Reservation Blues - Alexie Sherman

by Alexie Sherman

  "You pray," Father said.

  "Dear Father," she began, stopped, started again. She struggled through a brief prayer. "Amen."

  "Amen."

  "Checkers," he whispered, "it will be okay."

  She leaned forward and kissed him, full on the lips. Surprised, he pulled back. She kissed him again, with more force, and he kissed her back, clumsily.

  "Checkers," he said and pushed her away.

  She looked up at him; he closed his eyes and prayed.

  * * *

  Wright and Sheridan sat in the back of the Cadillac. Sheridan was on the car phone. It had taken the driver more than an hour to find a place on the reservation where the reception was good. They sat on top of Lookout Hill, but there was still a lot of static on the line.

  "Well," Sheridan said, "what do you think?" He nodded his head, grunted in the affirmative for a few minutes, shrugged his shoulders once or twice. He hung up the phone with a dejected look on his face.

  "Oh, shit," Wright said."He doesn't like the idea, does he?"

  "Mr. Armstrong says he got our fax, and he loves our idea," Sheridan deadpanned.

  "You're shitting me."

  "He wants us to go check out some duo in Seattle first. Couple of hot white chicks, I guess, just started out and already causing a buzz. Then we're supposed to come back here next week and take, as he says, those goddamn Indians to New York."

  "Well, this calls for a drink," Wright said.

  "A couple drinks," Sheridan agreed.

  The horses screamed.

  "Well, we should tell them, don't you think?" Wright asked.

  "Yeah," Sheridan said. "Driver, take us to Coyote Springs."

  The driver carefully drove the car toward Thomas's house. He watched the two record company executives drink directly from a flask. That flask was old, antique, stained. Sheridan and Wright had been drinking from that flask for a century, give or take a few decades. They were never sure how long it had been.

  "You've always been a good soldier," Wright said to Sheridan.

  "You've been a fine goddamn officer yourself," Sheridan replied.

  *

  Coyote Springs was sitting in the front yard when the Cadillac pulled up. Drunk, Sheridan and Wright hurried out of the car with the good news. Everybody danced: Junior and Victor tangoed; Thomas two-stepped up a pine tree; Wright and Sheridan dipped Chess and Checkers.

  "When do we get to go?" Thomas asked.

  "Next week," Sheridan said.

  "That long?"

  "Well, we have to go to Seattle first. For some other business.

  Coyote Springs's stomach growled.

  "But we ain't got no money," Thomas whispered.

  "No money?" Sheridan asked.

  "None."

  "Why didn't you say so?" Sheridan asked and opened his wallet."I've got a few hundred bucks on me. Is that enough?"

  Coyote Springs took the money, bribed their way back into the Trading Post, and bought a week's worth of Pepsi, Doritos, and Hershey's chocolate. Victor and Junior bought beer with their share and drank slowly.

  "What a fine beer," Victor said. "A wonderful bouquet. Lovely, fruity taste with a slight bitterness."

  "Yeah," Junior said, swished a little beer around his mouth, and then swallowed. "Gorgeous, gorgeous beer."

  "Even better with corn nuts, enit?" Victor asked.

  "You're such a fucking gourmet," Junior said.

  Sheridan and Wright left the reservation before Junior and Victor even finished that first beer and barely waved goodbye.

  "We'll see you in a week," Sheridan said before they left.

  "Have all your shit packed. We're flying you over there, so don't take too much."

  "Flying?" Thomas asked.

  "Of course. What did you think? You'd ride on horses?"

  Thomas knew there was no good reason for Indians to fly. Indians could barely stay on the road when they were in cars.

  "Well," Chess said after the record company executives had gone.

  "Well," Thomas said."What do we do now?"

  Checkers felt dizzy, sat on the ground, and wished for a glass of cold water.

  * * *

  From a letter received on the day after Wright and Sheridan left:

  Dear Thomas Builds-the-Fire,

  I've heard you have a chance to audition for a large record company in New York. I don't think you have a chance at landing a contract without my help. In fact, there are many other complications involved in all of this. Your friend, Robert Johnson, is here. He's been praying and singing for you. Please come see me at my home and bring the entire band. I'm looking forward to your visit.

  Sincerely,

  Big Mom

  7

  Big Mom

  There's a grandmother talking to me

  There's a grandmother talking to you

  There's a grandmother singing for me

  There's a grandmother singing for you

  And if you stop and listen

  You might hear what you been missing

  And if you stop and listen

  You might hear what you been missing

  And I hear Big Mom

  Telling me another story

  And I hear Big Mom

  Singing me another song

  And she says

  I'll be coming back

  I'll be coming back

  I'll be coming back for you `

  I'll be coming back

  I'll be coming back

  I'll be coming back for you

  I'll always come back for you

  (repeat)

  Coyote Springs carried two guitars, a drum set, and a keyboard up the hill toward Big Mom's house. She lived in a blue house on the top of Wellpinit Mountain. She was a Spokane Indian with a little bit of Flathead blood thrown in for good measure. But she was more than that. She was a part of every tribe.

  There were a million stories about Big Mom. But no matter how many stories were told, some Indians still refused to believe in her. Even though she lived on the reservation, some Spokanes still doubted her. Junior and Victor once saw Big Mom walk across Benjamin Pond but quickly erased it from memory. Junior and Victor had limited skills, but they were damn good at denial.

  "Who the hell is Big Mom?" Victor had asked.

  "You know who she is," Thomas said. "You're just pretending you don't know about her. You're Just scared."

  "I ain't scared of nothing. Especially somebody named Big Mom. What the hell does that mean anyway?"

  "She's powerful medicine," Thomas said. "The most powerful medicine. I can't believe she called for us."

  "Oh," Victor said, "don't tell me she's some medicine woman or something. That's all a bunch of crap. It don"t work."

  "Big Mom works."

  "And besides, why did she address that letter to Thomas. We're a band, you know?"

  "Because he's the lead singer," answered everybody else.

  "We have to go there," Thomas said.

  "When?" Chess asked.

  "Right now," Thomas said. "Everybody grab an instrument and follow me."

  "Wait a second," Checkers said. "Can't I say goodbye to Father Arnold?"

  "Father Arnold can wait, " Thomas said.

  "Now," Victor asked again as Coyote Springs climbed up the hill. "Who the hell is this Big Mom?"

  "I told you. Big Mom can help us, and she's helped us before," Thomas said. "That's all you need to know."

  Coyote Springs walked the rest of the way in silence. They all thought about the help they needed and heard the word faith echo in the trees. They all heard the same music in their heads.

  "This is spooky shit," Victor said.

  "Way spooky," Junior said.

  * * *

  There were stories about Big Mom that stretched back more than a hundred years. There were a hundred stories about every day of Big Mom's life.

  "Ya-hey," Indians whispered to each other at powwows, at basketball games, at education conferences. "
Did you know Big Mom taught Elvis to sing?"

  "No way," said the incredulous.

  "What? You don't believe me? Well, then. Listen to this."

  Indians all over the country would play a scratched record of Elvis, Diana Ross, Chuck Berry, and strain to hear the name Big Mom hidden in the mix.

  "Didn't you hear it? Elvis whispers Thank you, Big Mom just as the last note of the song fades."

  "Yeah, maybe I heard it. But maybe Elvis was singing to his own momma. He really did love his momma. "

  But the faithful played record after record and heard singer after singer thank Big Mom for her help. Those thanks were barely audible, of course, but they were there.

  Big Mom was a musical genius. She was the teacher of all those great musicians who shaped the twentieth century. There were photographs, they said, of Les Paul leaving Big Mom's house with the original blueprint for the electric guitar. There were home movies, they said, of Big Mom choreographing the Andrews Sisters' latest dance steps. There were even cheap recordings, they said, of Big Mom teaching Paul McCartney how to sing "Yesterday."

  Musicians from all over the world traveled to Big Mom's house in the hope she would teach them how to play. Like any good teacher, Big Mom was very selective with her students. She never answered the door when the live Jim Morrison came knocking. She won't even answer the door when the dead Jim Morrison comes knocking now.

  Still, Big Mom had her heart broken by many of her students who couldn't cope with the incredible gifts she had given them. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Elvis. They all drank so much and self-destructed so successfully that Big Mom made them honorary members of the Spokane Tribe.

  Late at night, Big Mom's mourning song echoed all over the reservation. The faithful opened their eyes and took it in, knowing that another of her students had fallen. The unbelieving shut their doors and windows and complained about the birds howling in the trees. But those birds weren't howling. They all stood quietly, listening to Big Mom, too. She didn't teach Just humans how to sing. When those birds heard her mourning song, they also wondered which of their tribe had fallen.

  * * *

  "Who is that?" Chess and Checkers asked as Coyote Springs crested a rise and saw a huge woman standing in the doorway of a blue house.

  "That's Big Mom," Thomas said.

  Big Mom was over six feet tall and had braids that hung down past her knees. Her braids themselves were taller than any of the members of Coyote Springs and probably weighed more, too. She had a grandmother face, lined and crossed with deep wrinkles. But her eyes were young, so young that the rest of her face almost looked like a mask. Big Mom filled up the doorway of that blue house. She wasn't obese at all, just thick and heavy.

  "Ya-hey," Big Mom called out to them, and her voice shook the ground.

  "Did we take some bad acid?" Victor asked Junior.

  "I hope so," Junior said.

  Big Mom walked across her yard to greet the band. She wore a full-length beaded buckskin outfit.

  "You're the lead singer," Big Mom said, "Thomas Builds-the-Fire."

  "Yes, I am," Thomas said. "Where's Robert Johnson?"

  "He's away in the trees, looking for some good wood. He's going to build himself a new guitar."

  "What about his old guitar?" Thomas asked.

  "That guitar is Victor's responsibility now," Big Mom said. "I just wanted to see it. I just wanted Victor to know he gets to make choices. He can play the guitar or not. I don't think he should, but I won't take it away. If you want, I can throw it away, Victor."

  "Shit," Victor said. "I'd like to see you try and take this guitar away."

  That guitar nuzzled Victor's neck. Big Mom watched it carefully.

  "And you're all going to play for some record company?" Big Mom asked.

  "Yeah, we are. How did you know that anyway?"

  "Ancient Indian magic."

  "Shit, " Victor said. "Everybody on the reservation knows about it by now. Ain't no magic in that."

  "Well," Big Mom said, "I guess you're right. But gossip can be a form of magic. Enit, Victor?"

  "I don't believe in magic."

  "Victor," Big Mom said, "you should forgive that priest who hurt you when you were little. That will give you power over him, you know? Forgiveness is magic, too."

  "What are you talking about?" Victor asked, but he knew.

  He still felt the priest's hands on his body after all those years.

  "That poor man hasn't even forgiven himself yet," Big Mom said. "He's in an old-age home in California. He just cries all day long."

  Victor couldn't talk. He was frozen with the thought of that priest's life. He had prayed for his death for years, had even wanted to kill him, but never once considered forgiveness.

  "And you're Junior Polatkin," Big Mom said.

  "Yeah, I am," Junior said. "And I'm scared."

  Big Mom reared her head back and laughed a thunderstorm. Junior nearly pissed a rain shower in his shorts.

  "Don't be scared, Junior, " Big Mom said and held out two huge drumsticks. "These are for you."

  "I can't use those, I don't think I can even lift them."

  "Take them. They're yours."

  Junior reached for the sticks, hesitated, then grabbed them quickly. They were too heavy at first, and they dropped to the ground. But Junior reached down and pulled them up. Then he smiled and pounded a little rhythm across the ground.

  "Beautiful," Big Mom said.

  "Shit," Victor said. "She thinks she's a medicine woman. She thinks she's Yoda and Junior is Luke Skywalker. Use the force, Junior, use the force."

  Big Mom ignored Victor.

  "And you two are the sisters, Eunice and Gladys Warm Water, " Big Mom said. "You're special women. Come sweat with me."

  "Eunice and Gladys?" Junior, Victor, and Thomas asked.

  Chess and Checkers ducked their heads, hid their faces.

  "Eunice and Gladys?" Victor said again. "Jeez, your parents must've been seduced by the dark side of the force when they named you, enit?"

  "Eunice?" Thomas asked Chess.

  "Yeah, I'm Eunice," Chess whispered.

  "Don't be ashamed," Big Mom said. Chess and Checkers each took a hand, and Big Mom led them to the sweatlodge, leaving the men of Coyote Springs to their fears and drumsticks.

  * * *

  From Checkers (Gladys) Warm Water'sJ ournals

  I was so scared when I first saw Big Mom. She was this huge woman with fingers as big as my arms, I think. I kept thinking she could squash me like a bug. But then she called me a special woman. It made me realize Big Mom is really a woman and we could have a good talk.

  She took Chess and me into the sweatlodge, and I kept thinking that Big Mom was inside my head. I've always been able to sort of read people's minds, been able to get into their heads a little bit. Even Chess always told me I had a little bit of magic. But there were always people, especially women, who had more magic. I remember I was trying to read this old white lady's mind on a bus ride to Missoula when she turned to me and said "Get out!" Well, she really said it in her head. That old white lady threw me out of her mind, and I had a headache for a week. But that was nothing compared to Big Mom. I kept feeling like she could have made commodity applesauce out of

  my brain.

  Anyway, we took a sweat together, and it was great. Big Mom sang better than anybody I ever heard, even Aretha Franklin. That steam in the lodge felt so good in my throat and lungs. It made me feel like I could sing better. Chess said the steam made her feel that way, too. And Thomas said we could sing better after we came out of the sweatlodge with Big Mom. But I was also kind of scared that Big Mom would know that I was in love with Father Arnold. She might know that I kissed him and that he kissed me back. I was scared of what she would think of me. How can an Indian woman love any white man like that, and him being a priest besides? Big Mom felt like she came from a whole different part of God than Father Arnold did. Is that possible? Can God be broken into pieces l
ike a jigsaw puzzle? What if it's like one of those puzzles that Indian kids buy at secondhand stores? You put it together and find out one or two pieces are missing. I looked at Big Mom and thought that God must be made up mostly of Indian and woman pieces. Then I looked at Father Arnold and thought that God must be made up of white and man pieces. I don't know what's true.

  * * *

  "I'm hungry," Victor said as they all lay on the floor in Big Mom's living room.

  "You're always hungry," Chess said.

  "Wil1 you two be quiet, please?" Thomas said. "Big Mom is still sleeping."

  "Oh," Victor said, loudly. "I didn't think God needed to sleep. I thought God was a twenty-four-hour convenience store."

  "She's not God," Thomas said.

  "Oh, my," Victor said. "The perfect Thomas admitting that Big Mom ain't God. That's blasphemy, enit?"

  "It's not blasphemy," Thomas said. "There is no god but God."

  "Well," Victor asked, "who is she then?"

  The rest of Coyote Springs looked for the answer, too.

  "She's Just a part of God," Thomas said. "We're all a part of God, enit? Big Mom is Just a bigger part of God."

  "Literally," Victor said.

  "She's going to teach us how to play better," Thomas said.

  "She's going to teach us new chords and stuff."

  "How?" Victor said. "She's Just some old Indian woman."

  Just then, Big Mom played the loneliest chord that the band had ever heard. It drifted out of her bedroom, floated across the room, and landed at the feet of Coyote Springs. It crawled up their clothes and into their ears. Junior fainted.

  "What in the hell was that?" Victor asked.

  Big Mom walked out of the bedroom carrying a guitar made of a 1965 Malibu and the blood of a child killed at Wounded Knee in 1890.

  "Listen, " Thomas said.

  Big Mom hit the chord again with more force, and it knocked everybody to the ground. Everybody except Junior, who was already passed out on the ground.

  "Please," Chess said, but she didn't know if she wanted Big Mom to please, quit playing, or please, don't stop. Big Mom hit that chord over and over, until Coyote Springs had memorized its effects on their bodies. Junior had regained consciousness long enough to remember his failures, before the force of the music knocked him out again.

  "Enough! " Victor shouted. "I can't hear myself think!"