Reservation Blues Page 3

  Thomas remembered how she used to hold him late at night, rocking him into sleep with stories and songs. Sometimes she sang traditional Spokane Indian songs. Other times, she sang Broadway show tunes or Catholic hymns, which were quite similar.

  “Was she pretty?” the guitar asked.

  “Beautiful, I guess.”

  Thomas and the guitar sat in silence for a long time, remained quiet until the salmon was cooked. King salmon. Thomas ate it quickly, barely stopping to wipe his face and fingers clean.

  “Can you play me a sad song?” Thomas asked.

  The guitar played the same song for hours while Thomas sat by the fire. That guitar sounded like Robert Johnson, like a cedar flute, like glass breaking in the distance. Thomas closed his eyes, listened closely, and wondered if Victor and Junior heard the song.

  “They hear me,” the guitar said. “Those two hear me good.”

  Victor and Junior were passed out in the water truck on an old logging road. After they’d delivered water to the West End, they spent a long night in the Powwow Tavern and ended up here. The guitar’s song drifted through the truck’s open windows, fell down on the two Indians, and worked its way into their skins. They both tried to push the music away from their hangover dreams.

  “They be comin’ soon,” the guitar said.

  “Why?” Thomas asked.

  “Y’all need to play songs for your people. They need you. Those two boys need you.”

  “What you talking about?” Thomas asked.

  “The music. Y’all need the music.”

  Thomas thought he needed more money than music. Music seemed to be a luxury most days. He’d received some life insurance money when his mom died, but that was almost gone, and nobody on the reservation ever hired him to work. Still, Thomas heard music in everything, even in money.

  “Maybe you and me should go on the road,” Thomas said.

  “On the road, on the road,” the guitar said. “We takin’ those two with us. We startin’ up a band.”

  “Those guys ain’t going to play with me,” Thomas said. “They don’t even like me.”

  The guitar played on and ignored Thomas’s doubts. Music rose above the reservation, made its way into the clouds, and rained down. The reservation arched its back, opened its mouth, and drank deep because the music tasted so familiar. Thomas felt the movement, the shudder that passed through tree and stone, asphalt and aluminum. The music kept falling down, falling down.

  After the tavern had closed, Junior and Victor climbed into the water truck and passed out. They spent many nights asleep in parking lots. During this night, they dreamed of their families.

  Junior dreamed of his two brothers, two sisters, mother and father. They all stood at a bus stop in Spokane, the white city just a few miles from the reservation, waiting to go downtown. Pawn shops and secondhand stores. The world was beautiful sometimes.

  Junior’s father had owned a couple hundred acres of wheat that he rented out to a white farmer. Every harvest, Junior’s father made enough money for a family vacation in Spokane. They stayed at the Park Lane Motel, ate Kmart submarine sandwiches, and watched bad karate movies at the Trent Drive-In.

  Junior dreamed of his parents’ funeral in the Spokane Indian Longhouse. His siblings, who had long since dispersed to other reservations and cities, couldn’t afford to come back for the funeral. None of his siblings had enough money to mourn properly.

  Victor dreamed of his stepfather, a short, stocky white man, red-headed and so pale that veins flowed through his skin like rivers on a map. Victor’s mother and stepfather had met in a cowboy bar in Spokane when Victor was nine years old, a few weeks after his real father had moved to Phoenix, Arizona. His mother and stepfather had two-stepped to Hank Williams all night long and fell in love.

  “It was the cowboy hat,” Victor’s mother had said more than once.

  In Victor’s dream, he could smell the dead body, his real father’s. His real father had died of a heart attack during a heat wave in Phoenix and lay on a couch for a week before a neighbor discovered him. Victor hadn’t seen his real father for years before his death. Victor could still smell that dead body smell. That smell never fully dissipated, had always remained on the edges of Victor’s senses.

  In that way, both dreamed of their families.

  Then the morning came and brought Robert Johnson’s guitar with it. In Thomas’s yard, the guitar played itself and the music did rise into the clouds. It did rain down on the reservation, which arched its back and drank deeply. It did fall on the roof of the water truck, disturbing Junior’s and Victor’s sleep. The music talked to them in their dreams, talking so loudly that neither could sleep.

  “Shit,” Victor said, “what the hell is that noise?”

  “It’s music,” Junior said. “I think.”

  “Man, I got a hangover.”

  “Me, too.”

  The music played on, and gradually changed.

  “Jeez,” Victor said, “now it sounds like Thomas singing out there. I’m going to kick his ass. As soon as I can lift my head.”

  “Thomas,” Junior said, “will you keep it down? I got a headache.”

  The music kept playing.

  “That’s it,” Victor said. “I’m kicking his ass good this time.”

  Victor and Junior staggered out of the truck, but Thomas was nowhere to be found. The music continued.

  “What the hell is that?” Victor asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “That fucking Thomas has to be doing this. It’s his voice. He’s doing this. I say we go find him and kick his ass.”

  “It’s getting louder.

  “That’s it,” Victor said as he slowly climbed back into the truck. “Let’s go get him.”

  Junior found his way into the driver’s seat, started the truck, and made his way toward Thomas’s house. He was a good driver.

  “I smell water,” the guitar said.

  “It’s the pond,” Thomas said and pointed. “Down there.”

  Benjamin Pond used to be called Benjamin Lake, but then a white man named Benjamin Lake moved to the reservation to teach biology at the Tribal High School. All the Indians liked the teacher so much that they turned the lake into a pond to avoid confusion.

  “They’re comin’ now,” the guitar said. “I feel ’em.”

  Thomas walked into the house to get some food ready. He had to offer food to his guest, no matter how little he had, even if Junior and Victor were the guests. The cupboards were nearly bare, but Thomas managed to find a jar of peanut butter and some saltine crackers.

  “Tell me a story ’fore they get here,” the guitar said when Thomas came back outside with a plate of reservation appetizers.

  Thomas sat, closed his eyes, and told this story:

  “Benjamin Pond has been on the reservation longer than anything. Jesus sipped water from the pond. But Turtle Lake, on the other side of the reservation, has been here a long time, too. Genghis Khan swam there and was nearly eaten by the giant turtles. He decided not to conquer the Americas because even its turtles were dangerous.

  “The tribal elders say that Benjamin Pond and Turtle Lake are connected by a tunnel. Those turtles swim from pond to lake; they live in great caverns beneath the reservation and feed on failed dreams.

  “The elders tell the story of the horse that fell into Benjamin Pond, drowned in those waters, but washed up on the shore of Turtle Lake. Children swim in both places, but their grandmothers burn sage and pray for their safety.

  sweet smoke, save us, bless us now

  “Indian teenagers build fires and camp at the water. They sometimes hear a woman crying but can never find the source of the sound. Victor, Junior, and I saw Big Mom, the old woman who lives on the hill, walk across Benjamin Pond. Victor and Junior pretend they don’t know about Big Mom, but we heard her sing all the way.

  sweet smoke, save us, bless us now

  “I am in love with water; I am frightened by water
. I never learned to swim. Indians have drowned in both Benjamin Pond and Turtle Lake, and I wonder if we can taste them when we drink the water.

  sweet smoke, save us, bless us now

  “I watched Victor learn to swim when he was ten years old. His stepfather threw him in Turtle Lake, which doesn’t have a bottom, which used to be a volcano. Victor’s screams rose like ash, drifted on the wind, and blanketed the reservation. Junior watched his oldest brother James slip on the dock at Benjamin Pond. James fractured his skull and woke up as somebody different.”

  Thomas opened his eyes. The guitar was silent.

  “Ya-hey,” Thomas whispered, but the guitar didn’t respond. The sun was almost directly overhead when Junior and Victor pulled up in the water truck. They stepped out of the rig at the same time and walked toward Thomas.

  “They’re here,” Thomas whispered to the guitar, which remained silent. He picked it up and strummed a few chords, thinking how nobody believed in anything on this reservation. All the Indians just dropped their quarters into the jukebox, punched the same old buttons, and called that music. Thomas shared his stories with pine trees because people didn’t listen. He was grateful for the trees when the guitar left him.

  “I don’t know what the fuck is going on,” Victor said to Thomas. “But I can’t get your voice out of my head.”

  “What’s he saying to you?” Junior asked Victor.

  “Something about being on the cover of Rolling Stone.”

  “Yeah,” Junior said. “Me, too.”

  “I was wondering if you guys wanted to be in my band,” Thomas said. “I need a lead guitarist and drummer.”

  “I’ll do it,” Junior said, already convinced. Two peanut butter and onion sandwiches waited in his lunch box.

  “What’s in it for me?” Victor asked.

  “This,” Thomas said and handed Robert Johnson’s guitar to him. Victor picked at the strings and flinched.

  “Damn,” Victor said. “This thing is hot. How long it been in the sun?”

  “I thought we broke that thing,” Junior said.

  “Nothing’s broken yet,” Thomas said.

  “Why the hell you want us in your band anyway?” Victor asked. “Who’s to say I won’t break this guitar over your head every damn day?”

  “Nothing I can say about that,” Thomas said.

  But Victor held on to that guitar too tenderly to ever break it again. He already gave it a name and heard it whisper. Thomas couldn’t hear the guitar at all anymore but saw it snuggle closer to Victor’s body.

  “Play that thing a little,” Thomas said. “Then tell me you don’t want to be in my band.”

  “No problem,” Victor said.

  “He don’t even play the guitar,” Junior said.

  “He does now,” Thomas said.

  Victor’s fingers moved toward the chord: index finger on first two strings, first fret; middle finger on third string, second fret; ring finger on fourth string, third fret. He strummed the strings, hit the chord, and smiled.

  “I’ll be your lead guitarist,” Victor said. “But what are you going to do?”

  “I’m the bass player,” Thomas said. “And the lead singer.”

  2

  Treaties

  LISTEN TO ME, LISTEN to me, listen to me

  Somebody breaks a hard promise

  Somebody breaks your tired heart

  The moon tears the sun in half

  Love can tear you apart

  chorus:

  What do you want from your father?

  What do you want from your brother?

  What do you want from your sister?

  What do you want from your mother?

  Treaties never remember

  They give and take ’til they fall apart

  Treaties never surrender

  I’m sure treaties we made are gonna break this Indian’s heart

  I don’t know what I want from love

  I just know it ain’t easy

  I just know how it all feels

  It’s just like signing a treaty

  (repeat chorus)

  I just know it ain’t easy

  It’s just like signing a treaty

  Thomas, Victor, and Junior rehearsed in Irene’s Grocery Store. Even though the building had been condemned for years, boarded up and dangerous, everybody still called it Irene’s. The band crawled through a hole in the back wall and practiced for hours at a time. Thomas had spent most of his savings on a bass guitar and an amplifier for himself and a drum set for Junior. Victor wore gloves when he played Robert Johnson’s guitar but still suffered little burns and scratches. At first, Thomas had worried that his amplified bass and Junior’s drums would overwhelm the acoustic lead guitar, but Victor could have kicked the guitar around the floor and it would have sounded good enough. Even without an amplifier or microphones, Robert Johnson’s guitar filled the room.

  Pretty soon, the band’s practice sessions started to draw a crowd. In the beginning, only Lester FallsApart materialized, like a reservation magician, and usually knocked somebody or something over, like a reservation clown. After a few days, however, a dozen Spokanes showed up and started to dance, even in the heat. Undercover CIA and FBI agents dressed up like Indians and infiltrated the band practices but didn’t fool anybody because they danced like shit. The crowds kept growing and converted the rehearsal into a semi-religious ceremony that made the Assemblies of God, Catholics, and Presbyterians very nervous. United in their outrage, a few of those reservation Indian Christians showed up at rehearsals just to protest the band.

  “You’re damned!” shouted an old Catholic Indian woman. “You’re sinners! Rock ’n’ roll is the devil’s music!”

  “Damn right it is!” Victor shouted back and hit an open chord that shook the protestors’ fillings out of their teeth. The Indian Health Service dentist spent the next two weeks with his hands deep in Christian mouths.

  “No,” the dentist had to say more than once to Catholic patients, “I don’t think there is a saint of orthodontics.”

  Father Arnold, priest of the reservation Catholic Church, didn’t care much about the band one way or the other. He thought the whole thing was sort of amusing and nostalgic. He’d been a little boy, maybe five years old, when Elvis appeared on “The Ed Sullivan Show” and threw the entire country into a righteous panic. Arnold would never have thought that Indians would be as judgmental as those white people way back when, but he was discovering exactly how Catholic Spokanes could become.

  “Listen,” he said to one of his more rabid parishioners, “I really don’t think God is too concerned about this band. I think hunger and world peace are at the top of His list of things to worry about, and rock music is somewhere down near the bottom.”

  Father Arnold had waited tables in a restaurant and sung in a rock band for a few years after he graduated college, before he received his calling into the priesthood. They’d played mostly fifties songs, like “Teen Angel” and “Rock Around the Clock” with Father Arnold on lead vocals. He’d had a good voice, still had a good voice, but now the music he sang was in church and was much more important than the stuff he used to sing at American Legion dances and high school proms.

  Arnold was twenty-eight, buying a Big Mac at a McDonald’s, when the call came to him. He’d always been a Catholic, alternating between devotion and laziness, but had never thought of himself as a priest. He had always believed, had always been taught, that priests were extraordinary men, nearly heroic. He had never been anything but ordinary. An ordinarily handsome man, with ordinary intelligence and an ordinary car, he’d graduated college with a 3.1 G.P.A. in English. Surely not the makings of a Catholic priest. Even now, when he talked about his calling in that McDonald’s, he was embarrassed by how ordinary it all seemed.

  He had just picked up his order when he heard the voice. At first, he thought the cashier was talking to him, but the cashier was busy with another customer. The voice didn’t say anything exa
ctly. It was just a voice, a series of words, or sounds. He was never quite sure about the voice, but he knew there was no music, no harps, no sudden shaft of light, no shift of the earth.

  He found a table, ate his Big Mac, and then walked across the street to the Catholic church.

  “Hello,” he had said to the priest there. “My name is Robert Arnold. I want to be a priest. But I’m not a virgin. Can you help me?”

  “You don’t have to be a virgin,” the priest had said. “You just have to be celibate from now on.”

  “Well, okay,” Arnold said. “But I really hope you’re right about this celibacy thing, you know?”

  He had quickly gone through seminary, assisted at a few churches, and then was shipped to the Spokane Indian Reservation when the residing priest died.

  “Father,” the bishop had said to him just before he left for the reservation. “We need you out there. You have youth, a robust faith that is needed to reach these Indians. We have tried discipline. We have tried strength. But they need something different. Someone like you.”

  Father Arnold had never been too concerned about the vagueness of his assignment. He was never sure how faith could be robust and often worried that his prayers were too thin, stretched to the point of breaking. Still, he knew he was a good priest and could deliver a homily with the best of them. Sometimes it was almost like being a lead singer again, onstage, with the audience hanging on his every word. As a lead singer, as a priest, he could change the shape of the world just by changing the shape of a phrase.

  “A-men,” Father Arnold often whispered to himself, practicing different pronunciations of the word. “Ah-men. Ay-yyyy-men. Uh-man.”

  Arnold came to the reservation in his yellow VW van, expecting tipis and buffalo, since he had never been told otherwise. He was genuinely shocked when the Indians in his congregation spoke English.

  “Buffalo?” asked Bessie, the oldest Catholic on the reservation. “What do you mean, buffalo? You really thought there were going to be buffalo here?”

  “Yes,” he said, “I was looking forward to it.”