Between Earth and Sky(28)

he said to them. Enemy.

Alma stood, wincing at the word. The newcomer’s dark walnut-colored eyes narrowed into slits. Her father rarely accepted new students above the age of ten. Slower to learn and harder to train, he said. But this boy was at least her age, probably older.

Alma felt small beneath his stare. Her fledgling smile garnered only a deeper scowl.

He steered the younger boys away, giving Alma a wide berth, as if her skin seeped poison. Stunned, she watched them go, his condemnation haunting her ears.





CHAPTER 13


Wisconsin, 1906



The short carriage ride from the train station to her mother’s residence stirred in Alma a faint nausea. Sweat dampened the velvet lining of her hat. La Crosse, though yet familiar, had altered much in the past fifteen years. Pavers now lined the sidewalk. A drugstore and soda fountain replaced the chandlery. Half a dozen more church spires pierced the horizon. But the saddlery remained. And Mrs. Westin’s dress shop. Even the Wallis Carriage Company still stood, though its windows were cracked and the storefront sign faded.

Alma closed her eyes and fought back the rising bile.

Upon arrival, a maid led her to her mother’s parlor. Eyelet lace shrouded the windows. The sun sneaked through, but only in winks and fits. Rosewood and lilac perfumed the air. As a girl, she’d loved to creep into her parents’ bedroom and sit at her mother’s vanity. She’d dip her fingers in the various jars of cream, pat her face with powder, and sniff the glass vials of fragrant oil. Looking into the vanity mirror, she’d imagine herself a grown woman—beautiful and elegant as her mother, wearing the same floral perfume. Now the scent only added to her queasiness.

A familiar settee rested in the corner. Alma sat down and clasped her hands to keep from fidgeting. Countless times she’d sat upon this very settee, Minowe and beside her, their heads bent over their needlework, trading whispers and laughter. The seat was harder now than she remembered and new upholstery covered the cushion. Its cherrywood legs and armrests gleamed with polish as they never had at Stover.

Alma looked up at the sound of footfalls. Time had spared her mother the worst of its ravages. Eyes just as blue, skin just as fair, she glided into the room with the same graceful step Alma recalled from childhood. She appraised Alma from the doorway, her face like the china figurines atop the mantel, frozen and dispassionate.

“Where’s your husband?”

No niceties, then. No warm hello. No tearful embrace. Alma hadn’t expected such a welcome, wouldn’t have known what do with such tender familiarity, but she felt its absence nonetheless. “He sends his regards.”

In truth, Stewart had insisted upon coming, had fretted so over her traveling alone, but she’d convinced him he needed to work on the continuance motion with Mr. Gates. She couldn’t let him see her like this, so frazzled and exposed.

Her mother sank into a nearby armchair. “I’d hoped to meet him, this man who forgives all sins. Or didn’t you tell him?”

Alma’s jaw clenched. “I am not here to talk about my husband. I need a favor.”

“Fifteen years and she comes begging favors.” Her mother said this with a snicker, addressing no one but the stale, overly perfumed air.

Alma struggled to keep rein of her tongue. “I trust you’ve heard about Harry. My husband is helping with his case. We need you to write a letter on his behalf, a testimony of character. Have you paper and pen?”

“Surely you can spare a moment for pleasantries. Tea?” Before Alma could respond, her mother continued. “Something stronger, I should think.”

She poured two copitas of sherry and returned to her chair.

Alma hesitated. It was hardly one o’clock. But her mother drank half the glass with her first sip. “You remind me of your father. Always trying to help these people no matter what they do.”

Was that a compliment? Alma didn’t think so. Even if it were, the comparison sat uneasy upon her. There was little remembrance of him here in this house: none of his books or mementoes, no smell of tobacco or pomade, his blue cap and saber missing above the mantel. Alma’s heart ached at their absence. She swallowed a mouthful of sherry to fortify herself. Another for good measure. Yet even as she set her copita down on the side table her hand trembled. “I’m nothing like him.”

Her mother shrugged. “You certainly don’t get it from me.”

“Does that mean you won’t write the letter?”

“It broke him, you know.” There was a pity she’d never heard before in her mother’s voice. A sadness unfettered by her usual contempt. “He put on his suit and his glasses and sat in that musty old office every day until he died. More Indians came and went. But he was never the same.”

The warmth of the alcohol in her stomach faded. “Mother, please, I’m here to talk about Harry.”

The woman stood and poured herself another drink. “Made the local paper three days running, this murder business. In truth, I was surprised I even remembered him—so alike they are, and after all these years. He always seemed so . . . mild to me.”

“He was. And smart, and mannerly. You commented on it often.”

Again her mother shrugged.

“He’s innocent.”

“What does your husband think of all this? Traveling such a distance to defend a stranger.”