Between Earth and Sky(30)

“Likewise.” Miss Wells crossed the room and thrust out her hand just as Alma began to curtsy.

Flustered, Alma rose and shook hands. Her old teacher’s grip was firm and brief. Blue veins showed through her thinning skin. She turned to the wall of photographs. “A wonderful chronology of the school’s success.”

Alma swallowed. “Yes.”

Miss Wells straightened the picture Alma had left askew. “And Harry, one of the brightest boys I ever taught.” She paused, examining each of the other faces in the photo. When her eyes lit upon the last figure, her mouth pursed and the lines about her forehead deepened.

Alma braced for whatever snide comment the woman might utter. But when Miss Wells turned around, her eyes flashed with pity. A moment later, it was gone, the stony woman Alma remembered returned.

“I need a letter for Harry, for the trial, one that speaks to all the good qualities he fostered here.”

Miss Wells crossed to her desk and opened the top drawer. “I thought someone would come.” She glanced at Alma, then back to the tidy stacks of paper within the drawer. “Though I didn’t think it would be you.”

“You’ll write it, then?”

“I’ve already prepared such a letter.”

“You have?” Thank God. Each passing moment here cut a fresh wound.

“Of course. I hate to think what it would do to the school’s reputation if Harry’s convicted.”

Alma flinched. Was that the reasoning behind her ready aid? Surely she still cared for Asku, believed him innocent. The woman’s cool, businesslike expression unsettled Alma. Miss Wells had devoted her entire life to saving the Indians. But had she ever truly cared for Asku, for any of them?

Besides, the school had survived worse scandals.

“Ah, here it is.” Instead of handing the letter to Alma, she slipped it in her pocket. “Would you like to see the grounds?”

“I . . . um . . . Benjamin pointed out a few things. And I’ve a train to catch at five.”

“Only a brief tour, then.” She marched from the room before Alma could protest.

They left the old schoolhouse and crossed the yard. Alma’s step faltered as they passed the wood shop. It was silent now, though the blare of machinery and drum of hammers echoed from her memory.

“We use the old shop for storage now,” Miss Wells said. “And see our lovely little bandstand.” She pointed to a gleaming white platform with a hexagonal roof.

It hurt her eyes to look at it. Hadn’t the archery target once stood there, nestled amid the trees? She could still see the faded bull’s-eye, still smell the pinesap, still feel the snowflakes melting upon her cheeks.

“Are you coming, Mrs. Mitchell?”

Alma startled. That name sounded so foreign in this place. She tore her gaze from the bandstand and followed Miss Wells toward a large, boxy structure.

“This is our new classroom building,” the woman said, pride evident in her voice. “We’ve come a long way since our provincial beginnings.”

The interior was divided into four classrooms, each with several rows of desks and a large blackboard at the front. The Indian children kept to their work—reading, arithmetic, writing, and penmanship. The youngest ones, sequestered in a classroom of their own, chirped back simple phrases at the teacher. They were tiny, these children. Their legs dangled beneath the desks’ tops, feet far above the ground.

“They’re so young,” Alma said.

“No younger than when you were a student.”

Could that be? It all looked so different from here on the outside.

“It’s better to get them at this age. They’re more moldable.”

Alma frowned. Her father had said the same thing, hadn’t he? Asku had reminded her as much. Funny, when she’d heard the words through a child’s ears, they hadn’t seemed so self-righteous. Now they made her shudder.

A final glance around the room and she noticed the ruler resting on the edge of the teacher’s desk. Her heart sped reflexively and her hands burrowed into her skirts. Many teachers struck their pupils, she reminded herself, at white schools and Indian alike. But for such trivial offenses? For not speaking English? For choosing the wrong name from the blackboard?

“You look troubled,” Miss Wells said.

They were back outside now in the blinding sunlight. Alma blinked and shielded her eyes. “No, it’s just . . .” She gestured about the yard. “Is this really what’s best for them?”

“They certainly cannot live as they once did. Godless. Landless. For better or worse, Mrs. Mitchell, that time is gone.”

“Yes, but—”

“They’re clothed, they’re fed, they’re learning skills to help themselves prosper. Have you a better solution than that?” After a pause, Miss Wells pulled the sealed letter from her skirt pocket and handed it to Alma. “It’s people who fail the system, not the other way around. You’d do well to remember that.”





CHAPTER 14


Wisconsin, 1888



Great Father Cleveland’s portrait had replaced that of President Arthur above the blackboard. The varnish on the desks had begun to wear, and the black lacquer on their iron legs peel. That air of confusion and fear, so palpable to Alma that first year, had ceded to the listless ease of routine. March, sit, stand, recite. At times, her Indian classmates still resisted, rebelled, but in quiet, secret ways perfected over the years.