Between Earth and Sky(10)

Her dolls were much prettier, of course—white porcelain skin, pink lips in the shape of a bow, thick curls that sprang back when you pulled them. The special ones, the ones her mother kept tucked out of reach, had real glass eyes the same shade of blue as her own. Instead of nubs, they had proper hands with fingers you could count.

But Margaret’s doll was soft. Its brown leather body felt like real skin when she held it against her cheek. She’d never owned a doll so suited for play—one that would not chip, crack, or scuff. She twirled it atop her bedspread, as if her mattress were a parquet dance floor, then hugged it to her chest. The smell of smoke and pine sap clung to its skin.

A hiccup-like sob drew her attention back to Margaret. She tried to ignore the sound, plugged her ears with her pillow, and hummed a soft tune. Her mother had taken the doll for a reason, just as she’d taken the Indians’ clothes and her father their hair. It had to be a good reason, for why else would they do it? Something about the Indians forgetting their old lives and starting anew.

Through the soft down of her pillow she could still hear Margaret crying. The sound gnawed at her. Maybe she should return the doll—just for a little while—just until Margaret forgot her homesickness and the blisters on her lips healed. Then Alma could have it back and they’d both be happy. She squeezed the doll one more time, then whispered, “Margaret.”

The girl didn’t answer. Alma leaned from her bed and poked the girl’s shoulder.

Margaret started and rolled around. She looked at Alma through puffy eyelids. Her breathing was ragged and snot ran from her nose. Her lips looked like breakfast sausages.

Alma smoothed the doll’s hair, straightened its dress, breathed a final whiff of its woodland scent, and then held it out. “Shh! Keep it secret.”

At first, Margaret did not move, but peered at Alma with suspicion. Then her hand crept forward. She grabbed the doll and shrank back into the shell of her blankets. Only then did her expression soften, her swollen lips trembling as if attempting a smile. She wiped her nose with the sleeve of her nightshirt and rolled around.

Immediately, Alma felt the doll’s absence, wished she too had something to hold on to. But they were friends now, she and Margaret. Weren’t they? The hope was enough to lull her to sleep.





CHAPTER 6


Wisconsin, 1881



Reveille sounded at first light. Alma winced and yanked her quilt over her head. But the horn’s sharp notes were insistent, like needle pricks against her eardrums. Her father had assigned a boy named Frederick the duty of awaking the school with this noise every morning. He’d never even held a horn, had shaken it at first as if it might rattle. Silly boy. She could do much better. But Papa said it wasn’t her place. The horn was ugly anyway, worn and rusty from Mr. Simms’s days in the war with the Mexicans.

When the clamor ended, she slid from her bed and splashed her face with icy water from the washbowl on her bed stand. The ceiling creaked with footfalls of the boys shrugging off sleep in the attic dormitory. She brushed her hair smooth and traded her nightshirt for her school uniform.

The other girls bustled between their washstands and bedside trunks. Bedsprings squeaked as they tucked the corners of their sheets under their mattresses and smoothed the wrinkles from their quilts. They took turns weaving each other’s hair into tight plaits. Alma could braid her hair all by herself . . . but never quite as neat as the other girls managed.

Stupor thawed from the room, and whispers rose above the sound of morning chores. It was a strange mix of heavily accented English and Indian gibberish, none of which was directed at her. Even Margaret still kept her distance. Alma perched on the edge of her bed and pretended not to mind, attacking her already gleaming boots with polish.

Boot heels clipped down the hallway and the room went silent. The girls scrambled into place at the end of their beds: backs straight, hands clasped, chins up, eyes down. Alma stood, too, her posture straight but less rigid. She watched Rose struggle with her buttons, securing the top one just before Miss Wells strode into the room. Alma’s mother sauntered in a few seconds behind, still dressed in her sateen robe and lace-trimmed nightshirt.

“If you’ll be so kind as to attend to that side of the room, Mrs. Blanchard, I’ll inspect this side,” Miss Wells said.

Her mother yawned and gave a lazy wave of assent. Usually Miss Wells managed morning inspection alone, but Alma had overheard her father encouraging her mother to “suffer more involvement with the pupils.” So a few times over the past week her mother—a rare sight before the noon hour—graced their company.

Miss Wells, however, did not appear grateful for the help. The sharp features of her oblong face were pinched. Her gray eyes darted hither and thither, as if to catch any offenses before Alma’s mother had a chance to overlook them. She marched the length of the room and stopped at the far-most bed.

May, whom Alma guessed to be the youngest of all the girls, was the teacher’s first victim. Miss Wells examined the corners of her bed, the alignment of her quilt, the neatness of her trunk, even the cleanliness of her washstand.

All the while, May stood still as a stone figurine at the end of her bed. Only her coal-black eyes moved, following Miss Wells out the very corner of her sockets, fleeing down to the floor when the woman came to face her.

Miss Wells took the girl’s chin in hand and turned it into the light. She inspected the smoothness of May’s hair and neatness of her uniform. At a tap on the wrist, May extended her hands and splayed her fingers. The teacher scrutinized each nail for dirt, then turned May’s hands over and examined her palms. The entire drill progressed in silence.