Between Earth and Sky(82)
A woman stood in the jamb, her calico skirt tied high about her waist to accommodate her growing belly beneath. Her deep-set eyes were too dark, her drawn lips too full, her russet skin too youthful to be Minowe. Alma exhaled, equal parts relief and chagrin. “I . . . um . . . pardon the disturbance.”
A man appeared from the shadowy house and stood beside the woman. His gaze swept the clearing before settling on Alma. He pulled a colorful strand of tightly woven beads from beneath his shirt. A wooden cross hung at its center. He held it out for her to see, then reached for the door.
“Wait, I’m not a missionary.”
He frowned. “We have no money.”
“No.” Alma blushed and tugged at her brooch. “I’m not selling anything.”
His eyes narrowed and he roped an arm about the woman, resting his hand just below the swell of her belly. Beneath the bluster, there was tenderness in his touch, intimacy, and Alma found herself reaching back, searching for her own husband’s hand, but she met only air. “I’m looking for a woman named Minowe. I wonder if she might have a . . . er . . .” She glanced at the tarpaper siding, then down to the packed dirt floor. “A house nearby.”
The couple said nothing. She groped for the Anishinaabemowin words. House came quickly to mind, also the verb to search for, but the phrase demanded context. Did she say Niijikwe Minowe: my friend Minowe? Nishiime: my sister, as she’d called her all those years ago? Nimiigaadenimdimin: my enemy? Alma settled for the less descriptive Minowe izhinikaazo anishinaabekwe: a lady called Minowe. She uttered only the first few words before the man cut her off.
“No one of that name lives around here,” he said.
“Are you sure? I was told she—”
“Yes, we are sure.”
Before she could say anything else, he pulled the woman from the jamb and closed the door.
Alma retreated from the clearing, tears smarting in her eyes. None of this was as she’d expected—the dreadful reservation, the hostility from a people she’d known to be nothing but warm and kind. Her pace quickened, despite the flush of fatigue. Frederick’s words made sense to her now. Asku’s anger. They’d been promised a future that had never come. Prosperity, equality—words she’d heard a hundred times. Lies.
And . Her throbbing feet beat faster. If he saw her now, how could he feel anything but disgust? Had he been right when he’d labeled her All those years after Stover, clouded in her own misery, she’d ignored the truth. No, not ignored it; she’d run from it. Was running still.
Alma’s stride petered to a shuffle. Her breath came short and wheezing. A sticky spume had built at the corners of her lips. She pulled a hankie from her handbag and raked the cloth atop her mouth and tongue. Over and over again, as if she’d tasted something foul, as if wiping her skin raw could erase all she’d said and thought and done.
The wind blew and she wondered what it must be like for the couple in their tiny shack. She imagined the cheap framework whining, the rags about the windows beating this way and that. How cold it must be in the winter. How damp when it rained.
She glanced back over her shoulder, but the shack was gone from view. Scraggly trees and waist-high brush surrounded the faint trail. Something didn’t look right. Had she taken the wrong path from the clearing? She’d meant to return the way she’d come, but nothing around her was familiar. Her hands grew clammy. The sun dangled just above the horizon. Had Stewart noticed she’d not yet returned from her “quick stroll about the yard”? Of course he had; that’d been hours ago. How worried he must be.
She turned around and retraced her steps. Not five minutes on, she met a fork in the road. Drat! Which direction had she come? On blind faith she veered right and continued on. And on. A blister formed on the back of her heel. Each step sent a shock of pain.
The sky bruised over and crickets stretched their wings. The air grew cold. Alma buttoned her duster and buried her bare hands beneath her armpits. To her right, the weeds rustled. To her left, a branch snapped. She jumped and glanced about. Nothing.
No need to fear, she reminded herself. How different was this from the countless times she’d sneaked into the forest as a girl? Yet her bounding pulse refused to slow.
A headwind harried her every step, tugging at her dress. It stole beneath her collar and rattled the overhead leaves. But then, carried on its swells, came a whiff of smoke. Alma hurried along the path toward the smell. She tripped, fell, and clambered to her feet without regard for her scraped hands or dirtied skirt. Her side stung with exertion, but she dare not slow and lose the scent.
She stumbled into a clearing. Twilight’s fading glow lit the outline of a tiny house. This time she did not hesitate to knock.
“Please,” she said when the door opened. “I’m lost.”
A man stared down at her, his face obscured in darkness, his wide shoulders and set jaw backlit by the crackling fire within. Alma’s heart crowded her throat. He moved slightly and the strand of colorful beads and wooden cross around his neck caught the fire’s light. “Of course, ma’am,” he said. “Biindigen. Come inside.”
CHAPTER 34
Wisconsin, 1891
Alma inspected the partially set table, then smiled down at Mabel and Ada. “Very good. Now place the knife at the top of the setting just below the salt cup and the fork here to the left of the plate.”