I can save your life, Sheridan said.
How? Junior asked.
Sign this.
What is it? Junior asked and looked at the clean, white paper in Sheridan's hand.
Just sign it, Sheridan said.
What am I signing?
Just sign it, and God will help you.
Okay.
Sheridan untied Junior's hands and gave him the pen. Junior looked at the pen and threw it away. The pen revolved and revolved. The sun rose and set, snow fell and melted. Salmon leapt twenty feet above the surface of the Columbia River, Just feet from the hanging.
Do you want to say a prayer? Sheridan asked.
I don't pray like that, Junior said.
What do you do?
I sing.
Well, I think it's time for you to sing.
In his dream, Junior started his death song and was barely past the first verse when the platform dropped from under him and the rope snapped tightly.
"Shit!" Junior shouted as he woke suddenly from his dream. Victor rolled over, but Thomas woke up, too.
"What's going on?" Thomas asked, confused.
"Junior's dreaming," Chess said. "Both of you go back to sleep."
Junior flopped over and quickly snored, but Thomas rubbed his eyes and looked at Chess.
"You can't sleep, enit?" Thomas asked.
'"No, I'm thinking too much," Chess said.
'"About what?"
"About Checkers. About church."
"What about church?"
"Are you a Christian, Thomas?"
"No. Not really."
"Are these two Christian?"
Junior and Victor? No way. All they know about religion they saw in Dances with Wolves."
"Do you pray?" Chess asked but wasn't sure what she wanted to hear. Of course Thomas prayed. Everybody prayed; everybody lied about it. Even atheists prayed on airplanes and bingo nights.
"Yeah, I pray," Thomas said and made the sign of the cross.
"What was that?"
"I'm a recovering Catholic."
"Get out of here."
"No, really. I was baptized Catholic, like most of us on the Spokane Reservation. I think even Junior and Victor are baptized Catholic."
"Those two need a whole shower of the stuff."
"Yeah, maybe. You know, I quit when I was nine. I went to church one day and found everybody burning records and books. Indians burning records and books. I couldn't believe it. Even if I was just nine."
These are the devil 's tools! the white Catholic priest bellowed as his Indian flock threw books and records into the fire. Thomas figured that priests everywhere were supposed to bellow. It was part of the job description. They were never quiet, never whispered their sermons, never let silence tell the story. Even Thomas knew his best stories never found their way past his lips and teeth. Thomas mourned the loss of those books and records. He still mourned. He had read every book in the reservation library by the time he was in Fifth grade. Not a whole lot of books in that library, but Thomas read them all. Even the auto repair manuals. Thomas could not fix a car, but he knew about air filters. Thomas! the priest bellowed again. Come forward and help us rid this reservation of the devil 's work!
Thomas stepped forward, grabbed the first book off the top of the pile, and ran away. He ran until he could barely breathe; he ran until he found a place to hide. In the back seat of a BIA pickup, he read his stolen book: How to Fool and Amaze Your Friends: 101 Great Tricks for the Master Magicians.
"Jeez," Chess said. "That really happened?"
"Yeah," Thomas said. "I still got that book at home."
"That wasn't Father Arnold who did that, was it?"
"No. This happened a long time before he got to the reservation. I don't even know Father Arnold too much. I Just see him around."
"Is he a nice guy?"
"Why you want to know?"
"Checkers wants to go to church there, you know? Maybe I'lI start going when I get back."
"But I thought you wanted to leave the reservation if we won this contest. You still want to leave, enit?"
"I don't know. Maybe I just want Victor and Junior out of the band. I like your reservation. It's beautiful."
"You haven't seen everything," Thomas said.
* * *
Victor was a hundred miles from home. He was nine years old. He was at the Mission School for the summer. His mother and real father often sent him there for camp. Catholic summers, Catholic summers. Victor mopped the floors.
Victor missed his parents. He cried constantly for the first few weeks away from the reservation. After a while, he cried only late at night, when all the Catholic Indian boys tried to sleep in their dormitories. Victor muffled his cries in a pillow and heard the muffled cries of others.
But on that day when Victor was nine years old and mopped the floors, he lost himself in other thoughts. He remembered picking huckleberries with his family. He remembered climbing trees with his friends, other Indian boys allowed to stay on the reservation. Those Indian boys climbed the limbs off the trees every summer. Victor was still lost in his memories when the priest stormed into the room.
Victor! the priest shouted.
Victor Jumped back, frightened, and knocked his bucket of water over. Even more terrified, he mopped frantically and tried to clean up that minor flood.
Stop it! the priest yelled.
Victor stopped, stood at attention, shivered.
What are you afraid of? the priest asked.
Victor was silent.
Are you afraid of God?
Victor nodded his head.
Are you afraid of me?
Victor nodded his head faster. The priest smiled and leaned down.
There's no reason to be afraid, the priest said, taking a softer tone. Now why don't we clean up this mess together?
Victor and the priest mopped up the water, mopped the rest of the floor clean, and put the supplies back in their places.
The priest touched Victor's newly shaved head.
It's a shame we had to cut your hair, the priest said. You are such a beautiful boy.
Victor looked up at the priest and smiled. The priest smiled back, leaned over, and kissed Victor full and hard on the mouth.
* * *
From Checkers Warm Waters Journal:
I went to see Father Arnold today and I think I fell in love. He held me closely and I held him back and I think he might love me, too. He rubbed my back and whispered nice things to me. No man has ever held me that gently. He listened to me. Really listened to me. I don't even know what to think or do. I'm afraid to breathe. I don't want to tell Chess. I don't want to tell anybody. There's a reason I got in that fight with Victor. I didn't know why I got so crazy at Victor. Couldn't figure out what made me so mad. But now I know there's a reason. God made me stay home so I could meet Father Arnold. God threw those punches at Victor! God wanted me to meet Father Arnold. But did God want me to fall in love with his priest? I don't know what to do. All I know is, I still smell Father Arnold when I close my eyes. He smells like smoke and candles.
* * *
Coyote Springs woke, cramped and smelly, in a strange parking lot in downtown Seattle. The blue van groaned as the band stumbled out to stretch their backs in the cool morning mist.
"Jeez, " Junior said, "what's that smell?"
"It's the ocean," Chess said. "It's wonderful, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Junior said and tried to hide his excitement. "It's all right."
Thomas breathed deep. He tasted salt.
"So what's the plan today?" Victor asked.
"I don't know, " Thomas said. "How about that Pike Place Market. That's supposed to be cool. What do you think, Chess?"
"Sounds good."
Everybody climbed back into the van. With Thomas as driver and Chess as navigator, Coyote Springs soon found the market. Along the way, they noticed there were brown people in Seattle. Not everybody was white. They watched, dumbfounded,
as two men held hands and walked down the street.
"Jeez," Junior said, "look at that."
"Those men are two-spirited," Thomas said.
"They're too something or other," Victor said.
Coyote Springs parked the van and walked around the market, surprised by all of it. The market was old and beautiful, built by wood that had aged and warped. No amount of paint could change the way it looked now. There were flowers and flshmongers, old shops filled with vintage clothing and rare books. The whole market smelled like the ocean, which was Just a few blocks away. Coyote Springs was even more surprised by the old Indian men there. Old drunks. Victor kept talking to them. Junior, too. Chess figured drunks talked to drunks like it was a secret club. An Indian liked to talk to anybody, especially another Indian. Chess knew those old Indians were a long way from home, trapped by this city and its freeway entrances and exits. She thought a few of those drunks looked familiar.
"Hey, nephew," one of those old Indians called to Victor.
"What tribe you are?"
Indians always addressed each other intimately, even when they were strangers.
"I'm Spokane Indian, uncle," Victor said.
"Oh, yeah, huh? Had a buddy who was Spokane long time ago."
"Who was that?"
"Amos Joseph."
"That was my grandfather."
"No shit. Who you?"
"Victor Joseph."
"Hey, grandson. I'm Eddie Tap Water. Used to be Spring Water. But I'm Urban Indian now."
"Good to meet you, grandfather."
"Yeah, you, too. Where'd you get that shirt anyway? Think your grandfather wore one like that when we was dancing."
The rest of Coyote Springs listened as Victor and Eddie traded stories, but nobody was all that surprised. The Indian world is tiny, every other Indian dancing just a powwow away. Every Indian is a potential lover, friend, or relative dancing over the horizon, only a little beyond sight. Indians need each other that much; they need to be that close, tying themselves to each other and closing their eyes against the storms.
"Goodbye, grandfather," Victor said and gave him a dollar. Victor talked to most every drunk at the market. He spent all of his time with those old Indians, while the other band members roamed together. Junior left Victor to the drunks. Chess thought those drunks scared Junior. He might have seen himself in their faces. Junior wondered if their disease was contagious. A fall-asleep-on-a-heating-grate disease. Junior was frightened.
Victor should have been frightened. Drunks had always caused him to shake before. But some voice whispered in his ear and pushed him to the old Indians in the market. As a child, each member of Coyote Springs had run from drunks. They all still ran from drunks. All Indians grow up with drunks. So many drunks on the reservation, so many. But most Indians never drink. Nobody notices the sober Indians. On television, the drunk Indians emote. In books, the drunk Indians philosophize.
Lester FallsApart, the most accomplished drunk on the Spokane Reservation, was a tribal hero. Indians run from those tough and angry drunks, but they always flock to the kindest alcoholic on the reservation. One on every reservation, one on every reservation. Everybody on the Spokane Indian Reservation loved Lester so much they showed up at his dog's wake and funeral. A couple hundred Spokanes mourned with Lester.
The market had entranced Coyote Springs and they forgot the time. The little curiosity stores and restaurants pulled them in and refused to let go. Thomas got all wrapped up in the magic store and practiced a few coin tricks.
"Jeez," Thomas said suddenly, "what time is it?"
"About fve," Chess said.
"Oh, man. We're going to be late for that soundcheck at the Backboard."
‘"Where's Victor?"
"Shit," Junior said. "I don't know. Hanging out with those drunks somewhere."
"Man," Thomas said, "we have to find him quick. We can't be late. They'll kick us out of the contest."
"Okay," Chess said, "let's split up. Thomas and I will look in the market, and Junior, look outside."
"We got to find him," Thomas said again and looked desperate. Coyote Springs was about to break up to search for Victor when the music started.
"Wait," Junior said. "Listen to that."
Coyote Springs listened. They heard the city, the ocean, but something else, too. They heard a beautiful voice, Just barely audible. The band couldn't hear the lyrics but picked up the rhythm.
"Who is that?" Chess asked. "That's the most beautiful voice I ever heard."
Coyote Springs walked without talking, searched for the source of that voice. As they got closer, they also heard a guitar accompanying the voice. A nice, simple chord progression, but something hid behind it. Something painful and perfect.
"Shit," Chess said. "I don't believe it."
As Coyote Springs turned a corner, they discovered the magical duo: an old Indian man singer and Victor, the guitar player. In a filthy brown corduroy suit and white t-shirt, the singer looked older than dirt. But his voice, his voice. A huge crowd gathered.
"Look at all the people," Junior said.
Tourists and office workers stopped to listen to this ragged Indian version of Simon and Garfunkel. Those people who usually ignored street people threw money into the old Indian man's hat. Chess noticed Victor was playing some shoestring guitar and figured it had to be the old man's instrument. Bandaged and bloody, the old man's hands fascinated Chess.
"Why's Victor playing with that guy?" Chess asked.
Thomas also noticed the old man's bandages. That old man could not play the guitar anymore, because he'd played it until his hands were useless. Thomas remembered Robert Johnson's hands; he felt pain in his hands in memory of Robert Johnson's guitar. Victor's guitar now, he said to himself .
"Jeez," Chess said. "Victor sounds pretty good on that guitar. That thing's a mess though, enit? Looks like it's made from cardboard."
The old man's guitar was constructed of cardboard, but the sound that rose from the strings defied its construction. Thomas watched the money fall into the old man's hat. A hundred dollars, maybe two hundred.
"Thomas, we're going to be late, remember?" Chess said.
"It can wait," Thomas said, frightened, but needing to see the end of that little story in the market.
Victor played with the old Indian man for another hour.
The money fell into the hat.
"Thomas!" Chess shouted. "We need to go."
Thomas broke from his trance, rushed to Victor, stole the guitar away, and handed it back to the old man. It burned.
"We need to go, " Thomas said to Victor, who briefly reached for the guitar but pulled back.
The crowd jeered Thomas.
"Shit," Victor said. "What time is it?"
"After six. "
"Man, we got to go."
Coyote Springs ran from the market, but Thomas looked back. The old Indian man picked up the hat full of money and smiled.
"We should've asked that old man to join the band, enit?" Junior asked.
"Maybe," Victor said, and then he smiled at Chess. He really smiled. Chess was frightened. She wanted to go home; she wanted her sister. The blue van rolled down Mercer Street, beneath the Space Needle, and found the Backboard Club. Victor strapped on his guitar, cracked his knuckles, and led the band inside.
***
From Thomas Builds-the-Fire's Journal:
The Reservation's Ten Commandments as Given by the United States of America to the Spokane Indians
l . You shall have no other forms of government before me.
2. You shall not make for yourself an independent and selfsufficient government, for I am a jealous bureaucracy and will punish the Indian children for the sins of their fathers to the seventh generation of those who hate me.
3. You shall not misuse my name or my symbols, for I will impale you on my flag pole.
4. Remember the first of each month by keeping it holy. The rest of the month you shall go hungry, but t
he first day of each month is a tribute to me, and you shall receive welfare checks and commodity food in exchange for your continued dependence.
5. Honor your Indian father and Indian mother because I have stripped them of their land, language, and hearts, and they need your compassion, which is a commodity I do not supply.
6. You shall not murder, but I will bring FBI and CIA agents to your reservations and into your homes, and the most intelligent, vocal, and angriest members of your tribes will vanish quietly.
7. You shall not commit adultery, but I will impregnate your women with illegitimate dreams.
8. You shall not steal back what I have already stolen from you.
9. You shall not give false testimony against any white men, but they will tell lies about you, and I will believe them and convict you.
10. You shall not covet the white man's house. You shall not covet the white man's wife, or his hopes and opportunities, his cars or VCRs, or anything that belongs to the white man.
* * *
Back on the reservation, Checkers fell asleep on the couch in Thomas's house. She always slept on couches when houses were empty. She dreamed of Father Arnold. In her dream, Father Arnold came into her bedroom in the shack in Arlee. Checkers lay under the covers, naked.
Let me see, Father Arnold said, so Checkers pulled back her covers.
You're such a pretty girl, Father said. Father dropped his robe to the floor. Naked. Checkers
studied him. His penis was huge.
Can I lie with you? Father asked.
Checkers patted the sheet beside her, and Father lay down close to her. She felt his heat, his smell. He smelled like smoke and Communion wine.
You know I love you, Father said.
Checkers felt his penis brush against her thigh. It was so big she knew it would hurt her. Father touched her breasts, squeezed her nipples, moved his hand down her stomach.
I won't hurt you, Father said. Not ever.
Father kissed Checkers gently, flicked his tongue between her teeth. Her jaw ached as he forced her mouth open wider and wider. He tasted strange, old, musty. She cried out as he forced her legs apart.
I forgive you, Father said.
Checkers held her breath as Father climbed between her legs and entered her roughly.
Yes, I forgive you, Father whispered inside her.
Reservation Blues - Alexie Sherman Page 13