Reservation Blues

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.”

“What are you supposed to know?” Big Mom asked.

“Everything, I guess. Don’t you know everything?”

“No, I’m just as scared as you are.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

Big Mom closed her eyes. She listened to the wind, the voices of the reservation. She heard the horses.

“I’m not sure,” Big Mom said. “But it’s up to you, no matter what, enit?”

Arnold nodded his head, pulled the car keys from his pocket, and looked down the road. Big Mom touched his arm, smiled, and then started to walk away.

“Wait,” Arnold said. “Where are you going?”

“Those kids need me,” Big Mom said. “They lost somebody, and they need help to say goodbye.”

Father Arnold swallowed hard. He ran his hand along his neck.

“Well,” Big Mom said, “are you coming or not?”

“I don’t know. I mean, what about Checkers? What about all of it? You’re not even Catholic, are you?”

“Listen,” Big Mom said, “you cover all the Christian stuff; I’ll do the traditional Indian stuff. We’ll make a great team.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, I’m not sure,” said Big Mom as she grabbed Father Arnold’s hand. “Come on.”

“But what about my collar, my cassock?” Arnold asked.

“You don’t need that stuff. That’s a very powerful t-shirt you have on.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Big Mom said and led the way toward Coyote Springs.

From The Spokesman-Review’s classified ads:

Help Wanted

Western Telephone Communications seeking operators for entry-level positions. Must have good communication skills, ability to type 45 wpm, and experience with computers. Please send resumes to P.O. Box 1999, Spokane, WA 99204.

Coyote Springs buried Junior in the Spokane Tribal Cemetery, in the same row with his mother and father. Big Mom and Father Arnold took turns leading the service, while Checkers, Chess, Victor, and Thomas stood at the graveside. Lester FallsApart and the three dogs kept a polite distance. No other Spokane Indians showed up.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Father Arnold finished the ceremony and asked if anybody had any final words for the dearly departed.

“Final words?” Chess asked. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop talking about this.”

The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost howled. Lester tried to quiet them, but Big Mom had to walk over. She knelt down beside the dogs, whispered to them, and stroked their fur. The dogs whimpered and kissed Big Mom.

“What are their names?” Big Mom asked Lester and laughed when he told her.

“Well,” she said, “I think we should change their names. That isn’t exactly respectful.”

“Well,” Lester said, “they ain’t my dogs no more. I gave them to Coyote Springs.”

“Ya-hey,” Big Mom called out. “What are you going to name your dogs?”

Thomas looked at Chess.

“I don’t know,” Thomas said. “It’s not really up to us to decide. We’re going to let Victor have the dogs. We’ve got other plans.”

“How come I get the dogs?” Victor asked.

Big Mom wondered about Thomas’s and Chess’s plans but knew they had something to do with leaving the reservation.

“Is there anything anybody wants to say about the departed?” Father Arnold asked.

“Junior never hurt anybody, not on purpose,” Victor said and surprised everybody. He was lying, of course, but he wanted to make sense of Junior’s life.

“He hurt himself the most,” Big Mom said.

“He tried to be good,” Thomas said. “He tried really hard.”

Big Mom sang under her breath, a quiet little mourning song. Coyote Springs trembled with the music. They didn’t sing along.

“Did you know that Junior had a kid?” Victor asked.

Everybody on the Spokane Indian Reservation had heard the rumors, but nobody had known the truth except Junior. After Junior killed himself, Victor found that note in Junior’s wallet and learned the whole story. Lynn, the little romance, the abortion.

“Yeah, a half-breed little boy,” Victor lied, trying to make more significance out of his best friend’s life and death.

“How old is the kid?” Chess asked.

“Almost ten years old now. Named him Charles.”

“Wow,” Chess said. “Where did all this happen?”

“When Junior was in college,” Victor said. “In Oregon.”

“It was a white woman, enit?” Chess asked.

“Yeah, what about it?” Victor said and continued the lie, feeling the guilt that he was responsible for the suicide, that he’d sold his best friend’s life. “Her parents didn’t like it either. And sent that baby away. Junior never saw him. Just heard about him once in a while.”

Big Mom sang another mourning song, a little louder this time.

“Jeez,” Chess said. “Now I know why he never talked about it.”

Checkers whispered a prayer to herself.

Chess looked around the graveyard, at all the graves of Indians killed by white people’s cars, alcohol, uranium. All those Indians who had killed themselves. She saw the pine trees that surrounded the graveyard and the road that led back to the rest of the reservation. That road was dirt and gravel, had been a trail for a few centuries before. A few years from now, it would be paved, paid for by one more government grant. She looked down the road and thought she saw a car, a mirage shimmering in the distance, a blonde woman and a child standing beside the car, both dressed in black.

Look, Chess said and ran down the road toward the woman and child. She had so many questions.

Why did you love him, that broken Indian man? Chess asked the white woman. Why did you conceive him a son?

Chess wanted to tell the white woman that her child was always going to be halfway. He’s always going to be half Indian, she’d say, and that will make him half crazy. Half of him will always want to tear the other half apart. It’s war. Chess wanted to tell her that her baby was always going to be half Indian, no matter what she did to make it white.

All you can do is breed the Indian out of your family, Chess said. All you can do is make sure your son marries a white woman and their children marry white people. The fractions will take over. Your half-blood son will have quarter-blood children and eight-blood grandchildren, and then they won’t be Indians anymore. They won’t hardly be Indian, and they can sleep better at night.

Chess ran down that road toward the white woman and her half-Indian son, because she wanted to save them from the pain that other Indians would cause.

Your son will be beaten because he’s a half-breed, Chess said. No matter what he does, he’ll never be Indian enough. Other Indians won’t accept him. Indians are like that.

Chess wanted to save Indians from the pain that the white woman and her half-Indian son would cause.

Don’t you see? Chess asked. Those quarter-blood and eighth-blood grandchildren will find out they’re Indian and torment the rest of us real Indians. They’ll come out to the reservation, come to our powwows, in their nice clothes and nice cars, and remind the real Indians how much we don’t have. Those quarter-bloods and eighth-bloods will get all the Indian jobs, all the Indian chances, because they look white. Because they’re safer.

Chess wanted to say so much to the white woman and her half-Indian son. She closed her eyes, opened them again, and the white woman and her son were gone. They’d never been there.

“What is it?” Thomas asked Chess. The rest of Coyote Springs, Big Mom, and Father Arnold had already begun the walk away from the cemetery. Lester FallsApart and the three dogs followed closely behind. Chess still stood at the graveside, staring into the distance.

“Chess?” Thomas asked again. “What is it?”

“Thomas,” Chess said and took his hand, “let’s get married. Let’s have kids.”

Thomas was surprised. He couldn’t respond.

“Really,” Chess said. “Let’s have lots of brown babies. I want my babies to look up and see two brown faces. That’s the best thing we can give them, enit? Two brown faces. Do you want to?”

Thomas smiled.

“Okay,” he said.

Checkers went straight to bed when they returned to Thomas’s house after the burial. Thomas and Big Mom sat in the kitchen and talked about making lunch. Victor jumped in the blue van and drove away. Father Arnold stood alone outside on the front lawn, feeling unwelcome.

“Checkers?” Chess asked her sister. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Checkers said. “I’m just tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Those nightmares, enit? Does Sheridan keep coming back for you?”

“It ain’t Sheridan anymore. It’s Dad who comes every night now.”

“What?” Chess asked. Luke Warm Water rarely entered her dreams.

“Yeah,” Checkers said. “He stands in the doorway of the bedroom. Just like he used to. He’s been drinking. I can smell him. He doesn’t say nothing. He just stands there in the doorway, holding his arms out to me. Then I wake up.”

“Do you think it’s really him?” Chess asked.

“Yeah, it’s him.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s crying the whole time.”

The sisters sat for a long while in silence. They held hands; they cried.

“We’re leaving soon, you know,” Chess said after a while. “Thomas and I are leaving for Spokane. Are you coming or not?”

“What are we going to do about money?” Checkers asked.

“I got a job. At the phone company. As an operator.

“Enit?”

“Enit. It’ll hold us over until you and Thomas find jobs.

“Does Victor know?”

“No.”

“Does Big Mom know?”

“Probably. You should tell Father Arnold.”

“I don’t want to talk to him, “Checkers said. “I don’t care what he does.”

A knock on the door.

“Who is it?” Chess asked.

“It’s me, Big Mom.”

“Come in.”

Big Mom stepped in, and Father Arnold was right behind her.

“He wants to talk to you,” Big Mom said to Checkers. “Alone.”

Checkers shook her head.

“Okay,” Big Mom said. “How about if Chess stays?”

Checkers looked at her sister. Chess nodded in the affirmative.

“Good,” Big Mom said and left the room. “I’ve got some lunch to make.”

Arnold closed the door, sat in a chair at the foot of the bed.

“Hello,” he said.

Checkers looked at Chess.

“Hello,” Checkers said to Arnold.

“How are you?” he asked. He looked scared.

“I’m okay.”

Arnold looked at Chess, then back at Checkers.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

“About what?” Checkers asked.

“About us.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

The three all looked uncomfortable, exchanged glances, stared at the floor, walls, and ceiling.

“I’m sorry for everything,” Arnold said.

“You should be.”

“This is all my fault. I led you on.”

“Well,” Checkers said, “none of that matters much now. We’re leaving the reservation. So you don’t have to worry about me. I’m leaving and you can stay.”

“You’re leaving?” Arnold asked, feeling a combination of sadness and relief.

“We’re moving to Spokane. Chess got a job as a telephone operator.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Soon,” Checkers said and reached under the bed. “And here’s a bottle of your Communion wine. I stole it because I was mad at you.”

“Why’d you steal that?” Chess asked, shocked at her sister.

“I was going to get drunk. But then Junior shot himself.”

Arnold took the bottle. There was a long silence.

“Do you forgive me?” Checkers asked Arnold.

“Yes, do you forgive me?”

“I don’t know. Am I allowed to?”

“Yes, you’re allowed to.”

“Well, then. I don’t think I do. Not yet. I mean, I still love you. I still feel that, you know? It ain’t like that changes. But I can still tell you to shove your God up your ass. But I don’t know if I mean it. I don’t know what I mean. I don’t know nothing, and you don’t know any more than I do.”

Arnold didn’t say anything. He agreed with Checkers. He’d been just all of the other performers in the world. He’d wanted to be universally loved. He wasn’t all that different from Victor, Thomas, or even Junior. They all got onstage and wanted the audience to believe in them. They all wanted the audience to throw their room keys, panties, confessions, flowers, and songs onstage. They wanted the audience to trust them with all their secrets. But Victor, Thomas, and Junior had fallen apart in the face of all of that. Arnold had fallen apart, too. Junior could never be put back together again, but maybe the rest of them could.

“Discipline,” Father Arnold said with much difficulty. It was only one word, but he needed to find the one word that would make Chess and Checkers understand. “I knew how to pray with discipline. I can do it again.”

Chess and Checkers both understood but still felt suspicious. They’d grown up with priests and their churches. The sisters had loved them all. The sisters had loved to kneel in the pew and pray in exactly the way they’d been taught. For years, the sisters said those same prayers over and over, as if sheer repetition could guarantee results. As if their little prayers had a cumulative effect on God, adding one on top of another, until all of their prayers were as tall as a priest’s single prayer.

“Checkers,” Father Arnold said, “I can’t believe you stole the Communion wine.”

“Enit?” Checkers asked. “Not very original, was it?”

“No,” Father said. “And that stuff is awful anyway. How did you ever think you could drink it?”

“Discipline,” Checkers said and laughed. Chess and Father Arnold laughed, too. But it was forced, awkward, as if everything depended on it.

After Victor left Thomas’s house in the blue van, he drove around for a few hours before he finally parked at Turtle Lake. There was nobody else around. He turned on the radio and heard Freddy Fender.

“Junior,” Victor said. “What the fuck did you do?”

Victor closed his eyes and saw Junior sitting in the passenger seat when he opened them. Junior looked exactly like someone who had shot himself in the head with a rifle.

“Happy reservation fucking Halloween,” Junior said, and Victor screamed, which made Junior scream, too. They traded screams for a while.

“So,” Junior said after the screams had stopped, “are you happy to see me?”

“Jesus,” Victor said. “What do you think this is? An American Werewolf in London? You’re supposed to be a ghost, not a piece of raw meat.

“Ya-hey,” Junior said. “Good one.”

“I don’t believe this,” Victor said and closed his eyes. He heard a rifle blast. He was shaking.

“Are you going to miss me?”

Victor opened his eyes and looked at Junior. He didn’t know what to feel.

“I’m going to miss getting drunk with you,” Victor said.

“Oh, yeah, enit? We had some good times, didn’t we?”

Victor smiled. Junior pulled a silver flask out of his coat and offered it to Victor.

“Hey, look,” Junior said, “somebody put this in my coffin during the wake. Was it you? Must be worth fifty bucks. Maybe you can hock it. I don’t really need it where I’m going.”

Victor took the flask, opened it, and sniffed.

“It’s whiskey,” Victor said. “It must’ve been Father Arnold. You know those priests.”

“Sure. Take a drink.”

“I don’t know, man. I’ve been thinking about going on the wagon.”

“Since when?”

“Since you killed yourself. I ain’t drunk any since then, you know?”

Junior and Victor stared at the silver flask.

“It’s pretty, enit?” Junior asked.

“Yeah,” Victor said. “I wonder if Father Arnold really gave it to you.”

“Maybe.”

Victor was nervous. He’d never talked to the dead before. It felt like a first date.

“This feels like a first date, enit?” Junior asked.

“Yeah, it does.”

“So,” Junior said, “am I going to get lucky?”

Both laughed. There was silence. They laughed at the silence. There was more silence.

“Why’d you do it?” Victor asked.

“Do what?”

“You know, shoot yourself. In the head.”

“You know,” Junior said, “I heard some people talking at the Trading Post after I did it. They thought I couldn’t hear them. But I could. They said I didn’t mean to kill myself. That I was just looking for attention. Assholes.”

“Some people sent you flowers, though, did you see?”

“Yeah, the assholes.”

Silence.

“You know,” Junior said, “I really am going to miss getting drunk with you. Remember when we used to go out chasing white women? Before you got fat and ugly.”

“Fat and ugly, my ass. Those white women loved me.”

“Do you remember Betty and Veronica?”

“Of course.”

“Those two weren’t bad,” Junior said. “Maybe we should’ve held on to them.”

“Yeah, maybe. Junior, why’d you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Kill yourself.”

Junior looked away, watching the sunlight reflecting off Turtle Lake.

“Because life is hard,” Junior said.

“That’s it?”

“That’s the whole story, folks. I wanted to be dead. Gone. No more.”

“Why?”

“Because when I closed my eyes like Thomas, I didn’t see a damn thing. Nothing. Zilch. No stories, no songs. Nothing.”

Victor looked down at the silver flask of whiskey in his hands. He wanted to take a drink. He wanted that guitar back, still dreamed about it every night.

“And,” Junior added, “because I didn’t want to be drunk no more.”

Victor rolled down his window and threw the flask out into Turtle Lake. It sank quickly.

“I don’t need that no more,” Victor said. “I’m going on the wagon.”

“Here,” Junior said and handed Victor another flask. “You better throw this one out, too.” How many of these you got?”

“A whole bunch. We better get to work.”

“What are we going to do after this?” Victor asked.

“Well, I’ve got other places to go. But I think you should go get yourself a goddamn job. I ain’t going to be around to take care of your sorry ass anymore.”

Like some alcoholic magician, Junior pulled flask after flask from his clothes and handed them to Victor, who threw them out the window into Turtle Lake. Those silver flasks floated down through the lake rumored to have no bottom, rumored to be an extinct volcano, and came to rest miles below the surface.

Big Mom lit the sage, and Chess, Checkers, and Thomas bathed themselves in the smoke. They pulled the smoke through their hair, over their legs and arms, into their open mouths.

“Who do you want to pray for?” Big Mom asked.

“Everybody.”

Big Mom picked up a 45 record with her huge hands and gently placed it on the turntable. She placed needle to vinyl, and they all waited together for the music.

Spokane Tribal Chairman David WalksAlong sat in his office, thinking about his nephew Michael White Hawk, when Victor came looking for a job. His nephew had been getting progressively worse, going from wandering around the football field in confused circles to drinking Sterno with the Android Brothers behind the Trading Post. All those half-crazy Sterno drunks talked some kind of gibberish to each other that only they understood. WalksAlong was wondering if he should just shoot his nephew in the head and end his misery, just like that Junior Polatkin ended his own misery.

“What the fuck do you want?” WalksAlong asked Victor when he walked into the office, pushing open that warped door. Victor’d worked up all the courage in the world to come to WalksAlong.

“They said you’re the one who decides who gets to work. I want a job,” Victor said. “Please.”

“Look what you did to the reservation, and you want me to give you a job?”

“I’m sorry about your nephew,” Victor said, but he wanted to tell WalksAlong that his nephew never had a chance.

“Well,” WalksAlong said, “what the hell can you do?”

Victor handed him a piece of paper.

“What the hell is this?” WalksAlong asked.

“It’s my résumé.”

“Your résumé?” WalksAlong asked, in complete disbelief. “What do you think this is, Wall Street?”

“I thought this was the way it worked,” Victor said. “Enit?”

WalksAlong read the résumé, crumpled it up, and threw it at Victor.

“Get the fuck out of here,” WalksAlong said.

Victor picked his résumé off the floor, smoothed it out, then folded it neatly into a small square, and tucked it into his pocket. His hands were shaking.

“Listen,” Victor said, his voice breaking. “I thought this was the way it worked.”

WalksAlong turned his back. Victor tried to think of something to say, some words that would change all of this.

“I want to drive the water truck,” Victor said. “Just like Junior used to. I want to be like Junior. It was his last wish.”

WalksAlong didn’t respond, and Victor left the office, feeling something slip inside him. He stole five dollars from WalksAlong’s secretary’s purse and bought a six-pack of cheap beer at the Trading Post.

“Fuck it, I can do it, too,” Victor whispered to himself and opened the first can. That little explosion of the beer can opening sounded exactly like a smaller, slower version of the explosion that Junior’s rifle made on the water tower.

From The Wellpinit Rawhide Press:

Father Arnold Leads Catholics to Championship

Father Arnold scored 33 points Tuesday night, including the game-winning free throws with no time left on the clock, to lead the Catholic Church to a thrilling come-from-behind 111–110 win over the Assembly of God in the championship game of the Spokane Indian Christian Basketball Tournament.

“I wasn’t sure those free throws were going in,” Father Arnold said, “but I sure prayed for them. Who knows? Maybe God was listening this time.”

Randy Peone, minister of the Assembly of God, had no official comment about the game, but was reported to have said that Father Arnold had probably spent more time away from the church than with his church, and that explained all the time he had to practice.

“He just didn’t play like a Catholic,” one spectator said. “Especially not like a Catholic priest.”

“Hey,” responded Bessie, the oldest Catholic on the reservation, “what the hell do any of you know about being Catholic? You have no idea how hard it is.”

A few days after Junior’s burial, while Chess and Checkers were taking a sweat with Big Mom, Thomas Builds-the-Fire heard a scratching on his roof. At first, he wondered which ghost had come to haunt him. But then he heard a knock on the back door.

“Who is it?” Thomas asked. He was still worried about Michael White Hawk.

“Package,” the voice said.

Thomas opened the door just a bit and saw the FedEx guy standing on the back porch, with rappelling gear.

“Jeez,” Thomas said. “It’s just you.”

“Mr. Builds-the-Fire, I presume,” said the FedEx guy.

“You know who I am.”

“We can never be too sure. Sign here.”

Thomas signed the form. The FedEx guy handed him a package and then climbed back onto the roof and scampered away. Thomas closed the door, took the package inside, and set it on the kitchen table. It was a small package, barely weighed anything at all. The return address said Cavalry Records. He didn’t want to open it and almost threw it in the garbage, but curiosity got the best of him. Inside, there was just a letter and a cassette tape.

Dear Coyote Springs,

We just heard about Junior, and we wanted to tell you how sorry we are. We’ll miss him.

Things are going well for us. We signed a deal with Cavalry Records, thanks to your help, and we’re currently working on our debut CD, which will be out next summer. We recorded our first song the other day, and there’s a copy on the tape enclosed.

We both think that Junior is in a better place now.

Sincerely,

Betty and Veronica

Thomas read the letter over a few times. He held the cassette tape in his hands. He didn’t know what to do and was shocked that Betty and Veronica had signed with Cavalry Records. Should he throw that cassette away and never listen to it? That wouldn’t do any good, because the CD would be all over the place next summer. He’d hear it played on the radio. Betty and Veronica would have a Platinum Album, a number one hit, and videos on MTV. Thomas wanted to protect Chess and Checkers from the music on this cassette tape. He held it in his hands for a while, studied its design, then walked over to the tape player he’d hidden away, dropped the cassette into place, and hit the play button. Thomas heard a vaguely Indian drum, then a cedar flute, and a warrior’s trill, all the standard Indian soundtrack stuff. Then Betty’s and Veronica’s beautiful voices joined the mix.

Can you hear the eagle crying?

Can you hear the eagle crying?

I look to the four directions

And try to find some connection

With Mother Earth, Mother Earth

I offer you tobacco and sweetgrass

I offer you tobacco and sweetgrass

I pray to the four directions

And try to find some connection

With Father Sky, Father Sky

And my hair is blonde

But I’m Indian in my bones

And my skin is white

But I’m Indian in my bones

And it don’t matter who you are

You can be Indian in your bones

Don’t listen to what they say

You can be Indian in your bones

Can you hear the buffalo dying?

Can you hear the buffalo dying?

I look to the four directions

And try to make the corrections

For Mother Earth, Mother Earth

I’ll smoke the pipe with you

I’ll smoke the pipe with you

I pray to the four directions

And try to make the corrections

For Father Sky, Father Sky

And your hair is blonde

But you’re Indian in your bones

And your skin is white

But you’re Indian in your bones

And it don’t matter who I am

I am Indian in my bones

I don’t listen to what they say

I am Indian in my bones

Thomas hit the eject button, threw the cassette on the floor, and stomped on it. He pulled the tape ribbon from its casing until it spread over the kitchen like pasta. Using a dull knife, he sliced the tape ribbon into pieces. Then he ran around his house, grabbing photos and souvenirs, afraid that somebody was going to steal them next. He had photographs of his mother and father, a Disneyland cup even though he’d never been there, a few letters and cards. He gathered them all into a pile on the kitchen table and waited.

Victor Joseph

Wellpinit, WA 99040

Jobs I had before.

Leed Gitar Player Coyote Springs

Viceprezidant Senior Class Wellpinit High School.

Mowd lawns and shuveled snow.

Edgeucation.

Graguatid Wellpinit High School 1978.

Watched Jepordee a hole bunch on tv.

Skills.

Drive water truck & rode with best friend Junior alot. Am strong & fast.

Refrences.

Thomas Buildsthefire & Big Mom.

Coyote Springs was gone. Thomas, Chess, and Checkers packed all their stuff into the blue van and left Coyote Springs behind in the house. Victor didn’t want anything to do with Coyote Springs, either. He just wandered around the reservation with his three dogs. He hadn’t taken a shower in a week. Everybody figured he’d be drinking Sterno before too long. They all worried about the dogs.

“We’re leaving,” Thomas had said to Victor earlier that morning.

“For where?”

“Spokane.”

“When you coming back?”

“We aren’t,” said Thomas and then reluctantly asked if Victor wanted to come along. He shook his head and walked away.

Thomas stood in the driveway, studying his HUD house, the familiar angles and weathered wood. It had never been painted. Thomas closed his eyes and saw his mother and father standing on the front porch, waving. When he opened his eyes, Chess was standing beside him.

“Are you going to say goodbye to your dad?” Chess asked.

“I don’t even know where he is,” Thomas said. “Besides, he’s got Indian father radar. He’ll show up at our place in Spokane, knocking on the door at three in the morning.”

“Really?” Chess asked, impressed and not altogether happy about it.

“Yeah, he’s amazing that way.”

“Well, I guess I’ll go get Checkers.”

Chess walked into the house, found Checkers in a back bedroom, and both soon came out.

“Do you want some time alone?” Chess asked Thomas.

Thomas looked at his house.

“No,” he said, “it’s time to go.”

The trio climbed into the blue van. Thomas drove. Chess sat in the front passenger seat, and Checkers sat in the back. Thomas put the car into drive, and they pulled away from his house. There was a tightness in Thomas’s chest that he could not explain; he took a deep breath. The blue van rolled down the reservation road.

“Look,” Chess said and pointed. Big Mom was standing on the roadside with a big thumb sticking up. Thomas pulled up beside her. Checkers rolled down her window.

“Where you headed, sweetheart?” Checkers asked Big Mom.

“Over to that feast at the Longhouse,” Big Mom said. “You should come with me.”

“Nah,” Thomas said. “We’ll give you a ride over there. But those people don’t want us around.”

“Well,” Big Mom said as she climbed into the van. “I think you should eat before you go.”

“Those people will eat us alive,” Checkers said in the back.

“Where’s Robert Johnson?” Thomas asked.

“Oh,” Big Mom said, “he’s up at the house, I guess. He’s getting better every day. He’ll probably be leaving us soon.”

“That’s good,” Chess said.

“I suppose,” Big Mom said.

They were quiet until they arrived at the Longhouse. There were a few dozen reservation cars parked at random angles.

“Jeez,” Checkers said. “The whole Spokane Tribe must be here.”

“There are quite a few,” Big Mom said. “Are you sure you don’t want to eat? You can’t leave on an empty stomach. It’s bad luck to travel on an empty stomach.”

“Where did you hear that?” Thomas asked.

“I just made it up.”

“I don’t know,” said Checkers, obviously frightened. “They might try to hurt us.”

“I won’t let them hurt you,” Big Mom said. “Hey, do you have any money?”

“A little,” Thomas said.

“Well,” Big Mom said, “I have a few bucks I’ve saved up. Here. And maybe we can take up a collection inside.”

“They ain’t going to give us any money,” Chess said.

“Maybe not,” Big Mom said, “but at least you can get some food.”

Thomas’s stomach growled loudly.

“I guess Thomas has made up his mind,” Chess said.

“Let’s go, then,” Big Mom said and led Chess, Checkers, and Thomas toward the Longhouse. They could hear laughter and loud conversation inside, but everybody fell into silence when they walked in. All the Spokane Indians stared at Big Mom and her co-dependents. Big Mom waved, and the crowd gradually resumed their conversations.

“Jeez,” Chess said. “I thought they were going to scalp us.”

Chess, Checkers, and Thomas sat at a table with Big Mom. They all waited for the feast to officially begin. But the term feast was a holdover from a more prosperous and traditional time, a term used before the Indians were forced onto the reservations. There was never a whole lot of food, just a few stringy pieces of deer meat, a huge vat of mashed potatoes, Pepsi, and fry bread. But the fry bread made all the difference. A good piece of fry bread turned any meal into a feast. Everybody sat at the tables and waited for the cooks to come out with the meal, the fry bread. They waited and waited. Finally, when there was no sign of the meal, Big Mom stood and walked into the kitchen.

“What’s taking so long?” Big Mom asked the head cook.

“There’s not enough fry bread,” said the head cook.

“You’re kidding. How much do we have?”

“We have a hundred pieces of bread and two hundred Indians out there waiting to eat.”

“Do we have enough venison and potatoes?” Big Mom asked.

“Yeah.”

“How much Pepsi do we have?” Big Mom asked.

“Enough.”

“Well, you take the deer, potatoes, and Pepsi out there. I’ll bring the fry bread.”

“But there’s not enough bread,” the head cook said. “There’ll be a fry bread riot. And you remember what happened during the last fry bread riot.”

Big Mom remembered.

“Just serve the meal,” Big Mom said.

The head cook and her helpers served the Pepsi and the rest of the meal, but that only made the Indians more aware of their fry bread deficiency.

“Fry bread, fry bread,” chanted the mob.

Chess and Thomas looked at each other; Checkers and Chess looked at each other. They were ready to run.

“It’s going to be a fry bread riot,” Thomas whispered.

Just as the feast was about to erupt into a full-fledged riot, Big Mom walked out of the kitchen with a huge bowl of fry bread. The crowd, faithful and unfaithful alike, cheered wildly.

“Listen,” Big Mom said after the crowd had quieted a little. “There’s not enough fry bread.”

Indians angrily rose to their feet.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“There are only one hundred pieces of fry bread,” Big Mom said, “and there are two hundred of us. Something needs to be done.”

The crowd milled around, stared each other down, picked out the opponent they would fight for their piece of fry bread. More than a few people had planned on jumping the surviving members of the band. Thomas, Chess, and Checkers ducked under their table.

“But there is a way,” Big Mom said. “I can feed you all.”

“How?” asked somebody.

Thomas, Chess, and Checkers peered from under the table, listening for the answer.

“By ancient Indian secrets,” Big Mom said.

“Bullshit!”

“Watch this,” Big Mom said as she grabbed a piece of fry bread and held it above her head. “Creator, help me. I have only a hundred pieces of fry bread to feed two hundred people.”

Big Mom held that fry bread tightly in her huge hands and then tore it into halves.

“There,” Big Mom said. “That is how I will feed you all.”

The crowd cheered, surging forward to grab the fry bread. There was a complete feast after all.

“Big Mom,” Thomas asked later as they were eating, “how did you do that? What is your secret?”

Big Mom smiled deeply.

“Mathematics,” Big Mom said.

Robert Johnson was walking toward the Longhouse when he saw the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota sitting on a rock beside the road.

“Ya-hey,” Robert Johnson called out. He was learning.

“Ya-hey,” answered the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota. “Where you headed?”

“Over to the feast. I’m getting hungry.”

“Enit? I guess I’ll come with you.”

Johnson and the old man walked toward the Longhouse. They didn’t say much. Johnson carried his cedar harmonica, and the old man carried a hand drum. They arrived at the Longhouse just as Big Mom tore the fry bread into halves.

“Ya-hey,” Thomas said when Johnson and the old man walked into the Longhouse. “Look who it is.”

“Thomas,” Johnson said as he sat at the table, “it’s good to see you.”

“You look great,” Thomas said, could scarcely believe this was the same man he had met at the crossroads all that time ago.

“Big Mom’s been good for me,” Johnson said as a means of explaining his appearance. “She even made me this ribbon shirt.”

Johnson was wearing a traditional Indian ribbon shirt, made of highly traditional silk and polyester.

“So, what are you doing here?” Thomas asked. “Do you want to leave with us?”

Johnson looked up at the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota, looked to Big Mom.

“I’m goin’ to stay here,” Johnson said. “On the reservation. I think I jus’ might belong here. I think there’s been a place waitin’ at this Tribe’s tribal for me. I think this Tribe’s been wait-in’ for me for a long time. I’m goin’ to stay right here.”

Big Mom smiled.

“Why do you want to do that?” Checkers and Chess asked.

“I don’t know. Seems like the right thing to do. I think these Indians might need me. Maybe need my music. Besides, it’s beautiful here. And Thomas, I have seen everythin’.”

Johnson took Thomas’s hands in his own.

“We both have places we need to be,” Johnson said.

“Yeah, Thomas,” Chess said, “we have places to be. We need to get going. It’s late.”

Thomas looked at Big Mom.

“We have to go,” he said.

“Okay,” Big Mom said. “But hold on a second. You need some start-up money. That operator job won’t pay you much. And you need first month, last month, and deposit to move into an apartment.”

“We’ll manage,” Chess said.

“You’ll do more than that,” Big Mom said and stood. She cleared her throat, and the feast crowd turned all their attention to her.

“Listen,” Big Mom said. “Thomas, Chess, and Checkers are leaving the reservation today. They need some money. We need to have a collection.”

“Bullshit!” shouted somebody.

“Now, I know some of you aren’t happy with how this all turned out,” Big Mom said, “but think of poor Junior Polatkin. Think of how hard these kids worked. Think of your tribal responsibilities.”

“Think of getting them off the goddamn reservation,” shouted a voice in the back. It was David WalksAlong. He threw a hundred dollar bill into his cowboy hat and sent it around the room. “We’ll never have to see their faces again. We won’t have to hear any of their stink music.”

The cowboy hat made its way around the room. Some Indians gave money out of spite; some gave out of guilt; a few gave out of kindness. There was a few hundred dollars in the hat when it finally made its way to Big Mom.

“There you go,” Big Mom said and dumped the cash in front of Chess, Checkers, and Thomas. “It ain’t a whole lot. But that should be enough to get you started.”

“You better take care of it,” Thomas said to Chess. She stuffed the bills into her pockets.

“Well,” Big Mom said, her voice breaking a little, “I guess this is it.”

“Jeez,” Chess said, “we ain’t going that far. Just to Spokane. It’s an hour away.”

“Anywhere off the reservation,” Thomas said, “is a long ways from the reservation.”

Thomas, Chess, and Checkers left the Longhouse. A few Indians waved goodbye. Big Mom, Robert Johnson, and the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota followed them outside.

“We’ll see you soon,” Thomas said but knew he was lying.

“Just call information,” Chess said, “and maybe I’ll be your operator.”

Checkers climbed quietly into the van.

“Goodbye,” Big Mom said. “You can always come back.”

Robert Johnson pulled out his harmonica and blew a few chords. The-man-who-was-probably-Lakota played along on his hand drum. The blue van pulled away.

“The end of the world is near! The end of the world is near!”

They drove away from the Spokane Indian Reservation in silence, Chess, Thomas, and Checkers all struggling with the silence and wanting to find something to say. They smiled at each other and tried to read each other’s mind. Chess could feel Thomas and Checkers trying to read her mind, but she wouldn’t let them in. She tried to read their minds, but they wouldn’t let her in. What were they all thinking? What did they think was going to happen in Spokane? Would Thomas be ignored in the city, would those Urban Indians try to hurt him? Would some friend of David WalksAlong or Michael White Hawk come running out of the crowd with a knife, a gun, or a razor-sharp piece of a broken dream? Was Checkers still thinking about Father Arnold? Did she think she’d come running back to the reservation? And what about Victor? Would he still be trying to drink himself to death when he was eighty years old, a complete failure at everything he ever did?

“I’m scared,” Chess said to Thomas.

“Chess,” he said, “we’re all scared.”

They all held their breath as they drove over the reservation border. Nothing happened. No locks clicked shut behind them. No voices spoke, although the wind moved through the pine trees. It was dark. There were shadows. Those shadows took shape, became horses running alongside the van.

Chess, Checkers, and Thomas all looked at each other with fear and wonder. A shadow horse was running so close to the van that Chess could have reached out and touched it. Then she rolled down her window and reached out to touch that shadow, that horse. It was hot and wet. Checkers reached out of her window and touched a horse of her own, while Thomas drove the van, illuminating more shadows galloping down the road in front of them.

Those horses were following, leading Indians toward the city, while other Indians were traditional dancing in the Longhouse after the feast, while drunk Indians stood outside the Trading Post, drinking and laughing. Robert Johnson and the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota played a duet. Big Mom sat in her rocking chair, measuring time with her back and forth, back and forth, back and forth there on the Spokane Indian Reservation. She sang a protection song, so none of the Indians, not one, would forget who they are.

In a dream, Chess, Checkers, and Thomas sat at the drum with Big Mom during the powwow. All the Spokane Indians crowded around the drum, too. They all pounded the drum and sang. Big Mom taught them a new song, the shadow horses’ song, the slaughtered horses’ song, the screaming horses’ song, a song of mourning that would become a song of celebration: we have survived, we have survived. They would sing and sing, until Big Mom pulled out that flute built of the bones of the most beautiful horse who ever lived. She’d play a note, then two, three, then nine hundred. One for each of the dead horses. Then she’d keep playing, nine hundred, nine thousand, nine million, one note for each of the dead Indians.

In the blue van, Thomas, Chess, and Checkers sang together. They were alive; they’d keep living. They sang together with the shadow horses: we are alive, we’ll keep living. Songs were waiting for them up there in the dark. Songs were waiting for them in the city. Thomas drove the car through the dark. He drove. Checkers and Chess reached out of their windows and held tightly to the manes of those shadow horses running alongside the blue van.