Between Earth and Sky(97)

Minowe ripped off Alma’s hat and with it a fistful of hair. Alma boxed her flat handed in the ear. All of her was dirty now, not just her face, and Minowe too. But her hands only clutched tighter. Minowe’s fingers dug into her arms as they rolled and jostled, each trying to mount the other.

“I couldn’t let you steal him, too,” she said.

“Steal him? Steal him!” Alma clawed at Minowe’s shoulder until the seam of her blouse split with a groan. “I loved him. I would have given up everything to—” She reared back with a clenched fist, but stopped short. Minowe’s dark eyes seemed to look right through her, wild and reddened with tears.

Alma’s hand went limp. How had she not realized it as a girl? The way Minowe had spoken of him, the way she looked at him, the countless times she took his side over Alma’s. “You loved him, too.”

Minowe pushed Alma off her and crawled away. A large swath of her blouse flapped down from the shoulder seam, revealing a thin, yellowed chemise. Her dark hair hung wild about her face. “I only meaned to stop you. To make you see the madness.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It isn’t right for our kinds to mix.” She began to rock, her hands scratching at her skin. “All I did was tell your father. You led them right to him.”

“That’s not true, I—”

“You could have saved him.” Minowe fixed her with desperate eyes. Her fingers dug deeper, drawing blood. “Why didn’t you save him?”

It was like staring into a looking glass: the guilt, the pain, the same tears that wetted Minowe’s cheeks streaming down her own.

She pulled Minowe into her arms, stopping her frantic clawing. “It’s not your fault.”

Minowe fought and twisted. She shook and howled.

“It’s not your fault!” Alma’s voice carried through the clearing and echoed back. Minowe stilled. They held each other and wept. Watery snot dripped from Alma’s nose, and her throat grew raw. When she closed her eyes she could still see the twisting shadow. Still hear the groaning tree branch. Still smell the torch smoke. It would be with her forever. And yet, here in Minowe’s arms, she found solidarity in her pain, an acceptance and acknowledgment denied her all these years.

Through bleary eyes, she looked out at the spindly grove behind Minowe’s house. Huge swaths of stumps scarred the earth, broken only by occasional birch or maple too small or crooked to have value as timber. Alma felt the same emptiness. Why did people always hurt the deepest those they loved the most?

Into the silence, Minowe said, “It won’t bring back.”

“What?”

“Saving Asku.”

“I know that. I’m not trying to raise the dead. Just lay them to rest.”

Minowe gave her a quizzical look. She stood and helped Alma to her feet. Dust covered them both head to foot. “Come, I’ll tell you what I can.” She led the way inside and built a fire in the stove while Alma took a seat at the table.

“Do you still keep in touch with ?” Alma asked.

“Your father sent her back to the Ho-Chunk reservation after . . . after that night. Consumption took her a few years back.”

“Oh.” Alma felt like she had swallowed thorns. Her eyes retreated to the floor. She caught sight again of the dolls, the rag doll dressed in blue, the grass dolls, and one she’d not noticed from the window, its leather skin and embroidered dress so like that of the first doll she tried to save all those years ago. “Where are your children?”

“Day school.” Minowe filled a kettle and set it on the stovetop to boil. “They’re always trying to gets me to send them to the boarding school in Morristown, but I won’t.” She walked around the room, pulling aside the tattered window covering. Light spilled in, highlighting the sharp features of her gaunt adult face.

“Where’s your husband? Does he work in town?”

“He comes and goes. Mostly goes.” Minowe shrugged. “Do you have childrens?”

Alma looked down at the rutted tabletop and traced the path of a long scratch with her finger. “No.”

The shrill cry of the kettle broke the ensuing silence. Minowe poured them each a cup of tea and then sat down across from her. From the nearby shelf, she grabbed a small cloth-covered parcel. Beneath the covering was a stack of tan granule bars, each the size of a deck of playing cards. She broke a small piece from the top brick and held it out. “Ziinzibaakwad.”

Alma placed the hard morsel in her tea. A sweet, woody aroma blossomed up with the steam. As girls, Minowe had spoken often of maple sugar, bemoaning how flavorless white sugar tasted. Alma sipped her tea. The rich sweetness spread across her tongue. “Wiin-gipogwad. It’s delicious.”

A familiar gap-toothed grin spread across her friend’s face. “You remember some of the Anishinaabe words.”

“A few.”

“This would please Askuwheteau.” She sighed and the smile melted from her face.

“I went to visit him. In St. Paul.”

Her eyes livened. “How is he?”

“He looked well,” she lied.

“Your husband is a lawyer, you said?”

“Yes, he’s taken on Asku’s case, but we need your help to prove his innocence.”