Checkers said. "He's
AWOL. He's MIA."
The secondhand furniture in Thomas's house moved an
inch to the west.
"It wasn't always this way," Thomas said
and touched his father's hand. "It wasn't always this way."
Samuel slept on the table while Thomas closed his
eyes and told the story:
"Way back when, my father was an active
alcoholic only about three months of every year. He was a binge
drinker, you know? Completely drunk for three days straight, a week,
a month, then he jumped back on the wagon again. Sober, he was a good
man, a good father, so all the drinking had to be forgiven, enit?
"My father was Washington State High School
Basketball Player of the Year in l956. Even the white people knew how
good that Indian boy played. He was just a little guy too, about
five-foot-six and a hundred and fifty pounds, hair in a crewcut, and
big old Indian ears sticking out. Walter Cronkite came out to the
reservation and interviewed him. Cronkite stood on the free-throw
line and shouted questions at my father, who dribbled from corner to
corner and hit jumpshots.
" He was such a good basketball player that all
the Spokanes wanted him to be more. When any Indian shows the
slightest hint of talent in any direction, the rest of the tribe
starts expecting Jesus. Sometimes they'll stop a reservation hero in
the middle of the street, look into his eyes, and ask him to change a
can of sardines into a river of salmon.
"But my father lived up to those expectations,
you know? Game after game, he defined himself. He wasn't like some
tired old sports hero, some little white kid, some Wonder-bread boy.
Think about it. Take the basketball in your hands, fake left, fake
right, look your defender in the eyes to let him know he won't be
stopping you. Take the ball to the rim, the hoop, the goal, the
basket, that circle that meant everything in an Indian boy's life.
"My father wasn't any different. After his
basketball days were over, he didn't have much else. If he could've
held a basketball in his arms when he cut down trees for the BIA,
maybe my father would've kept that job. If he could have drank his
own sweat after a basketball game and got drunk off the effort, maybe
he would've stayed away from the real booze."
Thomas opened his eyes and looked at his father,
lying still on the kitchen table. A wake for a live man. Thomas tried
to smile for the sisters. Checkers looked at the overweight Indian
man on the table, saw the dirt under his fingernails, the clogged
pores, the darkness around his eyes and at the elbows and knees.
"I would've never thought he played basketball,"
Chess said.
"Me, neither," Checkers said.
Thomas looked at his father again, studied him, and
touched Samuel's big belly.
"Did you ever play?" Chess asked.
"No," Thomas said.
"Why not?"
"Well, even Moses only parted the Red Sea once.
There are things you just can't do twice."
"Sometimes," Checkers said, "I hate
being Indian."
"Ain't that the true test?" Chess asked.
"You ain't really Indian unless there was some point in your
life that you didn't want to be."
" Enit," Thomas said.
" You know," Chess said, "like when
you're walking downtown or something, and you see some drunk Indian
passed out on the sidewalk."
Thomas looked at his father.
"Oh," Chess said. "I didn't mean your
father."
"That's okay," Thomas said. "I have
been walking in downtown Spokane and stumbled over my father passed
out on the sidewalk."
"Yeah," Checkers said. "And I hate it
when some Indian comes begging for money. Calling me sister or
cousin. What am I supposed to do? I ain't got much money myself. So I
give it to them anyway. Then I feel bad for doing it, because I know
they're going to drink it all up."
Checkers was always afraid of those Indian men who
wandered the streets. She always thought they looked like
brown-skinned zombies. Samuel Builds-the-Fire looked like a zombie on
the kitchen table. Those Indian zombies lived in Missoula when she
was little. Once a month, the whole
AWOL. He's MIA."
The secondhand furniture in Thomas's house moved an
inch to the west.
"It wasn't always this way," Thomas said
and touched his father's hand. "It wasn't always this way."
Samuel slept on the table while Thomas closed his
eyes and told the story:
"Way back when, my father was an active
alcoholic only about three months of every year. He was a binge
drinker, you know? Completely drunk for three days straight, a week,
a month, then he jumped back on the wagon again. Sober, he was a good
man, a good father, so all the drinking had to be forgiven, enit?
"My father was Washington State High School
Basketball Player of the Year in l956. Even the white people knew how
good that Indian boy played. He was just a little guy too, about
five-foot-six and a hundred and fifty pounds, hair in a crewcut, and
big old Indian ears sticking out. Walter Cronkite came out to the
reservation and interviewed him. Cronkite stood on the free-throw
line and shouted questions at my father, who dribbled from corner to
corner and hit jumpshots.
" He was such a good basketball player that all
the Spokanes wanted him to be more. When any Indian shows the
slightest hint of talent in any direction, the rest of the tribe
starts expecting Jesus. Sometimes they'll stop a reservation hero in
the middle of the street, look into his eyes, and ask him to change a
can of sardines into a river of salmon.
"But my father lived up to those expectations,
you know? Game after game, he defined himself. He wasn't like some
tired old sports hero, some little white kid, some Wonder-bread boy.
Think about it. Take the basketball in your hands, fake left, fake
right, look your defender in the eyes to let him know he won't be
stopping you. Take the ball to the rim, the hoop, the goal, the
basket, that circle that meant everything in an Indian boy's life.
"My father wasn't any different. After his
basketball days were over, he didn't have much else. If he could've
held a basketball in his arms when he cut down trees for the BIA,
maybe my father would've kept that job. If he could have drank his
own sweat after a basketball game and got drunk off the effort, maybe
he would've stayed away from the real booze."
Thomas opened his eyes and looked at his father,
lying still on the kitchen table. A wake for a live man. Thomas tried
to smile for the sisters. Checkers looked at the overweight Indian
man on the table, saw the dirt under his fingernails, the clogged
pores, the darkness around his eyes and at the elbows and knees.
"I would've never thought he played basketball,"
Chess said.
"Me, neither," Checkers said.
Thomas looked at his father again, studied him, and
touched Samuel's big belly.
"Did you ever play?" Chess asked.
"No," Thomas said.
"Why not?"
"Well, even Moses only parted the Red Sea once.
There are things you just can't do twice."
"Sometimes," Checkers said, "I hate
being Indian."
"Ain't that the true test?" Chess asked.
"You ain't really Indian unless there was some point in your
life that you didn't want to be."
" Enit," Thomas said.
" You know," Chess said, "like when
you're walking downtown or something, and you see some drunk Indian
passed out on the sidewalk."
Thomas looked at his father.
"Oh," Chess said. "I didn't mean your
father."
"That's okay," Thomas said. "I have
been walking in downtown Spokane and stumbled over my father passed
out on the sidewalk."
"Yeah," Checkers said. "And I hate it
when some Indian comes begging for money. Calling me sister or
cousin. What am I supposed to do? I ain't got much money myself. So I
give it to them anyway. Then I feel bad for doing it, because I know
they're going to drink it all up."
Checkers was always afraid of those Indian men who
wandered the streets. She always thought they looked like
brown-skinned zombies. Samuel Builds-the-Fire looked like a zombie on
the kitchen table. Those Indian zombies lived in Missoula when she
was little. Once a month, the whole
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