Love and Other Consolation Prizes(16)

Ernest dreamed of all these things, even at 5:15 A.M. as he sat on a frigid toilet in the dark, unheated lavatory of the Holy Word Academy and warmed the porcelain seat for one of the older boys, who would be waking up at 5:30.

Fagging for the senior students was part of the routine prescribed to all of the second-class kids—the half-Indians, the mulattos, the slow and the lame, many of whom had been sponsored by wealthy docents, matrons like Mrs. Irvine—Ernest’s own patron saint, who had agreed to manage his affairs from a distance. The older woman was polite, but stern, and always quick to remind him of his good fortune and the vastness of her charitable heart. Though her patience and interest seemed to wander as he got older and her attention spread to younger children, who were more easily amused.

So every weekday morning Ernest shined leather shoes with Vici Paste, refreshed linens, made beds, dried towels, refilled tins of tooth powder, heated baths, and brushed wool and linen coats by the dozen. No matter how he was treated at Holy Word, the conditions were infinitely better than his first year in America, when he’d been mistakenly remanded to an Indian school in Tulalip and forbidden to speak anything but English. That’s where he had yearned for other things, like a day without having to march around the playground, in the rain, in the snow, while wearing ill-fitting boots. That’s where he had dreamed of a better life, or at least an afternoon without being forced to watch other kids whipped for accidentally speaking in Klallam, Okanagan, or Salishan.

A year later, the students’ collective dream had come true when the school mysteriously caught fire. The dormitory, the classrooms, the machinery and woodshops, the nursery, all of it burned to the ground. Ernest remembered standing with his knapsack and watching the flames as heat lofted burning planks into the sky, carrying them away like magic carpets. Ernest had stood in awe, still somewhat in shock and disbelief as a man from the school came up to him and pinned a note to Ernest’s shirt, then put him on a bus for the Washington Children’s Home at Dow’s Landing.

There, Ernest rarely thought about the Indian school because his new home was so placid by comparison. He enjoyed an idyllic year, surrounded by white faces filled with hope and vicarious joy. Ernest loved living at that old house on Green Lake, with the geese in the summer, the rare ice-skating parties in winter, the ever-present sound of piano lessons. He didn’t care that his friends all found foster homes or farm work while he’d been left behind. He could have lived there forever, but Mrs. Irvine eventually came along and chose him from a lineup of mixed-race kids who were considered unadoptable. She determined that since he was half-white, he was worth sending to Holy Word, a boarding school. She paid his tuition so he could attend alongside wealthy children from good families, to make a proper young man out of him. Even if most of the students, teachers, and administrators didn’t share that enthusiasm.

Ernest’s residency at Holy Word lasted until just before the seventh grade, culminating in the year’s fall sponsor review in the school library. Ernest walked into the room and stood at attention before Mrs. Irvine, who remained seated. A servant escort, a slender bald man in a dark suit, lingered behind her.

“Hello, Ernest dear.” She held a sheaf of papers in her hand that Ernest knew would be his grades and his progress reports, his running tab of merits and the occasional demerit. “My, look how much you’ve grown.”

Ernest tried not to fidget as he smiled. He hadn’t seen her in a year—he barely knew her—though he was required to write to her each month with an update of his progress. She never wrote back, except for a general holiday greeting. Nevertheless, he was grateful for her patronage and knew he owed her a tremendous debt.

Mrs. Irvine waved the papers about with a flourish. “I’m so proud of you, young man. You’ve come so far in just a few years here among the other boys.” She beamed as she dabbed at the corner of her eye with a gloved fingertip.

The routine always made Ernest miss his mother. He also felt homesick, which was confounding because he’d never had a real home, ever.

“Tell me,” Mrs. Irvine asked, “what’s been the highlight of your summer? Did you enjoy the boat races and the sailing lessons? What about the salmon bake on Alki Beach? And are you excited for middle school?”

Ernest nodded politely. He didn’t want to disappoint her by sharing that he’d been excluded from all those school outings. Instead he’d spent his time here—in the library with the other scholarship children, who had become his friends and outcast confidants, reading, studying, learning for hours on end, sometimes out of curiosity, but other times out of sheer boredom. It didn’t matter what the truth was, really, because Ernest’s answers were always well rehearsed. A school counselor wrote down recommended responses for Ernest a week before Mrs. Irvine’s visit and had him practice them. He used to think that the script was to help with his English, but now that he spoke almost as well as the other students, Ernest realized the performance was something else.

“I wonder, Master Ernest…” Mrs. Irvine cleared her throat as she set the papers aside and accepted a cup of tea from a school secretary. She blew on the steaming liquid and took a sip, then handed the cup to the bald man in the dark suit, who added sugar and a slice of lemon. “What would you think about working here? Perhaps after the eighth grade I can arrange to have you join the custodial staff. With enough hard work and dedication, you might work your way up to head groundskeeper. Would you like that?”