“But we’re not good enough yet,” Thomas said.
“Thomas,” Chess said, “this is as good as we’re going to get. Even you think we’re pretty good. You said so yourself.”
“Pretty good ain’t good enough,” Thomas said.
“It’s going to have to be.”
“But it ain’t. We have to come back as heroes. They won’t let us back on this reservation if we ain’t heroes. Unless we’re rock stars. We already left once, and all the Spokanes hate us for it. Shit, Michael White Hawk wants to kill all of us. Dave Walks-Along wants to kick us completely out of the Tribe. What if we screw up in New York and every Indian everywhere hates us? What if they won’t let us on any reservation in the country?”
Coyote Springs and Big Mom stared at Thomas. He stared back.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Thomas said. “We need more help. We need Robert Johnson. We need him. Where is he, Big Mom?”
“He’s out there right now,” Big Mom said and pointed with her lips toward the treeline. “Watching us.”
Thomas scanned the pine for any signs of Johnson.
“Robert Johnson!” Thomas shouted. “We need you!”
Johnson cowered behind a pine tree, covered his ears with his hands, and cried. He wanted to help; he wanted to take back that guitar. Coyote Springs was messing with things they didn’t understand. Big Mom couldn’t teach them everything. Big Mom couldn’t stop them if they were going to sign their lives away. Johnson wondered briefly if he should build his new guitar quickly, hop on the plane with Coyote Springs, and play music with them. A black man and five Indians. It had to work, didn’t it? But all Robert Johnson could do was burrow a little deeper into himself.
“He can’t help you,” Big Mom said. “He’s still trying to help himself.”
“I mean,” Thomas shouted at everybody, “look at all of us! What are any of us going to do if this doesn’t work? Robert Johnson’s hiding in the woods. What are you going to do, Victor? You and Junior will end up drunk in the Powwow Tavern. You’ll go back to ignoring me or beating the crap out of me. Checkers will join some convent. And what happens to us, Chess? What happens if people don’t listen?”
Chess took Thomas’s hands in hers, and the silence wrapped around them like a familiar quilt.
From a note left by Junior:
Dear Big Mom,
I just wanted to thank you for your drumsticks and for teaching us how to play better. I know you’re probably mad at Victor. He can be a jerk but he’s a good guy, too. He’s always taken care of me.
I was kind of small and sick when I was little. But I was really smart, too. Nobody liked me, except Victor. He was my bodyguard. If anybody beat me up then Victor would get even for me. He taught me how to fight, too. Once, a bunch of Colville Indians beat me up at a powwow. Victor spent the rest of the powwow finding and fighting all those guys. He beat them up one by one. Really kicked the crap out of them. He was nine years old. He didn’t even drink at all during that powwow. He just wanted to get me revenge. Victor’s tough that way.
It seems like Victor’s always been there for me. After his real dad left and my dad died, we hung out a lot. We took turns being the dad, I guess. Sometimes all we had was each other. I know we both picked on Thomas too much but we didn’t really mean it. We never really hurt him too much. I never wanted to really hurt anybody. So I hope you ain’t too mad at Victor.
He was the one who came and got me when I flunked out of college. Victor just borrowed money and his uncle’s car and drove to Oregon and got me. He even bought me a hamburger and fries at Dick’s. We just sat there at a picnic table outside Dick’s and ate. We didn’t talk much. Just passed the ketchup back and forth.
You know, I get mad at Victor all the time, but I remember that he’s been good to me, too. He’s just a kid sometimes, even though he’s a grown-up man.
Anyway, I hope you have a good life and I hope we get to see you again. Wish us luck in New York.
Sincerely,
Junior Polatkin
Big Mom watched Coyote Springs walk down her mountain. She had watched many of her students, her children, walk down that mountain. She was never sure what would happen to them. They could become the major musical voice of their generation, of many generations, but they could also fade into obscurity. Her students also fell apart, and were found in so many pieces they could never be put back together again.
“What’s going to happen to us?” Chess asked Big Mom just before Coyote Springs left.
“I don’t know,” Big Mom said. “It’s not up to me.”
“You sound like a reservation fortune cookie sometimes,” Victor said. “You know, you open up a can of commodity peanut butter, and there’s Big Mom’s latest piece of wisdom.”
“Listen,” Big Mom said. “Maybe you’ll go out there and get famous. I’ve had plenty of students get famous, really famous. I’ve had students invent stuff I never would have thought of, like jazz and rap. I’ve seen it all. But I ain’t had many students who ended up happy, you know? So what do you want me to say? It’s up to you. You make your choices.”
Coyote Springs looked at Big Mom. They sort of felt like baby turtles left to crawl from birth nest to ocean all by themselves, while predators of all varieties came to be part of the baby turtle beach buffet. They sort of felt like Indian children of Indian parents.
“Thank you, Big Mom,” Chess and Checkers said, and Big Mom took them in her arms.
Thomas hugged Big Mom; Junior managed a shy smile and wave. Then everybody turned to Victor.
“What?” Victor said. “What do you want? I ain’t going to say I had a great time. I ain’t going to say you were a tough teacher, Big Mom, and I know we had our differences, but aw shucks, I love you anyway. I was a great guitar player when I came in here and I’m a great guitar player as I walk out. You taught me a few new tricks. That’s it.”
“Well,” Big Mom said, “that may be all I taught you. But you should still thank me for it.”
“Fine,” Victor said. “Thank you.”
“You be careful with that guitar,” Big Mom said.
Coyote Springs walked down the hill. Big Mom watched them, for years it seemed, watched them over and over. She watched them walk into Wellpinit, meet up with Sheridan and Wright. She watched them all climb into a limousine and drive off the reservation and arrive suddenly at the Spokane International Airport.
Coyote Springs waited in the Spokane International Airport for their flight. Wright and Sheridan had already boarded because they were in first class. The flight attendant called for their rows, and Coyote Springs made their way toward the gate.
“Wait a second,” Victor said, suddenly understanding that he was getting on an airplane. “I ain’t flying in that fucking thing.”
“Been in a little bit of denial, enit?” Chess asked him.
Victor refused to board the plane.
“Come on, you chicken,” Chess said. “Get on the plane.”
“Damn right I’m a chicken,” Victor said. “Because chickens don’t fly.”
“It’ll be cool,” Junior said. “Don’t be scared.”
“I ain’t scared. I’m being smart.”
Everybody looked to Thomas for help.
“Victor,” Thomas said, “I brought an eagle feather for protection. You can have it.”
“Get that Indian bullshit away from me!”
The crowd at the gate stared at Coyote Springs. They worried those loud dark-skinned people might be hijackers. Coyote Springs did their best not to look middle eastern.
“That ain’t going to do nothing,” Victor continued, in a lower volume. “It’s just a feather. Hell, it fell off some damn eagle, so it obviously wasn’t working anyway, enit?”