Between Earth and Sky(3)
A whistle cry cut short her giggles. The children froze.
“Halt!” her father cried, blowing his whistle again. “Order, children. Order.”
He bustled among Indians, arranging them in a straight line. Alma skipped to the front and took a plate. “I’ll show them, Papa.”
She dished out small portions of each food, even the mushy-looking green beans—she was, after all, to set an example—and sat down on the unshorn grass a few paces off, carefully tucking her skirt around her.
The next boy in line was a head shorter than Alma. He wore a gray shirt and dark blue pants gartered at the knee. His hair hung loose down to his shoulders, and a nest-like cap of feathers topped his head.
When he turned with his plate of food, Alma grinned up at him and motioned to the grass beside her. He circled wide, plopping down cross-legged several yards away. The other children parted around her in similar fashion, spreading out in small clusters across the lawn. Few would meet her eye. None returned her smile.
Why didn’t they want to sit with her? Did she have chicken grease on her face or smell of rotten egg? They were the ones who were strange, after all. She cast aside her half-eaten lunch while the Indians—after a great deal of picking and sniffing—devoured their food and returned for seconds.
After the picnic, a man arrived with a small satchel. A scowl lurked beneath his neatly trimmed mustache. He followed her father to a nearby chair and side table. With one eye still on the Indians, he reached into his satchel and withdrew several metal tools.
“Line up,” her father said, and again blew his whistle.
The Indians looked at one another, then back at her father. No one moved.
He sighed and walked among the children, picking out several from the group and molding them into a line. Miss Wells took charge of the others, arranging them single file and marching them around toward the back of the house. The first group, led by her father, moved toward the man and his silver tools.
Alma scrambled to her feet and watched her father maneuver the first child into the chair. The bearded man picked up a pair of long scissors. Sunlight glinted off the tapering blades. He grabbed hold of the girl’s long braids and, with two fluid snips, severed the black plaits from her head. The girl cried out and dived to the ground, scrambling toward her hair.
Alma gasped. Why would they cut away the girl’s beautiful hair? Then she looked closer at her clothes—threadbare trousers and a button-down shirt. Not a girl. A boy.
Her father pulled the boy back into the chair and, with the help of the surly groundskeeper, Mr. Simms, held him in place while the barber combed and trimmed. All the while, the boy twisted and hollered.
Alma couldn’t move. She knew a haircut didn’t hurt, but the boy grimaced and fought as if it did. “Stop, you’re—”
“Alma!” Her mother’s voice cut across her own. “Come here this minute.”
She tore her eyes from the boy and hurried to the edge of the schoolhouse, where her mother stood.
“They’re stealing that boy’s hair.”
“You don’t see good little white boys with long hair, do you?”
Alma glanced back toward the shining scissors. “But they’re hurting him.”
“Of course they’re not. They’re helping him. Less beast, more boy.”
It didn’t look like they were helping him. Her fingers found their way into her mouth and she gnawed at the soft skin around her nails.
“Stop that.” Her mother slapped her hand. “Now come on.”
At the back of the house, the Indian girls huddled near three large basins filled with sudsy water. A large bonfire crackled at the edge of the yard. The falling sun hung just above the treetops, the color of a blood orange in the smoky air.
Miss Wells waded among the children, her sleeves rolled and a starched pinafore draped over her gown. She bent and pried off one of the girls’ dress and leggings. The girl neither fought nor aided, but stood stock-still with the look of one too frightened to cry.
With puckered lips, Alma’s mother tugged at the dress of another. The cook then prodded the naked Indians into the tin basins.
Alma watched, her frown deepening. “Why must they bathe outside?”
“Pestilence, my dear. Must you ask so many questions? Come, we need your help.” Her mother held out the girl’s clothes at arm’s length. “There’s an apron for you there by the steps. Put it on and collect these rags.”
Pestilence? Alma didn’t know the meaning, but her mother spoke as if the word itself tasted foul. She grabbed the apron and collected the clothes, examining each garment for some sign of this awful pestilence. When her arms were full, her mother nodded toward the bonfire.
“Burn them?” Alma looked down at the heap of bright cloth in her arms. “But they’re so—”
“Filthy. Fleas, lice, who knows what else.”
Though much of the fabric was patched and frayed, Alma saw only a few stains and smudges of dirt. Still, the thought of bugs crawling up her arms made her shiver, and she hurried the clothes across the yard.
At the fire’s edge, she hesitated. Tall flames rose above her head. Heat bit at her cheeks. Was it fair to burn their colorful clothes? But then, they were getting new clothes, pretty black dresses to match her own; ones without holes, tatters, or pestilence. She cast the bundle of cotton and leather atop the logs and watched it singe and blacken. The smoke finally chased her away, but only after the shape and color of everything was lost.