“Oh, Father,” Bessie said and laughed. “There weren’t any buffalo here to begin with. We’re a salmon tribe. At least, we were a salmon tribe before they put those dams on the river.”
“What about the buffalo? I mean, Indians were always hunting buffalo on television.”
“It was those dang Sioux Indians. Those Sioux always get to be on television. They get everything.”
Arnold’s Indian education was quick and brutal. He heard much laughter.
“Father Arnold, we’re not laughing with you, we’re laughing at you.”
He was impressed by the Spokanes’ ability to laugh. He’d never thought of Indians as being funny. What did they have to laugh about? Poverty, suicide, alcoholism? Father Arnold learned to laugh at most everything, which strangely made him feel closer to God.
However, he was most impressed by the Spokanes’ physical beauty. Perhaps it was because he had spent most of his life surrounded by white people and had grown used to their features. The Spokanes were exotic. Perhaps it was because of the Indians’ tremendous faith. But Father Arnold thought the Spokanes were uniformly beautiful. When members of other Indian tribes visited the Spokane Reservation, he began to believe that every Indian in the country was beautiful.
It’s their eyes, he finally decided. Those Indians have the most amazing eyes. Truly amazing.
David WalksAlong, the Spokane Tribal Council Chairman, showed up at the band’s rehearsal a few times. He was a tall, light-skinned Indian with brown eyes and a round face. He’d been a great basketball player in his youth, a slashing, brutal point guard who looked almost like an old-time Indian warrior. But he spent most of his time playing golf now and had grown fat in the belly and thighs. WalksAlong had long, dark, beautiful hair twenty years ago but had cut it shorter and shorter as it grew more gray.
“Kind of loud, enit?” WalksAlong asked Thomas after a particularly intense set.
“What’d you say?” asked Thomas. His ears were ringing.
“I said you’re disturbing the peace!”
“Yeah,” Thomas shouted. “We’re a three-piece band!”
“No, I said you’re too loud!”
“Yeah,” Thomas agreed. “It is a pretty good crowd!
WalksAlong was visibly angry.
“Listen,” the Chairman said, “you better quit fucking with me! You’re just like your asshole father!”
“Really?” Thomas asked. “You really think we’re rocking? You think my father will like us, too?”
WalksAlong jabbed Thomas’s chest with a thick finger.
“You might think you’re funny!” he shouted loud enough for Thomas to understand him, “but I can shut you down anytime I want to! I just have to give the word!” He stormed off, but Thomas just shrugged his shoulders. David WalksAlong had never cared much about the Builds-the-Fire family. He always thought the Builds-the-Fires talked too much. And Thomas’s father, Samuel, had been a better basketball player than WalksAlong. Not a lot better but enough to make all the Indian women chase him after the games, while WalksAlong walked home alone.
“What was that all about?” Junior asked Thomas.
“I don’t know,” Thomas shouted. “I don’t think he likes us.”
“Bullshit,” Victor shouted. “He just doesn’t like you. He ain’t never liked you.”
WalksAlong walked back to the Spokane Tribal Headquarters, cussing to himself all the way. He stormed through the front door, ignored his secretary’s attempts at conversation, and used his whole body to push open his office door. The contractor had used cheap, warped wood for the door, and it was nearly impassable on warm days.
“H’llo, Uncle,” said Michael White Hawk.
“Shit,” WalksAlong said, surprised. “What the hell are you doing here? Why didn’t you call me?”
“Jus’ got out,” White Hawk said. “Walked here.”
Michael White Hawk had been in Walla Walla State Penitentiary for two years. He was a huge man before he went to jail, but hours of weightlifting had turned him into a monster.
“Jeez, Nephew,” WalksAlong said. “You been shooting up steroids or what?”
“Pumped iron, you know?”
White Hawk had been in the same class as Victor and Junior but didn’t graduate from high school. He dropped out in eighth grade, unable to read and write. He could sign his name, but he did that purely by rote.
“Man,” WalksAlong said and hugged his nephew. “It’s good to have you back. It’s really good.”
WalksAlong had raised his nephew since he was a toddler. Michael’s mother had died of cirrhosis when he was just two years old, and he’d never even known his father. Michael was conceived during some anonymous three-in-the-morning powwow encounter in South Dakota. His mother’s drinking had done obvious damage to Michael in the womb. He had those vaguely Asian eyes and the flat face that alcohol babies always had on reservations. But he’d grown large and muscular despite the alcohol’s effects. Even in grade school, he’d been as big as most men and terrorized his classmates. He bullied even older kids past the point of reason. He once shoved a pencil up a seventh grader’s nose. That kid was in the hospital for a month and then moved to another reservation to live with some cousins. They’d sent White Hawk to a boys’ school near Spokane. But he beat the crap out of a few delinquent white boys, so they sent him back to the reservation.
“Uncle,” White Hawk said and hugged WalksAlong too hard.
“Oh,” WalksAlong said. “Take it easy. You’re going to bust my ribs.”
White Hawk did not ease up, however, hugging his uncle with all he had. WalksAlong was about to pass out when White Hawk finally let him go.
“Uncle, Uncle! Look what I fuckin’ got in prison!”
White Hawk took off his t-shirt to show his uncle the dozen tattoos he had received in prison. There were dragons, bears, feathers, and naked women. There was a naked Indian woman with braids on his back and a naked Indian woman with un-braided hair on his stomach. The tattoos were incredibly crude, little more than scars with ink imbedded in them. WalksAlong was amazed by how much pain his nephew must have gone through.
“How was it in there?” WalksAlong asked.
“Okay,” White Hawk said. “How come you di’nt come ’n see me?”
WalksAlong had driven to Walla Walla many times in the two years his nephew had been in prison, but he never once went inside. He sat in his car in the prison parking lot and smoked cigarettes.
“I didn’t want to see you in there,” WalksAlong said. “You didn’t belong in there.”
“Uncle, it hurt in here.”
White Hawk pointed to his chest, pressed his finger against a horse tattoo. WalksAlong had not seen his nephew cry in years, although White Hawk had screamed his way through childhood. But White Hawk didn’t cry. He just pointed to his chest.
“Jeez,” WalksAlong said, “we have to celebrate. Let me call the other Councilmen.”
Old Jerry, Buck, and Paula, the other Councilmen, hastily declined the offer when they heard that Michael White Hawk was home. David WalksAlong’s secretary, Kim, had already been on the phone with her sister, Arlene, and the gossip soon spread all over the reservation. Michael White Hawk was home. The news made it to Irene’s Grocery.
“White Hawk is home,” whispered one Indian to another.
“No shit? White Hawk is home?”
Lester FallsApart staggered up to Thomas after a song.
“Thomas!” Lester shouted. “White Hawk is home!”
Thomas looked back at Junior and Victor. Junior cleared his throat loudly. Victor shrugged his shoulders but felt something drop in his stomach. They barely made it through the next song and then went home, disappointing the crowd.
White strangers had begun to arrive on the Spokane Indian Reservation to listen to this all-Indian rock and blues band. A lot of those New Agers showed up with their crystals, expecting to hear-some ancient Indian wisdom and got a good dose of Sex Pistols covers instead. In
emulation of all their rock heroes, who destroyed hotel rooms with style and wit, Victor and Junior trashed their own HUD house. Both lived together in a tiny HUD house with faulty wiring and no indoor plumbing. They slept in the house only when there was no other alternative.
One evening, after a long rehearsal, Victor decided he was the Beatles.
“I’m McCartney and Lennon all rolled up into one,” Victor said. “Thomas is George. And Junior, you get to be Ringo.”
“Shit,” Junior said, “how come I have to be Ringo?”
“If the Ringo fits,” Victor said, “then wear it.”
Thomas knew it was just the beginning but was already frightened by how much Victor and Junior had improved. Victor, especially. He played that guitar like a crazy man, and chords and riffs and notes jumped out of that thing like fancydancers. If you looked close enough, you saw the music rising off the strings and frets.
Two white women, Betty and Veronica, had somehow found their way to the reservation and showed up at every rehearsal. They even parked their car outside Irene’s Grocery and set up camp. Betty slept in the front seat and Veronica slept in the back. Both had long blonde hair and wore too much Indian jewelry. Turquoise rings, silver feather earrings, beaded necklaces. They always appeared in sundresses with matching Birkenstocks.
“Jeez,” said one Spokane woman to another, “those New Age princesses like Indian men, enit?”
“Enit, but they don’t know what they’re getting into, do they?”
Betty and Veronica always stood in the front row and sang along with the band. They had great voices, which could be heard even through the noise that the band created. After the band had quit for the night, Betty and Veronica often entertained the stragglers by playing a few songs themselves. Both played guitar, and they sang duet on their own songs:
Indian boy, don’t go away
Indian boy, what did you say?
Indian boy, I’ll turn on the light
Indian boy, come home tonight
Most of the Spokane Indian women wanted to kick Betty and Veronica off the reservation, but the Indian men lined up every night to listen to the white women’s songs. David WalksAlong had even invited them to his home for dinner. WalksAlong was nearly a gourmet cook and could do wondrous things with commodity food. But Betty and Veronica were scared of Michael White Hawk.
They did go home with Junior and Victor one night, and everybody on the reservation knew about it. Little Indian boys crept around the house and tried to peek in the windows. All of them swore they saw the white women naked, then bragged it wasn’t the first time they’d seen a naked white woman. None of them had seen a naked Indian woman, let alone a white woman. But the numbers of naked white women who had visited the Spokane Indian Reservation rapidly grew in the boys’ imaginations, as if the size of their lies proved they were warriors.
Betty and Veronica did not take off their clothes that night, although Betty shared a bed with Junior and Veronica with Victor.
“Am I your first Indian man?” Junior asked Betty.
“No.”
“How many?”
“A few.”
“How many is a few?”
“About five or six, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“Well, some were only part Indian,” Betty said.
“Jeez, which part?” asked Junior. Betty kissed him then to shut him up. Both fell asleep with their shoes on.
In the other bedroom, Victor had his hand down Veronica’s pants within a few seconds. She kept pushing it away, but Victor was persistent.
“Stop,” Veronica said. “I don’t want you to do that.”
“Why you come in here, then?” Victor asked.
“Because I like you.”
“How much do you like me?”
“You’re the best. I mean, you’re an Indian and a guitar player. How much better could you be?”
Victor pushed his hand down her pants again.
“Please stop,” she said. “I just want to kiss. I’m not ready to do that.”
Victor removed his hand but pushed Veronica’s head down near his crotch.
“Do that,” he said.
“No, I don’t do that. I don’t like it.”
“Come on.”
“No. But I’ll do it with my hand.”
Victor unbuttoned his pants and closed his eyes. Afterwards, Veronica curled up next to him as he snored. She was cold and wanted to get under the blankets but didn’t want to wake him up.
Betty and Veronica left the next morning, before Junior and Victor even woke, but they left a note. Junior read it to Victor.
“Shit,” Victor said. “They live where?”
“Seattle,” Junior said. “They have to go back to work.”
“Work? Where do they work?”
“At some bookstore, I guess. But it says here they own the bookstore.”
“Own the bookstore? Man, they must be rich, enit?” I guess.
Betty and Veronica were co-owners of a New Age bookstore in the Capitol Hill section of Seattle. They had temporarily closed it down when rumors of the all-Indian rock band hit the store. They had driven to Wellpinit, three hundred and six miles away, in six hours.
“What’s the name of the bookstore?” Victor asked.
“I don’t know. They left a bookmark though. It says ‘Doppelgangers.’”
“What the hell is a doppelganger?”
“I think it means twins or something. Like a shadow of you.
“White shadows, enit?” Victor asked.
“I guess,” Junior said.
“Do you think they’ll be back?”
“I hope so.”
The gossip about the band spread from reservation to reservation. All kinds of Indians showed up: Yakama, Lummi, Makah, Snohomish, Coeur d’Alene. Thomas and his band had developed a small following before they ever played a gig. If they’d had a phone, it would have been ringing. If they’d had a post office box, it would have been stuffed. Indians talked about the band at powwows and feasts, at softball tournaments and education conferences. But the band still didn’t have a name.
“We need a name for this band,” Thomas said after another well-attended rehearsal.
“How about Bloodthirsty Savages?” Victor asked.
“That’s a cool name, enit?” Junior asked.
“I was thinking about Coyote Springs,” Thomas said.
“That’s too damn Indian,” Junior said. “It’s always Coyote this, Coyote that. I’m sick of Coyote.”
“Fuck Coyote,” Victor said.
Lightning fell on the reservation right then, and a small fire started down near the Midnight Uranium Mine. Coyote stole Junior’s water truck and hid it in the abandoned dance hall at the powwow grounds. The truck was too big for the doors, so nobody was sure how that truck fit in there. Junior lost his job, but he had to take that truck apart piece by piece and reassemble it outside first.
The entire band was unemployed now, and Coyote had proven his strength, so the band accepted the name and became Coyote Springs. But it wasn’t a happy marriage. Coyote Springs argued back and forth all the time. Victor and Junior threatened to quit the band every day, and Thomas brought them back with promises of money and magazine covers. Victor and Junior liked to sit outside the Trading Post in Thomas’s blue van and pose for all the women who happened to walk by.
“Ya-hey,” Victor called out to the full-blood Indian women. He also called out to the white women who worked for the Tribe, especially those nurses from the IHS Clinic. Victor had a thing for white nylons, but the nurses ignored him.
“Ya-hey,” the Indian women shouted back, which was the extent of conversation. Most Indians never needed to say much to each other. Entire reservation romances began, flourished, and died during the hour-long wait to receive commodity food on the first of each month.
At first, Coyote Springs just played covers of other people’s songs. They already knew every Hank Williams song intim
ately because that’s all their fathers sang when drunk. They learned the entire Buddy Holly catalogue, picked up a few Aerosmith songs, and sang Spokane Indian words in place of the Spanish in Ritchie Valens’s version of “La Bamba.”
“You know,” Thomas said, “I’m going to start writing our own songs.”
“Why?” Junior asked.
“Well,” Thomas said, “because Buddy Holly wasn’t a Spokane Indian.”
“Wait,” Junior said. “Buddy was my cousin.”
“That’s true,” Victor said. “He was quarter-blood, enit?”
“Besides,” Victor said, “how come you get to write the songs?”
“Yeah,” Junior said.
“Because I have the money,” Thomas said. He had forty-two dollars in his pocket and another fifty hidden at home, much more than Junior and Victor had together. Victor understood the economics of the deal, how money equals power, especially on a reservation so poor that a dollar bill once changed the outcome of tribal elections. David WalksAlong was elected Councilman by a single vote because he’d paid Lester FallsApart a dollar to punch the ballot for him.
“Okay, then, asshole,” Victor said, “write the songs. But I’m still the Guitar God.”
So Thomas went home and tried to write their first song. He sat alone in his house with his bass guitar and waited for the song. He waited and waited. It’s nearly impossible to write a song with a bass guitar, but Thomas didn’t know that. He’d never written a song before.
“Please,” Thomas prayed.
But the song would not come, so Thomas closed his eyes, tried to find a story with a soundtrack. He turned on the television and watched The Sound of Music on channel four. Julie Andrews put him to sleep for the seventy-sixth time, and neither story nor song came in his dreams. After he woke up, he paced around the room, stood on his porch, and listened to those faint voices that echoed all over the reservation. Everybody heard those voices, but nobody liked to talk about them. They were loudest at night, when Thomas tried to sleep, and he always thought they sounded like horses.
For hours, Thomas waited for the song. Then, hungry and tired, he opened his refrigerator for something to eat and discovered that he didn’t have any food. So he closed the fridge and opened it again, but it was still empty. In a ceremony that he had practiced since his youth, he opened, closed, and opened the fridge again, expecting an immaculate conception of a jar of pickles. Thomas was hungry on a reservation where there are ninety-seven different ways to say fry bread.