Between Earth and Sky(66)

A plump white man stood behind the counter. When he looked up, his full pink lips wobbled, as if caught between a grin and a scowl. “You must be that woman up from St. Paul. Agent Taylor’s worked himself into a downright dither over you.”

“No offense—Mr. Larson, is it?—but Agent Taylor can dither all he wants. I’ve got work to do here.”

The shopkeeper chuckled—a deep, jolly sound—and winked a blue eye at her. “No offense taken, ma’am.”

“Alma Mitchell.” She extended her hand across the counter.

He wiped a palm on the faded apron tied high across his belly and shook her hand. “Pleasure to meet ya.”

Behind her, the shop door creaked open. A woman with a cradleboard strapped to her back lumbered in. Alma’s breath caught a moment, then tumbled free. The eyes, the mouth—it was not a face she knew.

Mr. Larson waved to the woman. “Boozhoo.”

She smiled back and headed for a shelf crammed with various rolls of fabric and thread. Her dark eyes flickered warily to Alma as she shifted through the stock.

“You speak Anishinaabemowin?” Alma asked the shopkeeper.

He shrugged. “A word or two here or there. Good for business, ya know.”

“Maybe you can help me, then.” She took a folded piece of paper from her purse and handed it to him. “I’m looking for these men.”

He squinted over the paper, running a finger down the list of names, and chuckled again. “Good luck. Ain’t seen any of them around here for a while.”

“Perhaps I could find them on their farms. Do you know where their land allotments are?”

“Men like these are still living like the old days. They don’t farm or keep to their allotments. Besides, in all likelihood they’ve sold their lands.”

“The government holds the land in trust. They’re not allowed to sell.”

Mr. Larson’s smile dampened. He glanced over to the woman with the cradleboard, then back to Alma. “New law says they can. If the agent deems ’em competent. And these men had debts. Big drinkers, them five.”

“Who bought the land?”

“Depends. If it were prairie, probably some Easterner wanting to try his hand at farming while the gettin’ is still good. If they had timber lands, more likely than not was that greedy lumber company.” He sighed and shook his head. “Ain’t right, if you ask me.”

“Where do they live if they haven’t their own tract of land?”

“Here and there, I suppose. Drifting between kinfolk.”

Alma frowned and took back her list just as the Indian woman approached. She laid a bolt of blue and white striped calico on the counter. Mr. Larson asked how much she needed in near-perfect Anishinaabemowin.

While he measured and cut the cloth, Alma’s eyes drifted to the baby cooing on the woman’s back. Everything about him was beautiful—his colorfully embroidered swaddling blanket, his fat cheeks and crescent eyes, his wild tufts of downy hair. He freed one arm from his wrappings and grasped playfully about the air. Alma couldn’t help but reach out. He grabbed her finger in his chunky hand and giggled as she wagged it back and forth.

“Miikawaadizi,” she said to the mother. “He’s adorable.”

The woman smiled, but shifted slightly so the babe’s soft hand slipped away. She paid Mr. Larson for the cloth and turned to go.

“Here,” he said, pulling out a red and white candy stick from a nearby jar. “For the little one.”

Alma watched them leave with a curious ache between her lungs. She tried not to wonder if Minowe had children. Tried not to picture them with her lovely brown eyes and moon-shaped face. It took a moment to clear her head and remember why she’d come to the shop at all. “You’re sure you don’t know where I might find these men?”

Mr. Larson shook his head. “Afraid not.”

She crumpled the list of witnesses and shoved it back into her handbag. If he couldn’t help her, she had to find someone who could. She’d come this far, after all, roused so many memories. What was a few more? “How about a woman named Medwe-ganoonind? Do you know where she might live?”

Another shake of the head.

“May, that was her Christian name. Or a man called Peter. He went by—”

“Mrs. Mitchell, I wish I could help, but you’d have far better luck over at the Indian Office. They’re the ones with the roll books, after all.”

The thought of returning to that stuffy white building empty-handed made her stomach turn. “Just one more.” Her mind dredged through the list of long-silent names. “Frederick. He’s tall, mid-thirties. He called himself . . .” She couldn’t remember his Indian name.

“I know half a dozen men fittin’ that description. I couldn’t tell you where any of them live, though.” He gave her an apologetic smile, then grabbed a rag and began wiping down the scratched countertop.

Alma watched his movements, the light grip on the rag, the small circles he made over the wood, and thought back to the grand foyer at Stover. She could see Frederick bent over on hands and knees working off demerits. The scent of floor polish stung her nose. He must have hated the work, but in her mind’s eye he was smiling, humming some tune.

“Nesayegun. That’s what he called himself,” she said to herself, turning to leave.