“And when they left the reservation, Chess and I rode down to the train station with Father James to say goodbye. Chess really didn’t want to come, but Mom and Dad made her. We stood there on the train platform, and those nieces wouldn’t even look at us. They were in their perfect little white dresses. They looked like angels. I wanted to go with them. I wanted to go live in the big city. I knew I wouldn’t get in the way. I’d sleep with their perfect dolls and eat crackers. I wanted to be just like them. I wanted to have everything they had. I knew if I was like them, I wouldn’t have to be brown and dirty and live on the reservation and spill Communion wine.
“I wanted to be as white as those little girls because Jesus was white and blond in all the pictures I ever saw of him.”
“You do know that Jesus was Jewish?” Father Arnold asked. “He probably had dark skin and hair.”
“That’s what they say,” Checkers said. “But I never saw him painted like that. I still never see him painted like that. You know, we had to hug those little white nieces, too. We’re standing there on the platform, and Father James tells us to hug each other. Chess refuses to hug anybody. But I hug those nieces, and the big one pinches my breast, my little nipple. Nobody sees it at all. It hurts so bad, and I start to cry. The nieces get on the train and leave. Father James hugs me because I’m crying. He says it will be all right, he knows how much I’ll miss his nieces. I stood there in Father James’s arms and cried and cried.”
Checkers cried in the little Catholic Church in Wellpinit. Father Arnold put his arms around her, and she cried into his shoulder, the soft fabric of his cassock. She put her arms around his waist, wanted to look into his eyes, but kept her face hidden.
“Checkers,” he whispered. “What’s going on? There must be something more. You can talk to me.”
Checkers squeezed Father Arnold tighter, until her grip became uncomfortable. But he would not release her.
Coyote Springs slept fitfully in the blue van. The city frightened them, especially since the thin walls of the van barely protected them. Chess never slept much at all, hadn’t slept well for two nights in a row. She sat in the driver’s seat and listened to the men stir and moan in their sleep. She recognized the sounds of nightmares but only guessed at the specifics.
Junior dreamed about horses. He rode a horse along a rise above the Columbia River, leading a large group of warriors. They all wanted to attack a steamship, but the boat remained anchored beyond their range. The Indians watched it jealously.
The Indians cried in frustration. Some splashed their ponies into the river and attempted to swim out to the boat. Others fell off their horses and wept violently. Junior slumped, hugged his horse’s neck, and closed his eyes. In his dream, he listened for the music. He heard bugles. Cavalry bugles.
From where? a young Indian boy asked Junior.
Junior whirled his horse, looked for the source of the bugle. Everywhere. Junior heard a gunshot, and the young Indian fell dead from his mount. Then the young Indian boy’s horse was shot and fell, too. The gunshots came from all angles. The bugles increased.
Where are they? the Indian men screamed as the bullets cut them down. They fell, all of them, until only Junior remained.
Cease fire! a white voice shouted. That voice sounded so close that Junior knew he should have seen the source. But there was nothing in the dust and sunlight.
Drop your rifle! the white voice shouted.
Where are you? Junior asked.
Drop your rifle! the voice shouted again, louder, so loud that Junior dropped his rifle and clapped his hands to his ears in pain. Suddenly he was dragged from his horse by unseen hands. Thrown to the ground, kicked and beaten, Junior heard the labored breathing of the men who were beating him. He could not see anybody.
Where are you? Junior asked again, and he heard only laughter. Then the attackers began to materialize. Soldiers. White men in blue uniforms. They laughed. They spat on Junior. One soldier walked over to Junior’s pony, placed a pistol carefully between its eyes, and pulled the trigger. The horse took a long time to fall.
Who are you? Junior asked in his dream.
A large soldier walked up to Junior and offered him a hand. Junior took it and got to his feet.
I’m General George Wright, the large soldier said.
Junior looked at Wright, then down at his dead horse.
You killed my pony, Junior said.
This is war, Wright replied.
A few other soldiers tied Junior’s arms behind his back, dragged him to a table, and sat him down. He sat across from Wright. No voices. Wright drummed his fingers across the table, and it echoed all over the river valley.
What are we waiting for? Junior asked.
General Sheridan, Wright said.
They waited for a long time, until an even larger white man rode up on a pale pony. The larger white man dismounted, walked over to the table, and took a seat next to Wright.
General Sheridan, the larger white man said and offered his hand to Junior. Junior looked at the hand, but his hands were tied. Sheridan smiled at his mistake and pulled out a sheet of parchment.
You’ve been charged with the murder of eighteen settlers this past year, Sheridan said. How do you plead?
Not guilty, Junior said.
Well, well, Sheridan said, I find you guilty and sentence you to hang by the neck until you are dead.
The soldiers pulled Junior to his feet and dragged him to the gallows. They hustled him up the stairs and fitted the noose. Junior closed his eyes in his dream. He heard a sportscaster in the distance.
Ladies and gentlemen, we’re here to witness the execution of Spokane Indian warrior Junior Polatkin for murder. Eighteen murders, to be exact. Quite a total for such a young man. General Sheridan and General Wright are presiding over the hanging.
In his dream, Junior opened his eyes, and General Sheridan stood in front of him.
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 of 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’ll 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 Water’s 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 fishmongers, 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 I
ndian 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 five,” 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.”
Reservation Blues Page 13