“Pestilence, my dear. Must you ask so many questions? Come, we need your help.” Her mother held out the girl’s clothes at arm’s length. “There’s an apron for you there by the steps. Put it on and collect these rags.”
Pestilence? Alma didn’t know the meaning, but her mother spoke as if the word itself tasted foul. She grabbed the apron and collected the clothes, examining each garment for some sign of this awful pestilence. When her arms were full, her mother nodded toward the bonfire.
“Burn them?” Alma looked down at the heap of bright cloth in her arms. “But they’re so—”
“Filthy. Fleas, lice, who knows what else.”
Though much of the fabric was patched and frayed, Alma saw only a few stains and smudges of dirt. Still, the thought of bugs crawling up her arms made her shiver, and she hurried the clothes across the yard.
At the fire’s edge, she hesitated. Tall flames rose above her head. Heat bit at her cheeks. Was it fair to burn their colorful clothes? But then, they were getting new clothes, pretty black dresses to match her own; ones without holes, tatters, or pestilence. She cast the bundle of cotton and leather atop the logs and watched it singe and blacken. The smoke finally chased her away, but only after the shape and color of everything was lost.
When she returned, her mother was bent beside a young girl whose two front teeth were only halfway in, the very same as Alma’s. The Indian wore a blouse, calf-length skirt, and leggings, all cut from black broadcloth. Embroidered flowers wound across the fabric. In her arms, she clutched a small doll.
She looked from the doll to the girl’s face. Brown eyes stared back, wide like a spooked pony’s. Alma had imagined these children would be as excited as she about coming to the new school. But this—the whistle, the haircuts, the burning of their clothes? Would they still want to be her friends afterward?
Her mother yanked the Indian’s blouse up and over her head and then pulled at the ties of her skirt. The girl’s copper skin turned to goose flesh in the cool evening air. Her cheeks bloomed pink. She covered herself with her arms, clutching the doll in the crook of her elbow.
When Alma’s mother reached for the doll, the Indian cowered back. With a huff, her mother pried it from her arms, ripping the seam along the doll’s shoulder as she jerked it away. The girl cried and clawed after her treasure, as her mother tossed it to Alma.
“The doll, too?” Alma asked.
A withering look sent her shuffling toward the flames. Behind her, the girl continued to wail. When Alma reached the bonfire, she hesitated again. Singed silk ribbons fluttered among the embers. The charred remnants of a beaded moccasin glinted in the waning sunlight.
She looked over her shoulder. The girl stood naked, hugging her arms around her chest. Mrs. Simms unbound the girl’s braid and doused her head with kerosene. Even at a distance, Alma could smell it. Her nose wrinkled and her arms tightened around the heap of clothes. But she could not look away.
Tears pooled in the Indian’s eyes as a fine-toothed comb raked through her ebony hair. Her head arched back with each pass and the skin at her temples pulled taut. Once her hair lay smooth, the cook led her to one of the basins and heaved her in. She coughed and shivered when her head surfaced above the soapy water. Alma’s throat grew tight.
After the bath, Mrs. Simms dried and dressed the girl—stockings, white chemise and drawers, black dress and boots—just like Alma.
But even though she was outfitted in new clothes, tears continued to run down the Indian’s cheeks.
Alma looked at the doll. Soft fuzz, like the tips of lakeside cattails, spilled from the tear in its seam. Its leather body and cloth dress were well worn. By now the logs at the edge of the flames smoldered red. A cold breeze ruffed the back of Alma’s skirt, while the front ballooned with heat. Her heart lurched. After a backward glance at her mother, she hid the doll beneath the waistband of her apron before tossing everything else into the fire.
CHAPTER 3
Wisconsin, 1881
Alma’s eyes wandered from her slate to the bank of windows lining the classroom wall. Outside, the Indians plodded across the yard in jumbled rows. A whistle sounded, followed by the groundskeeper’s gravelly voice.
“Don’t you Injuns know what a line is? Left foot forward, now. Stay in formation for criminy’s sake!”
Alma choked back a giggle. She wasn’t allowed to march. Only the wild and indolent need suffer such discipline. Or so her mother had said when Alma tried to join the Indians in the yard.
Another pipe from the whistle. “That ain’t yer left!”
Her father’s soft voice cut in. “That’s enough drilling for this morning, Mr. Simms. It’s their first day. Come inside, children. Time for lessons.”
A thrill raced through Alma’s body. Finally. She faced forward and sat up extra straight. President Arthur’s beady eyes stared down at her from a large portrait above the blackboard, his plump face somber, feathery whiskers hanging from his jowls. Smaller paintings of Washington and Lincoln flanked him on either side. Red, white, and blue ribbons festooned the tops of all four walls like the scalloped hem of a ball gown.
Beneath the ribbons and austere portraits, Miss Wells stood at the blackboard, writing out a list of names—boys’ names in one column, girls’ in the other. She was much taller than Alma’s mother, thin and angular, as if God had drawn her form with squares and rectangles instead of soft ovals. Her script marched across the ebony surface, each letter perfectly formed, her bony fingers choking the chalk. Alma expected the stick to snap in two at any moment.
“Excuse me, Miss Wells. Don’t the Indians already have names?”
The teacher did not turn around. “None fit to utter. Now back to your work, dear.”
Alma glanced at her slate—blank save for the first few lines Miss Wells had tasked her to copy. Unlike the teacher’s, her own lettering strayed and bunched, loose at the beginning and cramped near the edge.
Great sins require great repentance.
Do unto others as you would—
At the sound of footfalls in the adjacent hallway, she abandoned her lettering and looked toward the open doorway. Her toes wiggled inside her newly polished boots. A dour old governess had seen to her instruction back in Philadelphia, but never in a real classroom, never with real friends and classmates seated beside her.
Her father strode into the room. The Indian children shuffled in behind him, their haphazard line unraveling as they entered. His proud smile, the same one he’d sported yesterday, held despite the disorder. “I give them unto your care, Miss Wells.” He beamed a moment longer, winked in Alma’s direction, and then turned from the room.
“All right, children, take your seats,” Miss Wells said. “Young men on this side; ladies over here.”
The children stared blankly. Unruffled, the teacher steered the first few students to desks and the others followed. Their steps were clumsy, slow, as if burdened by their shiny new boots.
Alma scooted toward the far edge of her double-wide desk and grinned up at the approaching girls. They avoided her gaze, just as they had yesterday at the picnic, last night in the dormitory, and this morning in the dining hall, squeezing in three to a desk to avoid sitting beside her.
After all thirty-seven children had settled, the bench still loomed empty beside her. Begrudgingly, she returned to her lesson book, the water in her eyes blurring the text.
From the front of the room, Miss Wells addressed the class. She wore the same air of pride, of purpose, as Alma’s father. But unlike his, her voice was flat. “Good morning, students. Welcome to Stover School for Indians, your home for the coming years. Thanks to the beneficence of the United States Government, you have the opportunity to fully immerse yourselves in civilized culture and to wash away the sins of your former existence.”
Alma peeked at the other children as Miss Wells spoke. They didn’t look sinful. Most hung their heads, stealing sideways glances around the room. The girl directly in front of Alma p
ulled at the collar of her dress. Across the aisle, another squirmed in her seat and swung her legs beneath the desk. Many of the boys tugged and fingered their newly cropped hair. None gave any indication that they understood the school-ma’am’s lecture. But the teacher continued undeterred.
“We shall begin today by choosing Christian names.” Her thin lips parted in what Alma supposed was a smile, baring white, cockeyed teeth. She gestured toward the blackboard with a ruler and then pointed the instrument at a girl in the front row. “You first. Come to the board and select a name.”
The girl shrank down in her seat until her nose was level with the desk. Miss Wells paid no mind. She grabbed the girl’s arm and led her to the blackboard.
Even from the back row, Alma could see the girl trembling. She gaped up at the blackboard, but made no motion toward the names. Several moments passed, each one adding weight to the silence. Finally, Miss Wells grasped the girl’s hand and uncoiled her index finger. Like a puppeteer, she guided the small finger toward the first name on the board.
“Mary. Good choice.”
The girl scurried back to her seat. Miss Wells followed, pulling a spool of thread and needle from her dress pocket. With a few quick stitches, she sewed the name Mary onto the back of the girl’s dress.
Alma frowned and cocked her head. Was this to help the other students learn the girl’s new name? But they couldn’t yet read. Papa had told her so. Maybe it was just for her, so she could learn her new friends’ names faster. Tomorrow she’d sew Alma on the back of her dress with her neatest stitching. That way, when the Indians did learn to read, they’d know her name right away.
After returning to her desk and jotting something in her ledger, Miss Wells pointed her ruler at the next pupil.
Alma watched the second girl rise. Her glossy hair lay coiled in a braid at the nape of her neck. The fabric at the front of her dress bunched in several places from misaligned buttons. She teetered to the blackboard, hands buried in the folds of her skirt. After a wide-eyed glance at Miss Wells, she pointed at the top name.
Alma bit down to stifle a giggle.
“Mary is already taken,” the teacher said. She smiled again, close-lipped this time, the rest of her face strangely void of expression. “Choose another.”
The girl dropped her hand and turned toward her desk. Before she could move, Miss Wells grabbed hold of her and spun her back to face the list of names. With trembling finger, the girl pointed again at the name Mary.
Without warning, Miss Wells raised her ruler and slapped the Indian’s hand. The sharp sound of wood against skin ricocheted from wall to wall, reaching Alma before her eyes could fully make sense of what had happened. The entire class arched back in their seats. Whispers flooded the room.
“Silence, class,” Miss Wells said, and turned back to the girl. “Now, my dear, select a different name.”
The girl cradled her hand, a long red welt appearing atop her skin. Her dark eyes darted about the room. Her mouth hung agape. She looked confused, afraid, as if never before struck.
Alma’s mouth went dry, the last of her giggles long dead in her throat. She scooted to the edge of her seat, watching the patience drain from Miss Wells’s face with each passing second.
“Pick a name or I shall be forced—”
“She doesn’t understand!” The words flew from Alma’s mouth before she realized she was speaking.
The teacher’s sharp gray eyes turned on her. “This does not concern you.”
“If you just show—”
“Your father told me I’d see no trouble from you. Have I been misinformed? He’d be so disappointed.”
Alma sank down in her seat. “No, ma’am.” She dropped her eyes back to her slate, but her heart continued to push against the walls of her chest.
At the front of the classroom, the Indian whimpered. Her boots shuffled back and forth atop the floorboards.
Again Miss Wells addressed the girl. Her voice, at once both sweet and menacing, made Alma’s skin prickle. “You have one more opportunity to select a—”
Ignoring the niggling voice inside her head, Alma’s feet found the floor and propelled her toward the blackboard.
“You look like an Alice to me,” Alma said, pointing to the second name on the board and nodding.
After a moment, the girl raised her hand and gestured to the same name. “Awlis.”
Alma smiled. “Al—”
Miss Wells’s ruler smacked against the blackboard.
Alma jumped. Alice cringed.
“Return to your seat, Miss Alma.”
“I only wanted to—”
“You’re not to rise again until the lunch bell, and you shan’t be joining the others at recess.”
Her shoulders fell. What a nasty old ninny Miss Wells was for punishing her so when all she’d done was help. She trudged to her desk at the back of the room. Several sets of deep brown eyes followed her—curious, but otherwise cold. She picked up the heavy chalk to continue her lines, but could not pry her attention from the blackboard.
After her demonstration, the girls seemed to catch on. One after another, they shuffled up to the front of the room and, without pause, pointed to the name below the one previously selected. The girl Alma remembered from yesterday, the one with the doll, chose the name Margaret. Another girl, whom Alma guessed to be her age as well, selected Rose.
When all sixteen girls had picked new names, Miss Wells turned to the boys. Despite his shorn hair and new military-style suit, Alma recognized the first boy to rise by his bright, foxlike eyes. He crossed to the blackboard with the same pluck he’d shown climbing from the wagon. Mimicking the girl who had gone before him, his outstretched finger moved toward the next name on the list, Ruth.
Alma winced and waited for Miss Wells’s ruler to rise. But the boy’s hand stopped short. He dropped his arm and cocked his head.
The grandfather clock sounded in the foyer, each clang echoing through the silence.
Alma teetered on the edge of her seat but dared move no farther.
Miss Wells turned the ruler over in her hand, its sharp edge scratching against her dry palm. Otherwise, she didn’t move—not a blink, not a breath. Even her placid expression seemed chiseled in stone.
The boy’s gaze cut sideways, eyeing the wooden stick, then back to the board. He swung his hand to the list of boys’ names and pointed at the top one.
“Harry.” Miss Wells laid aside her ruler and inked the name into her ledger.
CHAPTER 4
Philadelphia, 1906
“You know this man? This Harry Muskrat?”
“Yes.” Alma handed her husband another square of folded newsprint. The ink was smeared where she’d worried it in her hands on the walk over to his office. “This article mentions his time at Stover. That’s how I know he’s the same man of my acquaintance.”
She sat perfectly still as he scanned the article, forced her breath to come in even draws, forced her feet not to tap, her hands not to stir, forced her face to mimic his impassive expression. A faint, musty smell hit her nose—that of the towering bookshelves lining the room. Most days she hardly noticed. Today it dredged up unwelcome memories of Stover and her father’s study. She sought distraction in the spicy scent of her husband’s Bay Rum aftershave, in the whir of motorcars and clink of carriages on the street below, but to little avail.
“Indicted for murder.” Stewart shook his head and slid the newspapers across his desk. “Dreadful, darling. You must be—”
“Harry would never do something like this.”
He leaned back in his leather-upholstered armchair and worked a hand across his chin. “I didn’t know you kept in contact with any of your former . . . er . . . classmates.”
Alma swallowed and looked down. The tea stain upon her dress had set a faint sepia color, like an aged photograph. She hid it beneath her folded hands. “I don’t.” It had been easier that way, after what happened. “We, that is, Harry and I, lost touch when
I returned to Philadelphia.”
“That was what, fifteen years ago? How can you be certain the intervening years have not entirely changed this man?”
“Changed him how? Into a murderer? That’s preposterous.” She stopped and tried to swallow the rising hysteria in her voice. Her husband’s face maintained its reserve, but his hands—fingers locked and knuckles tensed—hinted at apprehension.
She inhaled deeply and continued with more calm. “Harry was gentle, ruled by reason. He was smart, sophisticated . . .”
“Civilized?”
Alma cringed at the word. “Would you ask that of a white man?”
“I would ask that of anyone accused of murder—white, red, yellow, or black.”
Silence crept between them. Stewart straightened the papers on his desk, aligning each corner with careful precision. He repositioned his pen squarely upon its tray. “Darling, life can change a man.”
“But murder?” Frustration drove her from her seat to the window. She could feel tears mounting with each blink. As before, Harry’s face surfaced in her mind. Innocent. He was the only one among them who’d always been innocent.
Outside, the street-side oaks trembled with a breeze. The morning’s golden rays morphed and scattered through the leaves. Fall was coming. She’d felt its cool breath on the back of her neck as she hurried to Stewart’s office. She saw its hand in the pallor of the leaves. “I cannot let him hang.”
“If he’s innocent, the courts will acquit him.”
Alma turned back to him. His tone was matter-of-fact, his steady gaze earnest. How could he be so unmoved? She yanked off her gloves and paced the length of the room. “What if he needs something? Money. A lawyer.”
“The court will appoint him a public defender.”
“Won’t you at least look into it?”
“The case is being tried in Minnesota.”
Alma waved her hand toward the brass-and-wire contraption on his desk. “Can’t you use that telephone machine?”
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