Sherman Alexie - Reservation Blues

“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.