Reservation Blues - Alexie Sherman (33 page)

"Shit," Victor said."What happened?"

Coyote Springs was Just about to abandon the bag when
a guitar case slid down onto the carousel. The rest of Coyote Springs
took a quick step back, but Victor reached for it and grabbed the
handle. He pulled the guitar case off the carousel and turned back
toward the rest of the band.

"It's my guitar," Victor said. "It's
my guitar, goddamn it. We can start over. We can get the band going
again. We don't need those fucking guys in New York City. We can do
it ourselves."

A young white man with a white shirt and dirty Jeans
came running back into the baggage area. He was in a panic but
relaxed visibly when he saw Victor holding the guitar case.

"Oh, God," said the white man."I can't
believe I almost forgot it."

Coyote Springs looked at him blankly. He stared back.

"That's mine," the white man said and
pointed at the guitar case."I almost forgot it."

Victor pulled the guitar up close to his body.

"
That's mine," the man repeated."That's
my name there on the side."

Coyote Springs looked at the black guitar case with
"Dakota" written in white paint.

"
Your name ain't really Dakota, is it?"
Chess asked.

"
Yeah, my dad is way into the Indian thing. He's
part Indian from his grandmother. She was a full-blood Cherokee."

"If he was Cherokee," Chess said, "then
why did he name you Dakota?"

"
What do you mean?"

"
Cherokee and Dakota are two different tribes,
you know?"

"I don't understand what you're trying to say."

Coyote Springs took a deep breath, exhaled.

"You ain't supposed to name yourself after a
whole damn tribe," Victor finally said."Especially if it
ain't your tribe to begin with."

"Well," said the white man, "it's my
name. And that's my guitar."

Victor had known the guitar inside the case wasn't
his. He had only wanted to be close to any guitar.

"Here," Victor said."Take the damn
thing."

The white man took the guitar from Victor and walked
away. Coyote Springs watched him. Then he turned back after a few
steps.

"
You know," he said, "you act like I'm
stealing something from you. This is my guitar. This is my name. I
didn't steal anything."

Chess and Thomas finally agreed to leave the Spokane
Indian Reservation for anywhere else. There was no doubt that
Checkers would come with them, but she lay on the floor, fuming. She
didn't want to leave. She was still angry when she fell asleep. After
Thomas had fallen asleep too, Chess climbed out of bed and walked
quietly into the kitchen. She sat at the table with an empty cup. She
kept bringing the cup to her lips, forgetting it contained nothing.

She rubbed her eyes, brought the cup to her lips
again, set it back. She cleared her throat, thought about the cup
again, and then the sun rose so suddenly that she barely had time to
react.

"
Good morning," Thomas said when he walked
into the kitchen."You're up early."

Checkers shuffled in a few minutes later, while
Victor and Junior slept on. Those two found it was easier to Just
sleep, rather than wake up and face the day.

"
Morning," Checkers mumbled. She poured
powdered commodity milk into a plastic jug and added water. She
stirred and stirred. She stirred for ten minutes, because that
powdered milk  refused to mix completely. No matter how long an
Indian stirred her commodity milk, it always came out with those
lumps of coagulated powder. There was nothing worse. Those lumps were
like bombs, moist on the outside with an inner core of dry powdered
milk. An Indian would take a big swig of milk, and one of those
coagulated powder bombs would drop into her mouth and explode when
she bit it. She'd be coughing little puffs of powdered milk for an
hour.

"Do you want some breakfast?" Checkers
asked Chess and Thomas. Neither of them was very excited about the
milk, but they had to have something for breakfast.

"Okay," Chess and Thomas said.

Checkers poured milk into their cups and into a cup
of her own. The three sat at the kitchen table, took small sips, then
a big drink, and coughed white powder until Victor and Junior could
not sleep through the noise.

* * *

The day before Chess and Thomas decided to leave the
Spokane Indian Reservation for good, Robert Johnson sat on the porch
at Big Mom's house while she sat in her rocking chair. Johnson's
vision had improved tremendously during his time on the reservation.
Back in his youth in Mississippi, he saw everything blurred. White
spots clouded one eye. His sister bought him glasses when he was ten
years old, but he never wore them much. But now he could see the
entire Spokane Indian Reservation when he looked down Wellpinit
Mountain. He watched Michael White Hawk march dumbly around the
softball diamond. From home to first base, second, third, and back to
home.

"
Home," White Hawk whispered to himself.
Then he marched around the bases again.

"
What's wrong wit' him?" Johnson asked Big
Mom.

"Same thing that's wrong with most people,"
Big Mom said."He's living his life doing the same thing all day
long. He's just more obvious about it."

"What d'y'all mean?"

"
Well, think about it. Most people wake up, have
breakfast, go to work, come home, eat dinner, watch television, and
then go to sleep. Five days a week. Then they go see a movie, go to
church, go to the beach on weekends. Then Monday morning comes, and
they're back to work. Then they die. White Hawk's just doing the same
thing on a different level. He's a genius. It's performance art."

"Well, I guess. You pos'tive 'bout that? Maybe
he just got hisself knocked too hard on the head. Like a fighter. I
seen how fighters end up gettin' slugged too much."

"
Maybe."

"
You ain't serious 'bout that, are you?"

"
Maybe."

Robert Johnson and Big Mom sat for hours in silence.
Big Mom thought about the young Michael White Hawk, who had come to
get help with his saxophone. She remembered that version of White
Hawk, who had nearly believed in Big Mom once, before he went to
prison for assaulting that grocery store cashier. But Johnson had
never known that White Hawk. Johnson watched him walk circles around
the softball diamond. Home, first, second, third, home again.

"
It happens that way," Johnson
whispered."It really does happen that way."

Son House, preacher and bluesman, had been a star in
Robinsville, Mississippi, way back when. Robert Johnson was just a
teenager when he started to follow House from juke joint to joint.
Johnson only played harmonica then, but he was good enough to join
Son House on stage every once in a while. Johnson loved the stage. He
only felt loved when he was on stage, singing and blowing his harp.
But it still wasn't enough. Johnson wanted to play
guitar.

"Oh, God," Son House said to Johnson after
he let him play guitar at a juke. "I ain't lettin' you play no
more. I ain't ever heard such a racket. You was makin' people mad."

Ashamed, Johnson packed up his clothes and guitar and
left town. He Just disappeared as he walked north up Highway 61. Just
vanished after the first crossroads.

Robert Johnson looked over at Big Mom. She was
carving a piece of wood. Johnson had given up on carving a new guitar
out of that scrub wood he had gathered when Coyote Springs was still
practicing at Big Mom's house. That wood was still in a pile out
there in the pine trees. He barely remembered his dreams of a new
guitar.

"What's you makin' there?" Johnson asked
Big Mom.

"None of your business," she said.

"That a good piece of wood?"

"Good enough."

Johnson looked down the mountain and watched a group
of Spokane Indians carrying picket signs and marching in circles
around the Tribal Community Center. The very traditional Spokanes
carried signs written in the Spokane language and chanted things in
the Spokane language, too. But they all sounded pissed off. The
Indian Christian signs read COYOTE SPRINGS NEEDS TO BE SAVED AND
REPENT, COYOTE SPRINGS, REPENT! while the nonsecular signs said
C0YOTE SPRINGS CAN KISS MY BIG RED ASS.

"What's goin' happen down there?°' Johnson
asked Big Mom."What's goin' happen to Coyote Springs?"

"
I don't know. It ain't up to me to decide."

"
That's what you always say."

"I Say it because
it's true. What do you want me to say?"

*

"What do you want, Mr. Johnson?" asked the
Gentleman. A handsome white man, the Gentleman wore a perfectly
pressed black wool suit in the hot Mississippi heat. He leaned
against the crossroads sign, picking at his teeth with a long
fingernail.

"I want to play the guitar," Johnson said.

"
But you already play the guitar."

"No. I mean, I want to play the guitar better."

"Better than what?"

"Better than anybody ever."

"That's a big want," the Gentleman said.
His lupine eyes caught the sunlight in a strange way, reflecting
colors that Johnson had never seen before.

"I want it big," Johnson said.

"
Well, then," said the Gentleman after a
long pause. "I can teach you how to play like that. But what are
you going to give me in return?"

"
What you mean?"

"
I mean, Mr. Johnson, that you have to trade me.
I'll teach you how to play better than anybody ever, but you have to
give me something in return."

"
Like what?"

"Whatever you love the most. What do you love
the most, Mr. Johnson?"

Johnson felt the whip that split open the skin on his
grandfathers' backs. He heard the creak of floorboard as the white
masters crept into his grandmothers' bedrooms.

"Freedom," Johnson said."I love
freedom."

"
Well, I don't know," the Gentleman said
and laughed.

"
You're a black man in Mississippi. I don't care
if it is 1930. You ain't got much freedom to offer me."

"I'II give you all I got."

The horses screamed.

The Gentleman leaned over, touched Johnson's guitar
with the tip of a fingernail, and then smiled.

"It's done," said the Gentleman and faded
away. Johnson rubbed his eyes. He figured he'd been dreaming. The hot
summer heat had thrown a mirage at him. So he just turned around and
walked back toward Robinsville. He'd only been gone for a few hours.
Nobody would even notice he'd left, and he was foolish for leaving.
He'd forget about the guitar and play the harp with Son House.
Johnson vowed to become the best harp player that ever lived. He'd
practice all day long.

"
Where you been?" Son House asked when
Johnson walked into the Juke Joint. House sat in a chair on stage.

"What you mean?" Johnson asked."You
act like I been gone forever. I just walked out to the crossroads.
Then I changed my mind and came back."

"You been gone a year! Do you hear me? You been
gone a year!"

Stunned, Johnson slumped into a chair on the floor
below House and laid his guitar on his lap. He heard an animal
laughing in his head.

"
Don't you know where you been?" House
asked.

"Been at the crossroads," Johnson said. He
looked down at his guitar. He looked at House.

"Well, boy," House said, "you still
got a guitar, huh? What do you do with that thing? You can't do
nothing with it."

"
Well," Johnson said, "I'll tell you
what."

"What?"

"
Let me have your seat a minute."

House and Johnson exchanged seats. Johnson sat
onstage, tuned his guitar, while House sat on the floor, the very
first audience. Johnson pulled out a bottle, a smooth bottle, and ran
it up and down the fretboard. He played a few songs that arrived from
nowhere. Son House's mouth dropped open. Robert Johnson was suddenly
the best damn guitar player he had ever heard.

"Well, ain't that
fast," House said when Johnson finished.

*

Big Mom carved her wood while Johnson stared blankly
at the Spokane Indian Reservation. He watched Victor sleeping. He
could see Victor's dreams. That guitar, that guitar.

"
I feel bad," Johnson said.

"
About what?" Big Mom asked.

"About that guitar of Victor's. I mean, my
guitar. I mean, that Gentleman's guitar. I mean, whose guitar is it?"

"
It belongs to whoever wants it the most."

"Well, I guess it don't belong to nobody
anymore. It's all broken up back in New York, ain't it?"

"
If you say so."

Johnson knew the guitar had always come back to him.
Sometimes it had taken weeks, but it always found its way back into
his arms and wanted more from him at every reunion. That guitar
pulled him at him, like gravity. Even though Victor had owned it for
months now, Johnson could still feel the pull. Johnson wondered if
he'd ever really be free again.