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 COYOTE 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, t
he 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’ll 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.
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. Di
d 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.
Reservation Blues Page 23