Reservation Blues

5. My God Has Dark Skin

MY BRAIDS WERE CUT off in the name of Jesus

To make me look so white

My tongue was cut out in the name of Jesus

So I would not speak what’s right

My heart was cut out in the name of Jesus

So I would not try to feel

My eyes were cut out in the name of Jesus

So I could not see what’s real

chorus:

And I’ve got news for you

But I’m not sure where to begin

Yeah, I’ve got news for you

My God has dark skin

My God has dark skin

I had my braids cut off by black robes

But I know they’ll grow again

I had my tongue cut out by these black robes

But I know I’ll speak ’til the end

I had my heart cut out by the black robes

But I know what I still feel

I had my eyes cut out by the black robes

But I know I see what’s real

(repeat chorus)

Chess wondered which member of Coyote Springs most closely resembled the Cowardly Lion as they pulled into the Emerald City, Seattle. The drive from Indian John Rest Area to downtown Seattle took six hours, because the blue van refused to go more than forty miles per hour.

“This van don’t want to go to Seattle, enit?” Junior asked.

“Van might be the only smart one,” Chess said.

The van drove into downtown and found a Super 8 Motel, right next to the Pink Elephant Car Wash. Coyote Springs all strained their necks to look at everything: the Space Needle, the Olympic and Cascade mountains, the ocean. None of them had ever visited Seattle before, so the sheer number of people frightened them. Especially the number of white people.

“Jeez,” Victor said, “no wonder the Indians lost. Look at all these whites.”

Thomas parked the van at the motel, and the band climbed out.

“How many rooms should we get, Chess?” Thomas asked.

“How much money we got?”

“Not much.”

“Shit,” Victor said, “shouldn’t those guys at the Backboard be paying for all of this anyway?”

“Yeah, they probably should,” Chess said, forced to agree with Victor for the very first time.

Coyote Springs walked into the lobby and surprised the desk clerk. Up to that point, how many desk clerks had seen a group of long-haired Indians carrying guitar cases? That clerk was a white guy in his twenties, a part-time business student at the University of Washington.

“Can I help you?” the clerk asked.

“Yeah,” Thomas said. “We need a couple rooms.”

“And how will you be paying for your rooms?”

“With money,” Victor said. “What did you think? Sea-shells?”

“He means cash or credit,” Chess said.

“Cash, then,” Victor said. “What Indian has a goddamn credit card?”

“Okay,” the clerk said. “And how long do you plan on staying with us?”

“Three nights,” Thomas said. “But listen, I need to use your phone and call the Backboard club. They’ll be paying for our rooms.”

“The Backboard?” the clerk asked. “Are you guys in a band?”

“Damn right,” Victor said. “What do you think we have in these cases? Machine guns? Bows and arrows?”

“What’s your name?” the clerk asked, already learning to ignore Victor.

“Coyote Springs,” Thomas said.

“Coyote Springs? I haven’t heard of you. Got any CDs out?”

“Not yet,” Victor said. “That’s why we’re in Seattle. We’re here to take over the whole goddamn city.”

“Oh,” the clerk said. “Well, here’s the phone. Which one of you is the lead singer?”

“I am,” Thomas said, and the clerk handed the phone to him.

As Thomas dialed the number, the rest of Coyote Springs wandered around the lobby. Junior and Chess sat on couches and watched a huge television set in one corner. Victor bought a Pepsi from a vending machine. Chess watched him. She knew that kind of stuff tickled Victor. He looked like a little kid, counted out his quarters for pop and hoped he had enough change for a Snickers bar. He just stared at all the selections like the machines offered white women and beer.

“Hey, Victor,” Chess shouted. “That’s a vending machine, you savage. It works on electricity.”

“Hello,” Thomas said into the phone. “This is Thomas Builds-the-Fire. Lead singer of Coyote Springs. Yeah. Coyote Springs. We’re here for the gig tomorrow night. Yeah, that’s right. We’re the Indian band.”

Thomas smiled at Chess to let her know everything was cool.

“Yeah, we’re over at the Super 8 Motel by that Pink Elephant Car Wash. We got a couple rooms, and the clerk wondered how you were going to pay for it.”

Thomas lost his smile. Chess looked around the room for it.

“I don’t understand. You mean we have to pay for it ourselves? But you invited us.”

Thomas listened carefully to the voice at the other end.

“Okay, okay. I see. Well, thanks. What time should we be there tomorrow?”

Thomas hung up the phone and walked over to the rest of the band.

“What’s wrong?” Chess asked.

“They said we’re supposed to pay for it,” Thomas said.

“No fucking way,” Victor said.

“What’s happening?” Junior asked.

“I guess it’s a contest tomorrow,” Thomas said. “A lot of bands are going to be there. The winner gets a thousand dollars. The losers don’t get nothing. I guess I didn’t understand the invitation too well.”

“What are you talking about?” Coyote Springs asked.

“It’s a Battle of the Bands tomorrow. We have to play the best to get the money. Otherwise, we don’t get nothing.”

“Jeez,” Junior said. “How many bands are there going to be?”

“Twenty or so.”

“Shit,” Victor said. “Let’s forget that shit. Let’s go home. We don’t need this. We’re Coyote Springs.”

“We don’t have enough money to get home,” Thomas said.

“Fuck,” Victor said. “Well, let’s get the goddamn rooms ourselves and kick some ass at that contest tomorrow night.”

“We don’t have enough money to get the rooms and eat, too.”

“Thomas,” Chess said, “how much money do we have?”

“Enough to eat on. But we can’t afford the rooms.”

“Looks like Checkers was right in staying home,” Chess said and missed her sister.

“What are we going to do?” Junior asked.

“We can sleep in the van,” Thomas said, feigning confidence. “Then we go and win that contest tomorrow. A thousand bucks. We go home in style, enit?”

Coyote Springs had no other options. Thomas started the van without a word, pulled out of the motel parking lot, and searched for a supermarket. He found a Foodmart and went inside. The rest of Coyote Springs waited for Thomas. He came out with a case of Pepsi, a loaf of bread, and a package of bologna. Silently, Coyote Springs built simple sandwiches and ate them.

Checkers walked to the Catholic Church early Saturday to meet Father Arnold. She wanted to join the choir. Enough of the rock music. She needed to reserve her voice for something larger. She braided her hair, pulled on her best pair of blue jeans, red t-shirt, and white tennis shoes. Nike running shoes. Checkers always bought expensive tennis shoes, no matter how poor she was.

Go in the supermarket, Luke Warm Water had said to his daughters during one of their shopping visits to Spokane, and get some eggs, milk, and butter. Oh, and get yourselves some tennis shoes. They’re in that third aisle. Try them on first.

Checkers and Chess slumped into the store, sat in the third aisle, and tried on tennis shoes, those supermarket shoes constructed of cheap canvas and plastic. Other shoppers, white people, stared as the Warm Waters tried on shoes; Checkers saw the pity in their eyes. Those poor Indian kids have to buy their shoes in a supermarket. Both sisters cried as they paid for the essential food items and those ugly shoes. Ever since her father had gone, Checkers bought the most expensive pair of shoes she found.

Those shoes felt good on her feet as Checkers walked into the church. A small church. Four walls, a few pews, an altar. Jesus crucified on the wall. Mary weeping in a corner. It felt like home. Checkers crossed herself and kneeled in a pew. She folded her hands into a prayer.

“Please,” she whispered. “Let good things happen.”

She lost track of time as she prayed. Amen, amen. Coyote Springs entered her mind, and she thought of her sister, tried to send a few prayers over the mountains. She felt a little guilty for leaving the band, but they played well without her. Chess sang and played the piano better than her.

“Thank you, Lord,” Checkers whispered as she opened her eyes, surprised to see a priest sitting a few pews in front of her. Father Arnold.

“Hello, Father,” Checkers said.

Father Arnold turned and smiled. He was a handsome man, with brown hair and blue eyes. Slightly tanned skin. Even teeth. Checkers smiled back. She believed that every priest should be a handsome man.

“Hello,” Father Arnold said. “You’re one of those sisters, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Checkers said, thrilled. “I’m Checkers Warm Water.”

“Checkers? That’s an unusual name.”

“Well, it’s not my real name.”

“What is your real name?”

“I don’t think I’d even tell you that in confession.”

Father Arnold stood, walked back toward Checkers, and sat beside her. He smelled like cinnamon.

“So,” Father said. “How is the music business?”

“Not too good. I quit the band.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, not really.”

Checkers thought about Coyote Springs. She already missed the stage. There was something addicting about it. She loved to hear her name shouted by strangers.

“Are you interested in joining our community here?” Father Arnold asked.

“I’m thinking about it,” Checkers said. “But I’m from the Flathead Reservation. Is that okay?”

“Are you confirmed?”

“Yeah. Father James over there did that. A long time ago.”

Checkers swore she remembered her baptism, though she was only a few months old at the time. Sometimes, she still felt that place on her forehead where Father James poured the water. Once, while fighting fires in her teens, she found herself trapped in a firestorm. Convinced she was going to burn, she suddenly felt the cold, damp touch on her forehead. She felt the water flow down her face, into her mouth, and she drank deeply. Satiated, she burned down a circle of grass, lay down in the middle, and lived as the fire crowned the pine trees above her.

“So,” Father Arnold said, “tell me about your faith.”

“You know,” Checkers said, “it’s hard to talk about. I mean, there’s a lot I want to talk about.”

“I’m sure.”

Checkers thought about what she had seen during her brief time with Coyote Springs. She remembered Junior and Victor naked in the van with those two white women, Betty and Veronica, who had disappeared soon after.

“You know,” Checkers said, “two of the guys in the band, Junior and Victor. They’ve been doing bad things.

“I know them. Are you here to talk about them or you?”

“Both, I guess.”

Father Arnold reached for Checkers’s hand and held it gently. Her heart quickened a little.

“You can talk to me,” Father Arnold said.

“It’s just that everywhere I look these days, I see white women. We caught Junior and Victor having sex with some white women. They’re always having sex with white women. It makes me hate them.”

“Hate who?”

“White women. Indian men. Both, I guess.”

“Are you romantically involved with Junior or Victor?”

“Oh, God, no.”

“Well, then, what is it?”

“Those white women are always perfect, you know? When I was little and we’d go to shop in Missoula, I’d see perfect little white girls all the time. They were always so pretty and clean. I’d come to town in my muddy dress. It never mattered how clean it was when we left Arlee. By the time we got to Missoula, it was always a mess.”

“Did you travel with your parents?”

“Yeah, Dad drove the wagon. Can you believe that? We still had a wagon, and Dad made that thing move fast. The horses and wheels would kick up dirt and mud. Chess, my sister, and I always tried to hide under blankets, but it never worked. There’d be mud under our nails, and we’d grind mud between our teeth. There’d be dirt in the bends of our elbows and knees. Dirt and mud everywhere, you know?”

Father Arnold nodded his head.

“Anyway, all those little white girls would be so perfect, so pretty, and so white. White skin and white dresses. I’d be all brown-skinned in my muddy brown dress. I used to get so dark that white people thought I was a black girl.

“I wanted to be just like them, those white girls, and I’d follow them around town while Mom and Dad shopped. Chess was always telling me I was stupid for doing it. Chess said we were better than those white girls any day. But I never believed her.”

“How does that make you feel now?” Father Arnold asked.

“I don’t know. I just looked at that blond hair and blue eyes and knew I wanted to look like that. I wanted to be just like one of those white girls. You know, Father James even brought his little white nieces out to visit the reservation, and that was a crazy time.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, Father James wanted us all to be friends, Chess, me, and his little nieces. So we all sat together in our folding chairs and knelt down on the floor to pray. We even got to help with the candles at mass. I remember I always held onto my candle tight, because I didn’t want to drop it. I always thought flames were beautiful, you know?

“All four of us helped with Communion once. It all worked great. It was the best Communion. Then we carried the bread and wine back to the storage closet. While we were in there, those nieces pushed me over, and I dropped the wine and it spilled all over everything. On the floor, on my best dress. Everywhere. Those nieces started laughing. Me and Chess tried to clean it up. Father James came running to see what the noise was all about. When he came into the closet, those nieces started crying like babies. They told Father James that Chess and I’d been messing around and dropped the bottles. Father James really scolded Chess and me and never let us help with Communion for a long time.”

“That’s a sad story,” Father Arnold said.

“Yeah, it is, I guess. But his nieces could be nice, too. They let me play with their dolls sometimes. They were really good dolls, too. I taught the nieces how to climb trees and watch people walk by. I’d leave Chess at home and stand outside Father James’s house and wait for his nieces to come out and play. Sometimes I waited until after dark. I’d walk home in the dark all by myself. But sometimes they came out, and we played.

“And when they left the reservation, Chess and I rode down to the train station with Father James to say goodbye. Chess really didn’t want to come, but Mom and Dad made her. We stood there on the train platform, and those nieces wouldn’t even look at us. They were in their perfect little white dresses. They looked like angels. I wanted to go with them. I wanted to go live in the big city. I knew I wouldn’t get in the way. I’d sleep with their perfect dolls and eat crackers. I wanted to be just like them. I wanted to have everything they had. I knew if I was like them, I wouldn’t have to be brown and dirty and live on the reservation and spill Communion wine.

“I wanted to be as white as those little girls because Jesus was white and blond in all the pictures I ever saw of him.”

“You do know that Jesus was Jewish?” Father Arnold asked. “He probably had dark skin and hair.”

“That’s what they say,” Checkers said. “But I never saw him painted like that. I still never see him painted like that. You know, we had to hug those little white nieces, too. We’re standing there on the platform, and Father James tells us to hug each other. Chess refuses to hug anybody. But I hug those nieces, and the big one pinches my breast, my little nipple. Nobody sees it at all. It hurts so bad, and I start to cry. The nieces get on the train and leave. Father James hugs me because I’m crying. He says it will be all right, he knows how much I’ll miss his nieces. I stood there in Father James’s arms and cried and cried.”

Checkers cried in the little Catholic Church in Wellpinit. Father Arnold put his arms around her, and she cried into his shoulder, the soft fabric of his cassock. She put her arms around his waist, wanted to look into his eyes, but kept her face hidden.

“Checkers,” he whispered. “What’s going on? There must be something more. You can talk to me.”

Checkers squeezed Father Arnold tighter, until her grip became uncomfortable. But he would not release her.

Coyote Springs slept fitfully in the blue van. The city frightened them, especially since the thin walls of the van barely protected them. Chess never slept much at all, hadn’t slept well for two nights in a row. She sat in the driver’s seat and listened to the men stir and moan in their sleep. She recognized the sounds of nightmares but only guessed at the specifics.

Junior dreamed about horses. He rode a horse along a rise above the Columbia River, leading a large group of warriors. They all wanted to attack a steamship, but the boat remained anchored beyond their range. The Indians watched it jealously.

The Indians cried in frustration. Some splashed their ponies into the river and attempted to swim out to the boat. Others fell off their horses and wept violently. Junior slumped, hugged his horse’s neck, and closed his eyes. In his dream, he listened for the music. He heard bugles. Cavalry bugles.

From where? a young Indian boy asked Junior.

Junior whirled his horse, looked for the source of the bugle. Everywhere. Junior heard a gunshot, and the young Indian fell dead from his mount. Then the young Indian boy’s horse was shot and fell, too. The gunshots came from all angles. The bugles increased.

Where are they? the Indian men screamed as the bullets cut them down. They fell, all of them, until only Junior remained.

Cease fire! a white voice shouted. That voice sounded so close that Junior knew he should have seen the source. But there was nothing in the dust and sunlight.

Drop your rifle! the white voice shouted.

Where are you? Junior asked.

Drop your rifle! the voice shouted again, louder, so loud that Junior dropped his rifle and clapped his hands to his ears in pain. Suddenly he was dragged from his horse by unseen hands. Thrown to the ground, kicked and beaten, Junior heard the labored breathing of the men who were beating him. He could not see anybody.

Where are you? Junior asked again, and he heard only laughter. Then the attackers began to materialize. Soldiers. White men in blue uniforms. They laughed. They spat on Junior. One soldier walked over to Junior’s pony, placed a pistol carefully between its eyes, and pulled the trigger. The horse took a long time to fall.

Who are you? Junior asked in his dream.

A large soldier walked up to Junior and offered him a hand. Junior took it and got to his feet.

I’m General George Wright, the large soldier said.

Junior looked at Wright, then down at his dead horse.

You killed my pony, Junior said.

This is war, Wright replied.

A few other soldiers tied Junior’s arms behind his back, dragged him to a table, and sat him down. He sat across from Wright. No voices. Wright drummed his fingers across the table, and it echoed all over the river valley.

What are we waiting for? Junior asked.

General Sheridan, Wright said.

They waited for a long time, until an even larger white man rode up on a pale pony. The larger white man dismounted, walked over to the table, and took a seat next to Wright.

General Sheridan, the larger white man said and offered his hand to Junior. Junior looked at the hand, but his hands were tied. Sheridan smiled at his mistake and pulled out a sheet of parchment.

You’ve been charged with the murder of eighteen settlers this past year, Sheridan said. How do you plead?

Not guilty, Junior said.

Well, well, Sheridan said, I find you guilty and sentence you to hang by the neck until you are dead.

The soldiers pulled Junior to his feet and dragged him to the gallows. They hustled him up the stairs and fitted the noose. Junior closed his eyes in his dream. He heard a sportscaster in the distance.

Ladies and gentlemen, we’re here to witness the execution of Spokane Indian warrior Junior Polatkin for murder. Eighteen murders, to be exact. Quite a total for such a young man. General Sheridan and General Wright are presiding over the hanging.

In his dream, Junior opened his eyes, and General Sheridan stood in front of him.

I can save your life, Sheridan said.

How? Junior asked.

Sign this.

What is it? Junior asked and looked at the clean, white paper in Sheridan’s hand.

Just sign it, Sheridan said.

What am I signing?

Just sign it, and God will help you.

Okay.

Sheridan untied Junior’s hands and gave him the pen. Junior looked at the pen and threw it away. The pen revolved and revolved. The sun rose and set; snow fell and melted. Salmon leapt twenty feet above the surface of the Columbia River, just feet from the hanging.

Do you want to say a prayer? Sheridan asked.

I don’t pray like that, Junior said.

What do you do?

I sing.

Well, I think it’s time for you to sing.

In his dream, Junior started his death song and was barely past the first verse when the platform dropped from under him and the rope snapped tightly.

“Shit!” Junior shouted as he woke suddenly from his dream. Victor rolled over, but Thomas woke up, too.

“What’s going on?” Thomas asked, confused.

“Junior’s dreaming,” Chess said. “Both of you go back to sleep.”

Junior flopped over and quickly snored, but Thomas rubbed his eyes and looked at Chess.

“You can’t sleep, enit?” Thomas asked.

“No, I’m thinking too much,” Chess said.

“About what?”

“About Checkers. About church.”

“What about church?”

“Are you a Christian, Thomas?”

“No. Not really.”

“Are these two Christian?”

“Junior and Victor? No way. All they know about religion they saw in Dances with Wolves.”

“Do you pray?” Chess asked but wasn’t sure what she wanted to hear. Of course Thomas prayed. Everybody prayed; everybody lied about it. Even atheists prayed on airplanes and bingo nights.

“Yeah, I pray,” Thomas said and made the sign of the cross.

“What was that?”

“I’m a recovering Catholic.

“Get out of here.”

“No, really. I was baptized Catholic, like most of us on the Spokane Reservation. I think even Junior and Victor are baptized Catholic.”

“Those two need a whole shower of the stuff.”

“Yeah, maybe. You know, I quit when I was nine. I went to church one day and found everybody burning records and books. Indians burning records and books. I couldn’t believe it. Even if I was just nine.”

These are the devil’s tools! the white Catholic priest bellowed as his Indian flock threw books and records into the fire. Thomas figured that priests everywhere were supposed to bellow. It was part of the job description. They were never quiet, never whispered their sermons, never let silence tell the story. Even Thomas knew his best stories never found their way past his lips and teeth.

Thomas mourned the loss of those books and records. He still mourned. He had read every book in the reservation library by the time he was in fifth grade. Not a whole lot of books in that library, but Thomas read them all. Even the auto repair manuals. Thomas could not fix a car, but he knew about air filters.

Thomas! the priest bellowed again. Come forward and help us rid this reservation of the devil’s work!

Thomas stepped forward, grabbed the first book off the top of the pile, and ran away. He ran until he could barely breathe; he ran until he found a place to hide. In the back seat of a BIA pickup, he read his stolen book: How to Fool and Amaze Your Friends: 101 Great Tricks of the Master Magicians.

“Jeez,” Chess said. “That really happened?”

“Yeah,” Thomas said. “I still got that book at home.”

“That wasn’t Father Arnold who did that, was it?”

“No. This happened a long time before he got to the reservation. I don’t even know Father Arnold too much. I just see him around.”

“Is he a nice guy?”

“Why you want to know?”

“Checkers wants to go to church there, you know? Maybe I’ll start going when I get back.”

“But I thought you wanted to leave the reservation if we won this contest. You still want to leave, enit?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I just want Victor and Junior out of the band. I like your reservation. It’s beautiful.”

“You haven’t seen everything,” Thomas said.

Victor was a hundred miles from home. He was nine years old. He was at the Mission School for the summer. His mother and real father often sent him there for camp. Catholic summers, Catholic summers. Victor mopped the floors.

Victor missed his parents. He cried constantly for the first few weeks away from the reservation. After a while, he cried only late at night, when all the Catholic Indian boys tried to sleep in their dormitories. Victor muffled his cries in a pillow and heard the muffled cries of others.

But on that day when Victor was nine years old and mopped the floors, he lost himself in other thoughts. He remembered picking huckleberries with his family. He remembered climbing trees with his friends, other Indian boys allowed to stay on the reservation. Those Indian boys climbed the limbs off the trees every summer. Victor was still lost in his memories when the priest stormed into the room.

Victor! the priest shouted.

Victor jumped back, frightened, and knocked his bucket of water over. Even more terrified, he mopped frantically and tried to clean up that minor flood.

Stop it! the priest yelled.

Victor stopped, stood at attention, shivered.

What are you afraid of? the priest asked.

Victor was silent.

Are you afraid of God?

Victor nodded his head.

Are you afraid of me?

Victor nodded his head faster. The priest smiled and leaned down.

There’s no reason to be afraid, the priest said, taking a softer tone. Now why don’t we clean up this mess together?

Victor and the priest mopped up the water, mopped the rest of the floor clean, and put the supplies back in their places. The priest touched Victor’s newly shaved head.

It’s a shame we had to cut your hair, the priest said. You are such a beautiful boy.

Victor looked up at the priest and smiled. The priest smiled back, leaned over, and kissed Victor full and hard on the mouth.

From Checkers Warm Water’s journal:

I went to see Father Arnold today and I think I fell in love. He held me closely and I held him back and I think he might love me, too. He rubbed my back and whispered nice things to me. No man has ever held me that gently. He listened to me. Really listened to me. I don’t even know what to think or do. I’m afraid to breathe. I don’t want to tell Chess. I don’t want to tell anybody. There’s a reason I got in that fight with Victor. I didn’t know why I got so crazy at Victor. Couldn’t figure out what made me so mad. But now I know there’s a reason. God made me stay home so I could meet Father Arnold. God threw those punches at Victor! God wanted me to meet Father Arnold. But did God want me to fall in love with his priest? I don’t know what to do. All I know is, I still smell Father Arnold when I close my eyes. He smells like smoke and candles.

Coyote Springs woke, cramped and smelly, in a strange parking lot in downtown Seattle. The blue van groaned as the band stumbled out to stretch their backs in the cool morning mist.

“Jeez,” Junior said, “what’s that smell?”

“It’s the ocean,” Chess said. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Junior said and tried to hide his excitement. “It’s all right.”

Thomas breathed deep. He tasted salt.

“So what’s the plan today?” Victor asked.

“I don’t know,” Thomas said. “How about that Pike Place Market. That’s supposed to be cool. What do you think, Chess?”

“Sounds good.”

Everybody climbed back into the van. With Thomas as driver and Chess as navigator, Coyote Springs soon found the market. Along the way, they noticed there were brown people in Seattle. Not everybody was white. They watched, dumbfounded, as two men held hands and walked down the street.

“Jeez,” Junior said, “look at that.”

“Those men are two-spirited,” Thomas said.

“They’re too something or other,” Victor said.

Coyote Springs parked the van and walked around the market, surprised by all of it. The market was old and beautiful, built by wood that had aged and warped. No amount of paint could change the way it looked now. There were flowers and fishmongers, old shops filled with vintage clothing and rare books. The whole market smelled like the ocean, which was just a few blocks away. Coyote Springs was even more surprised by the old Indian men there. Old drunks. Victor kept talking to them. Junior, too. Chess figured drunks talked to drunks like it was a secret club. An Indian liked to talk to anybody, especially another Indian. Chess knew those old Indians were a long way from home, trapped by this city and its freeway entrances and exits. She thought a few of those drunks looked familiar.

“Hey, nephew,” one of those old Indians called to Victor. “What tribe you are?”

Indians always addressed each other intimately, even when they were strangers.

“I’m Spokane Indian, uncle,” Victor said.

“Oh, yeah, huh? Had a buddy who was Spokane long time ago.”

“Who was that?”

“Amos Joseph.”

“That was my grandfather.”

“No shit. Who you?”

“Victor Joseph.”

“Hey, grandson. I’m Eddie Tap Water. Used to be Spring Water. But I’m Urban Indian now.”

“Good to meet you, grandfather.”

“Yeah, you, too. Where’d you get that shirt anyway? Think your grandfather wore one like that when we was dancing.”

The rest of Coyote Springs listened as Victor and Eddie traded stories, but nobody was all that surprised. The Indian world is tiny, every other Indian dancing just a powwow away. Every Indian is a potential lover, friend, or relative dancing over the horizon, only a little beyond sight. Indians need each other that much; they need to be that close, tying themselves to each other and closing their eyes against the storms.

“Goodbye, grandfather,” Victor said and gave him a dollar. Victor talked to most every drunk at the market. He spent all of his time with those old Indians, while the other band members roamed together. Junior left Victor to the drunks. Chess thought those drunks scared Junior. He might have seen himself in their faces. Junior wondered if their disease was contagious. A fall-asleep-on-a-heating-grate disease. Junior was frightened.

Victor should have been frightened. Drunks had always caused him to shake before. But some voice whispered in his ear and pushed him to the old Indians in the market. As a child, each member of Coyote Springs had run from drunks. They all still ran from drunks. All Indians grow up with drunks. So many drunks on the reservation, so many. But most Indians never drink. Nobody notices the sober Indians. On television, the drunk Indians emote. In books, the drunk Indians philosophize.

Lester FallsApart, the most accomplished drunk on the Spokane Reservation, was a tribal hero. Indians run from those tough and angry drunks, but they always flock to the kindest alcoholic on the reservation. One on every reservation, one on every reservation. Everybody on the Spokane Indian Reservation loved Lester so much they showed up at his dog’s wake and funeral. A couple hundred Spokanes mourned with Lester.

The market had entranced Coyote Springs and they forgot the time. The little curiosity stores and restaurants pulled them in and refused to let go. Thomas got all wrapped up in the magic store and practiced a few coin tricks.

“Jeez,” Thomas said suddenly, “what time is it?”

“About five,” Chess said.

“Oh, man. We’re going to be late for that soundcheck at the Backboard.”

“Where’s Victor?”

“Shit,” Junior said. “I don’t know. Hanging out with those drunks somewhere.”

“Man,” Thomas said, “we have to find him quick. We can’t be late. They’ll kick us out of the contest.”

“Okay,” Chess said, “let’s split up. Thomas and I will look in the market, and Junior, look outside.”

“We got to find him,” Thomas said again and looked desperate. Coyote Springs was about to break up to search for Victor when the music started.

“Wait,” Junior said. “Listen to that.”

Coyote Springs listened. They heard the city, the ocean, but something else, too. They heard a beautiful voice, just barely audible. The band couldn’t hear the lyrics but picked up the rhythm.

“Who is that?” Chess asked. “That’s the most beautiful voice I ever heard.”

Coyote Springs walked without talking, searched for the source of that voice. As they got closer, they also heard a guitar accompanying the voice. A nice, simple chord progression, but something hid behind it. Something painful and perfect.

“Shit,” Chess said. “I don’t believe it.”

As Coyote Springs turned a corner, they discovered the magical duo: an old Indian man singer and Victor, the guitar player. In a filthy brown corduroy suit and white t-shirt, the singer looked older than dirt. But his voice, his voice. A huge crowd gathered.

“Look at all the people,” Junior said.

Tourists and office workers stopped to listen to this ragged Indian version of Simon and Garfunkel. Those people who usually ignored street people threw money into the old Indian man’s hat. Chess noticed Victor was playing some shoestring guitar and figured it had to be the old man’s instrument. Bandaged and bloody, the old man’s hands fascinated Chess.

“Why’s Victor playing with that guy?” Chess asked.

Thomas also noticed the old man’s bandages. That old man could not play the guitar anymore, because he’d played it until his hands were useless. Thomas remembered Robert Johnson’s hands; he felt pain in his hands in memory of Robert Johnson’s guitar. Victor’s guitar now, he said to himself.

“Jeez,” Chess said. “Victor sounds pretty good on that guitar. That thing’s a mess though, enit? Looks like it’s made from cardboard.”

The old man’s guitar was constructed of cardboard, but the sound that rose from the strings defied its construction. Thomas watched the money fall into the old man’s hat. A hundred dollars, maybe two hundred.

“Thomas, we’re going to be late, remember?” Chess said.

“It can wait,” Thomas said, frightened, but needing to see the end of that little story in the market.

Victor played with the old Indian man for another hour. The money fell into the hat.

“Thomas!” Chess shouted. “We need to go.”

Thomas broke from his trance, rushed to Victor, stole the guitar away, and handed it back to the old man. It burned.

“We need to go,” Thomas said to Victor, who briefly reached for the guitar but pulled back. The crowd jeered Thomas.

“Shit,” Victor said. “What time is it?”

“After six.”

“Man, we got to go.”

Coyote Springs ran from the market, but Thomas looked back. The old Indian man picked up the hat full of money and smiled.

“We should’ve asked that old man to join the band, enit?” Junior asked.

“Maybe,” Victor said, and then he smiled at Chess. He really smiled. Chess was frightened. She wanted to go home; she wanted her sister. The blue van rolled down Mercer Street, beneath the Space Needle, and found the Backboard Club. Victor strapped on his guitar, cracked his knuckles, and led the band inside.

From Thomas Builds-the-Fire’s journal:

The Reservation’s Ten Commandments as Given by the United States of America to the Spokane Indians

1. You shall have no other forms of government before me.

2. You shall not make for yourself an independent and self-sufficient, government, for I am a jealous bureaucracy and will punish the Indian children for the sins of their fathers to the seventh generation of those who hate me.

3. You shall not misuse my name or my symbols, for I will impale you on my flag pole.

4. Remember the first of each month by keeping it holy. The rest of the month you shall go hungry, but the first day of each month is a tribute to me, and you shall receive welfare checks and commodity food in exchange for your continued dependence.

5. Honor your Indian father and Indian mother because I have stripped them of their land, language, and hearts, and they need your compassion, which is a commodity I do not supply.

6. You shall not murder, but I will bring FBI and CIA agents to your reservations and into your homes, and the most intelligent, vocal, and angriest members of your tribes will vanish quietly.

7. You shall not commit adultery, but I will impregnate your women with illegitimate dreams.

8. You shall not steal back what I have already stolen from you.

9. You shall not give false testimony against any white men, but they will tell lies about you, and I will believe them and convict you.

10. You shall not covet the white man’s house. You shall not covet the white man’s wife, or his hopes and opportunities, his cars or VCRs, or anything that belongs to the white man.

Back on the reservation, Checkers fell asleep on the couch in Thomas’s house. She always slept on couches when houses were empty. She dreamed of Father Arnold. In her dream, Father Arnold came into her bedroom in the shack in Arlee. Checkers lay under the covers, naked.

Let me see, Father Arnold said, so Checkers pulled back her covers.

You’re such a pretty girl, Father said.

Father dropped his robe to the floor. Naked. Checkers studied him. His penis was huge.

Can I lie with you? Father asked.

Checkers patted the sheet beside her, and Father lay down close to her. She felt his heat, his smell. He smelled like smoke and Communion wine.

You know I love you, Father said.

Checkers felt his penis brush against her thigh. It was so big she knew it would hurt her. Father touched her breasts, squeezed her nipples, moved his hand down her stomach.

I won’t hurt you, Father said. Not ever.

Father kissed Checkers gently, flicked his tongue between her teeth. Her jaw ached as he forced her mouth open wider and wider. He tasted strange, old, musty. She cried out as he forced her legs apart.

I forgive you, Father said.

Checkers held her breath as Father climbed between her legs and entered her roughly.

Yes, I forgive you, Father whispered inside her.

From a live interview on KROK, Seattle’s best rock:

Hello, this is Adam the Original, your favorite D.J. in Seattle for six years straight, coming to you live from the Backboard in the shadow of the Space Needle. Tonight, as you all know, was the Tenth Annual Battle of the Bands. After thirty acts, the judges chose a winner. And it’s a shocker, folks. The best band tonight happened to be a bunch of Spokane Indians from the Spokane Reservation on the other side of the mountain. The name of the band is Coyote Springs, of all things, and I have with me the lead singer, Thomas Builds-the-Fire. Now, Thomas, tell me about yourself.

Like you said, I’m a Spokane Indian from the Spokane Indian Reservation. I play bass guitar and share vocals with Chess Warm Water. She’s a Flathead Indian from Montana, not Spokane.

I’ve talked to some people here tonight who said they’ve seen quite a few of your shows. They were really impressed. You’re not just a cover band, are you? When did you make the decision to play original material? And who writes your songs?

Well, we started out as a cover band. But it was sort of weird, enit? We covered great stuff, like Aretha Franklin and Alex Chilton, but none of those songs were Indian, you know? I mean, some of those songs we covered should’ve been written by Indians, but they weren’t. So I decided to write some songs myself. I write all the songs now. But I was wondering who heard of us before. We mostly played on the reservations. I didn’t see no Indians here tonight.

A couple people mentioned they saw you. But seriously, how does songwriting make you feel?

Good.

I’ve noticed that you had two white women singing backup for the band tonight. That seemed sort of unusual. How do you think other Indians look at that? And how do you think it affects your sound?

I don’t even know those women all that well. They were waiting for us when we got here. I’ve seen them before though. They’ve been following us for a while, way back on the reservation even, then in Montana. I caught Junior and Victor, the drummer and lead guitarist, all naked with them a while back. They sound really good, enit? We took a quick vote to see if they would sing with us, and the vote was 2–2. So we flipped a coin, and the white women were in. It’s kind of tough, though. They only sang backup because they’re sleeping with Junior and Victor. I don’t know how it affected the music. But we won, didn’t we? I don’t know what Indian people will think about those white women. But hey, an Indian woman invented the blues a day before Columbus landed, and rock ’n’ roll the next day. We’re not stealing those white women or stealing the music. It’s not like we’re all white because we have white women in the band.

Well, if nothing else, the irony is incredible, isn’t it? And I was wondering who voted against the white women. And what are the white women’s names?

Chess and I voted against them. And their names are Betty and Veronica.

Really?

Really.

How would you assess their relationship with Junior and Victor?

I’m not like a therapist or something. But I don’t think it has much of a chance. I mean, I think they’re all using each other as trophies. Junior and Victor get to have beautiful white women on their arms, and Betty and Veronica get to have Indian men.

Do you think you could elaborate on that? Our listeners out there in the rock world would love to know.

Jeez, I just realized. Them two are the ones who saw us play before. They must really be following us around. That Betty and Veronica. Man. They are beautiful, enit?

Yes, they are. But what do Betty and Veronica have to gain in all of this?

Look at them. They got more Indian jewelry and junk on than any dozen Indians. The spotlights hit the crystals on their necks and nearly blinded me once. All they talk about is Coyote this and Coyote that, sweatlodge this and sweatlodge that. They think Indians got all the answers.

How long do you think that relationship will last?

Until the next slow song.

Well, I don’t know when that’s going to be. That Victor plays a wicked guitar. I’ve never actually seen a guitar set a table on fire, though. It’s a good thing that Chess had fire safety training, isn’t it?

We almost lost the whole damn thing because Victor got drunk. How did you know Chess had fire experience?

An amateur would never have put a fire out that quickly. Forgive me for asking, but I noticed that you and Chess seem to have a close relationship.

Jeez, getting personal, enit? She’s my partner. We’re in love, I guess. No. We are in love. She’s pretty amazing. I write songs for her, you know. She’s the first Indian woman who ever paid me much attention. That’s something special.

Well, I think you’ll be getting a lot of attention from all kinds of women now. Especially white women.

I don’t need that.

Well, I hope that’s true. I also heard that Chess has a sister who used to be in the band. Is that true?

Yeah, Checkers, her sister, stayed home on the reservation. She wants to sing in the church choir instead. They’re both Catholic women, you know?

Don’t you think that’s odd?

I don’t think it’s odd at all. I mean, I think God loves to dance as much as the rest of us. I think we’d all be better off if we put more rock music into our churches. Chess told me that God is a long ways up, and we need to be loud so God can hear us. What’s louder than rock ’n’ roll?

Do you believe in God?

Yeah, I do.

Do you believe in the devil?

I don’t know. I’m beginning to. Seems there’s more proof of the devil than proof of God, enit?

Is God a man or a woman?

God could be an armadillo. I have no idea.

Checkers stood in the back row of the choir; she was much taller than all the altos, baritones, and sopranos. She was taller than everybody in the church and wondered if Spokane Indian Catholics were short by nature. Easily distracted by the details, she tried to concentrate on the service. Father Arnold led the service with intensity and passion, like he was more Baptist than Catholic. Most priests just went through the motions, recited platitudes by rote, and turned Communion into a Sunday brunch.

“Let us pray together now,” Father Arnold said, “in the words Our Father gave us.”

Checkers held the hands of the choir members on either side of her, Nina and Maria Christopher. Checkers always loved this part most, the Lord’s Prayer, the holding of hands, the circling of the community. She recited the prayer and watched Father Arnold. He glanced around the church, made eye contact with his flock, and smiled.

“Let us now offer each other a sign of peace,” Father Arnold said.

“Peace be with you.”

“Peace be with you.”

“Peace, sister.”

“Peace, brother.”

The members of the choir hugged as they offered peace to each other. Nina and Maria hugged Checkers, but she held the hugs way past the comfort level of the Christophers.

“Peace to all of you,” Father Arnold said, outside the ceremony, and the community responded.

“Peace be with you.”

Father Arnold sang his prayers. A beautiful voice. Checkers wondered if he ever sang in a band. Maybe in college. He almost had soul. Catholics were supposed to save souls, not possess them.

“This is the body, this is the blood.”

Checkers greedily took Communion, happy to be one of the first. She opened her mouth, offered it to Father Arnold, who placed the bread gently on her tongue. She felt his fingertips, smelled his soft cologne. The ritual, the ritual. She smiled at Father, who smiled back, then looked past her.

“Amen.”

Checkers stepped past the Communion wine, though she still smelled the alcohol. She fought back memories of her father’s breath after he came home from a long night of drinking.

Checkers? Little one? Are you awake?

Checkers returned to her place in the choir. She hummed the hymn softly because she had forgotten the words. Beautiful, she felt beautiful in her twenty-year-old robe. The fringe was gone, the colors faded, but she knew how beautiful she was. Father Arnold had complimented her before mass.

“Checkers,” he said, “you look very nice.”

She held those words in her pocket, hidden beneath her robe, and often reached under to touch them. She closed her eyes and let the music enter her body. The organ was older than the church itself and sounded like a train, but that made no difference to Checkers. She just wanted the music to be loud.

“Before we go today, I wanted to make a few announcements,” Father Arnold said.

Checkers wanted the service to continue.

“We have a new member of the congregation,” Father Arnold said. “She’s a new arrival on our reservation, Checkers Warm Water. Some of you may know her as a member of Coyote Springs, but now she’s the newest member of our choir.”

Father Arnold motioned for Checkers to raise her hand. She waved to the church, and they all waved back. Polite applause and a few shouted greetings. Embarrassed, Checkers ducked her head and closed her eyes. She thought the Catholics were celebrating a new member, but they were actually relieved that she had been saved from the hell called Coyote Springs.

“Also, I want you to remember that we have a potluck dinner Tuesday night, right after the elders’ meeting. And Bessie, you remember to bring your fry bread.”

The crowd cheered. Bessie Moses had taken third place in the fry bread cook-off for the last ten years, finishing behind only Big Mom and the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota all that time. Since Big Mom and the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota weren’t members of the church, Bessie cooked the best Catholic fry bread on the reservation.

“One last thing,” Father Arnold said. “I know it’s really early, but basketball practice starts next week. Wednesday. I’m taking signatures. Remember, we only have room for ten players. We need to start practice early this fall. The Presbyterians and Assembly of God really kicked our butts last year. And remember, no matter what you see on television, God really doesn’t care if we win this or not. So, we have to do it by ourselves.”

The Spokane Indian Christian Basketball Tournament was held every November at the Tribal Community Center. The Assembly of God had won the tourney every year since its inception. Last year, the Assemblies had beaten the Catholics 126–105 in a run-and-gun shooting match. The Presbyterians had played a stall game and beat the Catholics 42–30.

“Now, I want you all to go out there, go into the community, and serve God,” Father Arnold said.

The congregation applauded and quickly filed out of the church. Catholics exited churches faster than any other denomination, but Checkers took her time because she wanted to have a few minutes alone with Father Arnold. The church was completely empty when Checkers finally came out of the dressing room.

“Checkers,” Father Arnold said. “I was wondering what happened to you.”

“I was changing,” Checkers said.

“Don’t change. I like you just the way you are.”

Checkers laughed too loudly at his little joke.

“You did really well today,” Father Arnold said.

“So did you. But I forgot some of the words to the hymns. It’s been a while.”

“Yeah, well, things will get better. I have faith in you.”

“Thanks.”

Checkers played with the hem of her t-shirt.

“Well,” she said, “I should get going. The band is coming home tonight. I need to clean up the house.”

“Okay, I’ll see you next Sunday, right?”

“Yeah, and maybe my sister, too.”

“That would be wonderful.”

Checkers looked at Father Arnold. He smiled. She kissed him quickly on the cheek and ran away. Father Arnold watched her run, touched his cheek, and smiled.

Father Arnold fell to the couch in his study, exhausted because of the insomnia he suffered the night before services. On the couch, he closed his eyes and dreamed. In his dream, he stood in front of a huge congregation of Indians. He had come to save them all, his collar starched and bleached so white that it blinded, and was so powerful that he had a red phone at the altar that was a direct line to God.

Listen to me, Father Arnold said, but the Indians ignored him. They talked among themselves, laughed at secret jokes. Some even prayed in their own languages, in their own ways. Eagle feathers raised to the ceiling, pipes smoked, sweetgrass and sage burned.

Please, Father Arnold said, but the Indians continued to ignore him. He preached for hours without effect. He eventually tired and sat in a pew beside an old Indian woman. Suddenly, the church doors opened, and the local missionaries, Marcus and Narcissa Whitman, walked in with black boxes in their arms.

The Indians were silent.

The Whitmans walked to the front of the church, bowed to Father Arnold, then turned to the congregation.

Children, the Whitmans said, you shall listen to Father and believe.

Each placed a hand on a black box, and the Indians sat at attention.

You may continue with your sermon, the Whitmans said to Father Arnold.

Father Arnold hesitated, then stood and preached. The Indians’ emotions swayed with his words. Whenever an Indian’s mind wandered, Marcus and Narcissa threatened to open the black boxes, and the rebellious calmed.

Father Arnold loved his newfound power, although it was the Protestant missionaries who were responsible for it. He delivered the best sermon ever, and he heard God’s cash register ring as it added up all the Indian souls saved. But those black boxes distracted Father Arnold. They kept the Indians quiet, but he wondered why. He was curious about them and jealous of the Whitmans’ secret power over the Indians.

Amen.

After the sermon ended, the Indians left quietly and respectfully. Father Arnold turned to the Whitmans.

What’s in those black boxes?

Faith.

Show me.

The Whitmans opened the boxes. Father Arnold expected to see jewels, locks of hair, talismans, but discovered nothing.

They’re empty.

Of course.

What do you mean?

We told the Indians the boxes contained smallpox, and if we opened them, the disease would kill them.

Why would you do something like that?

It’s the only way to get them to listen. And you saw how well it works. They listened to you.

But it’s wrong. We should teach through love.

Don’t be such a child. Religion is about fear. Fear is just another word for faith, for God.

Father Arnold looked at the empty black boxes. In his dream, he stared at them for days, until the boxes closed tight.

Wait, Father Arnold said and noticed the Whitmans were gone, replaced by two Indian women who held the boxes.

These are for you, the Indian women said.

What’s in them?

We don’t know.

With a thousand dollars in prize money, Coyote Springs made the trek from Seattle back to the Spokane Indian Reservation. Thomas drove from Seattle to Moses Lake, and Chess drove the rest of the way. Junior and Victor slept the whole time. Betty and Veronica, the new white women backup singers, slept beside Junior and Victor.

“So,” Chess asked Thomas as the blue van crossed the reservation border, “are you coming to church Sunday?”

“I don’t know. It’s been a long time,” Thomas said.

“What’s that Father Arnold like?”

“He seems pretty nice. He’s always hanging around the Trading Post and stuff.”

Thomas looked at Chess, looked at the pine trees outside the car window. He looked at the highway, at the deer continually threatening to cross in front of the van.

“Checkers probably has a crush on him by now,” Chess said.

“On who?” Thomas asked.

“On Father Arnold.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She always does that. She had a crush on the guy who delivered our mail back home. She stays away from young guys but always gets crushes on older guys, you know?”

They drove for a while in silence.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Chess said.

“Which question?” Thomas asked.

“Will you go to church with me Sunday?”

Thomas closed his eyes, searched for the answer, and opened them again.

“How can you go to a church that killed so many Indians?” Thomas asked.

“The church does have a lot to atone for,” Chess said.

“When’s that going to happen.”

“At the tipi flap to heaven, I guess.”

“I don’t know if I can wait that long. Besides, how do we know they’re going to pay for it? Maybe we got it all backwards and you get into heaven because of hate.”

“You have to have faith.”

“But what about Hitler and Ted Bundy? How do you explain George Bush and George Custer? If God were good, why would he create Rush Limbaugh?”

“Sometimes the devil is easier to believe in, enit?”

“Really. How do you explain all of that? How do you explain all of the murdered Indians?”

The van rolled on.

“How do you explain Gandhi and Mother Theresa?” Chess asked. “How do you explain Crazy Horse and Martin Luther King? There’s good and bad in the world. We all get to make the choice. That’s one of the mysteries of faith.”

“Now you sound like Agatha Christie,” Thomas said.

“Yeah, and it was God whodunnit.”

“Who done what?”

“God created all of this. I mean, how can you look at all of this, all this life, and not believe in God? Look at this reservation. It’s so pretty. Do you think the river and the trees are mistakes? Do you think everything is accidental?”

“No,” Thomas said, looked at his hands, at the reservation as it rushed by. He loved so much. He loved the way a honey bee circled a flower. Simple stuff, to be sure, but what magic. A flower impressed Thomas more than something like the Grand Coulee Dam. Once he’d stood on the dam for hours and stared at a nest some bird built atop an archway. Thomas looked into himself. He knew his stories came from beyond his body and mind, beyond his tiny soul.

Thomas closed his eyes and told Chess this story: “We were both at Wounded Knee when the Ghost Dancers were slaughtered. We were slaughtered at Wounded Knee. I know there were whole different tribes there, no Spokanes or Flatheads, but we were still somehow there. There was a part of every Indian bleeding in the snow. All those soldiers killed us in the name of God, enit? They shouted ‘Jesus Christ’ as they ran swords through our bellies. Can you feel the pain still, late at night, when you’re trying to sleep, when you’re praying to a God whose name was used to justify the slaughter?

“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.