“That’s okay,” Thomas said. “I have been walking in downtown Spokane and stumbled over my father passed out on the sidewalk.”
“Yeah,” Checkers said. “And I hate it when some Indian comes begging for money. Calling me sister or cousin. What am I supposed to do? I ain’t got much money myself. So I give it to them anyway. Then I feel bad for doing it, because I know they’re going to drink it all up.”
Checkers was always afraid of those Indian men who wandered the streets. She always thought they looked like brown-skinned zombies. Samuel Builds-the-Fire looked like a zombie on the kitchen table. Those Indian zombies lived in Missoula when she was little. Once a month, the whole Warm Water family traveled from their little shack on the reservation to pick up supplies in Missoula. Those drunk zombies always followed the family from store to store.
Still, Checkers remembered how quiet and polite some of those zombies were, just as quiet as Samuel passed out on the table. In Missoula they stood on street corners, wrapped in old quilts, and held their hands out without saying a word. Just stood there and waited.
Once, Checkers watched a white man spit into a zombie’s open hand. Just spit in his palm. The zombie wiped his hand clean on his pants and offered it again. Then the white man spit again. Checkers saw all that happen. After the white man walked away, she ran up to the zombie and gave him a piece of candy, her last piece of candy.
Thank you, the zombie said. He unwrapped the candy, popped it in his mouth, and smiled.
“What are we supposed to do?” Chess asked Thomas, as Checkers remembered her zombies. “What should we do for your father?”
“I don’t know.”
Samuel groaned in his sleep, raised his hands in a defensive position.
“Listen,” Thomas said, “do you want something to drink?”
Thomas gave them all a glass of commodity grape juice. It was very sweet, almost too sweet. Thomas loved sugar.
“Our cousins are drinking this stuff mixed with rubbing alcohol at home,” Chess said.
“Really?” Thomas said. The creativity of alcoholics constantly surprised him.
“Yeah, they call it a Rubbie Dubbie.”
“Drinking that will kill them.”
“I think that’s the idea.”
Thomas, Chess, and Checkers stayed quiet for a long time. After a while, Chess and Checkers started to sing a Flathead song of mourning. For a wake, for a wake. Samuel was still alive, but Thomas sang along without hesitation. That mourning song was B-7 on every reservation jukebox.
After the song, Thomas stood and walked away from the table where his father lay flat as a paper plate. He walked outside while the women stayed inside. They understood. Once outside, Thomas cried. Not because he needed to be alone; not because he was afraid to cry in front of women. He just wanted his tears to be individual, not tribal. Those tribal tears collected and fermented in huge BIA barrels. Then the BIA poured those tears into beer and Pepsi cans and distributed them back onto the reservation. Thomas wanted his tears to be selfish and fresh.
“Hello,” he said to the night sky. He wanted to say the first word of a prayer or a joke. A prayer and a joke often sound alike on the reservation.
“Help,” he said to the ground. He knew the words to a million songs: Indian, European, African, Mexican, Asian. He sang “Stairway to Heaven” in four different languages but never knew where that staircase stood. He sang the same Indian songs continually but never sang them correctly. He wanted to make his guitar sound like a waterfall, like a spear striking salmon, but his guitar only sounded like a guitar. He wanted the songs, the stories, to save everybody.
“Father,” he said to the crickets, who carried their own songs to worry about.
Just minutes, days, years, maybe a generation out of high school, Samuel Builds-the-Fire, Jr., raced down the reservation road in his Chevy. He stopped to pick up Lester FallsApart, who hitchhiked with no particular destination in mind.
“Ya-hey,” Samuel said. “Where you going, Lester?”
“Same place you are. Now.”
“Good enough.”
Samuel dropped the car into gear and roared down the highway.
“I hear you’re getting married to that Susan,” Lester said.
“Enit.”
“You want to have kids.
“There’s already one on the way.”
“Congratulations,” Lester said and slapped Samuel hard on the back. Surprised, Samuel swerved across the center line, which caused Spokane Tribal Police Officer Wilson to suddenly appear. Officer Wilson was a white man who hated to live on the reservation. He claimed a little bit of Indian blood and had used it to get the job but seemed to forget that whenever he handcuffed another Indian. He read Tom Clancy novels, drank hot tea year round, and always fell asleep in his chair. At one A.M. every morning, he woke up from the chair, brushed his teeth, and then fell into bed. The years rushed by him.
“Shit,” Lester said. “It’s the cops.”
“Shit. You’re right.”
Samuel pulled over. Wilson stepped out of his car, walked up to the driver’s window, and shone his flashlight inside the Chevy.
“You two been drinking?”
“I’ve been drinking since I was five,” Lester said. “Kindergarten is hard on a man.”
“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” Wilson said.
“And we’ll pretend you’re a real Indian,” Samuel said.
Wilson reached inside the Chevy, grabbed Samuel by the collar, and grinned hard into his face. Officer Wilson was a big man.
“Better watch your mouth,” Wilson said. “Or I’ll have to hurt those precious hands of yours. I wonder how you’d play ball after that.”
“He’d still kick your ass,” Lester said.
“Shit,” Wilson said. “Let’s go for it right now. Let’s go over to the courts and go one on one. Hell, I’ll call up Officer William and we’ll play two on two.”
“Two of you ain’t going to be near enough,” Samuel said. “Lester and me will take on all six of you fake bastards. Full court to ten by ones. Make it. Take it.”
“No shit, enit?” Lester asked. “How’s that fucking treaty for you, officer?”
“You’re on,” Wilson said, and got on his radio to round up his teammates.
“Shit,” said Lester, who never played basketball on purpose. “What are you doing?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Samuel said. “Just give me the ball and get out of the way.”
Samuel and Lester arrived at the basketball courts behind the Tribal School a few moments after the entire Spokane Tribal Police Department. Wilson and William were the big white men. Certifiably one-quarter Spokane Indian, William had made the varsity basketball team in junior college. The brothers Plato, Socrates, and Aristotle Heavy Burden were the forwards. Everybody on the reservation called them Phil, Scott, and Art. The Tribal Police Chief, David WalksAlong, tied up his shoes and stretched his back. He would later be elected Tribal Chairman, but on that night, he played point guard.
“You take it out first,” WalksAlong said and threw the ball hard at Samuel’s chest.
“You better take it out,” Samuel said and threw the ball back. “It’s the only time you’ll touch it.”
The Chief faked a pass to his right and passed left, but Samuel stole the ball and dribbled downcourt for the slam.
SAMUEL & LESTER—1
TRIBAL COPS—0
Thomas stood outside while Chess and Checkers jealously watched Samuel Builds-the-Fire sleep. The sisters really needed to sleep but knew those Stick Indians might haunt Thomas if he stayed up alone.
“What should we do?” Chess asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t know, either.”
“I know you’re falling in love, enit?”