Read Online Reservation Blues - Alexie Sherman by Alexie Sherman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alexie Sherman
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her
bedroom door open a little.
" Your sister is nice," Thomas said.
"She's always crabby," Chess said, because
she knew that Checkers was eavesdropping.
"Oh, I didn't notice," Thomas lied.
"Tell me about yourself," Chess said,
because she couldn't think of anything else to say, because she
wanted to know.
"Not much to say," Thomas replied, feeling
shy. "What about you?"
"Well, we grew up on the reservation,"
Chess said.
"Way up in the hills in this little shack with
our mom and dad. Luke and Linda Warm Water."
"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
Thomas asked.
"Yeah, we had a baby brother, Bobby. We called
him Backgammon."
"What happened to him?" Thomas asked.
"You know," Chess said, "those winters
were always awful back then. Ain't no IHS doctor going to come
driving through the snowdrifts and ice to save some Indian kid who
was half dead anyway. I don't know. We feel less pain when we're
little, enit? Bobby was always a sick baby, born coughing in the
middle of a bad winter and died coughing in the middle of a worse
winter."
"I'm an only kid," Thomas said.
"Did you ever get lonely?" Chess asked.
"All the time."
"Yeah, you must have," Chess said. "I
get lonely when I think about the winters. I mean, it got so cold
sometimes that trees popped like gunshots. Really. All night long.
Pop, pop, pop. Kept us awake sometimes so we'd all play rummy by
candlelight. Mom, Dad, Checkers, me. Those were some good times. But
it makes me lonely to think about them."
Thomas and Chess sipped at their coffee.
"How about your parents?" Chess asked.
"My dad's still on our reservation, drinking and
staggering around," Thomas said. "But my mom died when I
was ten."
" Yeah, my mom is dead, too."
"What about your dad?" Thomas asked.
" He went to Catholic boarding school when he was
little," Chess said. "Those nuns taught him to play piano.
Ain't that funny? They'd teach him scales between beatings. But he
still loved to play and saved up enough money to buy a secondhand
piano in Missoula. Man, that thing was always out of tune.
"He used to play when it was too cold and noisy
to sleep. He'd play and Mom would sing. Old gospel hymns, mostly. Mom
had a beautiful voice, like a reservation diva or something. Mom
taught Checkers and me to sing before we could hardly talk. Bobby
slept in his crib by the stove. Those really were good times.
"What happened after Bobby died?" Thomas
asked, although he wanted to know more about her mother"s death,
too.
"You know, my dad never drank much before
Backgammon died. I mean, he always brought home some food, and Mom
always managed to make stews from whatever we had in the cupboards
and icebox. We didn't starve. No way. Checkers and I were just elbows
and collarbones, but we didn't starve.
"It was dark, really dark, when Backgammon died.
I don't know what time it was exactly. But all of us were awake and
pretending to be asleep. We just laid there and listened to
Backgammon struggle to breathe. His lungs were all filled up with
stuff. No. That's not true. It was just Mom, Checkers, and me who
listened. Dad had tied on his snowshoes a few hours earlier.
"I'm going for help," he said, and none of
us said a word to him. Mom helped him put his coat on and then she
kissed his fingers before he put on his gloves. Really. It's still so
vivid in my head. Mom kissed his fingertips, ten kisses, before he
tramped out the door into the dark.
"I don't know for sure how long we waited for
him. We weren't even sure he could make it back. He walked out in a
Montana snowstorm to find help. He wasn't even sure what kind of help
he was looking for. There weren't no white doctors around. There
weren't no Indian doctors at all yet. The traditional medicine women
all died years before. Dad just walked into the storm like he was
praying or something. I mean, even if he made it to other Indians`
houses, like the Abrahamson family or the Huberts, they couldn't have
done much anyway. The Abrahamson family had
bedroom door open a little.
" Your sister is nice," Thomas said.
"She's always crabby," Chess said, because
she knew that Checkers was eavesdropping.
"Oh, I didn't notice," Thomas lied.
"Tell me about yourself," Chess said,
because she couldn't think of anything else to say, because she
wanted to know.
"Not much to say," Thomas replied, feeling
shy. "What about you?"
"Well, we grew up on the reservation,"
Chess said.
"Way up in the hills in this little shack with
our mom and dad. Luke and Linda Warm Water."
"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
Thomas asked.
"Yeah, we had a baby brother, Bobby. We called
him Backgammon."
"What happened to him?" Thomas asked.
"You know," Chess said, "those winters
were always awful back then. Ain't no IHS doctor going to come
driving through the snowdrifts and ice to save some Indian kid who
was half dead anyway. I don't know. We feel less pain when we're
little, enit? Bobby was always a sick baby, born coughing in the
middle of a bad winter and died coughing in the middle of a worse
winter."
"I'm an only kid," Thomas said.
"Did you ever get lonely?" Chess asked.
"All the time."
"Yeah, you must have," Chess said. "I
get lonely when I think about the winters. I mean, it got so cold
sometimes that trees popped like gunshots. Really. All night long.
Pop, pop, pop. Kept us awake sometimes so we'd all play rummy by
candlelight. Mom, Dad, Checkers, me. Those were some good times. But
it makes me lonely to think about them."
Thomas and Chess sipped at their coffee.
"How about your parents?" Chess asked.
"My dad's still on our reservation, drinking and
staggering around," Thomas said. "But my mom died when I
was ten."
" Yeah, my mom is dead, too."
"What about your dad?" Thomas asked.
" He went to Catholic boarding school when he was
little," Chess said. "Those nuns taught him to play piano.
Ain't that funny? They'd teach him scales between beatings. But he
still loved to play and saved up enough money to buy a secondhand
piano in Missoula. Man, that thing was always out of tune.
"He used to play when it was too cold and noisy
to sleep. He'd play and Mom would sing. Old gospel hymns, mostly. Mom
had a beautiful voice, like a reservation diva or something. Mom
taught Checkers and me to sing before we could hardly talk. Bobby
slept in his crib by the stove. Those really were good times.
"What happened after Bobby died?" Thomas
asked, although he wanted to know more about her mother"s death,
too.
"You know, my dad never drank much before
Backgammon died. I mean, he always brought home some food, and Mom
always managed to make stews from whatever we had in the cupboards
and icebox. We didn't starve. No way. Checkers and I were just elbows
and collarbones, but we didn't starve.
"It was dark, really dark, when Backgammon died.
I don't know what time it was exactly. But all of us were awake and
pretending to be asleep. We just laid there and listened to
Backgammon struggle to breathe. His lungs were all filled up with
stuff. No. That's not true. It was just Mom, Checkers, and me who
listened. Dad had tied on his snowshoes a few hours earlier.
"I'm going for help," he said, and none of
us said a word to him. Mom helped him put his coat on and then she
kissed his fingers before he put on his gloves. Really. It's still so
vivid in my head. Mom kissed his fingertips, ten kisses, before he
tramped out the door into the dark.
"I don't know for sure how long we waited for
him. We weren't even sure he could make it back. He walked out in a
Montana snowstorm to find help. He wasn't even sure what kind of help
he was looking for. There weren't no white doctors around. There
weren't no Indian doctors at all yet. The traditional medicine women
all died years before. Dad just walked into the storm like he was
praying or something. I mean, even if he made it to other Indians`
houses, like the Abrahamson family or the Huberts, they couldn't have
done much anyway. The Abrahamson family had
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