Reservation Blues - Alexie Sherman

by Alexie Sherman

  *

  Big Mom carved her wood while Johnson stared blankly at the Spokane Indian Reservation. He watched Victor sleeping. He could see Victor's dreams. That guitar, that guitar.

  "I feel bad," Johnson said.

  "About what?" Big Mom asked.

  "About that guitar of Victor's. I mean, my guitar. I mean, that Gentleman's guitar. I mean, whose guitar is it?"

  "It belongs to whoever wants it the most."

  "Well, I guess it don't belong to nobody anymore. It's all broken up back in New York, ain't it?"

  "If you say so."

  Johnson knew the guitar had always come back to him. Sometimes it had taken weeks, but it always found its way back into his arms and wanted more from him at every reunion. That guitar pulled him at him, like gravity. Even though Victor had owned it for months now, Johnson could still feel the pull. Johnson wondered if he'd ever really be free again.

  * * *

  The day before Big Mom carved a good piece of wood into a cedar harmonica while Robert Johnson watched the reservation, Father Arnold stood in the phone booth Just outside the Trading Post. He had dialed the Bishop's phone number a dozen times but hung up before it rang. Father Arnold Just held the phone to his mouth and pretended to talk as Spokane Indians walked in and out of the Trading Post.

  "The end of the world is near!" shouted the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota as he stood in his usual spot.

  Father Arnold dialed the Bishop' s number again.

  "Hello," answered the Bishop.

  Father Arnold held his breath.

  "Hello," said the Bishop."Is there anybody there?"

  "Hello, Father," Father Arnold said."It's Father Arnold. Out on the Spokane Indian Reservation."

  "Father Arnold? Oh, yes. Father Arnold. How are you?"

  "I'm good. Well, no. I'm not. I have a problem."

  "What ever could that be?"

  "I don't think I'm strong enough for this place. I'm having some doubts."

  "Really? Tell me about them."

  Father Arnold closed his eyes, saw Checkers Warm Water singing in the church choir.

  "I don't know if I'm being effective out here," Father Arnold said."I think we might need a fresh perspective. Somebody younger perhaps. Maybe somebody with more experience."

  Silence.

  "Are you there?" Father Arnold asked, his favorite prayer.

  "Father Arnold," the Bishop said, "I know it's never easy ministering to such a people as the Indians. They are a lost people, God knows. But they need you out there. We need you out there."

  "Please."

  "Father, we have no one to send out there. We have a shortage of priests as it is. Let alone priests to serve the Indian reservations. Father John has to serve three separate reservations, did you know? He has to drive from reservation to reservation for services. No matter the weather. Did you know that, Father?"

  "No, I didn't."

  "If Father John can serve three communities, I think you can serve Just one."

  "Yes."

  "For better or worse, you and those Indians are stuck together. Do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  "‘Well, perhaps you need some more time in study. More prayer. Ask for strength and guidance. Quit worrying so much about the basketball out there and worry more about your commitment to God."

  "Yes."

  "Well, then. Is there anything else?"

  "No," Father Arnold lied.

  "Okay, then. I'll talk to you soon."

  Dial tone.

  Father Arnold felt the connection break, hung up the phone, and opened the phone booth. He couldn't face Checkers again. He was ashamed and had to leave the reservation, no matter what the Bishop said.

  "I'm leaving," Father Arnold said. "I'm leaving."

  "The end of the world is near! It's near! The end of the world is near! "

  * * *

  On the day after Coyote Springs returned to the reservation, just a day before Father Arnold decided to leave the Catholic Church entirely, Betty and Veronica sat in Cavalry Records's recording studio in Manhattan.

  Betty and Veronica had already heard the story of Coyote Springs's disaster in the studio and weren't all that surprised. The white women had been truly shocked when Wright and Sheridan showed up at their very first show in Seattle.

  What a coincidence, Veronica had said to Sheridan. I can't believe you're going to sign Coyote Springs. We just left them. Did they tell you about us? Is that how you heard about us?

  No, Coyote Springs doesn't know anything about this, Sheridan had said. And we'd like to keep it that way. A little bird landed on my shoulder and told me about you. Told me to bring you to New York City. What do you think?

  "These the girls from Seattle?" Armstrong asked Wright and Sheridan in the control booth. Betty and Veronica shifted nervously on their stools in the studio.

  "Yes, sir, they are," Sheridan said. "We think you're going to love them. They have a unique sound. Sort of a folk sound."

  "Folk doesn't sell shit."

  "Yes, sir, folk hasn't been much of a seller for us," Sheridan said. "But I think these girls might change all of that."

  "What do you think?" Armstrong asked Wright.

  "They"re talented, " Wright said. He felt sick.

  "You said those Indians were talented, too," Armstrong said.

  "Listen," Sheridan said to Armstrong, "these two women here are part Indian."

  "What do you mean?" Armstrong asked.

  "I mean, they had some grandmothers or something that were Indian. Really. We can still sell that Indian idea. We don't need any goddamn just-off-the-reservation Indians. We can use these women. They've been on the reservations. They even played a few gigs with Coyote Springs. Don't you see? These women have got the Indian experience down. They really understand what it means to be Indian. They've been there."

  "Explain."

  "Can't you see the possibilities? We dress them up a little. Get them into the tanning booth. Darken them up a bit. Maybe a little plastic surgery on those cheekbones. Get them a little higher, you know? Dye their hair black. Then we'd have Indians. People want to hear Indians."

  "What do you think?" Armstrong asked Wright.

  "I don't have to have anything to do with it," Wright said and left the room.

  Wright walked out of Cavalry Records and hailed a cab.

  The driver was an old white woman. She had beautiful blue eyes.

  "Where you going?" asked the driver.

  "I Just want to get home,'" Wright said.

  The driver laughed and took Wright to a cemetery in Sacramento, California.

  "How much I owe you?" Wright asked when he climbed out of the cab.

  "You don't owe me anything," the woman said."Just go on home now. Just go on home."

  The cab pulled away. Wright watched it disappear in the distance, then he walked through the cemetery to a large monument. He studied the monument, remembering the ship that went down in the Pacific and the water rushing into his lungs. He read the monument:

  Gen. George Wright, U.S.A..

  and his wife

  died

  July 30, 1865

  Lovely and pleasant in their lives,

  and in their death they

  were not divided

  "Margaret," Wright said as he lay down on top of his grave. "I'm home. I'm home. I'm so sorry. I'm home."

  Margaret Wright rose wetly from her place and took her husband in her arms. She patted his head as he wept and remembered all those horses who had screamed in that field so long ago. He remembered shooting that last colt while Big Mom watched from the rise.

  "I was the one," Wright said to his wife."I was the one. I was the one who killed them all. I gave the orders."

  The horses screamed in his head.

  "Shh, " Margaret whispered."It's okay. I forgive you."

  Wright closed his eyes and saw the colt standing still in that field. He remembered that he had taken a pistol from a pri
vate. This is how it's done, he had said as he dismounted from his own horse. He pressed the pistol between the colt's eyes, pulled the trigger, and watched it fall.

  "Oh, God," Wright sobbed to his wife on their graves. The grief rushed into his lungs. I'm a killer. I'm a killer."

  "You've come home," Margaret whispered. "You're home now."

  *

  Betty and Veronica watched Armstrong and Sheridan talking in the control booth.

  "What do you think they're talking about?" Betty asked.

  "The assholes are probably wondering how our asses will look on MTV," Veronica said.

  "Hey, girls, " Sheridan said over the intercom.

  "Yeah," Betty and Veronica said.

  "Could you come in here?"

  Betty and Veronica set their guitars down, walked into the control booth.

  "Listen," Sheridan said, "Mr. Armstrong and I have been talking about your potential. Well, you see, there's a market for a certain kind of music these days. It's a kind of music we think you can play, given your heritage. But there's a whole lot of marketing we have to do. We have to fine tune your image."

  "What do you mean?" Veronica asked."What's our heritage?"

  "Well," Sheridan said, "there's been an upswing in the economic popularity of Indians lately. I mean, there's a lot of demographics and audience surveys and that other scientific shit. But I leave that to the boys upstairs. What I'm talking about here is pure musical talent. That's you. Pure musical talent shaped and guided by me. Well, I mean, under the direction of Mr. Armstrong, certainly."

  Veronica looked at Betty.

  "Now," Veronica said, "what the hell are you talking about?"

  "Well," Sheridan said, "our company, Cavalry Records, has an economic need for a viable Indian band. As you know, Coyote Springs self-destructed. We were thinking we needed a more reliable kind of Indian. Basically, we need Indians such as yourselves."

  "But we ain't that much Indian."

  "You're Indian enough, right? I mean, all it takes is a little bit, right? Who's to say you're not Indian enough?"

  "You want us to play Indian music or something?"

  "Exactly," Sheridan said. "Now you understand."

  Mr. Armstrong shifted in his seat. He was bored.

  "Cut to the chase," Armstrong said.

  "Okay," Sheridan said."What it comes down to is this. You play for this company as Indians. Or you don't play at all. I mean, who needs another white-girl folk group?"

  "But we want to play our music," Betty protested.

  "Listen," Sheridan said, "you do things for us, we can do things for you. It's a partnership. We want you to have everything you ever wanted. That's the business we're in. The dream business. We make dreams come true. That's who we are. We just ask I for a little sacrifice in return. A little something in exchange for I our hard work. What do you think?"

  Betty and Veronica looked at each other. They could hear drums.

  * * *

  Coyote Springs staggered onto the reservation a couple of hours after they left the Spokane International Airport. Actually, they were hiding beneath a tarp in Simon's pickup. Coyote Springs had managed to walk only a few miles on Highway 2 before Simon pulled up. He'd been back on the reservation for just a few days after his visit with relatives on the coast. He only drove his truck in reverse, using the rearview mirror as guide, even on white people's highways. He'd never been caught.

  "Jeez," Simon said, "I thought you guys were in New York City."

  "We were, " Thomas said. "But everything went wrong."

  "Oh, man," Simon said."I don't know if you want to go back to the reservation. Ain't nobody too happy with you up there. I can't believe it. It's like the Spokane Indian Reservation has become Republican or something."

  "Enit?" Chess asked. "What are you?"

  "Shit, " Simon said."I'm a Communist. A goddamn pinko redskin. Joe McCarthy would have pissed his pants if he ever saw me."

  "Well," Thomas said, "we have to go back there. We ain't got any money. We ain't got no place to go."

  "Well," Simon said, "if you insist. Climb in the back and get under that tarp. I don't want nobody seeing you."

  "What if they do?" Victor asked.

  "Any problems," Simon said as he patted the rifles hanging in his gun rack, "and I'll have to take care of business."

  "Are those loaded?" Junior asked.

  "You bet your ass," Simon said.

  Coyote Springs climbed under the tarp and pulled it over them. They had no idea where they were at any given time. They could only guess by certain curves in the road, the sudden stops, the sound of water rushing over Little Falls Dam as they crossed onto the Spokane Indian Reservation.

  10

  Wake

  I saw ten people die before I was ten years old

  And I knew how to cry before I was ever born

  Wake alive, alive, wake alive, alive

  Sweetheart, I know these car wrecks are nearly genetic

  Sweetheart, I know these hands have been shaking for generations

  And they shake and shake and shake and shake

  Sweetheart, I know these suicides are always genetic

  Sweetheart, I know we have to travel to the reservation

  For the wake and wake and wake and wake

  And sweetheart, all these wakes for the dead

  Are putting the living to sleep

  I can't bury my grief

  Unless I bury my fear

  I can't bury my fear

  Before I bury my friend

  Wake alive, alive, wake alive, alive

  Sweetheart, I know this cirrhosis is nearly genetic

  Sweetheart, I know this heart has been shaking for generations

  And it shakes and shakes and shakes and shakes

  Sweetheart, I know these suicides are always generic

  Sweetheart, I know we have to travel to the reservation

  For the wake and wake and wake and wake

  And sweetheart, all these wakes for the dead

  Are putting the living to sleep

  And I think it's time for us to find a way

  Yeah, I think it's time for us to find a way

  And I think it's time for us to find a way

  Yeah, I think it's time for us to find a way

  To wake alive, to wake alive, to wake alive, to wake alive

  There wasn't much of a wake for Junior Polatkin. Coyote Springs just laid Junior in the homemade coffin and set it on top of the kitchen table in Thomas's house. Coyote Springs didn't have the energy to sing or mourn properly, and the rest of the reservation didn't really care, although a few anonymous Indians did send flowers and condolences. Simon, whose rifle had been used in the suicide, felt so bad that he drove his pickup backwards off the reservation, and nobody ever saw him again.

  "Assholes," Victor said when another reservation bouquet arrived. He kept thinking of the guitar he saw in the bathroom, in his dream."Why the fuck they sending flowers now?"

  "Well," Chess said, "at least they sent something."

  "Yeah," Victor said, holding his hands close to his body, trying to hide the scars." But nobody gave a shit when he was blowing his brains out. They were all cheering him on."

  "That ain't true," Chess said. "Nobody cheered."

  Lester FallsApart showed up then and gave Coyote Springs three dogs. It was an unusual gift at a wake, but Lester didn't have anything else to offer. He owned a dozen dogs. That's to say, a dozen dogs followed him all over the reservation. Thomas wanted to name those three dogs Larry, Moe, and Curly. Chess wanted to name them John, Paul, and Peter. Checkers didn't care what they were named. But Lester said he'd already named them the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Those dogs sniffed at Junior's coffin and began to howl.

  *

  On top of Wellpinit Mountain, Big Mom sat on her porch and cried. She could hear the dogs howling down below. She'd had no idea that Junior was going to kill himself but still felt like she could have saved
him. If she had only known, if she had only paid attention.

  "Big Mom," Robert Johnson said, "what you goin' to do? You're scarin' me."

  Big Mom felt a weakness in her stomach, in her knees. She didn't know if she could even stand, let alone walk down her mountain. Another one of her students had fallen, and Big Mom had felt something fall inside her, too. Maybe all those bodies, those musicians, those horses had been stacked too high inside her.

  "I don't know if I can do this anymore," Big Mom said."I just don't know."

  "They need you," Johnson said."We all need you."

  Big Mom looked at Robert Johnson, noticing how he had changed since his arrival. He had gained weight, his eyes were clear, his hands had healed.

  "I saved you," Big Mom said.

  "Yes, you did."

  Big Mom stood, breathed deep, and began the walk down her mountain. She turned back, dug through her purse, and threw a small object back at Robert Johnson. He caught it gently in his

  hands.

  "What is this?" Johnson asked.

  "It's yours," Big Mom said.

  Johnson held a cedar harmonica. He could feel a movement inside the wood, something familiar.

  "Why this?" Johnson asked.

  "You don't need that guitar anymore," Big Mom said.

  "You were supposed to be a harp player. You're a good harp player. All by yourself, you can play a mean harp."

  "Thank you."

  "You're welcome," Big Mom said and walked down the mountain.

  *

  Father Arnold, wearing a t-shirt and Jeans, had Just loaded his last box into his yellow VW when Big Mom walked up to him.

  "Holy cow," Arnold said."You scared me."

  "I'm sorry," Big Mom said and then noticed the boxes.

  "So, you really are leaving then?"

  "I have to, " Arnold said. "The Bishop reassigned me."

  "That's not true."

  Father Arnold was ashamed. He pulled at the neck of his t-shirt.

  "You're right," he said."It's because of Checkers."

  "Do you love her?"

  "Yes. No. I mean, I love her. But it's not like that."

  Father Arnold leaned heavily against the VW.

  "Listen," he said, "I don't know what to do. I think about her. I dream about her. Sometimes I want to give it all up for her. But I don't even know why. I haven't known her very long. I mean, she's beautiful and smart and funny. She's got a tremendous faith. I just don't know."