Reservation Blues - Alexie Sherman

by Alexie Sherman

  "Can I help you?" the clerk asked.

  "Yeah," Thomas said. "We need a couple rooms."

  "And how will you be paying for your rooms?"

  "With money," Victor said. "What did you think? Seashells?"

  "He means cash or credit," Chess said.

  "Cash, then," Victor said. "What Indian has a goddamn credit card?"

  "Okay," the clerk said. "And how long do you plan on staying with us?"

  "Three nights," Thomas said. "But listen, I need to use your phone and call the Backboard club. They'll be paying for our rooms."

  "The Backboard?" the clerk asked. "Are you guys in a band?"

  "Damn right," Victor said. "What do you think we have in these cases? Machine guns? Bows and arrows?"

  "What's your name?" the clerk asked, already learning to ignore Victor.

  "Coyote Springs," Thomas said.

  "Coyote Springs? I haven't heard of you. Got any CDs out?"

  "Not yet," Victor said. "That's why we're in Seattle. We're here to take over the whole goddamn city."

  "Oh," the clerk said. "Well, here's the phone. Which one of you is the lead singer?"

  "I am," Thomas said, and the clerk handed the phone to him.

  As Thomas dialed the number, the rest of Coyote Springs wandered around the lobby. Junior and Chess sat on couches and watched a huge television set in one corner. Victor bought a Pepsi from a vending machine. Chess watched him. She knew that kind of stuff tickled Victor. He looked like a little kid, counted out his quarters for pop and hoped he had enough change for a Snickers bar. He just stared at all the selections like the machines offered

  white women and beer.

  "Hey, Victor," Chess shouted. "That's a vending machine, you savage. It works on electricity."

  "Hello," Thomas said into the phone. "This is Thomas Builds-the-Fire. Lead singer of Coyote Springs. Yeah. Coyote Springs. We're here for the gig tomorrow night. Yeah, that's right. We're the Indian band."

  Thomas smiled at Chess to let her know everything was cool.

  "Yeah, we're over at the Super 8 Motel by that Pink Elephant Car Wash. We got a couple rooms, and the clerk wondered how you were going to pay for it."

  Thomas lost his smile. Chess looked around the room for it.

  "I don't understand. You mean we have to pay for it ourselves? But you invited us."

  Thomas listened carefully to the voice at the other end.

  "Okay, okay. I see. Well, thanks. What time should we be there tomorrow?"

  Thomas hung up the phone and walked over to the rest of the band.

  "What's wrong?" Chess asked.

  "They said we're supposed to pay for it," Thomas said.

  "No fucking way," Victor said.

  "What's happening? Junior asked.

  "I guess it's a contest tomorrow," Thomas said. "A lot of bands are going to be there. The winner gets a thousand dollars. The losers don't get nothing. I guess I didn't understand the invitation too well."

  "What are you talking about?" Coyote Springs asked.

  "It's a Battle of the Bands tomorrow. We have to play the best to get the money. Otherwise, we don't get nothing."

  "Jeez," Junior said. "How many bands are there going to be?"

  "Twenty or so."

  "Shit," Victor said. "Let's forget that shit. Let's go home. We don't need this. We're Coyote Springs?"

  "We don't have enough money to get home," Thomas said.

  "Fuck," Victor said. "Well, let's get the goddamn rooms ourselves and kick some ass at that contest tomorrow night."

  "We don't have enough money to get the rooms and eat, too."

  "Thomas," Chess said, "how much money do we have?"

  "Enough to eat on. But we can't afford the rooms."

  "Looks like Checkers was right in staying home," Chess said and missed her sister.

  "What are we going to do?" Junior asked.

  "We can sleep in the van," Thomas said, feigning confidence. "Then we go and win that contest tomorrow. A thousand bucks. We go home in style, enit?"

  Coyote Springs had no other options. Thomas started the van without a word, pulled out of the motel parking lot, and searched for a supermarket. He found a Foodmart and went inside. The rest of Coyote Springs waited for Thomas. He came out with a case of Pepsi, a loaf of bread, and a package of bologna. Silently, Coyote Springs built simple sandwiches and ate them.

  * * *

  Checkers walked to the Catholic Church early Saturday to meet Father Arnold. She wanted to join the choir. Enough of the rock music. She needed to reserve her voice for something larger. She braided her hair, pulled on her best pair of blue jeans, red t-shirt, and white tennis shoes. Nike running shoes. Checkers always bought expensive tennis shoes, no matter how poor she was. Go in the supermarket, Luke Warm Water had said to his daughters during one of their shopping visits to Spokane, and get some eggs, milk, and butter. Oh, and get yourselves some tennis shoes. They're in that third aisle. Try them on first.

  Checkers and Chess slumped into the store, sat in the third aisle, and tried on tennis shoes, those supermarket shoes constructed of cheap canvas and plastic. Other shoppers, white people, stared as the Warm Waters tried on shoes; Checkers saw the pity in their eyes. Those poor Indian kids have to buy their shoes in a supermarket. Both sisters cried as they paid for the essential food items and those ugly shoes. Ever since her father had gone, Checkers bought the most expensive pair of shoes she found.

  Those shoes felt good on her feet as Checkers walked into the church. A small church. Four walls, a few pews, an altar. Jesus crucified on the wall. Mary weeping in a corner. It felt like home. Checkers crossed herself and kneeled in a pew. She folded her hands into a prayer.

  "Please," she whispered. "Let good things happen."

  She lost track of time as she prayed. Amen, amen. Coyote Springs entered her mind, and she thought of her sister, tried to send a few prayers over the mountains. She felt a little guilty for leaving the band, but they played well without her. Chess sang and played the piano better than her.

  "Thank you, Lord," Checkers whispered as she opened her eyes, surprised to see a priest sitting a few pews in front of her. Father Arnold.

  "Hello, Father," Checkers said.

  Father Arnold turned and smiled. He was a handsome man, with brown hair and blue eyes. Slightly tanned skin. Even teeth. Checkers smiled back. She believed that every priest should be a handsome man.

  "Hello," Father Arnold said. "You're one of those sisters, aren't you?"

  "Yes," Checkers said, thrilled. "I'm Checkers Warm Water."

  "Checkers? That's an unusual name."

  "Well, it's not my real name."

  "What is your real name?"

  "I don't think I'd even tell you that in confession."

  *

  Father Arnold stood, walked back toward Checkers, and sat beside her. He smelled like cinnamon.

  "So," Father said. "How is the music business?"

  "Not too good. I quit the band."

  "Oh, that's too bad. Do you want to talk about it?"

  "No, not really."

  Checkers thought about Coyote Springs. She already missed the stage. There was something addicting about it. She loved to hear her name shouted by strangers.

  "Are you interested in joining our community here?" Father Arnold asked.

  "I'm thinking about it, " Checkers said. "But I'm from the Flathead Reservation. Is that okay?"

  "Are you confirmed?"

  "Yeah. Father James over there did that. A long time ago."

  Checkers swore she remembered her baptism, though she was only a few months old at the time. Sometimes, she still felt that place on her forehead where Father James poured the water. Once, while fighting fires in her teens, she found herself trapped in a firestorm. Convinced she was going to burn, she suddenly felt the cold, damp touch on her forehead. She felt the water flow down her face, into her mouth, and she drank deeply. Satiated, she burned down a circle of grass, lay d
own in the middle, and lived as the fire crowned the pine trees above her.

  "So," Father Arnold said, "tell me about your faith."

  "You know," Checkers said, "it's hard to talk about. I mean, there's a lot I want to talk about."

  "I'm sure."

  Checkers thought about what she had seen during her brief time with Coyote Springs. She remembered Junior and Victor naked in the van with those two white women, Betty and Veronica, who had disappeared soon after.

  "You know," Checkers said, "two of the guys in the band, junior and Victor. They've been doing bad things."

  "I know them. Are you here to talk about them or you?"

  "Both, I guess?

  Father Arnold reached for Checkers's hand and held it gently. Her heart quickened a little.

  "You can talk to me," Father Arnold said.

  "It's just that everywhere I look these days, I see white women. We caught Junior and Victor having sex with some white women. They're always having sex with white women. It makes me hate them."

  "Hate who?"

  "White women. Indian men. Both, I guess."

  "Are you romantically involved with Junior or Victor?"

  "Oh, God, no."

  "Well, then, what is it?"

  "Those white women are always perfect, you know? When I was little and we'd go to shop in Missoula, I'd see perfect little white girls all the time. They were always so pretty and clean. I'd come to town in my muddy dress. It never mattered how clean it was when we left Arlee. By the time we got to Missoula, it was always a mess."

  "Did you travel with your parents?"

  "Yeah, Dad drove the wagon. Can you believe that? We still had a wagon, and Dad made that thing move fast. The horses and wheels would kick up dirt and mud. Chess, my sister, and I always tried to hide under blankets, but it never worked. There'd be mud under our nails, and we'd grind mud between our teeth. There'd be dirt in the bends of our elbows and knees. Dirt and mud everywhere, you know?"

  Father Arnold nodded his head.

  "Anyway, all those little white girls would be so perfect, so pretty, and so white. White skin and white dresses. I'd be all brown-skinned in my muddy brown dress. I used to get so dark that white people thought I was a black girl.

  "I wanted to be just like them, those white girls, and I'd follow them around town while Mom and Dad shopped. Chess was always telling me I was stupid for doing it. Chess said we were better than those white girls any day. But I never believed her."

  "How does that make you feel now?" Father Arnold asked.

  "I don't know. I just looked at that blond hair and blue eyes and knew I wanted to look like that. I wanted to be just like one of those white girls. You know, Father James even brought his little white nieces out to visit the reservation, and that was a crazy time."

  "What happened?"

  "Oh, Father James wanted us all to be friends, Chess, me, and his little nieces. So we all sat together in our folding chairs and knelt down on the floor to pray. We even got to help with the candles at mass. I remember I always held onto my candle tight, because I didn't want to drop it. I always thought flames were beautiful, you know?

  "All four of us helped with Communion once. It all worked great. It was the best Communion. Then we carried the bread and wine back to the storage closet. While we were in there, those nieces pushed me over, and I dropped the wine and it spilled all over everything. On the floor, on my best dress. Everywhere. Those nieces started laughing. Me and Chess tried to clean it up. Father James came running to see what the noise was all about. When he came into the closet, those nieces started crying like babies. They told Father James that Chess and I'd been messing around and dropped the bottles. Father James really scolded Chess and me and never let us help with Communion for a long time."

  "That's a sad story," Father Arnold said.

  "Yeah, it is, I guess. But his nieces could be nice, too. They let me play with their dolls sometimes. They were really good dolls, too. I taught the nieces how to climb trees and watch people walk by. I'd leave Chess at home and stand outside Father James's house and wait for his nieces to come out and play. Sometimes I waited until after dark. I'd walk home in the dark all by myself. But sometimes they came out, and we played.

  "And when they left the reservation, Chess and I rode down to the train station with Father James to say goodbye. Chess really didn't want to come, but Mom and Dad made her. We stood there on the train platform, and those nieces wouldn't even look at us. They were in their perfect little white dresses. They looked like angels. I wanted to go with them. I wanted to go live in the big city. I knew I wouldn't get in the way. I'd sleep with their perfect dolls and eat crackers. I wanted to be just like them. I wanted to have everything they had. I knew if I was like them, I wouldn't have to be brown and dirty and live on the reservation and spill Communion wine.

  "I wanted to be as white as those little girls because Jesus was white and blond in all the pictures I ever saw of him."

  "You do know that Jesus was Jewish?" Father Arnold asked. "He probably had dark skin and hair."

  "That's what they say," Checkers said. "But I never saw him painted like that. I still never see him painted like that. You know, we had to hug those little white nieces, too. We're standing there on the platform, and Father James tells us to hug each other. Chess refuses to hug anybody. But I hug those nieces, and the big one pinches my breast, my little nipple. Nobody sees it at all. It hurts so bad, and I start to cry. The nieces get on the train and leave. Father James hugs me because I'm crying. He says it will be all right, he knows how much I'll miss his nieces. I stood there in Father James's arms and cried and cried."

  Checkers cried in the little Catholic Church in Wellpinit. Father Arnold put his arms around her, and she cried into his shoulder, the soft fabric of his cassock. She put her arms around his

  waist, wanted to look into his eyes, but kept her face hidden.

  "Checkers," he whispered. "What's going on? There must be something more. You can talk to me." Checkers squeezed Father Arnold tighter, until her grip became uncomfortable. But he would not release her.

  * * *

  Coyote Springs slept fitfully in the blue van. The city frightened them, especially since the thin walls of the van barely protected them. Chess never slept much at all, hadn't slept well for two nights in a row. She sat in the driver's seat and listened to the men stir and moan in their sleep. She recognized the sounds of nightmares but only guessed at the specifics.

  Junior dreamed about horses. He rode a horse along a rise above the Columbia River, leading a large group of warriors. They all wanted to attack a steamship, but the boat remained anchored beyond their range. The Indians watched it jealously. The Indians cried in frustration. Some splashed their ponies into the river and attempted to swim out to the boat. Others fell off their horses and wept violently. Junior slumped, hugged his horse's neck, and closed his eyes. In his dream, he listened for the music. He heard bugles. Cavalry bugles.

  From where? a young Indian boy asked Junior.

  Junior whirled his horse, looked for the source of the bugle. Everywhere. Junior heard a gunshot, and the young Indian fell dead from his mount. Then the young Indian boy's horse was shot and fell, too. The gunshots came from all angles. The bugles increased.

  Where are they? the Indian men screamed as the bullets cut them down. They fell, all of them, until only Junior remained.

  Cease Fire! a white voice shouted. That voice sounded so close that Junior knew he should have seen the source. But there was nothing in the dust and sunlight.

  Drop your rifle! the white voice shouted.

  Where are you? Junior asked.

  Drop your rifle! the voice shouted again, louder, so loud that Junior dropped his rifle and clapped his hands to his ears in pain. Suddenly he was dragged from his horse by unseen hands. Thrown to the ground, kicked and beaten, Junior heard the labored breathing of the men who were beating him. He could not see anybody.

  Where ar
e you? Junior asked again, and he heard only laughter. Then the attackers began to materialize. Soldiers. White men in blue uniforms. They laughed. They spat on Junior. One soldier walked over to Junior's pony, placed a pistol carefully between its eyes, and pulled the trigger. The horse took a long time to fall.

  Who are you? Junior asked in his dream.

  A large soldier walked up to Junior and offered him a hand.

  Junior took it and got to his feet.

  I'm General George Wright, the large soldier said.

  Junior looked at Wright, then down at his dead horse.

  You killed my pony, Junior said.

  This is war, Wright replied.

  A few other soldiers tied Junior's arms behind his back, dragged him to a table, and sat him down. He sat across from Wright. No voices. Wright drummed his fingers across the table, and it echoed all over the river valley.

  What are we waiting for? Junior asked.

  General Sheridan, Wright said.

  They waited for a long time, until an even larger white man rode up on a pale pony. The larger white man dismounted, walked over to the table, and took a seat next to Wright. General Sheridan, the larger white man said and offered his hand to Junior. Junior looked at the hand, but his hands were tied.

  Sheridan smiled at his mistake and pulled out a sheet of parchment.

  You've been charged with the murder cf eighteen settlers this past

  year, Sheridan said. How do you plead?

  Not guilty, Junior said.

  Well, well, Sheridan said. I find you guilty and sentence you to hang by the neck until you are dead.

  The soldiers pulled Junior to his feet and dragged him to the gallows. They hustled him up the stairs and fitted the noose. Junior closed his eyes in his dream. He heard a sportscaster in the

  distance.

  Ladies and gentlemen, we're here to witness the execution of Spokane Indian warrior Junior Polatkin for murder. Eighteen murders, to be exact. Quite a total for such a young man. General Sheridan and General Wright are presiding over the hanging.

  In his dream, Junior opened his eyes, and General Sheridan stood in front of him.