Son House, preacher and bluesman, had been a star in Robinsville, Mississippi, way back when. Robert Johnson was just a teenager when he started to follow House from juke joint to joint. Johnson only played harmonica then, but he was good enough to join Son House on stage every once in a while. Johnson loved the stage. He only felt loved when he was on stage, singing and blowing his harp. But it still wasn’t enough. Johnson wanted to play guitar.
“Oh, God,” Son House said to Johnson after he let him play guitar at a juke. “I ain’t lettin’ you play no more. I ain’t ever heard such a racket. You was makin’ people mad.”
Ashamed, Johnson packed up his clothes and guitar and left town. He just disappeared as he walked north up Highway 61. Just vanished after the first crossroads.
Robert Johnson looked over at Big Mom. She was carving a piece of wood. Johnson had given up on carving a new guitar out of that scrub wood he had gathered when Coyote Springs was still practicing at Big Mom’s house. That wood was still in a pile out there in the pine trees. He barely remembered his dreams of a new guitar.
“What’s you makin’ there?” Johnson asked Big Mom.
“None of your business,” she said.
“That a good piece of wood?”
“Good enough.”
Johnson looked down the mountain and watched a group of Spokane Indians carrying picket signs and marching in circles around the Tribal Community Center. The very traditional Spokanes carried signs written in the Spokane language and chanted things in the Spokane language, too. But they all sounded pissed off. The Indian Christian signs read COYOTE SPRINGS NEEDS TO BE SAVED and REPENT, COYOTE SPRINGS, REPENT! while the nonsecular signs said COYOTE SPRINGS CAN KISS MY BIG RED ASS.
“What’s goin’ happen down there?” Johnson asked Big Mom. “What’s goin’ happen to Coyote Springs?”
“I don’t know. It ain’t up to me to decide.”
“That’s what you always say.”
“I say it because it’s true. What do you want me to say?”
“What do you want, Mr. Johnson?” asked the Gentleman. A handsome white man, the Gentleman wore a perfectly pressed black wool suit in the hot Mississippi heat. He leaned against the crossroads sign, picking at his teeth with a long fingernail.
“I want to play the guitar,” Johnson said.
“But you already play the guitar.”
“No. I mean, I want to play the guitar better.”
“Better than what?”
“Better than anybody ever.
“That’s a big want,” the Gentleman said. His lupine eyes caught the sunlight in a strange way, reflecting colors that Johnson had never seen before.
“I want it big,” Johnson said.
“Well, then,” said the Gentleman after a long pause. “I can teach you how to play like that. But what are you going to give me in return?”
“What you mean?”
“I mean, Mr. Johnson, that you have to trade me. I’ll teach you how to play better than anybody ever, but you have to give me something in return.”
“Like what?”
“Whatever you love the most. What do you love the most, Mr. Johnson?”
Johnson felt the whip that split open the skin on his grandfathers’ backs. He heard the creak of floorboard as the white masters crept into his grandmothers’ bedrooms.
“Freedom,” Johnson said. “I love freedom.”
“Well, I don’t know,” the Gentleman said and laughed. “You’re a black man in Mississippi. I don’t care if it is 1930. You ain’t got much freedom to offer me.”
“I’ll give you all I got.”
The horses screamed.
The Gentleman leaned over, touched Johnson’s guitar with the tip of a fingernail, and then smiled.
“It’s done,” said the Gentleman and faded away. Johnson rubbed his eyes. He figured he’d been dreaming. The hot summer heat had thrown a mirage at him. So he just turned around and walked back toward Robinsville. He’d only been gone for a few hours. Nobody would even notice he’d left, and he was foolish for leaving. He’d forget about the guitar and play the harp with Son House. Johnson vowed to become the best harp player that ever lived. He’d practice all day long.
“Where you been?” Son House asked when Johnson walked into the juke joint. House sat in a chair on stage.
“What you mean?” Johnson asked. “You act like I been gone forever. I just walked out to the crossroads. Then I changed my mind and came back.”
“You been gone a year! Do you hear me? You been gone a year!
Stunned, Johnson slumped into a chair on the floor below House and laid his guitar on his lap. He heard an animal laughing in his head.
“Don’t you know where you been?” House asked.
“Been at the crossroads,” Johnson said. He looked down at his guitar. He looked at House.
“Well, boy,” House said, “you still got a guitar, huh? What do you do with that thing? You can’t do nothing with it.”
“Well,” Johnson said, “I’ll tell you what.”
“What?”
“Let me have your seat a minute.”
House and Johnson exchanged seats. Johnson sat onstage, tuned his guitar, while House sat on the floor, the very first audience. Johnson pulled out a bottle, a smooth bottle, and ran it up and down the fretboard. He played a few songs that arrived from nowhere. Son House’s mouth dropped open. Robert Johnson was suddenly the best damn guitar player he had ever heard.
“Well, ain’t that fast,” House said when Johnson finished.
Big Mom carved her wood while Johnson stared blankly at the Spokane Indian Reservation. He watched Victor sleeping. He could see Victor’s dreams. That guitar, that guitar.
“I feel bad,” Johnson said.
“About what?” Big Mom asked.
“About that guitar of Victor’s. I mean, my guitar. I mean, that Gentleman’s guitar. I mean, whose guitar is it?”
“It belongs to whoever wants it the most.”
“Well, I guess it don’t belong to nobody anymore. It’s all broken up back in New York, ain’t it?”
“If you say so.”
Johnson knew the guitar had always come back to him. Sometimes it had taken weeks, but it always found its way back into his arms and wanted more from him at every reunion. That guitar pulled him at him, like gravity. Even though Victor had owned it for months now, Johnson could still feel the pull. Johnson wondered if he’d ever really be free again.
The day before Big Mom carved a good piece of wood into a cedar harmonica while Robert Johnson watched the reservation, Father Arnold stood in the phone booth just outside the Trading Post. He had dialed the Bishop’s phone number a dozen times but hung up before it rang. Father Arnold just held the phone to his mouth and pretended to talk as Spokane Indians walked in and out of the Trading Post.
“The end of the world is near!” shouted the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota as he stood in his usual spot.
Father Arnold dialed the Bishop’s number again.
“Hello,” answered the Bishop.
Father Arnold held his breath.
“Hello,” said the Bishop. “Is there anybody there?”
“Hello, Father,” Father Arnold said. “It’s Father Arnold. Out on the Spokane Indian Reservation.”
“Father Arnold? Oh, yes. Father Arnold. How are you?”
“I’m good. Well, no. I’m not. I have a problem.”
“What ever could that be?”
“I don’t think I’m strong enough for this place. I’m having some doubts.”
“Really? Tell me about them.”
Father Arnold closed his eyes, saw Checkers Warm Water singing in the church choir.
“I don’t know if I’m being effective out here,” Father Arnold said. “I think we might need a fresh perspective. Somebody younger perhaps. Maybe somebody with more experience.”