Between Earth and Sky(14)

Wisconsin, 1881



Alma threw off her quilt and hurried to the window. She watched the girls scurry across the roof and clamber over the ledge one by one until only Margaret remained.

Grabbing either side of the window frame, Alma lifted her leg and swung it over the sill. The night air raked over the exposed skin of her neck and face. Her heart sped. “Wait!”

Margaret spun around, eyes wide and mouth agape.

As Alma scrambled over the sill and through the window, her knee caught on the hem of her skirt and she lost her balance. She tumbled toward the shingled roof. Margaret rushed forward, breaking her fall.

“Thanks,” Alma said, wary to let go of the girl’s arms. The slanting roof felt slick beneath her feet. The flat, solid ground seemed impossibly far away.

She’d never been on a roof before, and the thrill of it dampened her fear. From this height, she could see for miles. Dark trees covered the landscape, rising and falling with the hills and bluffs. The last of fall’s leaves trembled with the breeze. Goose bumps tented her skin. A smudge of light lit the horizon in the direction of La Crosse. The only other illumination came from blinking stars and the thin sliver of a moon hanging above the trees.

Margaret pulled free from Alma’s grip and frowned. She nodded back toward the room and then tilted her head to the side, cradling it against her palms. “Sleep.”

Alma glanced over her shoulder through the open window. She could just make out the tidy rows of beds and the scrolling design of the damask wallpaper. It was warm inside. And safe. Part of her wanted to creep back, lie in her bed with her quilt pulled high, and forget all plans to run away. But then she’d wake up tomorrow to the same lonely life. “I’m coming with you.”

Margaret’s lips pinched into a scowl. “No. No come.”

“Yes, I am.”

A cross between a sigh and a growl sounded from Margaret’s lips. She turned her back on Alma and stalked toward the edge of the roof.

Alma inched behind, her feet once again unsteady. “Wait.”

Margaret did not. She dropped to her knees and inched backward over the ledge. Her legs grasped the corner post of the porch below, and she slid down until her feet hit the railing. From there, she jumped to the ground, landing with a crunch on the dry grass.

Looking down after her, dizziness stirred in Alma’s stomach. She closed her eyes and sucked in three long breaths. Walking about the roof was one thing. Climbing down was something else entirely. Suppose she fell and ripped her stocking. How furious her mother would be. Not at all beseeming a young lady, she’d say. And Papa, how the glint in his eyes would fade.

But Margaret had made it look so easy. Pushing aside her doubts—she was running away after all—Alma sat down and swung her legs over the ledge. Margaret hissed at her from below and pointed again toward the dormitory. Alma ignored her. She rolled onto her stomach and inched her torso down off the roof. Her legs dangled, searching for the corner post. Her foot touched something hard just as her hands slipped from the shingle overhang. She careened downward, her stomach lodging in her throat, until her flailing legs found purchase around the beam. She twined around it and slid down. Slivers of paint poked through her dress, prickling her skin as they peeled away from the post and fell like snowflakes to the ground below.

When her feet found the railing, she felt the tug of both laughter and tears. She’d done it! She clambered down the half wall of the porch to the ground, landing on her hands and knees. The grass was cool and brittle. It crackled as her fingers spread and closed, spread and closed—the sound, the sensation somehow exhilarating as if she’d never felt grass before. No one stood over her telling her not to dirty her hands or her dress or her shoes. No sharp ahems. She could run if she wanted, and jump and scream—though she’d better not, at risk of waking the house—but she could, if she really wanted to, and that was enough.

Margaret’s footsteps whispered toward her, and Alma’s fingers stilled. If the Indian had been mad before, now she’d be furious. Bracing herself for more reproof, she leaned back on her haunches and glanced up. Margaret’s face was contorted, but not with the scowl Alma had expected. Instead, her clamped lips held back a laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Alma asked.

Margaret pointed at the roof and flailed her arms. A giggle burst free from her mouth.

“I could have fallen.” Alma stood and brushed the dry grass and paint chips from her dress. “Broke my arm or worse.”

Margaret made a wide-eyed face and clawed at the air, still laughing.

“What do you expect? It’s my first time climbing from a roof.” Alma locked her arms across her chest as Margaret continued to chuckle. “You do all kinds of funny things like . . . like holding your spoon wrong and wearing your boots on the opposite feet, and I don’t laugh at you.” Well, maybe she had—a little. Just to herself. That was quite different from laughing in someone’s face. She turned to stomp away, but Margaret grabbed her hand. Despite her flushed cheeks and leaking eyes, her face held a look of contrition. She smiled, not a sneer or smirk, but a friendly smile. Alma found herself smiling too.

Hand in hand, they ran to the edge of the yard where the other girls had gathered. Strands of hair, freed from their long braids, fluttered around their faces in the night’s breeze. When they reached the other girls, Alma noticed a lumpy pillowcase slung over Alice’s shoulder. Bare feet peeked out from beneath the hem of her nightshirt. Before Alma could ask about the pillowcase’s contents, Catherine bullied forward.