Between Earth and Sky(9)

The din waned but did not fully dampen. Another crack rang out.

“Silence.” An edge rose in the teacher’s voice. Alma’s muscles tensed.

The room quieted save for the songlike voice of Margaret. Miss Wells stalked across the room, grabbed the girl’s collar, and pulled her to her feet in a firm, fluid motion. “I said quiet!”

She dragged her to the front of the dining room and released her collar. Margaret looked from side to side, pallor overtaking the color in her cheeks. Miss Wells yanked over a chair. Its legs scraped atop the floorboards, sending a shiver down Alma’s arms.

“Climb up and stand before your classmates,” the teacher said.

When Margaret did not move, the teacher grabbed her arm and bullied her onto the seat. “Don’t move,” she said, and retreated into the kitchen.

Margaret turned toward the swinging door and stuck out her tongue. The other children laughed. Alma, too, but with a niggling unease.

When Miss Wells returned from the kitchen, all quieted. In her hand she held a thick slab of lye soap.

The smirk fell from Margaret’s face. Her eyes grew as round as wagon wheels. “Awegonen i’iwe?”

Miss Wells took advantage of the girl’s gaping mouth and shoved in the soap. Margaret tried to spit it out, her throat convulsing as she gagged, but Miss Wells kept her hand flat against her face.

Alma winced, imagining the bitter taste, remembering the way her hands burned and tingled after using it to scrub her skin.

Margaret tried three more times to spit out the soap. Each time Miss Wells stymied her efforts, her long, bony fingers digging into the girl’s cheeks. Margaret’s face twitched as if she were fighting back the urge to vomit. Lamplight glistened in her glossy eyes. But she did not cry as Alma surely would have. Her hands became fists at her sides. A deep breath whistled in through her nose, and the grimace smoothed from her face. Save for the blinking of her eyes and rise and fall of her chest, she did not move.

Miss Wells dropped her hand. Her nails had left crescent imprints around Margaret’s mouth. “All right, everyone, continue on with your meal.”

No one, not even Alma, moved. Her hands knotted in her lap; her eyes hung on Margaret.

“Eat!”

Alma snapped to attention.

The teacher smoothed back her hair and took a deep breath. “Eat. The soap stays in her mouth until every last bowl is cleaned.”

The Indians sat still as figures in a tintype, their eyes wide and fixed. Clearly, they did not understand.

Saliva dribbled down Margaret’s chin. Already her lips looked red and puffy. Alma picked up her spoon and sank it into her lukewarm stew. The sound of metal scraping over the bottom of her bowl echoed through the silence. Careful not to slurp, she forced down the slimy food. Another scrape. Another mouthful. Her hand trembled. Thirty-seven pairs of eyes followed her spoon from bowl to mouth. They still didn’t understand. She glanced up at Margaret, who stared back with a sullen, accusing expression. To her, Alma must seem a traitor, mean and unfeeling just like Miss Wells. After this, they would never be friends.

She spied the boy named Harry seated across the room. His hands were clenched in fists atop the table, his expression frantic, angry. He looked ready to spring from his seat and tackle Miss Wells. Alma locked eyes with him and shook her head slowly. She waved her spoon, then brought it to her mouth. Harry’s eyes narrowed. His face remained hard, his hands flexed and still. Another slow, deliberate bite and Alma had to look away. He didn’t see she was only trying to help. None of them did.

Then, from Harry’s direction, came the drawl of metal. “Eat,” he said loudly.

Alma sat stunned. Aside from the classroom drills of hello, good morning, yes ma’am, no ma’am, and thank you, none of the children had uttered a single English word.

He swallowed a spoonful of potatoes and broth, then dished up another. “Must eat.”

One by one, other spoons joined the clamor.

When Harry’s gaze once again met hers, his clever eyes regarded her in a way others didn’t—no fear, no suspicion, but plain curiosity, as if she were the strange and exotic one. As if she were a riddle he could not quite puzzle out.

*

That night, like every night since the Indians’ arrival, choked sobs filled the dormitory. It started the moment Miss Wells dampened the lamps and left the room. One girl at first, then another, until every bed rattled with the sound, as if sobs were contagious.

Even Alma felt the pull. Her throat tightened and tears threatened if she blinked. She knew they missed their homes, their parents, the siblings they’d left behind. But this was a better place for them. Papa had said so. Clean clothes, healthy food, beds, hairbrushes, and learning.

She rolled over onto her side and squinted through the darkness. One bed over lay Margaret, curled into a ball beneath the blankets. Her body quaked as she cried. She’d thrown up the minute Miss Wells removed the soap from her mouth after dinner. The teacher made her clean up the mess before permitting any of them to leave. At this, Margaret’s cheeks turned red to match the blisters forming on her lips. She grabbed the sodden rag Miss Wells threw at her feet and hung her head, but not before Alma had seen a tear sneak from the corner of her eye.

Now, Alma reached beneath her mattress and pulled out Margaret’s doll. It soothed her to hold it, to stroke its soft leather body and trace the embroidered flowers on its dress. The very secret of it delighted her. She’d hidden the doll the day of the fire. The following afternoon while the Indians marched, she’d sneaked into the dormitory and mended its torn seam. Her stitches were ragged, the thread several shades too light, but she loved the doll anyway. In the cover of darkness, she fingered the black wisps sewn onto its head. Coarse and thick like real hair.