“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.
“Yeah, I am,” Junior said. “And I’m scared.”
Big Mom reared her head back and laughed a thunderstorm. Junior nearly pissed a rain shower in his shorts.
“Don’t be scared, Junior,” Big Mom said and held out two huge drumsticks. “These are for you.”
“I can’t use those, I don’t think I can even lift them.”
“Take them. They’re yours.”
Junior reached for the sticks, hesitated, then grabbed them quickly. They were too heavy at first, and they dropped to the ground. But Junior reached down and pulled them up. Then he smiled and pounded a little rhythm across the ground.
“Beautiful,” Big Mom said.
“Shit,” Victor said. “She thinks she’s a medicine woman. She thinks she’s Yoda and Junior is Luke Skywalker. Use the force, Junior, use the force.”
Big Mom ignored Victor.
“And you two are the sisters, Eunice and Gladys Warm Water,” Big Mom said. “You’re special women. Come sweat with me.”
“Eunice and Gladys?” Junior, Victor, and Thomas asked.
Chess and Checkers ducked their heads, hid their faces.
“Eunice and Gladys?” Victor said again. “Jeez, your parents must’ve been seduced by the dark side of the force when they named you, enit?”
“Eunice?” Thomas asked Chess.
“Yeah, I’m Eunice,” Chess whispered.
“Don’t be ashamed,” Big Mom said. Chess and Checkers each took a hand, and Big Mom led them to the sweatlodge, leaving the men of Coyote Springs to their fears and drumsticks.
From Checkers (Gladys) Warm Water’s journaclass="underline"
I was so scared when I first saw Big Mom. She was this huge woman with fingers as big as my arms, I think. I kept thinking she could squash me like a bug. But then she called me a special woman. It made me realize Big Mom is really a woman and we could have a good talk.
She took Chess and me into the sweatlodge, and I kept thinking that Big Mom was inside my head. I’ve always been able to sort of read people’s minds, been able to get into their heads a little bit. Even Chess always told me I had a little bit of magic. But there were always people, especially women, who had more magic. I remember I was trying to read this old white lady’s mind on a bus ride to Missoula when she turned to me and said “Get out!” Well, she really said it in her head. That old white lady threw me out of her mind, and I had a headache for a week. But that was nothing compared to Big Mom. I kept feeling like she could have made commodity applesauce out of my brain.