Between Earth and Sky(89)

Her mother had made the weeks of estrangement from equally unbearable, disallowing all unnecessary contact with the Indians. No more common meals or afternoon chores. No more Saturday socials or evening study hours. In place of these activities, Alma languished in the stuffy parlors of the La Crosse aristocracy, sipping tea and chatting about a host of banal and insignificant topics. Her mother contrived any excuse to bring them into town, as if sudden immersion in white society would cure Alma of her wicked affliction.

Now, however, Alma hummed as she walked, careless of the mud that clung to her boots.

“What are you so happy about?” Minowe asked. “Two weeks ago you were crying. Now every times I see you, you’re smiling, singing. Chirk as damnation!”

Alma laughed. “Where did you hear that expression? Mr. Simms?”

“ teached it last class.” She raised her chin, pinched her lips, and gestured with her stick in the same jerky manner Miss Wells wielded her ruler. “Copy these words upon your slates, class: Damn, dratted, damnation.”

At that, they all laughed.

“You’d get more than a mouthful of soap for that,” said.

Alma wiped the water from her lashes and swallowed down the last of her giggles. Her eyes hung on Minowe’s gap-toothed smile—a rare sight these days and ever so dear. It drew her back across the years to that night, standing beneath the eaves of the schoolhouse, when first she’d seen it. And laughter, so like a bell—she wished she could bottle up the sound and keep it with her forever. After a quick glance around the yard, she dropped the seed bag and grabbed their hands. Dirt roughened their skin. “I’m running away. With .”

She’d met him surreptitiously in town a week and a half ago while she waited in the carriage for her mother. The street-side door of the carriage had opened soundlessly. Alma had blinked at the sudden flood of sunlight, trying to make out the lithe form that glided in. The carriage did not rock, nor the door creak upon closing. Even before her eyes adjusted, she knew who had entered. Only an Indian could move with such stealth.

placed his fingers over her lips. He closed the window coverings and sat down beside her.

“! How did you—”

This time, his lips silenced her. She threw her arms around him and kissed him back, not just his lips but his cheek and eyelids and neck. His fingers worked the buttons of her blouse until the swell of her bosom above her corset lay exposed. His mouth roved from her jaw to her collarbone, then downward. She shivered at the delicious feel of his lips against her skin.

Too soon he stopped. The recesses of her mind awakened and she buttoned up her shirt. “Mother ran into Mrs. Wright’s shop for a fitting. She’ll return any moment.”

He nuzzled her neck, fighting her fingers as she tried to fasten the final buttons of her collar. Her hands abandoned their charge and wound into his hair. Against the renewed swell of passion, her mind fought for clarity. “Father didn’t write to Mr. Wallis, did he? Recommending your termination. He said he would. You still have your job?”

“He did.” His hand slid over her silk waistcoat and jacket, stopping atop her breast. “Mr. Wallis kept me on in spite of it.”

Alma moved his hand back down to her waist. “He likes you quite well.”

“He does.” pulled back and looked directly into her eyes. “He’s willing to help us.”

“How?”

“Two weeks from today he has a shipment of wagon parts going to Milwaukee. He knows the foreman and said we could ride with the parts in the freight car. It’s a late train, leaves the rail yard at eleven thirty. Come the following morning we’ll be gone, but no one will think we went by trains.”

“What will we do after we reach Milwaukee?”

“I have enough money to buy us tickets to Green Bay, and from there, a wagon to Keshena.”

“The reservation? After my father realizes we’ve fled La Crosse, that’s the first place he’ll look.”

“By time he arrives we’ll already be married.”

“Married? It won’t be easy to find a willing pastor.”

“I know a priest in Keshena who will do it.”

Alma stiffened. “A Catholic priest?”

“Yes.” His dark eyes roved her face and he cocked his head. “You still want to marry, yes?”

She bit her lip.

“Catholic, Presbyterian—does it matter so long as we have the white man’s paper?”

Silence followed. She imagined the pain and fury in her father’s face when he learned she had not only married an Indian, but had done so in a Catholic church.

arms slacked around her. He sat up straight and leaned away. His handsome face bore a pained and bewildered expression.

Her heart clenched and she grabbed his hands. “Of course it doesn’t matter. I love you and want to be your wife no matter who performs the ceremony.”

expression remained guarded. “Life on the reservation is not like here. We don’t have balls and fancy dinners. Even with the money I’ve saved I can’t buy big house or expensive carriage like this.”

“I’d rather be with you than the richest man in Wisconsin.” She leaned in and kissed him. His lips, at first stiff, slowly livened beneath hers until they matched her hunger.

“It won’t be forever, . I can cut timber until we’re settled, then look for work in a carriage shop in Green Bay or Oshkosh. Maybe we can return to La Crosse someday and you can be with your family again.”