Reservation Blues - Alexie Sherman (22 page)

"I can see you running like a shadow, Just
outside the body of an Indian woman who looks like you, until she was
shot by an eighteen-year-old white kid from Missouri. He jumps off
the horse, falls on her and you, the Indian, the shadow. He cuts and
tears with his sword, his hands, his teeth. He ate you both up like
he was a coyote. They all ate us like we were mice, rabbits,
flightless birds. They ate us whole."

Thomas opened his eyes and saw Chess was crying.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"
Don't you understand that God didn't kill any
of us?" Chess asked. "Jesus didn't kill any of us."

"But they allowed it to happen, enit?"

"They didn't allow it to happen. It Just
happened. Those soldiers made the choice. The government made the
choice. That's free will, Thomas. We all get to make the choice. But
that don't mean we all choose good."

"But there's so much evil in the world."

"That°s why we have to believe in the good. Not
every white person wants to kill Indians. You know most any white who
joins up with Indians never wants to leave. It's always been that
way. Everybody wants to be an Indian."

"That's true, " a voice whispered from the
back of the van.

"Who's that?" Thomas and Chess asked.

"
It's me, Betty."

"What's true?" Chess asked, irritated at
the interruption.

"
White people want to be Indians. You all have
things we don't have. You live at peace with the earth. You are so
wise."

"You've never met Lester FallsApart, have you?"
Chess asked. "You've never spent a few hours in the Powwow
Tavern. I'll show you wise and peaceful."

"
I'm sorry I said anything, " Betty said
and remained quiet.

The other white woman, Veronica, took Betty's hand,
squeezed it, and sent a question along her skin: What are we doing?
Victor and Junior snored away.

"
Like I was saying, everybody wants to be an
Indian. But not everybody is an Indian. It's an exclusive club. I
certainly couldn't be Irish. Why do all these white people think they
can be  Indian all of a sudden?"

Thomas smiled.

"You know," he said, "I've always had
a theory that you ain't really Indian unless, at some point in your
life, you didn't want to be Indian."

"Good theory," Chess said. "I'm the
one who told you that."

"Oh," he said.

The blue van crossed the Wellpinit city limit.

"
Thomas," Chess said, "you know there
ain't no such thing as an Indian atheist. And besides, how do you
think Indians survived all the shit if there wasn't a God who loved
us? Why do  you think you and me are together?"

"Because of love."

"That's what faith is. Love."

Thomas was nervous, sweating. He closed his eyes,
searched for another one of his stories, but came back to Chess's
words instead. He listened to her story.

"
Okay," Thomas said. "I'll go to
church with you. But I ain't promising nothing."

"Hey," Chess said, "don't make me any
promises. I'm an Indian. I haven't heard many promises I believed
anyway."

The blue van pulled into Thomas's driveway. Checkers
stood in a window. All the house lights blazed brightly in the
reservation night. Junior and Victor rolled over in their sleep, only
momentarily bothered by the lights and noise, while Betty and
Veronica pretended to sleep. Chess jumped out of the van and ran for
her sister. Thomas watched Chess and Checkers hug in his front yard.
Then he closed his eyes and left them alone.
 

6

Falling Down and Falling Apart

I know a woman, Indian in her bones
Who spends the powwow dancing all alone
She
can be lonely, sometimes she can cry
And drop
her sadness into the bread she fies
I know a
woman, Indian in her eyes
Full-blood in her
heart, full-blood when she cries
She can be
afraid, sometimes she can shake
But her
medicine will never let her break

chorus:
But she
don't want a warrior and she don't want no brave
And
she don 't want a renegade heading for an early grave
She
don't need no stolen horse, she don't need no stolen heart
She don't need no Indian man falling down and
falling apart

I know a woman, Indian in her hands
Wanting me to sing, wanting me to dance
She's out there waiting, no matter the weather
I'd walk through lightning just to give her a
feather

(repeat chorus)

Robert Johnson sat in a rocking chair on Big
Mom's front porch.

Big Mom's rocking chair. He had no idea where she had
gone. Big Mom was always walking away without warning.

"Robert, " Big Mom had said upon his
arrival at her house, "you're safe here. Ain't nobody can take
you away from this house."

But Johnson was still not comfortable in his safety.
He dreamed of that guitar he had left in Thomas Builds-the-Fire's
blue van. He couldn't decide if he had left it there on purpose.
Certainly, he had tried to leave it behind before, on trains, in
diners, on the roadside. He buried that guitar, he threw it in
rivers, dropped it off tall buildings. But it always came back to
him.

Sometimes, the guitar took weeks to find him. Those
were glorious days. Johnson was free to wander and talk to anybody he
wished. He never searched for the Gentleman's eyes hidden behind a
stranger's face. The Gentleman was just a ghost, just a small animal
dashing across the road. When that guitar was gone, Johnson had even
considered falling in love. But the guitar would eventually find him.
It always found him.

Johnson had to work the minimum jobs, washing dishes,
sweeping floors, delivering pizzas, because he could never play music
for money. Never again. And just when he began to allow himself hope,
he would come home from his latest job to find that guitar, all shiny
and new, on the bed in his cheap downtown apartment. Johnson had wept
every time. He had considered burying himself, throwing himself into
the river, jumping off a tall building. That guitar made him crazy.
But he didn't know what would be waiting on the other side. What if
he woke up on the other side with that guitar wrapped in his arms?
What if it weighed him down like an anchor as he sank to the bottom,
a single chord echoing in his head over and over again?

That guitar would never let Johnson go, until he left
it in Thomas Builds-the-Fire's blue van. Johnson felt free and guilty
at the same time. The guitar would never let go of those Indians now.
It held onto Victor even harder than it ever held Johnson. Robert
Johnson rocked in Big Mom's chair and studied his hands, scarred and
misshapen. All the wounds had healed, but he could still feel the
itching deep down. The itch that can never be scratched. Sometimes he
missed the guitar. Johnson closed his eyes against the tears and
opened his mouth to sing:

Mmmmm mmmm
I's up
this mornin'
Ah, blues walkin' like a man
I's up this mornin'
Ah,
blues walkin' like a man
Worried blues
Give me your right hand

Then the music stopped. The reservation exhaled.
Those blues created memories for the Spokanes, but they refused to
claim them. Those blues lit up a new road, but the Spokanes pulled
out their old maps. Those blues churned up generations of anger and
pain: car wrecks, suicides, murders. Those blues were ancient,
aboriginal, indigenous.

In his bed, Thomas Builds-the-Fire had recognized
Robert Johnson's voice as those blues drifted down from Big Mom's
mountain. But Thomas also heard something hidden behind the words. He
heard Robert Johnson's grandmother singing backup. Thomas closed his
eyes and saw that grandmother in some tattered cabin. No windows,
blanket for a door, acrid smoke. Johnson's grandmother was not alone
in that cabin. Other black men, women, and children sang with her.
The smell of sweat, blood, and cotton filled the room. Cotton,
cotton. Those black people sang for their God; they sang with joy and
sorrow. The white men in their big houses heard those songs and
smiled. Those niggers singin' and dancin' again, those white men
thought. Damn music don't make sense.

Thomas listened closely, but the other Spokanes
slowly stretched their arms and legs, walked outside, and would not
speak about any of it. They buried all of their pain and anger deep
inside, and it festered, then blossomed, and the bloom grew quickly.

* * *

From
The Wellpinit Rawhide
Press
:

Open Letter to the Spokane Tribe
Dear Tribal Members,
As
you all know, Coyote Springs, our local rock band, has just returned
from Seattle with two white women. They are named Betty and Veronica,
of all things. I'm beginning to seriously wonder about Coyote
Springs's ability to represent the Spokane Tribe.

First of all, they are drunks. Victor and
Junior are such drunks that even Lester FallsApart thinks they drink
too much. Second, the two Indian women in the band are not Spokanes.
They are Flathead. I've always liked our Flathead cousins, but Coyote
Springs is supposedly a Spokane Indian band. We don't even have to
talk about the problems caused by the white women. I know the band
was great when it started. I even went to a couple of their practices
in Irene's Grocery, but things have gotten out of hand. We have to
remember that Coyote Springs travels to a lot of places as a
representative of the Spokane Tribe. Do we really want other people
to think we are like this band? Do we really want people to think
that the Spokanes are a crazy storyteller, a couple of irresponsible
drunks, a pair of Flathead Indians, and two white women? I don't
think so.

Rumor has it that Checkers Warm Water has
quit the band and joined the Catholic Church Choir. We can only hope
the rest of the band follows her. They could all use God.

Sincerely,
David
WalksAlong U
Spokane Tribal Council Chairman

* * *

Nervous and frightened, Thomas walked with Chess and
Checkers to church early Sunday morning. He wondered if the Catholics
had installed a faith detector at the door, like one of those metal
detectors in an airport. The alarms would ring when he walked through
the church doors.

"
Thanks for coming," Chess said.

Thomas smiled but said nothing and fought the urge to
run away.

"
Yeah," Checkers said. "This will be
great."

When the trio came within sight of the Catholic
Church, Thomas was suddenly angry. He remembered how all those
Indians bowed down to a little white man in Rome.

"Chess," Thomas said, "no matter what,
I ain't ever going to listen to that Pope character."
"Why should you? I don't."

Father Arnold greeted Thomas, Chess, and Checkers at
the door. He shook their hands, touched their shoulders, made eye
contact that felt like a spiritual strip search.

"
Checkers," Father Arnold said, "I'm
so happy to see you again. And this must be your sister, Chess. And
Thomas, of course. Welcome."

Thomas waved weakly.

"Well," Father Arnold said, "I'm so
glad you've all come. I certainly hope you're considering joining our
little community. Maybe you'll even sing in the choir?"

"Maybe," Thomas said and looked to Chess
and Checkers for help. Checkers stared at Father Arnold and failed to
notice Thomas's distress. Chess smiled back at Thomas and grabbed his
hand. She held it tightly as they made their way into the church and
found seats. Checkers went to the dressing room to change into her
choir robe. Father Arnold shook hands up to the front of the church.

"Are you okay?" Chess asked.

Thomas nodded his head and pulled at the collar of
his shirt. The church was hot, and he grew dizzier by the second. He
nearly fainted as Father Arnold began the service. After all those
years, Thomas still remembered the words to all the prayers and
whispered along, more by habit than faith. Chess whispered beside
him, and he loved the sound of their harmony.

"Lord, hear our prayer."

Checkers sang loudly in the choir. Thomas watched her
closely. She watched Father Arnold.

"You're right about her," Thomas whispered
to Chess. "She's nuts about him."

"Enit?" Chess said."I told you so."

Thomas wished for a glass
of water as Father Arnold began the homily. At first, Thomas followed
the words, something about redemption, but his vision soon faded. He
had never felt this way before. When he opened his eyes again, he was
in a different, darker place.

*

Thomas
, Father Arnold
said, although Thomas knew the priest was still back in the church.
Thomas, why are you here?