Between Earth and Sky(87)

It took a moment to clear the past from her mind. The flickering sconces, the cheap wallpaper peeling at the edges, the lingering smell of burnt meat from the kitchen—slowly the present took shape around her. She looked up at the old couple. Their pale eyes were expectant, their lips—hers thin and painted, his dwarfed beneath a bushy white mustache—curved with placid smiles. Inwardly, Alma bristled at their blithe dispositions. “You go ahead.”

Stewart forced a tight smile and turned back to the couple. “It’s not all that remarkable of a tale.”

“Oh, go on,” the woman from Des Moines said.

“I saw her first at one of those moving-picture shows.”

The woman leaned forward. “I love those! Which film?”

“In truth, I don’t remember. One of those French numbers—”

“Cendrillon,” Alma interrupted.

“I hardly watched it, you see.” Stewart’s gaze flashed to her but didn’t stick. “I was completely taken by her. But the hall was crowded and she slipped away before I could find her.” He folded his napkin slowly and set it beside his dinner plate.

In the silence, Alma wondered what he was thinking. She thought of the flickering lights, the black-and-white images dancing across the screen, the oohs and aahs of the audience. Did he wish now he’d saved his dime?

“It was months before I saw her again. This time at Fairmount Park. She was there alone, reading. I watched her for the entirety of my lunch hour, not taking a bite. But it felt bad form to approach without introduction.”

“Indeed,” said the woman. “Young men today are frightfully forward. No sense of taste and manners. I was telling my grandson just the other—”

Her husband broke in. “Let the man finish.”

His wife simpered and fell quiet.

“I went to the library that evening and borrowed the very same book. Every day I went to the park, and when I saw her next, I held the book out as if reading, hoping to catch her eye.”

Alma stared at her husband. He’d never told her this part before.

“And?” the woman asked, echoing Alma’s curiosity.

“And . . . she walked right past me.”

Alma looked down. Was he saying this to embarrass her? To make her seem cold and aloof? But when he spoke again the timbre of his voice was warm and unaccusing.

“What could I do but follow her home? The next day I returned and peddled my legal services to her aunt—trust and probate matters, land deeds. That sort of thing.” This Alma remembered, his unfamiliar but pleasant voice in the hallway.

“You’re a lawyer,” the woman said. She turned to her husband. “He’s a lawyer, John.”

“Yes, but not a personal property lawyer,” Stewart said. His expression had thawed now and his eyes softened. “I studied for hours every night before meeting her aunt just to figure out what the dickens I was doing.” The couple laughed. Stewart glanced at Alma with a thin but genuine smile. “But I secured the introduction I’d been craving.”

She couldn’t help but recall that first meeting in her aunt’s parlor. He’d shaken her hand with altogether too much vigor. The sweat from his palm stuck to her fingers. But his eyes were tranquil, his demeanor confident without being cocky. She had no intention of falling in love again, had not thought it possible, but it happened nonetheless.

Five years had transpired and even the day’s worry and anger could not overshadow his love. She tried to return his smile, but found the weight of it too heavy to bear. She didn’t deserve his affections, his unflagging kindness.

In the privacy of their own sitting room, Stewart poured them each a finger of corn liquor. The small glass decanter rattled when he replaced it atop the side table. After handing her a glass, he joined her on the divan. Though he rarely drank, Stewart threw back the liquor without a grimace. “What were you thinking today, Alma? What in God’s heavens were you looking for?”

Not what, whom. “I . . .” She sipped her drink and winced as the liquor hit her tongue. It burned the length of her throat, settling uneasily on her stomach. She took another sip. “Harry has a sister. I went to see if I could find her.”

“A sister? Why didn’t you tell me this earlier? I could have come with you, interviewed her myself.”

“No . . . er . . . she’s very shy and not altogether fond of—” Of what? Men? Whites? What lie would assuage him? Certainly not the truth. Not that it was Alma who wasn’t altogether fond of Minowe, that the conversation they were liable to have was not suited for his ears. She had no intention of bringing up the past, but something might slip. “Strangers, not fond of strangers.”

“What did she have to say?”

“I couldn’t find her. Ended up lost. I’ll go back and try another way tomorrow.”

“Certainly not.” He stood and paced the length of the room before returning to the side table and decanter.

“I must. Please. I’m no use to you at the agency. All those ledgers and reports—I haven’t any idea what’s important.”

“The reservation is dangerous.” He poured another drink. “I half thought . . . half thought the sheriff might have . . .” He drained the liquor in one gulp.

“Dearest, it was nothing like that. I got turned around and lost my way. That’s all. Tomorrow I’ll be much more careful.”