Junior’s father had owned a couple hundred acres of wheat that he rented out to a white farmer. Every harvest, Junior’s father made enough money for a family vacation in Spokane. They stayed at the Park Lane Motel, ate Kmart submarine sandwiches, and watched bad karate movies at the Trent Drive-In.
Junior dreamed of his parents’ funeral in the Spokane Indian Longhouse. His siblings, who had long since dispersed to other reservations and cities, couldn’t afford to come back for the funeral. None of his siblings had enough money to mourn properly.
Victor dreamed of his stepfather, a short, stocky white man, red-headed and so pale that veins flowed through his skin like rivers on a map. Victor’s mother and stepfather had met in a cowboy bar in Spokane when Victor was nine years old, a few weeks after his real father had moved to Phoenix, Arizona. His mother and stepfather had two-stepped to Hank Williams all night long and fell in love.
“It was the cowboy hat,” Victor’s mother had said more than once.
In Victor’s dream, he could smell the dead body, his real father’s. His real father had died of a heart attack during a heat wave in Phoenix and lay on a couch for a week before a neighbor discovered him. Victor hadn’t seen his real father for years before his death. Victor could still smell that dead body smell. That smell never fully dissipated, had always remained on the edges of Victor’s senses.
In that way, both dreamed of their families.
Then the morning came and brought Robert Johnson’s guitar with it. In Thomas’s yard, the guitar played itself and the music did rise into the clouds. It did rain down on the reservation, which arched its back and drank deeply. It did fall on the roof of the water truck, disturbing Junior’s and Victor’s sleep. The music talked to them in their dreams, talking so loudly that neither could sleep.
“Shit,” Victor said, “what the hell is that noise?”
“It’s music,” Junior said. “I think.”
“Man, I got a hangover.”
“Me, too.”
The music played on, and gradually changed.
“Jeez,” Victor said, “now it sounds like Thomas singing out there. I’m going to kick his ass. As soon as I can lift my head.”
“Thomas,” Junior said, “will you keep it down? I got a headache.”
The music kept playing.
“That’s it,” Victor said. “I’m kicking his ass good this time.”
Victor and Junior staggered out of the truck, but Thomas was nowhere to be found. The music continued.
“What the hell is that?” Victor asked.
“I don’t know.”
“That fucking Thomas has to be doing this. It’s his voice. He’s doing this. I say we go find him and kick his ass.”
“It’s getting louder.
“That’s it,” Victor said as he slowly climbed back into the truck. “Let’s go get him.”
Junior found his way into the driver’s seat, started the truck, and made his way toward Thomas’s house. He was a good driver.
“I smell water,” the guitar said.
“It’s the pond,” Thomas said and pointed. “Down there.”
Benjamin Pond used to be called Benjamin Lake, but then a white man named Benjamin Lake moved to the reservation to teach biology at the Tribal High School. All the Indians liked the teacher so much that they turned the lake into a pond to avoid confusion.
“They’re comin’ now,” the guitar said. “I feel ’em.”
Thomas walked into the house to get some food ready. He had to offer food to his guest, no matter how little he had, even if Junior and Victor were the guests. The cupboards were nearly bare, but Thomas managed to find a jar of peanut butter and some saltine crackers.
“Tell me a story ’fore they get here,” the guitar said when Thomas came back outside with a plate of reservation appetizers.
Thomas sat, closed his eyes, and told this story:
“Benjamin Pond has been on the reservation longer than anything. Jesus sipped water from the pond. But Turtle Lake, on the other side of the reservation, has been here a long time, too. Genghis Khan swam there and was nearly eaten by the giant turtles. He decided not to conquer the Americas because even its turtles were dangerous.
“The tribal elders say that Benjamin Pond and Turtle Lake are connected by a tunnel. Those turtles swim from pond to lake; they live in great caverns beneath the reservation and feed on failed dreams.
“The elders tell the story of the horse that fell into Benjamin Pond, drowned in those waters, but washed up on the shore of Turtle Lake. Children swim in both places, but their grandmothers burn sage and pray for their safety.
sweet smoke, save us, bless us now
“Indian teenagers build fires and camp at the water. They sometimes hear a woman crying but can never find the source of the sound. Victor, Junior, and I saw Big Mom, the old woman who lives on the hill, walk across Benjamin Pond. Victor and Junior pretend they don’t know about Big Mom, but we heard her sing all the way.
sweet smoke, save us, bless us now
“I am in love with water; I am frightened by water. I never learned to swim. Indians have drowned in both Benjamin Pond and Turtle Lake, and I wonder if we can taste them when we drink the water.
sweet smoke, save us, bless us now
“I watched Victor learn to swim when he was ten years old. His stepfather threw him in Turtle Lake, which doesn’t have a bottom, which used to be a volcano. Victor’s screams rose like ash, drifted on the wind, and blanketed the reservation. Junior watched his oldest brother James slip on the dock at Benjamin Pond. James fractured his skull and woke up as somebody different.”
Thomas opened his eyes. The guitar was silent.
“Ya-hey,” Thomas whispered, but the guitar didn’t respond. The sun was almost directly overhead when Junior and Victor pulled up in the water truck. They stepped out of the rig at the same time and walked toward Thomas.
“They’re here,” Thomas whispered to the guitar, which remained silent. He picked it up and strummed a few chords, thinking how nobody believed in anything on this reservation. All the Indians just dropped their quarters into the jukebox, punched the same old buttons, and called that music. Thomas shared his stories with pine trees because people didn’t listen. He was grateful for the trees when the guitar left him.
“I don’t know what the fuck is going on,” Victor said to Thomas. “But I can’t get your voice out of my head.”
“What’s he saying to you?” Junior asked Victor.
“Something about being on the cover of Rolling Stone.”
“Yeah,” Junior said. “Me, too.”
“I was wondering if you guys wanted to be in my band,” Thomas said. “I need a lead guitarist and drummer.”
“I’ll do it,” Junior said, already convinced. Two peanut butter and onion sandwiches waited in his lunch box.
“What’s in it for me?” Victor asked.
“This,” Thomas said and handed Robert Johnson’s guitar to him. Victor picked at the strings and flinched.
“Damn,” Victor said. “This thing is hot. How long it been in the sun?”
“I thought we broke that thing,” Junior said.
“Nothing’s broken yet,” Thomas said.
“Why the hell you want us in your band anyway?” Victor asked. “Who’s to say I won’t break this guitar over your head every damn day?”
“Nothing I can say about that,” Thomas said.
But Victor held on to that guitar too tenderly to ever break it again. He already gave it a name and heard it whisper. Thomas couldn’t hear the guitar at all anymore but saw it snuggle closer to Victor’s body.
“Play that thing a little,” Thomas said. “Then tell me you don’t want to be in my band.”