Between Earth and Sky(84)

Her mother entered the room just as the conversation waned.

Alma’s father stood. “My dear, you remember George, don’t you?”

After a sharp nod from Alma, rose to his feet as well. “Mrs. Blanchard.”

Her mother neither bowed nor extended her hand, but acknowledged him with a flat smile. She took her husband’s arm and they processed to the dining room.

offered his arm to Alma, and they followed behind her parents. His light touch and careful distance felt strange after all the intimacy they had shared. A year’s worth of stolen moments—hurried kisses, covert glances, passionate rendezvous—flashed in Alma’s mind. How freeing it would be after tonight to share their love openly.

They passed by the crowded dining hall, where the Indian students had gathered for supper. Despite her mother’s protests, Alma still ate most of her meals seated beside Minowe and at the long wooden tables. She looked for her friends through the sea of gawking faces. wore a broad, playful grin and crossed her wrists in front of her heart. Minowe smiled, too, but it seemed forced, wistful. She’d worn that expression ever since Alma shared with them the true purpose of visit.

Perhaps Minowe just missed her brother. Alma missed him too. Asku’s presence had always stilled her, fortified her hope and courage. If only he were here tonight.

At the entry into the formal dining room, Alma paused and gave Tshikw’set’s arm a light squeeze. His muscles felt tense enough to snap. When he pulled out her chair, its legs scraped softly atop the floor. They both winced, though neither of her parents paid the noise any mind. The soft light of the chandelier illuminated handsome but grave face. He sat down across from her more upright than she had ever seen him deign to sit.

Trays of food rested on the small buffet to the right of her father. “George, may I have your plate? Roast? Potato? Beans?”

“Yes, if you please.”

Her father dished the food and handed back his plate. “Cora, my dear?”

Alma watched from the corner of her eye as plates passed to and fro, pleased he had remembered not to start eating until Father had served them all. Though she knew he disliked pomp and ceremony, he hid it well. Only the occasional heavy breath and clenching of his jaw betrayed his unease and nerves. Alma contented herself that these were things only a lover would notice, and smiled reassuringly at him whenever her parents looked down over their food.

“I’m so proud of you graduates,” her father said, breaking the silence. “You here in La Crosse, Harry back East.” He took another bite of roast and leaned back in his chair. “What a time he must be having at Brown. The philosophical debate, the sport and camaraderie, the libraries and club halls . . .”

“The sophistication of a real city,” her mother added.

If her father heard bitterness in her mother’s voice, he made no show of it. “What about the others in your graduating class? Do you keep in touch with them?”

“Frederick’s faring good in St. Paul. Catherine has went home to the Oneida reserve, I think.”

“A blanket Indian again,” her mother said. “What a shame.”

Alma flinched and looked at . His hands tightened around his knife and fork, and his forearms flexed.

“Catherine had such talent with sewing,” Alma said with forced lightness. “You remember her lacework, don’t you, Mother?”

“I suppose her skills were a huckleberry above the rest,” she replied. “But I don’t see what good they’ll do her on that reservation.”

“Perhaps she could open a shop in Green Bay.”

Her mother dabbed her mouth with her napkin, then waved it in Alma’s direction. “You’re such an optimist, dear. I suppose you get that from your father. The world is not the rosy place you think it is.”

Alma bit her lip and allowed the conversation to dwindle. Nothing but the tap of knives and forks over the glazed clay dishes sounded from the table. After a minute or two, her father wiped his mouth and pushed back from the table. “I must say, George, I quite expected you to return to the reservation yourself after graduation.”

shifted in his chair. “It will always be my home, but there are things in La Crosse that I am fond of also.” His eyes flashed to Alma. “I am grateful to Mr. Wallis for taking me on in his shop that I might stay.”

“I ran into Mr. Wallis in town just last week. He speaks very highly of your work. Says you’re never tardy or loaf about on the job.”

“It is kind of him to speak so.”

Her father leaned back, eyes twinkling. “You’re a credit to this school, my boy! You and the others, I cannot tell you how much your success pleases me.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now tell me, George, there was something you wanted to discuss?”

“Yes, I . . . er . . .” He glanced at Alma and her mother.

“Of course. Let’s retire to my study. Ladies, if you’ll excuse us, please.”

rose behind her father. Alma locked eyes with him and they both drew in a deep breath. She smiled once more, a final token of encouragement. This was the easy part. Her father had devoted his life to saving the Indian. Clearly, he’d grown to like . She watched the men exit the room, then glanced up at her mother. The woman wore a tired expression, her lips downturned and eyelids droopy, as if the meal had sapped her of all energy.