Between Earth and Sky(21)

“Rabbit,” chimed in. “Pig, mouse.”

“And those other—”

Mrs. Simms cut her off. “Can I fetch you something, Amelia?”

Irritation sparked in Miss Wells’s eyes, but she fashioned a thin-lipped smile. “No, thank you. I just came to return my teacup.” She placed her cup and saucer by the sink, then turned back to the girls. “Leave the teaching of English to me, Miss Alma.”

*

That evening, Alma’s father called her into his office. He sat behind a massive desk like the proud captain of a ship. Neat stacks of paper rested to one side. An inkwell and a worn prayer book sat on the other.

Even back in Philadelphia, she never ventured uninvited into her father’s study. Yet almost every night he’d beckoned her in, sat her on his lap beside a warm fire, and read her stories from among his grand collection. Before they’d start, he’d let her choose a lemon drop or peppermint stick from the jar of bonbons kept high up on his bookshelf. The sweet flavor filled her mouth as his words had filled her ears.

Tonight, Alma bounded in and saw her mother seated in one of the two velvet armchairs opposite the desk. Her exuberance dwindled. This was not going to be one of those beloved reading nights.

She scooted into the free chair beside her mother and folded her hands in her lap. Her feet hung several inches above the floor, but she resisted the urge to swing them.

Her father adjusted his spectacles and looked down at her. “How are you taking to life here at Stover, Alma?”

“Fine, Papa.”

“I know it’s a great change from our life before. And these past months have been busy ones.” His eyes flashed toward her mother. “Things will get easier.”

“They’ll be putting up the holly wreaths and mistletoe in the display windows of Wanamaker’s soon.” Her mother’s voice ached and her gaze was distant. “If I had any say in the matter, we’d never have left Philadelphia.” She sighed and massaged her head, her thin frame sinking back into the upholstery. “Such is a woman’s fate.”

“We both—”

“Get on with it, Francis. I have a headache.”

The corners of his lips turned down, and he looked back to Alma. “Miss Wells tells me you’re doing well with your studies.”

Alma’s body tensed at the mention of Miss Wells.

He continued. “But she says you involve yourself too much with the other students.”

“I’m only trying to help.”

“Thank you, kitten, but Miss Wells has a great deal of experience working with . . . um . . . uncivilized youth. She left her position at Carlisle to come help us found this school. She does not need your help.”

Alma fought back a frown. “Yes, sir.”

“I know we’ve placed you in a position of intimacy with these Indians. You study beside them, eat beside them, sleep beside them in the dormitory, but remember: You are not one of them.” His hand found the prayer book on the desk and rested lightly upon it. “You are an example to them of goodness, of manners and civility.”

“Can’t I be their friend, too?”

Her mother and father answered at the same time—him with a nod, her mother with a sharp “no.” Their gazes locked.

Alma squirmed on the sidelines.

“Their vile habits are bound to rub off,” her mother said.

“It’s those very habits that they’re here to correct. Think of how they’ll benefit from her company.”

Her mother pointed a long manicured finger at her husband. “I’ll not have you sacrifice our only child to this horrendous Indian experiment.”

“They can be saved, Cora!” Her father’s voice shook, his fingers clenched around the prayer book. “Saved from their own primitiveness, brought into the folds of productive society.”

Alma sank down and slid back as far as she could in her chair.

“What will the people of La Crosse think when we have a daughter wearing buckskin rags and feathers in her hair?” her mother said.

“Come now, my dear, you’re being overly dramatic.”

“What about the doll incident? And you have not seen her running wild with them at recess, sticks in her hand like some barbarian huntress.”

He raised an eyebrow in Alma’s direction. She shrank down even farther into her chair. The fire crackled. Wind rattled through the leafless trees outside, kicking up the fallen snow and throwing it in swirls against the window.

Her father set down his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “Games, Cora, they’re just games. We’ll teach them new games. American games.”

Her mother huffed and turned away, staring off into the fire. Her voice came as a whisper. “Your self-righteous ideals will be the ruin of all of us.”

“Cora—”

She waved him off with a flick of the wrist, as if dismissing a tiresome maid.

Her father’s face fell. After a pause, he straightened and looked back at Alma. “You will be eight in a few weeks. I trust that’s old enough to tell the difference between right and wrong. Our job here at Stover—and it is all of our jobs, even yours—is to teach these Indian children the ways of the Christian world. Yes, you may be their friend, but you must not join them if they fall back into the folly of their heathen ways. You must be a constant light. Do you understand?”