“You don’t owe me anything,” the woman said. “Just go on home now. Just go on home.”
The cab pulled away. Wright watched it disappear in the distance, then he walked through the cemetery to a large monument. He studied the monument, remembering the ship that went down in the Pacific and the water rushing into his lungs. He read the monument:
Gen. George Wright, U.S.A.
and his wife
died
July 30, 1865
Lovely and pleasant in their lives,
and in their death they
were not divided
“Margaret,” Wright said as he lay down on top of his grave. “I’m home. I’m home. I’m so sorry. I’m home.”
Margaret Wright rose wetly from her place and took her husband in her arms. She patted his head as he wept and remembered all those horses who had screamed in that field so long ago. He remembered shooting that last colt while Big Mom watched from the rise.
“I was the one,” Wright said to his wife. “I was the one. I was the one who killed them all. I gave the orders.”
The horses screamed in his head.
“Shh,” Margaret whispered. “It’s okay. I forgive you.”
Wright closed his eyes and saw the colt standing still in that field. He remembered that he had taken a pistol from a private.
This is how it’s done, he had said as he dismounted from his own horse. He pressed the pistol between the colt’s eyes, pulled the trigger, and watched it fall.
“Oh, God,” Wright sobbed to his wife on their graves. The grief rushed into his lungs. “I’m a killer. I’m a killer.”
“You’ve come home,” Margaret whispered. “You’re home now.”
Betty and Veronica watched Armstrong and Sheridan talking in the control booth.
“What do you think they’re talking about?” Betty asked.
“The assholes are probably wondering how our asses will look on MTV,” Veronica said.
“Hey, girls,” Sheridan said over the intercom.
“Yeah,” Betty and Veronica said.
“Could you come in here?”
Betty and Veronica set their guitars down, walked into the control booth.
“Listen,” Sheridan said, “Mr. Armstrong and I have been talking about your potential. Well, you see, there’s a market for a certain kind of music these days. It’s a kind of music we think you can play, given your heritage. But there’s a whole lot of marketing we have to do. We have to fine tune your image.”
“What do you mean?” Veronica asked. “What’s our heritage?”
“Well,” Sheridan said, “there’s been an upswing in the economic popularity of Indians lately. I mean, there’s a lot of demographics and audience surveys and that other scientific shit. But I leave that to the boys upstairs. What I’m talking about here is pure musical talent. That’s you. Pure musical talent shaped and guided by me. Well, I mean, under the direction of Mr. Armstrong, certainly.”
Veronica looked at Betty.
“Now,” Veronica said, “what the hell are you talking about?”
“Well,” Sheridan said, “our company, Cavalry Records, has an economic need for a viable Indian band. As you know, Coyote Springs self-destructed. We were thinking we needed a more reliable kind of Indian. Basically, we need Indians such as yourselves.”
“But we ain’t that much Indian.”
“You’re Indian enough, right? I mean, all it takes is a little bit, right? Who’s to say you’re not Indian enough?”
“You want us to play Indian music or something?”
“Exactly,” Sheridan said. “Now you understand.”
Mr. Armstrong shifted in his seat. He was bored.
“Cut to the chase,” Armstrong said.
“Okay,” Sheridan said. “What it comes down to is this. You play for this company as Indians. Or you don’t play at all. I mean, who needs another white-girl folk group?”
“But we want to play our music,” Betty protested.
“Listen,” Sheridan said, “you do things for us, we can do things for you. It’s a partnership. We want you to have everything you ever wanted. That’s the business we’re in. The dream business. We make dreams come true. That’s who we are. We just ask for a little sacrifice in return. A little something in exchange for our hard work. What do you think?”
Betty and Veronica looked at each other. They could hear drums.
Coyote Springs staggered onto the reservation a couple of hours after they left the Spokane International Airport. Actually, they were hiding beneath a tarp in Simon’s pickup. Coyote Springs had managed to walk only a few miles on Highway 2 before Simon pulled up. He’d been back on the reservation for just a few days after his visit with relatives on the coast. He only drove his truck in reverse, using the rearview mirror as guide, even on white people’s highways. He’d never been caught.
“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.
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 Spring
s 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
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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. Th
ey 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.