Between Earth and Sky(4)
When she returned, her mother was bent beside a young girl whose two front teeth were only halfway in, the very same as Alma’s. The Indian wore a blouse, calf-length skirt, and leggings, all cut from black broadcloth. Embroidered flowers wound across the fabric. In her arms, she clutched a small doll.
She looked from the doll to the girl’s face. Brown eyes stared back, wide like a spooked pony’s. Alma had imagined these children would be as excited as she about coming to the new school. But this—the whistle, the haircuts, the burning of their clothes? Would they still want to be her friends afterward?
Her mother yanked the Indian’s blouse up and over her head and then pulled at the ties of her skirt. The girl’s copper skin turned to goose flesh in the cool evening air. Her cheeks bloomed pink. She covered herself with her arms, clutching the doll in the crook of her elbow.
When Alma’s mother reached for the doll, the Indian cowered back. With a huff, her mother pried it from her arms, ripping the seam along the doll’s shoulder as she jerked it away. The girl cried and clawed after her treasure, as her mother tossed it to Alma.
“The doll, too?” Alma asked.
A withering look sent her shuffling toward the flames. Behind her, the girl continued to wail. When Alma reached the bonfire, she hesitated again. Singed silk ribbons fluttered among the embers. The charred remnants of a beaded moccasin glinted in the waning sunlight.
She looked over her shoulder. The girl stood naked, hugging her arms around her chest. Mrs. Simms unbound the girl’s braid and doused her head with kerosene. Even at a distance, Alma could smell it. Her nose wrinkled and her arms tightened around the heap of clothes. But she could not look away.
Tears pooled in the Indian’s eyes as a fine-toothed comb raked through her ebony hair. Her head arched back with each pass and the skin at her temples pulled taut. Once her hair lay smooth, the cook led her to one of the basins and heaved her in. She coughed and shivered when her head surfaced above the soapy water. Alma’s throat grew tight.
After the bath, Mrs. Simms dried and dressed the girl—stockings, white chemise and drawers, black dress and boots—just like Alma.
But even though she was outfitted in new clothes, tears continued to run down the Indian’s cheeks.
Alma looked at the doll. Soft fuzz, like the tips of lakeside cattails, spilled from the tear in its seam. Its leather body and cloth dress were well worn. By now the logs at the edge of the flames smoldered red. A cold breeze ruffed the back of Alma’s skirt, while the front ballooned with heat. Her heart lurched. After a backward glance at her mother, she hid the doll beneath the waistband of her apron before tossing everything else into the fire.
CHAPTER 3
Wisconsin, 1881
Alma’s eyes wandered from her slate to the bank of windows lining the classroom wall. Outside, the Indians plodded across the yard in jumbled rows. A whistle sounded, followed by the groundskeeper’s gravelly voice.
“Don’t you Injuns know what a line is? Left foot forward, now. Stay in formation for criminy’s sake!”
Alma choked back a giggle. She wasn’t allowed to march. Only the wild and indolent need suffer such discipline. Or so her mother had said when Alma tried to join the Indians in the yard.
Another pipe from the whistle. “That ain’t yer left!”
Her father’s soft voice cut in. “That’s enough drilling for this morning, Mr. Simms. It’s their first day. Come inside, children. Time for lessons.”
A thrill raced through Alma’s body. Finally. She faced forward and sat up extra straight. President Arthur’s beady eyes stared down at her from a large portrait above the blackboard, his plump face somber, feathery whiskers hanging from his jowls. Smaller paintings of Washington and Lincoln flanked him on either side. Red, white, and blue ribbons festooned the tops of all four walls like the scalloped hem of a ball gown.
Beneath the ribbons and austere portraits, Miss Wells stood at the blackboard, writing out a list of names—boys’ names in one column, girls’ in the other. She was much taller than Alma’s mother, thin and angular, as if God had drawn her form with squares and rectangles instead of soft ovals. Her script marched across the ebony surface, each letter perfectly formed, her bony fingers choking the chalk. Alma expected the stick to snap in two at any moment.
“Excuse me, Miss Wells. Don’t the Indians already have names?”
The teacher did not turn around. “None fit to utter. Now back to your work, dear.”
Alma glanced at her slate—blank save for the first few lines Miss Wells had tasked her to copy. Unlike the teacher’s, her own lettering strayed and bunched, loose at the beginning and cramped near the edge.
Great sins require great repentance.
Do unto others as you would—
At the sound of footfalls in the adjacent hallway, she abandoned her lettering and looked toward the open doorway. Her toes wiggled inside her newly polished boots. A dour old governess had seen to her instruction back in Philadelphia, but never in a real classroom, never with real friends and classmates seated beside her.
Her father strode into the room. The Indian children shuffled in behind him, their haphazard line unraveling as they entered. His proud smile, the same one he’d sported yesterday, held despite the disorder. “I give them unto your care, Miss Wells.” He beamed a moment longer, winked in Alma’s direction, and then turned from the room.