Sherman Alexie - Reservation Blues

“Jeez,” Simon said, “I thought you guys were in New York City.”

“We were,” Thomas said. “But everything went wrong.”

“Oh, man,” Simon said. “I don’t know if you want to go back to the reservation. Ain’t nobody too happy with you up there. I can’t believe it. It’s like the Spokane Indian Reservation has become Republican or something.”

“Enit?” Chess asked. “What are you?”

“Shit,” Simon said. “I’m a Communist. A goddamn pinko redskin. Joe McCarthy would have pissed his pants if he ever saw me.”

“Well,” Thomas said, “we have to go back there. We ain’t got any money. We ain’t got no place to go.”

“Well,” Simon said, “if you insist. Climb in the back and get under that tarp. I don’t want nobody seeing you.”

“What if they do?” Victor asked.

“Any problems,” Simon said as he patted the rifles hanging in his gun rack, “and I’ll have to take care of business.”

“Are those loaded?” Junior asked.

“You bet your ass,” Simon said.

Coyote Springs climbed under the tarp and pulled it over them. They had no idea where they were at any given time. They could only guess by certain curves in the road, the sudden stops, the sound of water rushing over Little Falls Dam as they crossed onto the Spokane Indian Reservation.

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.