Reservation Blues - Alexie Sherman

by Alexie Sherman

  "I can see you running like a shadow, Just outside the body of an Indian woman who looks like you, until she was shot by an eighteen-year-old white kid from Missouri. He jumps off the horse, falls on her and you, the Indian, the shadow. He cuts and tears with his sword, his hands, his teeth. He ate you both up like he was a coyote. They all ate us like we were mice, rabbits, flightless birds. They ate us whole."

  Thomas opened his eyes and saw Chess was crying.

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  "Don't you understand that God didn't kill any of us?" Chess asked. "Jesus didn't kill any of us."

  "But they allowed it to happen, enit?"

  "They didn't allow it to happen. It Just happened. Those soldiers made the choice. The government made the choice. That's free will, Thomas. We all get to make the choice. But that don't mean we all choose good."

  "But there's so much evil in the world."

  "That°s why we have to believe in the good. Not every white person wants to kill Indians. You know most any white who joins up with Indians never wants to leave. It's always been that way. Everybody wants to be an Indian."

  "That's true, " a voice whispered from the back of the van.

  "Who's that?" Thomas and Chess asked.

  "It's me, Betty."

  "What's true?" Chess asked, irritated at the interruption.

  "White people want to be Indians. You all have things we don't have. You live at peace with the earth. You are so wise."

  "You've never met Lester FallsApart, have you?" Chess asked. "You've never spent a few hours in the Powwow Tavern. I'll show you wise and peaceful."

  "I'm sorry I said anything, " Betty said and remained quiet.

  The other white woman, Veronica, took Betty's hand, squeezed it, and sent a question along her skin: What are we doing? Victor and Junior snored away.

  "Like I was saying, everybody wants to be an Indian. But not everybody is an Indian. It's an exclusive club. I certainly couldn't be Irish. Why do all these white people think they can be Indian all of a sudden?"

  Thomas smiled.

  "You know," he said, "I've always had a theory that you ain't really Indian unless, at some point in your life, you didn't want to be Indian."

  "Good theory," Chess said. "I'm the one who told you that."

  "Oh," he said.

  The blue van crossed the Wellpinit city limit.

  "Thomas," Chess said, "you know there ain't no such thing as an Indian atheist. And besides, how do you think Indians survived all the shit if there wasn't a God who loved us? Why do you think you and me are together?"

  "Because of love."

  "That's what faith is. Love."

  Thomas was nervous, sweating. He closed his eyes, searched for another one of his stories, but came back to Chess's words instead. He listened to her story.

  "Okay," Thomas said. "I'll go to church with you. But I ain't promising nothing."

  "Hey," Chess said, "don't make me any promises. I'm an Indian. I haven't heard many promises I believed anyway."

  The blue van pulled into Thomas's driveway. Checkers stood in a window. All the house lights blazed brightly in the reservation night. Junior and Victor rolled over in their sleep, only momentarily bothered by the lights and noise, while Betty and Veronica pretended to sleep. Chess jumped out of the van and ran for her sister. Thomas watched Chess and Checkers hug in his front yard. Then he closed his eyes and left them alone.

  6

  Falling Down and Falling Apart

  I know a woman, Indian in her bones

  Who spends the powwow dancing all alone

  She can be lonely, sometimes she can cry

  And drop her sadness into the bread she fies

  I know a woman, Indian in her eyes

  Full-blood in her heart, full-blood when she cries

  She can be afraid, sometimes she can shake

  But her medicine will never let her break

  chorus:

  But she don't want a warrior and she don't want no brave

  And she don 't want a renegade heading for an early grave

  She don't need no stolen horse, she don't need no stolen heart

  She don't need no Indian man falling down and falling apart

  I know a woman, Indian in her hands

  Wanting me to sing, wanting me to dance

  She's out there waiting, no matter the weather

  I'd walk through lightning just to give her a feather

  (repeat chorus)

  Robert Johnson sat in a rocking chair on Big Mom's front porch.

  Big Mom's rocking chair. He had no idea where she had gone. Big Mom was always walking away without warning.

  "Robert, " Big Mom had said upon his arrival at her house, "you're safe here. Ain't nobody can take you away from this house."

  But Johnson was still not comfortable in his safety. He dreamed of that guitar he had left in Thomas Builds-the-Fire's blue van. He couldn't decide if he had left it there on purpose. Certainly, he had tried to leave it behind before, on trains, in diners, on the roadside. He buried that guitar, he threw it in rivers, dropped it off tall buildings. But it always came back to him.

  Sometimes, the guitar took weeks to find him. Those were glorious days. Johnson was free to wander and talk to anybody he wished. He never searched for the Gentleman's eyes hidden behind a stranger's face. The Gentleman was just a ghost, just a small animal dashing across the road. When that guitar was gone, Johnson had even considered falling in love. But the guitar would eventually find him. It always found him.

  Johnson had to work the minimum jobs, washing dishes, sweeping floors, delivering pizzas, because he could never play music for money. Never again. And just when he began to allow himself hope, he would come home from his latest job to find that guitar, all shiny and new, on the bed in his cheap downtown apartment. Johnson had wept every time. He had considered burying himself, throwing himself into the river, jumping off a tall building. That guitar made him crazy. But he didn't know what would be waiting on the other side. What if he woke up on the other side with that guitar wrapped in his arms? What if it weighed him down like an anchor as he sank to the bottom, a single chord echoing in his head over and over again?

  That guitar would never let Johnson go, until he left it in Thomas Builds-the-Fire's blue van. Johnson felt free and guilty at the same time. The guitar would never let go of those Indians now. It held onto Victor even harder than it ever held Johnson. Robert Johnson rocked in Big Mom's chair and studied his hands, scarred and misshapen. All the wounds had healed, but he could still feel the itching deep down. The itch that can never be scratched. Sometimes he missed the guitar. Johnson closed his eyes against the tears and opened his mouth to sing:

  Mmmmm mmmm

  I's up this mornin'

  Ah, blues walkin' like a man

  I's up this mornin'

  Ah, blues walkin' like a man

  Worried blues

  Give me your right hand

  Then the music stopped. The reservation exhaled. Those blues created memories for the Spokanes, but they refused to claim them. Those blues lit up a new road, but the Spokanes pulled out their old maps. Those blues churned up generations of anger and pain: car wrecks, suicides, murders. Those blues were ancient, aboriginal, indigenous.

  In his bed, Thomas Builds-the-Fire had recognized Robert Johnson's voice as those blues drifted down from Big Mom's mountain. But Thomas also heard something hidden behind the words. He heard Robert Johnson's grandmother singing backup. Thomas closed his eyes and saw that grandmother in some tattered cabin. No windows, blanket for a door, acrid smoke. Johnson's grandmother was not alone in that cabin. Other black men, women, and children sang with her. The smell of sweat, blood, and cotton filled the room. Cotton, cotton. Those black people sang for their God; they sang with joy and sorrow. The white men in their big houses heard those songs and smiled. Those niggers singin' and dancin' again, those white men thought. Damn music don't make sense.

  Thomas
listened closely, but the other Spokanes slowly stretched their arms and legs, walked outside, and would not speak about any of it. They buried all of their pain and anger deep inside, and it festered, then blossomed, and the bloom grew quickly.

  * * *

  From The Wellpinit Rawhide Press:

  Open Letter to the Spokane Tribe

  Dear Tribal Members,

  As you all know, Coyote Springs, our local rock band, has just returned from Seattle with two white women. They are named Betty and Veronica, of all things. I'm beginning to seriously wonder about Coyote Springs's ability to represent the Spokane Tribe.

  First of all, they are drunks. Victor and Junior are such drunks that even Lester FallsApart thinks they drink too much. Second, the two Indian women in the band are not Spokanes. They are Flathead. I've always liked our Flathead cousins, but Coyote Springs is supposedly a Spokane Indian band. We don't even have to talk about the problems caused by the white women. I know the band was great when it started. I even went to a couple of their practices in Irene's Grocery, but things have gotten out of hand. We have to remember that Coyote Springs travels to a lot of places as a representative of the Spokane Tribe. Do we really want other people to think we are like this band? Do we really want people to think that the Spokanes are a crazy storyteller, a couple of irresponsible drunks, a pair of Flathead Indians, and two white women? I don't think so.

  Rumor has it that Checkers Warm Water has quit the band and joined the Catholic Church Choir. We can only hope the rest of the band follows her. They could all use God.

  Sincerely,

  David WalksAlong U

  Spokane Tribal Council Chairman

  * * *

  Nervous and frightened, Thomas walked with Chess and Checkers to church early Sunday morning. He wondered if the Catholics had installed a faith detector at the door, like one of those metal detectors in an airport. The alarms would ring when he walked through the church doors.

  "Thanks for coming," Chess said.

  Thomas smiled but said nothing and fought the urge to run away.

  "Yeah," Checkers said. "This will be great."

  When the trio came within sight of the Catholic Church, Thomas was suddenly angry. He remembered how all those Indians bowed down to a little white man in Rome.

  "Chess," Thomas said, "no matter what, I ain't ever going to listen to that Pope character."

  "Why should you? I don't."

  Father Arnold greeted Thomas, Chess, and Checkers at the door. He shook their hands, touched their shoulders, made eye contact that felt like a spiritual strip search.

  "Checkers," Father Arnold said, "I'm so happy to see you again. And this must be your sister, Chess. And Thomas, of course. Welcome."

  Thomas waved weakly.

  "Well," Father Arnold said, "I'm so glad you've all come. I certainly hope you're considering joining our little community. Maybe you'll even sing in the choir?"

  "Maybe," Thomas said and looked to Chess and Checkers for help. Checkers stared at Father Arnold and failed to notice Thomas's distress. Chess smiled back at Thomas and grabbed his hand. She held it tightly as they made their way into the church and found seats. Checkers went to the dressing room to change into her choir robe. Father Arnold shook hands up to the front of the church.

  "Are you okay?" Chess asked.

  Thomas nodded his head and pulled at the collar of his shirt. The church was hot, and he grew dizzier by the second. He nearly fainted as Father Arnold began the service. After all those years, Thomas still remembered the words to all the prayers and whispered along, more by habit than faith. Chess whispered beside him, and he loved the sound of their harmony.

  "Lord, hear our prayer."

  Checkers sang loudly in the choir. Thomas watched her closely. She watched Father Arnold.

  "You're right about her," Thomas whispered to Chess. "She's nuts about him."

  "Enit?" Chess said."I told you so."

  Thomas wished for a glass of water as Father Arnold began the homily. At first, Thomas followed the words, something about redemption, but his vision soon faded. He had never felt this way before. When he opened his eyes again, he was in a different, darker place.

  *

  Thomas, Father Arnold said, although Thomas knew the priest was still back in the church. Thomas, why are you here?

  Thomas shook his head, tried to wake up, but felt the heat increase instead. He closed his eyes inside his dream, opened them again, and found himself in a sweatlodge. Inside there, it was too dark to see, but Thomas knew the smell and feel of a sweatlodge. He could also sense the presence of others inside the lodge.

  The next brother, please, a voice said out of the darkness.

  Thomas knew he was supposed to pray next. He could pray silently, and that would be respected. He could pray aloud, scream and cry, and that would be understood. If he sang, his brothers in the sweatlodge would sing with him.

  Brothers, Thomas said, I don't have any traditional songs. I don't even know gpl belong here. I don't know if anybody belongs in here. People are listening to us pray. They have come into the sweatlodge to steal from us. We have to keep our songs private and hidden. There is somebody in here now who would steal from us. I can smell him.

  Somebody splashed water on the hot rocks in the middle of the sweatlodge. Steam rose; quiet laughter drifted. Thomas could barely breathe. He saw images of people just beyond his vision, heard strange voices, felt the rustle of an animal beside him. That animal brushed against Thomas and drew blood.

  All my relations, Thomas cried out, and the door was opened.

  Thomas, a feral voice cried out as Thomas escaped from the sweatlodge. He ran past the campfire, heard the animal crashing through the underbrush behind him. The smell, the smell. He tripped, fell for an immeasurable time, and woke up suddenly in the Catholic Church in Wellpinit.

  "Welcome back," Chess said to Thomas as he opened his eyes."I didn't think Catholics were that boring."

  Thomas shook his head, shrugged his shoulders.

  "Peace," Chess said as she left the pew.

  "Peace," Thomas said at her back.

  "Peace be with you," an old Indian woman said to Thomas, but he heard pleased to meet you.

  "Pleased to meet you, too," he said.

  The old woman looked puzzled, then smiled.

  "You're that Builds-the-Fire, enit?" she asked.

  "'Yeah."

  "I'm glad to see you here. I'm glad you quit that band. That rock and roll music is sinful."

  Thomas nodded his head blankly.

  "I can't tell you how happy we were to see that Checkers in here last week. She was saved, she was saved. Now, you've come and her sister, too. People were starting to talk, you know?"

  The old Indian woman knelt in the pew. Thomas knelt, with no idea where Chess had gone. Then he saw her with the Communion wafers. Father Arnold worked quickly.

  "This is the body, this is the blood. This is the body, this is the blood. This is the body, this is the blood."

  "What are people saying about us?" Thomas asked the old woman.

  "The Christians don't like your devil's music. The traditionals don't like your white man's music. The Tribal Council don't like you're more famous than they are. Nobody likes those white women with you. We spit in their shadows. We don't want them here."

  "But what about Father Arnold? He's white."

  "He's a good white man. Those women in your band are trouble."

  "But everybody liked us before."

  "Before you left the reservation, before you left."

  The old woman rose to receive Communion, and Thomas followed her down the aisle. Checkers sang the Communion hymn wonderfully. Thomas knew she had to rejoin the band. Coyote Springs needed two Indian women, not two white women. If Checkers rejoined, Betty and Veronica could be voted out by a majority. Thomas had felt the change in the reservation air but ignored it. At the two rehearsals they'd held since they returned from Seattle, only Lester FallsAp
art had shown up.

  "But we still live here," Thomas said to the old woman.

  "But you left. Once is enough."

  The old woman opened her mouth to take Communion; Thomas offered his cupped hands. Father Arnold placed the wafer gently in Thomas's hands.

  "Amen," Thomas whispered, palmed the wafer, and pretended to eat it. He walked back to his pew but discovered that the old Indian woman had gone. He searched for some evidence of her but found nothing. He knelt in the pew again, made a quick sign of the cross. Then he ran outside, crumbled the wafer into pieces, and let it fall to the earth. The reservation swallowed those pieces hungrily. Not sure why he even took the Communion wafer in the first place, Thomas felt the weight of God, the reservation, and all the stories between.

  * * *

  Victor and Junior staggered into the Trading Post just a few minutes after the Catholic Church bells rang for the second time that morning. Both had been continually drunk since they returned from Seattle, spending their $200 prize money quickly and efficiently. They were rapidly depleting Betty's and Veronica's cash, too. The-man-who-was-probably-Lakota watched Junior and Victor and shook his head. He also noticed the two white women and offered them a silent prayer.

  "Ladies and gentlemen!" Victor shouted. "Elvis is dead. Long live me!"

  Victor and Junior stumbled around the Trading Post and searched for the beer cooler. Betty and Veronica gave up and walked back outside.

  "What the hell are we doing here?" Veronica asked Betty.

  "I don't know."

  The white women had left their car in a garage in Seattle.

  They knew the price to get out rose a little higher with every hour that passed.

  "The end of the world is near!" shouted the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota.

  "We know," Betty and Veronica said.

  Inside the Trading Post, Michael White Hawk watched Victor and Junior stumble up and down the aisles.

  "Dose fuckers think they cool," White Hawk said to a loaf of bread as Victor and Junior finally found the beer cooler. They celebrated their discovery and pulled out a case of cheap beer.