentiary, is unhappy with Coyote Springs.

  "They think they're hot [manure]," White Hawk

  was rumored to have said. "They play a few shows

  and they think they're [gosh darn] stars. [Forget]

  them."

  Coyote Springs could not be reached for comment.

  * * *

  After they arrived back at the Spokane Indian Reservation, Chess fell into an uneasy sleep in Thomas's bed with Checkers, while he lay on the floor. Junior and Victor slept in the blue van even though there was plenty of room in the house. Chess dreamed of a small Indian man on a pale horse. With an unpainted body and unbraided brown hair, the small Indian looked unimposing. Even as she dreamed, Chess knew the unpainted Indian in her dream was not Spokane or Flathead, but she had no idea what kind of Indian he was. The unpainted one was unhappy as he rode into a cavalry fort. Many other Indians greeted him. Some with pride, others with anger.

  Came along, an angry Indian shouted loudly at the unpainted one, who dismounted, and walked to an office. A dozen Indians stood in the office while hundreds of other Indians gathered outside. The white soldiers kept rifles at the ready, while the Indians and white civilians gossiped nervously. The unpainted one waited. Soon, a white officer appeared and told the unpainted one it was too late for talk. They all needed to rest.

  Ho, the Indians called out and left the office. The unpainted one left last with the white officer in front of him, the angry Indian behind him, and two soldiers on either side. The unpainted one followed the officer without question. They led him to a small building, and the unpainted one quickly pulled a knife when he saw the barred windows and chains. The angry Indian grabbed the unpainted one from behind. In that way, both staggered into the open.

  He's got a knife!

  In Chess's dream, the soldiers trained their rifles on the Indians who might help the unpainted one. The angry Indian knocked the knife away from the unpainted one and pinned his arms behind his back.

  Kill the Indian!

  A soldier lunged forward with his bayonet and speared the unpainted one once, twice, three times. The Indians gasped as the unpainted one fell to the ground, critically wounded. The angry Indian trilled. Nobody stepped forward to help the unpainted one; he lay alone in the dust.

  He's dying!

  Then a very tall Indian man stepped through the crowd and kneeled down beside the unpainted one.

  My friend, the tall Indian said, picked up the unpainted one, and carried him to a lodge. Other Indians sang mourning songs; the soldiers shook their heads. Dogs yipped and chased each other. In Chess's dream, the tall Indian sat beside the unpainted one as he bled profusely. The white doctor came and left without song, as did the medicine woman. The unpainted one tried to sing but coughed blood instead.

  My father? the unpainted one asked.

  He's coming, the tall one said.

  The tall one greeted the father when he arrived, and both watched the unpainted one die.

  Chess woke from her dream with a snap. Unsure of her surroundings, she called out her father's name. Checkers stirred in her sleep. Chess held her breath until she remembered where she was.

  "Thomas?" she asked but received no response. He's dead, Chess thought but was not sure whom she meant. Then she heard music, so she crawled from bed and made her way to the kitchen.

  Thomas sat at the kitchen table and wrote songs. He hummed to himself and scribbled in his little notebook.

  "Thomas?" Chess said and startled him.

  "Jeez, " he said. "You about gave me a heart attack."

  Chess sat beside him.

  "When you coming back to sleep?" Chess asked.

  "Pretty soon," he said. "I'm sorry if l woke you up."

  "You didn't wake me up. I had a bad dream."

  "It's okay. You're awake now."

  "Is it okay? Really?"

  Chess smiled at Thomas, reached over and mussed his already messy hair. She took the guitar out of his hands and set it aside, then kissed him full and hard on the mouth.

  "What was that for?" he asked.

  She kissed him again. Harder. Put her hand on his crotch.

  "Jeez," he said and nearly fell over in his chair.

  Their lovemaking was tender and awkward. Afterwards, in the dark, they held each other.

  "We should've used some protection," Chess said.

  "Yeah. It was kind of stupid, enit?" Thomas asked. "Are you sure it's okay?"

  "I'm sure."

  "Next time."

  They lay there quietly for a long time. Chess thought Thomas fell asleep.

  "Listen," he said suddenly and surprised her.

  "To what?" she asked.

  "What do you hear?"

  "The wind."

  "No," Thomas said. "Beyond that."

  Chess listened. She heard the Spokane Reservation breathe. An owl hooted in a tree. Some animal scratched its way across the roof. A car drove by. A dog barked. Another dog barked its answer. She heard something else, too. Some faint something.

  "Do you hear that?" Thomas asked.

  "I hear something," she said.

  "Yeah," Thomas said. "That's what I mean, Do you hear it?"

  "Sort of."

  Chess listened some more and wondered if it was her imagination. Did she hear something just because Thomas wanted her to hear something? She listened until she fell asleep.

  * * *

  Coyote Springs scheduled their first non-reservation gig in a cowboy bar in Ellensburg, Washington, of all places, and drove down I-90 to get there. The old blue van rapidly collected the miles.

  "Thomas," Victor yelled from the back. "I think it's about time we picked up a new rig."

  Coyote Springs agreed with Victor, but Thomas wanted no part of it.

  "This van i
s older than any of us," Thomas said. "It has seen more than any of us. This van is our elder, and we should respect it. Besides, we have no money."

  Coyote Springs laughed, even Thomas, and kept laughing until something popped under the hood. The van shuddered and stopped in the middle of the freeway.

  "Shit," said Coyote Springs in unison.

  A few cars honked at the five Indians pushing an old blue van down the road.

  "Thomas," Victor said. "We need a new rig."

  Coyote Springs pushed that blue van twenty miles down the road, across a bridge over the Columbia River, into a little town called Vantage. The band sprawled around the van in various positions and barely moved when the cop pulled up. That cop climbed out of his cruiser, pulled on a pair of those mirrored sunglasses that cops always wear.

  "What seems to be the problem?'° he asked.

  "Our van broke down," Thomas said.

  The cop walked close t the van and looked inside.

  "Is all of this your equipment?" the cop asked.

  "Yes, sir," Thomas said.

  "Are you in a band or what?"

  "Yeah," Thomas said. "We're Coyote Springs?

  The officer studied the band, tapped his foot a little, and took off his sunglasses.

  "Where you guys from?" he asked.

  "From Wellpinit. Up on the Spokane Indian Reservation."

  "How about you girls?"

  "We're Flathead Indians," Chess said. "From Arlee, Montana."

  "Where you headed to?"

  "Ellensburg," Thomas answered. "We're playing a bar called Toadstools."

  "I know that place. You sure you're playing there?"

  The cop waited briefly for an answer, then asked the band for identification. Thomas and the women pulled out their driver's licenses. Junior offered his Spokane Tribal Driver's License, and Victor lifted his shirt and revealed his own name tattooed on his chest.

  "Are you serious about this tattoo?" the cop asked.

  "Yeah," Victor said.

  "You all just wait here a second," the cop said and walked back to his cruiser. He talked on his radio, while Coyote Springs counted the money for bail.

  "We can take him," Victor said. "He's only one guy."

  "But he's a big guy," Junior said.

  "Shut up," Thomas said. "Here he comes."

  "Okay," the cop said when he came back. "I called my cousin over in Ellensburg. He's got a tow truck. He's going to come over here and haul your butts to Toadstools."

  "Really?" Coyote Springs asked.

  "Yeah, but it'll cost you a hundred bucks. You got that?"

  "Sure."

  "Well, you can pay my cousin directly, but you're on your own after that."

  "Thanks, officer."

  "You're welcome. By the way, what kind of music you play?"

  "All kinds. The blues, mostly."

  "Well, good luck."

  The cop started to walk away, but stopped, turned back.

  "Hey," he said, "who's the lead singer?"

  Thomas raised his hand and smiled. The cop smiled back, put his sunglasses on, climbed into his cruiser, and left with a wave.

  "Who the hell was that masked man?" Chess asked.

  "I don't know," junior said. "But if I find any silver bullets laying around here, l'm going to pass out."

  * * *

  From The Ellensburg Tri-Weekly:

  Indian Musicians Play More Than Drums

  An all-Indian rock band from the Spokane Indian

  Reservation played for the cowboys in Toadstools

  Tavern last Saturday night, and nobody was injured.

  Seriously, the band named Coyote Springs was very

  professional and played their music with passion

  and pride.

  "They knew what they was doing," said Toadstools

  owner Ernie Lively.

  "I was kind of nervous about hiring Indians and all,"

  Lively added. "Worried they might not show up or

  maybe they'd stir up trouble."

  On the contrary, Coyote Springs served up a healthy

  dish of country music, spiced it with a little bit of rock,

  and even threw in a few old blues tunes for dessert.

  "I think the highlight of the night was when those

  Indians sang ‘Mommas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow

  Up to Be Cowboys.' Everybody sang along with

  that one," Lively said.

  * * *

  The blue van, repaired by an honest mechanic in Ellensburg and a few stories that Thomas whispered into the engine, traveled down the mostly empty freeway toward home. Coyote Springs rode in a silence interrupted only by the sudden rush of a passing truck or a name whispered by one of those sleeping. Thomas drove the van, and Chess kept him awake. Checkers, Junior, and Victor slept.

  "Why you like freeway driving so much?" Chess asked. "But don't close your eyes to tell me some story."

  "I don't know."

  "What do you think?"

  "There's a lot of songs out here, I guess. I can hear them."

  "You want me to turn on the radio?" Chess asked.

  "Yeah, but keep it low. We don't want to wake the van up."

  "They all need a lot of beauty sleep, enit?"

  Chess turned on the radio. The Black Lodge Singers still drummed away in the cassette player, but she popped that tape out and searched for a radio station. She twisted the tuner back and forth through a short history of American music until she happened upon Hank Williams.

  Hank Williams is a goddamned Spokane Indian! Samuel Builds-the-Fire shouted in Thomas's memory. Thomas smiled because so many people visited him in memories.

  "Ya-hey," Thomas said. "Leave it there."

  Chess played with the radio until Hank sang true and clear. Coyote Springs and Hank Williams continued down the freeway, past a lonely hitchhiker who heard the music through the open windows. The blue van swept by so quickly all he heard were a few isolated notes. But he heard enough to make everything weigh a little more, his shoes, his backpack, his dreams.

  The music rose past the hitchhiker up into the sky, banged into the Big Dipper, and bounced off the bright moon. That's exactly what happened. The music howled back into the blue van, kept howling until Coyote Springs became echoes. That's exactly what happened.

  "Thomas," Chess said and wanted to explain what she heard.

  "I know," he said, wide awake, and slowly drove them all the way back home.

  4

  Father and Farther

  Sometimes, father, you and I

  Are like a three-legged horse

  Who can't get across the finish line

  No matter how hard he tries and tries and tries

  And sometimes, father, you and I

  Are like a warrior

  Who can only paint half of his face

  While the other half cries and cries and cries

  chorus:

  Now can I ask you, father

  If you know how much farther we need to go?

  And can I ask you, father

  If you know how much farther we have to go?

  Father and farther, father and farther, 'til we know

  Father and farther, father and farther, 'til we know

  Sometimes, father, you and I

  Are like two old drunks

  Who spend their whole lives in the bars

  Swallowing down all those lies and lies and lies

  Sometimes, father, you and I

  Are like dirty ghosts

  Who wear the same sheets every day

  As one more piece of us just dies and dies and dies

  (repeat chorus)

  Sometimes, father, you and I

  Are like a three-legged horse

  Who can't get across the finish line

  No matter how hard he tries and tries and tries

  Coyote Springs returned to the Spokane Indian Reservation without much fanfare. Thomas drove through the late night quiet, the k
ind of quiet that frightened visitors from the city. As he pulled up in his driveway, the rest of the band members woke up, and the van's headlights illuminated the old Indian man passed out on the lawn.

  "Who is that?" Victor asked. "Is it my dad or your dad?"

  "It's not your dad," Junior said. "Your dad is dead."

  "Oh, yeah, enit?" Victor asked. "Well, whose dad is it?"

  "It ain't my dad," Junior said. "He's dead, too."

  Coyote Springs climbed out of the van, walked up to the man passed out on the lawn, and rolled him over.

  "That's your dad, enit?" Junior asked Thomas.

  Thomas leaned down for a closer look.

  "Yeah, that's him," Victor said. "That's old Samuel."

  "Is he breathing?" Junior said.

  "Yeah."

  "Well, then leave him there, " Victor said.

  Thomas shook his father a little and said his name a few times. He had lost count of the number of times he'd saved his father, how many times he'd driven to some reservation tavern to pick up his dad, passed out in a back booth. Once a month, he bailed his father out of jail for drunk and disorderly behavior. That had become his father's Indian name: Drunk and Disorderly.

  "He's way out of it," Victor said.

  "He's out for the night," Junior said.

  Junior and Victor shrugged their shoulders, walked into Thomas's house, and looked for somewhere to sleep. Decorated veterans of that war between fathers and sons, Junior and Victor knew the best defense was sleep. They saw too many drunks littering the grass of the reservation; they rolled the drunks over and stole their money. When they were under age, they slapped those drunks awake and pushed them into the Trading Post to buy beer. Now, when they saw Samuel Builds-the-Fire passed out on the lawn, they crawled into different corners of Thomas's house and fell right to sleep.

  "Ain't they going to help?" Chess asked.

  "It's my father," Thomas said. "I have to handle this myself."

  But Chess and Checkers helped Thomas carry his father into the house and lay him down on the kitchen table. The three sat in chairs around the table and stared at Samuel Builds-the-Fire, who breathed deep in his alcoholic stupor.

  "I'm sorry, Thomas," Chess and Checkers said.

  "Yeah, me, too."

  Chess and Checkers were uncomfortable. They hated to see that old Indian man so helpless and hopeless; they hated to see the father's features in his son's face. It's hard not to see a father's life as prediction for his son's.