Sherman Alexie - Reservation Blues

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.”