Reservation Blues - Alexie Sherman (25 page)

* * *

Wright and Sheridan sat in the back of the Cadillac.
Sheridan was on the car phone. It had taken the driver more than an
hour to find a place on the reservation where the reception was good.
They sat on top of Lookout Hill, but there was still a lot of static
on the line.

"Well," Sheridan said, "what do you
think?" He nodded his head, grunted in the affirmative for a few
minutes, shrugged his shoulders once or twice. He hung up the phone
with a dejected look on his face.

"Oh, shit," Wright said."He doesn't
like the idea, does he?"

"Mr. Armstrong says he got our fax, and he loves
our idea," Sheridan deadpanned.

"You're shitting me."

"He wants us to go check out some duo in Seattle
first. Couple of hot white chicks, I guess, just started out and
already causing a buzz. Then we're supposed to come back here next
week and take, as he says, those goddamn Indians to New York."

"Well, this calls for a drink," Wright
said.

"A couple drinks," Sheridan agreed.

The horses screamed.

"Well, we should tell them, don't you think?"
Wright asked.

"Yeah," Sheridan said. "Driver, take
us to Coyote Springs."

The driver carefully drove the car toward Thomas's
house. He watched the two record company executives drink directly
from a flask. That flask was old, antique, stained. Sheridan and
Wright had been drinking from that flask for a century, give or take
a few decades. They were never sure how long it had been.

"You've always been a good soldier," Wright
said to Sheridan.

"
You've been a fine goddamn officer yourself,"
Sheridan replied.

*

Coyote Springs was sitting in the front yard when the
Cadillac pulled up. Drunk, Sheridan and Wright hurried out of the car
with the good news. Everybody danced: Junior and Victor tangoed;
Thomas two-stepped up a pine tree; Wright and Sheridan dipped Chess
and Checkers.

"When do we get to go?" Thomas asked.

"Next week," Sheridan said.

"That long?"

"
Well, we have to go to Seattle first. For some
other business.

Coyote Springs's stomach growled.

"
But we ain't got no money," Thomas
whispered.

"No money?" Sheridan asked.

"
None."

"Why didn't you say so?" Sheridan asked and
opened his wallet."I've got a few hundred bucks on me. Is that
enough?"

Coyote Springs took the money, bribed their way back
into the Trading Post, and bought a week's worth of Pepsi, Doritos,
and Hershey's chocolate. Victor and Junior bought beer with their
share and drank slowly.

"
What a fine beer," Victor said. "A
wonderful bouquet. Lovely, fruity taste with a slight bitterness."

"Yeah," Junior said, swished a little beer
around his mouth, and then swallowed. "Gorgeous, gorgeous beer."

"Even better with corn nuts, enit?" Victor
asked.

"You're such a fucking gourmet," Junior
said.

Sheridan and Wright left the reservation before
Junior and Victor even finished that first beer and barely waved
goodbye.

"We'll see you in a week," Sheridan said
before they left.

"
Have all your shit packed. We're flying you
over there, so don't take too much."

"Flying?" Thomas asked.

"Of course. What did you think? You'd ride on
horses?"

Thomas knew there was no good reason for Indians to
fly. Indians could barely stay on the road when they were in cars.

"Well," Chess said after the record company
executives had gone.

"Well," Thomas said."What do we do
now?"

Checkers felt dizzy, sat on the ground, and wished
for a glass of cold water.

* * *

From a letter received on the day after Wright and
Sheridan left:

Dear Thomas Builds-the-Fire,
I've
heard you have a chance to audition for a large record company in New
York. I don't think you have a chance at landing a contract without
my help. In fact, there are many other complications involved in all
of this. Your friend, Robert Johnson, is here. He's been praying and
singing for you. Please come see me at my home and bring the entire
band. I'm looking forward to your visit.
Sincerely,
Big Mom
 

7

Big Mom
There's a grandmother
talking to me
There's a grandmother talking
to you
There's a grandmother singing for me
There's a grandmother singing for you
And
if you stop and listen
You might hear what
you been missing
And if you stop and listen
You might hear what you been missing
And
I hear Big Mom
Telling me another story
And I hear Big Mom
Singing
me another song
And she says

I'll be coming back
I'll be
coming back
I'll be coming back for you `
I'll be coming back
I'll be
coming back
I'll be coming back for you
I'll always come back for you
(repeat)

Coyote Springs carried two guitars, a drum set, and a
keyboard up the hill toward Big Mom's house. She lived in a blue
house on the top of Wellpinit Mountain. She was a Spokane Indian with
a little bit of Flathead blood thrown in for good measure. But she
was more than that. She was a part of every tribe.

There were a million stories about Big Mom. But no
matter how many stories were told, some Indians still refused to
believe in her. Even though she lived on the reservation, some
Spokanes still doubted her. Junior and Victor once saw Big Mom walk
across Benjamin Pond but quickly erased it from memory. Junior and
Victor had limited skills, but they were damn good at denial.

"Who the hell is Big Mom?" Victor had
asked.

"You know who she is," Thomas said. "You're
just pretending you don't know about her. You're Just scared."

"I ain't scared of nothing. Especially somebody
named Big Mom. What the hell does that mean anyway?"

"
She's powerful medicine," Thomas said.
"The most powerful medicine. I can't believe she called for us."

"Oh," Victor said, "don't tell me
she's some medicine woman or something. That's all a bunch of crap.
It don"t work."

"
Big Mom works."

"
And besides, why did she address that letter to
Thomas. We're a band, you know?"

"Because he's the lead singer," answered
everybody else.

"We have to go there," Thomas said.

"When?" Chess asked.

"
Right now," Thomas said. "Everybody
grab an instrument and follow me."

"Wait a second," Checkers said. "Can't
I say goodbye to Father Arnold?"

"Father Arnold can wait, " Thomas said.

"Now," Victor asked again as Coyote Springs
climbed up the hill. "Who the hell is this Big Mom?"

"
I told you. Big Mom can help us, and she's
helped us before," Thomas said. "That's all you need to
know."

Coyote Springs walked the rest of the way in silence.
They all thought about the help they needed and heard the word faith
echo in the trees. They all heard the same music in their heads.

"
This is spooky shit," Victor said.

"Way spooky," Junior said.

* * *

There were stories about Big Mom that stretched back
more than a hundred years. There were a hundred stories about every
day of Big Mom's life.

"Ya-hey," Indians whispered to each other
at powwows, at basketball games, at education conferences. "Did
you know Big Mom taught Elvis to sing?"

"No way," said the incredulous.

"What? You don't believe me? Well, then. Listen
to this."

Indians all over the country would play a scratched
record of Elvis, Diana Ross, Chuck Berry, and strain to hear the name
Big Mom hidden in the mix.

"
Didn't you hear it? Elvis whispers Thank you,
Big Mom just as the last note of the song fades."

"Yeah, maybe I heard it. But maybe Elvis was
singing to his own momma. He really did love his momma. "

But the faithful played record after record and heard
singer after singer thank Big Mom for her help. Those thanks were
barely audible, of course, but they were there.

Big Mom was a musical genius. She was the teacher of
all those great musicians who shaped the twentieth century. There
were photographs, they said, of Les Paul leaving Big Mom's house with
the original blueprint for the electric guitar. There were home
movies, they said, of Big Mom choreographing the Andrews Sisters'
latest dance steps. There were even cheap recordings, they said, of
Big Mom teaching Paul McCartney how to sing "Yesterday."

Musicians from all over the world traveled to Big
Mom's house in the hope she would teach them how to play. Like any
good teacher, Big Mom was very selective with her students. She never
answered the door when the live Jim Morrison came knocking. She won't
even answer the door when the dead Jim Morrison comes knocking now.

Still, Big Mom had her heart broken by many of her
students who couldn't cope with the incredible gifts she had given
them. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Elvis. They all drank so much and
self-destructed so successfully that Big Mom made them honorary
members of the Spokane Tribe.

Late at night, Big Mom's mourning song echoed all
over the reservation. The faithful opened their eyes and took it in,
knowing that another of her students had fallen. The unbelieving shut
their doors and windows and complained about the birds howling in the
trees. But those birds weren't howling. They all stood quietly,
listening to Big Mom, too. She didn't teach Just humans how to sing.
When those birds heard her mourning song, they also wondered which of
their tribe had fallen.

* * *

"Who is that?" Chess and Checkers asked as
Coyote Springs crested a rise and saw a huge woman standing in the
doorway of a blue house.

"That's Big Mom," Thomas said.

Big Mom was over six feet tall and had braids that
hung down past her knees. Her braids themselves were taller than any
of the members of Coyote Springs and probably weighed more, too. She
had a grandmother face, lined and crossed with deep wrinkles. But her
eyes were young, so young that the rest of her face almost looked
like a mask. Big Mom filled up the doorway of that blue house. She
wasn't obese at all, just thick and heavy.

"Ya-hey," Big Mom called out to them, and
her voice shook the ground.

"Did we take some bad acid?" Victor asked
Junior.

"
I hope so," Junior said.

Big Mom walked across her yard to greet the band. She
wore a full-length beaded buckskin outfit.

"
You're the lead singer," Big Mom said,
"Thomas Builds-the-Fire."

"Yes, I am," Thomas said. "Where's
Robert Johnson?"

"He's away in the trees, looking for some good
wood. He's going to build himself a new guitar."

"
What about his old guitar?" Thomas asked.

"
That guitar is Victor's responsibility now,"
Big Mom said. "I just wanted to see it. I just wanted Victor to
know he gets to make choices. He can play the guitar or not. I don't
think he should, but I won't take it away. If you want, I can throw
it away, Victor."

"Shit," Victor said. "I'd like to see
you try and take this guitar away."

That guitar nuzzled Victor's neck. Big Mom watched it
carefully.

"And you're all going to play for some record
company?" Big Mom asked.

"
Yeah, we are. How did you know that anyway?"

"Ancient Indian magic."

"Shit, " Victor said. "Everybody on
the reservation knows about it by now. Ain't no magic in that."

"
Well," Big Mom said, "I guess you're
right. But gossip can be a form of magic. Enit, Victor?"

"
I don't believe in magic."

"
Victor," Big Mom said, "you should
forgive that priest who hurt you when you were little. That will give
you power over him, you know? Forgiveness is magic, too."

"
What are you talking about?" Victor asked,
but he knew.

He still felt the priest's hands on his body after
all those years.

"
That poor man hasn't even forgiven himself
yet," Big Mom said. "He's in an old-age home in California.
He just cries all day long."
Victor
couldn't talk. He was frozen with the thought of that priest's life.
He had prayed for his death for years, had even wanted to kill him,
but never once considered forgiveness.

"
And you're Junior Polatkin," Big Mom said.