“I think we should pray for all of your safety,” Father Arnold said.
“Okay,” she said.
Both kneeled on the ground, still face to face, holding hands.
“You pray,” Father said.
“Dear Father,” she began, stopped, started again. She struggled through a brief prayer.
“Amen.”
“Amen.”
“Checkers,” he whispered, “it will be okay.”
She leaned forward and kissed him, full on the lips. Surprised, he pulled back. She kissed him again, with more force, and he kissed her back, clumsily.
“Checkers,” he said and pushed her away.
She looked up at him; he closed his eyes and prayed.
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?”