Reservation Blues - Alexie Sherman

by Alexie Sherman

  I think you left something behind in New York, said the guitar. Victor stepped inside the bathroom, shut the door behind him, and reached for it.

  Take it easy there, the guitar said. You can have me back. You can take me and you can be anybody you want to be. You can have anything you want to have. But you have to trade me for it.

  Trade what? Victor asked.

  You have to give up what you love the most, said the guitar. What do you love the most? Who do you love the most?

  Outside, while Victor dreamt, Junior Polatkin thought he heard his name called out. He looked at the Tribal Cops, who just continued to flirt with Chess and Checkers. The Warm Water sisters ignored the Tribal Cops and talked to each other. Thomas sat on an old tire swing. Junior heard his name again and recognized Victor's voice. He looked toward the house, but he was the only one who heard it. Junior heard Victor whisper his name.

  * * *

  On the night before Victor Joseph dreamed about the guitar, Thomas Builds-the-Fire and Chess Warm Water lay awake in bed. Both assumed Checkers was fast asleep on the floor, but she listened to their whispered conversation.

  "Thomas," Chess said, "what are we going to do?"

  "I don't know," Thomas said."What do you want to do?"

  "I want to go back to Arlee."

  Thomas didn't say anything. He stared up at the stained ceiling. Water stains. He remembered the rain that had pounded his roof, seeped through the insulation, pooled in the crawlspace, and then dripped down onto the bed.

  "I want to go back to Arlee," Chess said again."You said we could go back to Arlee."

  Thomas had agreed to go back to Arlee as Coyote Springs waited in Kennedy Airport in New York. He had never felt farther away, never felt more away than at that moment. He didn't want to get on the plane for the flight home to Wellpinit. He wanted to get on a different plane and fly to someplace different, somewhere he had never even heard of. Some strange place with a strange name. He wanted to grab a map of the world, close his eyes, and spit. He would live wherever his spit landed on the map. Still, he knew he would probably spit on his own reservation, Just a green-colored spot on the map.

  "I'll go wherever you want to go," Thomas had said but still knew that every part of him was Spokane Indian.

  "Good," Chess had said, but she also saw the doubt in Thomas's eyes. She knew what it felt like to leave her own reservation. She had felt something stretch inside her as that blue van pulled off the Flathead Reservation all those weeks ago. She had looked back and felt a sharp pain, like the tearing of tendon and ligament from bone. She had left her reservation because of that goddamn guitar, that sudden fire it had lit inside her. But that fire had consumed almost everything, and despite her years of firefighting experience, she had not been able to stop it. She had not dug fire lines, had not provided herself with a quick escape route. She loved the music, she loved Thomas, she loved the fire. But Thomas was all that she had left, and the Spokane Indian Reservation was threatening to keep him.

  "Thomas, " she had said just before their flight number was called.

  "What?" he asked.

  She had taken his hand in hers, studied the way their fingers fit together, and almost wanted to stay there in the airport forever. She had almost wanted to stay suspended between here and there, between location and destination. She squeezed Thomas's hand and waited.

  "There's nothing left here for us," Chess said to Thomas in bed. "There's nothing left here for you."

  "I know," Thomas said."But they're my people. They're my Tribe."

  "Of course. But the Flatheads are my people. And they ain't threatening to kill us."

  "Not everybody wants to kill us. Nobody wants to kill us. They're Just talking. We Just let them down."

  "Don't make excuses for them. You don't need to make excuses for them."

  Checkers rolled over on the floor. She knew her movement would make Thomas and Chess stop talking. She didn't want to go back to the Flathead Reservation, and she didn't want Chess to convince Thomas to move. Even if Chess and Thomas left, Checkers knew she would remain behind. Indians were always switching reservations anyway. For love, for money, to escape jail time. Checkers was still thinking of Father Arnold.

  "Thomas," Chess said after a long silence."Are you still awake?"

  "Yeah."

  "We don't have to go to Arlee. I mean, I really want to go home. But mostly, I just want to leave here. I don't want to be here anymore."

  "Where would we go?"

  "I don't know. Anywhere but here. Maybe we should go west. All the white people did and look what they got."

  "What's west of here?"

  "Everything's west of here, Thomas. Everything. We could move to Spokane. Is that west enough?"

  Spokane, a mostly white city, sat on the banks of the Spokane River. Spokane the city was named after the Tribe that had been forcibly removed from the river. Spokane was only sixty miles from the reservation, but Thomas figured it was no closer than the moon.

  There was nobody waiting for Coyote Springs in the Spokane International Airport when they deboarded the plane. They had crossed three time zones and still had no idea how they worked.

  "It's like fucking time travel," Victor said.

  Coyote Springs had waited at the baggage carousel until all the passengers had picked up their luggage. All except Victor. All the other passengers on the plane had been greeted by family and friends who took the luggage from their hands. All the other passengers had already left the airport. Coyote Springs waited for Victor's bag.

  "Shit," Victor said."What happened?"

  Coyote Springs was Just about to abandon the bag when a guitar case slid down onto the carousel. The rest of Coyote Springs took a quick step back, but Victor reached for it and grabbed the handle. He pulled the guitar case off the carousel and turned back toward the rest of the band.

  "It's my guitar," Victor said. "It's my guitar, goddamn it. We can start over. We can get the band going again. We don't need those fucking guys in New York City. We can do it ourselves."

  A young white man with a white shirt and dirty Jeans came running back into the baggage area. He was in a panic but relaxed visibly when he saw Victor holding the guitar case.

  "Oh, God," said the white man."I can't believe I almost forgot it."

  Coyote Springs looked at him blankly. He stared back.

  "That's mine," the white man said and pointed at the guitar case."I almost forgot it."

  Victor pulled the guitar up close to his body.

  "That's mine," the man repeated."That's my name there on the side."

  Coyote Springs looked at the black guitar case with "Dakota" written in white paint.

  "Your name ain't really Dakota, is it?" Chess asked.

  "Yeah, my dad is way into the Indian thing. He's part Indian from his grandmother. She was a full-blood Cherokee."

  "If he was Cherokee," Chess said, "then why did he name you Dakota?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Cherokee and Dakota are two different tribes, you know?"

  "I don't understand what you're trying to say."

  Coyote Springs took a deep breath, exhaled.

  "You ain't supposed to name yourself after a whole damn tribe," Victor finally said."Especially if it ain't your tribe to begin with."

  "Well," said the white man, "it's my name. And that's my guitar."

  Victor had known the guitar inside the case wasn't his. He had only wanted to be close to any guitar.

  "Here," Victor said."Take the damn thing."

  The white man took the guitar from Victor and walked away. Coyote Springs watched him. Then he turned back after a few steps.

  "You know," he said, "you act like I'm stealing something from you. This is my guitar. This is my name. I didn't steal anything."

  Chess and Thomas finally agreed to leave the Spokane Indian Reservation for anywhere else. There was no doubt that Checkers would come with them, but she lay on the floor, fuming. She didn'
t want to leave. She was still angry when she fell asleep. After Thomas had fallen asleep too, Chess climbed out of bed and walked quietly into the kitchen. She sat at the table with an empty cup. She kept bringing the cup to her lips, forgetting it contained nothing.

  She rubbed her eyes, brought the cup to her lips again, set it back. She cleared her throat, thought about the cup again, and then the sun rose so suddenly that she barely had time to react.

  "Good morning," Thomas said when he walked into the kitchen."You're up early."

  Checkers shuffled in a few minutes later, while Victor and Junior slept on. Those two found it was easier to Just sleep, rather than wake up and face the day.

  "Morning," Checkers mumbled. She poured powdered commodity milk into a plastic jug and added water. She stirred and stirred. She stirred for ten minutes, because that powdered milk refused to mix completely. No matter how long an Indian stirred her commodity milk, it always came out with those lumps of coagulated powder. There was nothing worse. Those lumps were like bombs, moist on the outside with an inner core of dry powdered milk. An Indian would take a big swig of milk, and one of those coagulated powder bombs would drop into her mouth and explode when she bit it. She'd be coughing little puffs of powdered milk for an hour.

  "Do you want some breakfast?" Checkers asked Chess and Thomas. Neither of them was very excited about the milk, but they had to have something for breakfast.

  "Okay," Chess and Thomas said.

  Checkers poured milk into their cups and into a cup of her own. The three sat at the kitchen table, took small sips, then a big drink, and coughed white powder until Victor and Junior could not sleep through the noise.

  * * *

  The day before Chess and Thomas decided to leave the Spokane Indian Reservation for good, Robert Johnson sat on the porch at Big Mom's house while she sat in her rocking chair. Johnson's vision had improved tremendously during his time on the reservation. Back in his youth in Mississippi, he saw everything blurred. White spots clouded one eye. His sister bought him glasses when he was ten years old, but he never wore them much. But now he could see the entire Spokane Indian Reservation when he looked down Wellpinit Mountain. He watched Michael White Hawk march dumbly around the softball diamond. From home to first base, second, third, and back to home.

  "Home," White Hawk whispered to himself. Then he marched around the bases again.

  "What's wrong wit' him?" Johnson asked Big Mom.

  "Same thing that's wrong with most people," Big Mom said."He's living his life doing the same thing all day long. He's just more obvious about it."

  "What d'y'all mean?"

  "Well, think about it. Most people wake up, have breakfast, go to work, come home, eat dinner, watch television, and then go to sleep. Five days a week. Then they go see a movie, go to church, go to the beach on weekends. Then Monday morning comes, and they're back to work. Then they die. White Hawk's just doing the same thing on a different level. He's a genius. It's performance art."

  "Well, I guess. You pos'tive 'bout that? Maybe he just got hisself knocked too hard on the head. Like a fighter. I seen how fighters end up gettin' slugged too much."

  "Maybe."

  "You ain't serious 'bout that, are you?"

  "Maybe."

  Robert Johnson and Big Mom sat for hours in silence. Big Mom thought about the young Michael White Hawk, who had come to get help with his saxophone. She remembered that version of White Hawk, who had nearly believed in Big Mom once, before he went to prison for assaulting that grocery store cashier. But Johnson had never known that White Hawk. Johnson watched him walk circles around the softball diamond. Home, first, second, third, home again.

  "It happens that way," Johnson whispered."It really does happen that way."

  Son House, preacher and bluesman, had been a star in Robinsville, Mississippi, way back when. Robert Johnson was just a teenager when he started to follow House from juke joint to joint. Johnson only played harmonica then, but he was good enough to join Son House on stage every once in a while. Johnson loved the stage. He only felt loved when he was on stage, singing and blowing his harp. But it still wasn't enough. Johnson wanted to play

  guitar.

  "Oh, God," Son House said to Johnson after he let him play guitar at a juke. "I ain't lettin' you play no more. I ain't ever heard such a racket. You was makin' people mad."

  Ashamed, Johnson packed up his clothes and guitar and left town. He Just disappeared as he walked north up Highway 61. Just vanished after the first crossroads.

  Robert Johnson looked over at Big Mom. She was carving a piece of wood. Johnson had given up on carving a new guitar out of that scrub wood he had gathered when Coyote Springs was still practicing at Big Mom's house. That wood was still in a pile out there in the pine trees. He barely remembered his dreams of a new guitar.

  "What's you makin' there?" Johnson asked Big Mom.

  "None of your business," she said.

  "That a good piece of wood?"

  "Good enough."

  Johnson looked down the mountain and watched a group of Spokane Indians carrying picket signs and marching in circles around the Tribal Community Center. The very traditional Spokanes carried signs written in the Spokane language and chanted things in the Spokane language, too. But they all sounded pissed off. The Indian Christian signs read COYOTE SPRINGS NEEDS TO BE SAVED AND REPENT, COYOTE SPRINGS, REPENT! while the nonsecular signs said C0YOTE SPRINGS CAN KISS MY BIG RED ASS.

  "What's goin' happen down there?°' Johnson asked Big Mom."What's goin' happen to Coyote Springs?"

  "I don't know. It ain't up to me to decide."

  "That's what you always say."

  "I Say it because it's true. What do you want me to say?"

  *

  "What do you want, Mr. Johnson?" asked the Gentleman. A handsome white man, the Gentleman wore a perfectly pressed black wool suit in the hot Mississippi heat. He leaned against the crossroads sign, picking at his teeth with a long fingernail.

  "I want to play the guitar," Johnson said.

  "But you already play the guitar."

  "No. I mean, I want to play the guitar better."

  "Better than what?"

  "Better than anybody ever."

  "That's a big want," the Gentleman said. His lupine eyes caught the sunlight in a strange way, reflecting colors that Johnson had never seen before.

  "I want it big," Johnson said.

  "Well, then," said the Gentleman after a long pause. "I can teach you how to play like that. But what are you going to give me in return?"

  "What you mean?"

  "I mean, Mr. Johnson, that you have to trade me. I'll teach you how to play better than anybody ever, but you have to give me something in return."

  "Like what?"

  "Whatever you love the most. What do you love the most, Mr. Johnson?"

  Johnson felt the whip that split open the skin on his grandfathers' backs. He heard the creak of floorboard as the white masters crept into his grandmothers' bedrooms.

  "Freedom," Johnson said."I love freedom."

  "Well, I don't know," the Gentleman said and laughed.

  "You're a black man in Mississippi. I don't care if it is 1930. You ain't got much freedom to offer me."

  "I'II give you all I got."

  The horses screamed.

  The Gentleman leaned over, touched Johnson's guitar with the tip of a fingernail, and then smiled.

  "It's done," said the Gentleman and faded away. Johnson rubbed his eyes. He figured he'd been dreaming. The hot summer heat had thrown a mirage at him. So he just turned around and walked back toward Robinsville. He'd only been gone for a few hours. Nobody would even notice he'd left, and he was foolish for leaving. He'd forget about the guitar and play the harp with Son House. Johnson vowed to become the best harp player that ever lived. He'd practice all day long.

  "Where you been?" Son House asked when Johnson walked into the Juke Joint. House sat in a chair on stage.

  "What you mean
?" Johnson asked."You act like I been gone forever. I just walked out to the crossroads. Then I changed my mind and came back."

  "You been gone a year! Do you hear me? You been gone a year!"

  Stunned, Johnson slumped into a chair on the floor below House and laid his guitar on his lap. He heard an animal laughing in his head.

  "Don't you know where you been?" House asked.

  "Been at the crossroads," Johnson said. He looked down at his guitar. He looked at House.

  "Well, boy," House said, "you still got a guitar, huh? What do you do with that thing? You can't do nothing with it."

  "Well," Johnson said, "I'll tell you what."

  "What?"

  "Let me have your seat a minute."

  House and Johnson exchanged seats. Johnson sat onstage, tuned his guitar, while House sat on the floor, the very first audience. Johnson pulled out a bottle, a smooth bottle, and ran it up and down the fretboard. He played a few songs that arrived from nowhere. Son House's mouth dropped open. Robert Johnson was suddenly the best damn guitar player he had ever heard.

  "Well, ain't that fast," House said when Johnson finished.