Between Earth and Sky(103)
“. . . for me it was fun, an adventure.” A tear trickled from her eye, cutting a path down her face for others to follow. She rifled through her handbag. When she remembered she’d given her silk hankie to Minowe, she wiped her face with her sleeve. “I didn’t realize these rituals were a way to keep a piece of their original selves alive. Their struggle, their homesickness, the discrimination they faced—it was all around me and I did nothing about it.”
Stewart sat next to her. “It’s not your fault, Alma. You were just a girl.”
“And Harry?”
He frowned, dragged a hand down his face, and sighed. “I’ll speak to Mr. Gates tomorrow before the trial, convince him we must let Mr. Muskrat plead guilty.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m not saying I agree with any of this—the murder, staying silent about what we uncovered on the reservation—but if your friend is ready and willing to die for his crime, well, I suppose that’s justice.”
“There’s something more I must tell you.” She fished again through her purse. Her fingers clasped around the necklace. She’d held it so many times, worked over every inch, knew each plane and curve. How smooth the beads and quill felt. How cold. She pulled it out and handed it to Stewart. “A boy came to Stover when I was fourteen. They called him George, but his name was . . .”
CHAPTER 42
Wisconsin, 1891
The moments after the hanging were a blur. The sound of a knife sawing through rope. A thud. Alma shrieked and fell to the ground, tearing out her hair and balling her fists over her ears. She closed her eyes to rid them of sight—the jaundiced torchlight, the frayed rope unraveling as it swung from the tree.
Mr. Coleman picked her up and carried her home. The smell of pitch and smoke and horse sweat lingered in her nostrils. She could hear Mr. Simms and her father trailing behind.
“I can’t believe . . .” her father muttered. “I never meant . . .”
Her mother sat waiting for them on Stover’s veranda. Still in her nightclothes, with her hair lying over her shoulder in a frizzled braid, the woman’s eyes blazed mad.
When Mr. Coleman set Alma down, her legs wobbled. Or was it the earth that wobbled, and she the only steady thing upon it? Even in the darkness, pity showed on Mr. Coleman’s lined face. She could see contempt, too, a general distaste for the whole incident, but also kindness—something void in the other faces around her. He shook his head and prodded her toward her mother. The woman grabbed her arm, digging her fingers into Alma’s skin, and forced her up the steps and into the house.
“What have you done, Alma? Every household in La Crosse will be talking about you tomorrow. You’ve shamed us—this family, your father and his work, yourself most certainly—all beyond repair.” Hysteria edged the woman’s voice. Her breath came ragged between swallowed sobs. “You selfish girl, did you ever stop to think how this would ruin us?”
The words sounded like the lines of a play, scripted and surreal. Her mind felt scrambled, her senses numb. Her mother threw her into her room and locked the door. Alma lay upon the wooden floor where she had landed, silent and unmoving. He couldn’t be dead, her Tshikw’set. It had been someone else they’d pulled from the forest. Tomorrow she’d sneak out and join him on the train.
A few minutes later, Mr. Simms entered with a hammer and nailed shut her window. Something about the sound—the initial loud whack, the cry of wood split by a rusty nail—struck open her consciousness. Tears came first, followed by crushing pain. She curled into a ball and wailed. She clawed at her clothes and banged her head against the floorboards. Dawn came and still she hurt. Her final hope—that it had all been but a dream—faded with the morning sun.
*
Two days she lay on the floor of her small room. Outside, life at Stover continued. A bugle sounded for morning drills. A whistle cry heralded meals. Synchronized footfalls marched to and from the classroom. Machinery brayed from the wood shop, and sewing machines hummed in the nearby parlor. The sounds stabbed through her temples. The light trespassing beneath the drawn curtains stung her eyes.
She wondered if the Indians knew of death. Did they whisper about it at night in their dormitories? Were they angry, frightened, scared? She worried for . Did they know she’d helped Alma escape? Had they punished her too?
Her thoughts wound to Minowe. Why hadn’t she come to her, slipped a note, a ribbon, any token of solidarity under the door for comfort? Surely she’d heard Alma’s cries. Did their years of friendship mean nothing?
Later, after still no sign, Alma decided Minowe must blame her for what happened. They all did. How could they not? But for Alma, would still be alive.
*
On the third day, her mother unlocked the door and strode in. Her appearance was once again immaculate, but her face looked aged, as if the stress of the last few days had proven too much for her nightly regimen of creams to erase lines from her skin. Her blue eyes lit on Alma for a moment, then focused on the blank wall above. “Get up and dress for the train.”
“Where are we going?”
“You are going back to Philadelphia. Aunt Tucia has agreed to take you in.” Without deigning another glance in Alma’s direction, she turned to leave.
Alma scrambled to her feet. “I won’t go.”