Between Earth and Sky(92)

She trudged across the field and around the tall cornstalks. A light breeze rustled their droopy, yellowing arms. Her heart inched higher and higher until she felt it pulse at the base of her tongue.

Clear of the garden now, she ducked beneath an empty clothesline into a barren yard. A small farmhouse stood at its center. Gray tarpaper clung to the frame like sunken skin. The breeze swelled and several torn swaths flapped back, revealing the studs and a helter-skelter array of narrow cross boards beneath.

Alma climbed two stairs to a creaky porch. The eaves of the rusty tin roof shuddered above her. She hesitated before the door, her fingers loath to form a fist, her knuckles reticent to knock. At last she rapped. The rickety door shuddered.

No answer.

After several seconds of silence, she pulled back the flannel covering and peeked inside the paneless window. A wooden table stood in the center of the room beside a potbellied stove. Baskets of woven birch bark lined the walls, and five rolled rush mats rested against the far corner. The earthen floor looked newly swept, and a tidy set of tin dishes rested at one end of the table. No one was inside.

Should she wait? This mightn’t be Minowe’s house at all. Then she caught sight of a doll propped up in the corner, a cloth doll seated beside two others made of grass. Alma’s immediately recognized the faded blue and white dress, the strands of yellow thread sewn on as hair. Minowe had made it when they were girls, not long after Alma’s mother burned the Indian doll. Alma had made one, too, under Minowe’s tutelage. Only hers had black hair instead of yellow. They’d taken greater care to hide them, stashing them beneath a loose floorboard beside Alma’s bed.

What had happened to that doll? Perhaps it was still there in the dormitory, or in some dust-covered trunk. Minowe, she’d called her. Such a silly, childish thing to do, naming the doll after her friend. What had Minowe called her doll? Alma couldn’t remember.

She seated herself upon the steps to wait. A tissuey layer of clouds grayed the sky, but the north wind lay dormant. She thought of yesterday’s gale, how the house behind her must have shaken and rattled. A pang whispered in her heart. It was so tiny, the house, small enough to fit in her home’s parlor with room to spare. She strangled back her sympathy. “I’m only here to talk about Asku,” she would say, in the dry, matter-of-fact tone of Miss Wells when Minowe returned.

Minutes stretched and gummed together. With each snap in the trees or rustle of cornstalks, Alma’s pulse quickened only to slow again when no one appeared. With time, the prairie grass and weeds blurred like a watercolor before her tired eyes. Her head grew heavy against her palm. Thoughts of quitting her post lazed through her mind when a thunderclap of tumbling logs startled her to attention.

Her head jerked toward the noise.

Minowe stood a few yards away, her face pale and wide, her arms limp as the last of the sticks and lumber fell to the ground. They rolled away from her feet like a rippling tide.

They stared at each other for several heavy seconds. Alma had never believed in ghosts. The temporal world haunted her enough. But seeing Minowe made her skin tighten and prickle, as if everyone lost in the past had emerged into the clearing with her. Minowe’s starched black uniform was now a simple skirt and blouse—both patched and tattered at the hem. Her hair, once tied in a careful bun, hung long and plaited down her back. But her face, her eyes, her long arms and graceful hands were the same.

“You should not have come,” Minowe said at last.

Though she’d practiced the lines, Alma’s voice deserted her. “I . . .” She cleared her throat weakly. “I’m only here for Asku.”

Minowe’s eyes went glassy at her brother’s name. Her lips compressed into a thin, sharp line. She looked away, blinking several times, then faced Alma with a hardened expression. “You can’t help him.”

“You’re wrong. My husband is a lawyer. We’re here searching for the truth.”

Minowe snickered, her face contorting cruelly. She sank to her haunches and snatched up her fallen logs.

“Don’t you care if he hangs?” Alma said.

“This does not belong to you.” Her voice was low, hoarse, dangerous, but Alma paid no heed.

“He was my friend. Nisayenh, brother to me, too.”

“Brother?” Minowe stood and stomped to the side of the house. She threw her cache of logs atop a stack of wood. They landed haphazardly, jutting out from the otherwise tidy pile, as the resulting clap echoed through the clearing. “You cannot say that. Not after these many years. After all you did.”

“Me?” Alma tried to laugh, but it came out as a cackle. “I’m to blame for this?”

“Your father, that school, you all betrayed him.”

“Who are you to speak of betrayal?” Madness edged her words. “You? Of all people.”

Minowe flinched. “You never should of run away with him.” Her voice broke and quieted. Her gaze retreated to the ground and she shook her head. “I told you so, but you wouldn’t listen.”

The dusty yard blinked in and out of focus. Alma closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath between clenched teeth. “I’m not here to talk about .”

“You thought nothing would happen.” Another bitter snicker. “A white girl and an Indian.”

Alma’s pulse thudded against her temples. “Leave it alone, Minowe.”