Between Earth and Sky

by Amanda Skenandore

“We use the old shop for storage now,” Miss Wells said. “And see our lovely little bandstand.” She pointed to a gleaming white platform with a hexagonal roof.

  It hurt her eyes to look at it. Hadn’t the archery target once stood there, nestled amid the trees? She could still see the faded bull’s-eye, still smell the pinesap, still feel the snowflakes melting upon her cheeks.

  “Are you coming, Mrs. Mitchell?”

  Alma startled. That name sounded so foreign in this place. She tore her gaze from the bandstand and followed Miss Wells toward a large, boxy structure.

  “This is our new classroom building,” the woman said, pride evident in her voice. “We’ve come a long way since our provincial beginnings.”

  The interior was divided into four classrooms, each with several rows of desks and a large blackboard at the front. The Indian children kept to their work—reading, arithmetic, writing, and penmanship. The youngest ones, sequestered in a classroom of their own, chirped back simple phrases at the teacher. They were tiny, these children. Their legs dangled beneath the desks’ tops, feet far above the ground.

  “They’re so young,” Alma said.

  “No younger than when you were a student.”

  Could that be? It all looked so different from here on the outside.

  “It’s better to get them at this age. They’re more moldable.”

  Alma frowned. Her father had said the same thing, hadn’t he? Asku had reminded her as much. Funny, when she’d heard the words through a child’s ears, they hadn’t seemed so self-righteous. Now they made her shudder.

  A final glance around the room and she noticed the ruler resting on the edge of the teacher’s desk. Her heart sped reflexively and her hands burrowed into her skirts. Many teachers struck their pupils, she reminded herself, at white schools and Indian alike. But for such trivial offenses? For not speaking English? For choosing the wrong name from the blackboard?

  “You look troubled,” Miss Wells said.

  They were back outside now in the blinding sunlight. Alma blinked and shielded her eyes. “No, it’s just . . .” She gestured about the yard. “Is this really what’s best for them?”

  “They certainly cannot live as they once did. Godless. Landless. For better or worse, Mrs. Mitchell, that time is gone.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “They’re clothed, they’re fed, they’re learning skills to help themselves prosper. Have you a better solution than that?” After a pause, Miss Wells pulled the sealed letter from her skirt pocket and handed it to Alma. “It’s people who fail the system, not the other way around. You’d do well to remember that.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Wisconsin, 1888

  Great Father Cleveland’s portrait had replaced that of President Arthur above the blackboard. The varnish on the desks had begun to wear, and the black lacquer on their iron legs peel. That air of confusion and fear, so palpable to Alma that first year, had ceded to the listless ease of routine. March, sit, stand, recite. At times, her Indian classmates still resisted, rebelled, but in quiet, secret ways perfected over the years.

  Today, being the first day of the new term, however, the first day after the Indians’ return from their first visit home in seven years, the mood of the room felt more spirited. Voices rose above a whisper, conversations ran on until Miss Wells’s ruler smacked against the blackboard. She grouped the returning students according to aptitude and set them to quiet study.

  Alma sat in the back of the classroom next to Asku. Robinson’s Textbook of Progressive Practical Arithmetic lay open between them. In a matter of minutes, he had read the chapter introduction and moved on to the problem sets, tidy rows of equations covering his slate.

  Alma’s slate, however, remained blank. Her eyes drifted over the numbers in the textbook, but the scene at the front of the room pulled at her attention. The five Indians new to Stover stood in line before the blackboard. The boy from yesterday, the one who had branded her enemy, towered above the others. His hair, now shorn short like the other boys, had a tousled, wild look. While the little ones wavered from foot to foot, fidgeting with the brass buttons on their uniforms or wringing their hands, he stood unperturbed, his gaze moseying about the room.

  One of the five, an Oneida girl Alma guessed to be about seven, spoke a few words of broken English. At Miss Wells’s instruction, she stepped to the board and chose the name Bertha, then went to sit with a group of second-year students copying lines from a grammar book.

  The teacher moved on to the next in line, one of the small Menominee boys. When she asked his age, he drew his lip between his teeth and shook his head. “No English.”

  She placed him and the other two smaller boys in a cluster of seats at the front of the room after directing them to the board to select their new names. Only the tall one remained.

  “Do you speak any English, young man?” she asked.

  Nothing in his posture changed—no pull of the lip, no turn of the head—nothing to indicate he understood or even heard her words.

  “I know the nuns run a school on your reservation. Am I to believe a boy your age speaks no English?”

  Still no response.

  Miss Wells pursed her lips. “Have you a Christian name?”

  Silence.

  Her nostrils flared around a deep inhale, giving her face the look of a rabid dog. Only upon exhale did her features recover their stoic disposition. “Very well, I shall choose one for you.” She glanced at the board and scratched a name down in her ledger. “Henceforth, you’ll be known as George. Now take a seat with the other first years.”

  He stood defiant for another second. Miss Wells’s fingers wrapped around her ruler, the tendons beneath her pallid skin taut as piano strings.

  Alma leaned forward, elbows atop her book, the tip of her braid swinging over her inkwell. Perhaps the boy truly did not understand. Miss Wells pointed again at an empty desk. George yawned, then sauntered over to his assigned place.

  “Are you ready to turn the page?”

  Alma jumped at Asku’s voice. “I . . . umm . . . give me a minute.”

  She forced her eyes back to the textbook and grabbed her chalk. Numbers swam like fish in her head, slippery and evasive as she tried to focus.

  “Imbecile,” Asku whispered.

  “I’m going as fast as I can, Mr. Top-of-the-Class.”

  He laughed. “Not you. The new boy.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t understand English.” She glanced sideways at her friend. His eyes narrowed, trained on the new boy slouched among the younger kids several rows in front. It was a look she’d not seen him wear before—one of annoyance and contempt. He shook his head but said nothing more.

  Alma reeled in her attention and finished the problem sets on the first page with Asku waiting beside her. His eyes turned to her and softened, lingering on her face. Even with her focus trained on the page, she could feel their intensity. Her corset, still new and uncomfortable, grew impossibly tight. When she squirmed and straightened he looked away, but a small part of her missed his attention.

  She’d just flipped to the next page when a shriek sounded from the kitchen. Giggles erupted around the room, but a stern look from Miss Wells quickly silenced them. Another scream rang out, followed by the thunder of clanking pots.

  The teacher huffed and rose from her desk. “Miss Blanchard, attend to the class while I check on the welfare of Mrs. Simms. I venture a squirrel has found its way into the pantry again.”

  Alma frowned and stood. The moment Miss Wells’s skirts swept across the doorjamb, Minowe’s hand shot up. “I have a question, Miss Blanchard.” She drew out the final words with mock emphasis.

  “Me too, Miss Blanchard,” Frederick said across the room. As chuckles rose from all around, Alma’s cheeks colored.

  “Me three, teacher Blanchard,” added.

  Alma picked up the ruler that lay at the edge of Miss Wells’s desk and smacked it against the palm of her hand with exaggerated force. she said. �
��Here, here. Hush now.”

  More laughter.

  The ruckus died and the students returned to their work. At the front of the class, the new students struggled over their slates, trying to copy their new names. Alma knelt beside one of the little Menominee boys, newly christened John. He held the chalk in a death grip between the tips of all five fingers, pressing so hard atop his slate the stick broke in two. Alma picked up one of the splintered pieces and demonstrated the correct grip.

  “Nice and easy,” she said, writing out the letters of his name. “You don’t have to press so hard.”

  John took hold of the chalk, imitating Alma’s grip, and drew a squiggly j onto his slate.

  Alma patted his arm.

  As she stood up and dusted off her skirt, she noticed George’s dark eyes trailing her movements, his jaw set in a scowl. He lounged in his chair like a dandy at a horse race, legs extended full length beneath the desk and crossed at the ankles, arms folded across his chest.

  “Do you need help?” she asked, crossing to his desk. Miss Wells had written George in tidy block letters across the top of his slate. The space below, where he was to copy out his name, remained blank.

  “It’s easy. Let me show you.” She reached for his chalk, but he nudged it away with his elbow. The thin white stick rolled off his desk onto the floor. Alma frowned and bent to pick it up.

  His boot slammed down, just missing her fingers, grinding the chalk into pale dust against the floor.

  She looked up, mouth agape. Surely he’d not meant to—He met her stare with a smug grin, his dark eyes sinister and challenging. A string of indecorous words flew to mind, but the clap of Miss Wells’s footsteps in the hallway silenced her.

  “Nothing but a furry vermin, as I suspected,” Miss Wells said, entering the classroom. Her gaze settled on Alma. “Is everything all right?”

  Alma rose, straightened her shoulders, and smoothed back a ringlet of hair that had fallen across her hot face. She glanced at George. His hateful expression made her shudder. Part of her wanted to tell and watch him work off demerits, but then, that’s what he expected of her, to stand in solidarity with the frightful Miss Wells. “George accidentally dropped his chalk,” she said in a forced, singsong voice. “I’m afraid it shattered. He’ll need a new piece.”

  Back at her desk, Alma tried to catch up with Asku, but her thoughts refused taming. How dare this new boy dislike her so! They’d only just met yesterday. And she’d been nothing but nice to him and the other newcomers. Asku was right; the boy was an imbecile. Yet she couldn’t stop staring.

  Supplied with a fresh piece of chalk, George continued his stoic protest. After instructing him once again on his assignment, Miss Wells grew impatient. Her cheeks flamed with color; her words became clipped.

  “Insolence in this classroom will not be tolerated.” She grabbed George by his suit collar and pulled him to his feet. Alma saw his hands clench into fists, then slowly release. Though he was nearly the same size as the teacher, he let her tug him to the back of the room. She kicked his feet together and forced his arms out like a scarecrow. To Alma’s surprise, he did not resist.

  “There. Now you’re to remain in this position until the end of class.”

  George smirked.

  “Oh, one more thing.” Miss Wells turned to Alice, who sat three desks over from Alma and Asku in the back row. “Alice, please retrieve two prayer missals from the bookshelf.”

  Alice hesitated, but a withering look from Miss Wells brought her to her feet. She delivered the heavy volumes to Miss Wells, flashing George an apologetic grimace before returning to her seat.

  Miss Wells thrust a book into each of George’s hands. Sinew bulged at his wrists. His outstretched arms teetered. Alma braced herself, expecting any moment for him to throw the books loudly to the ground. But he did not.

  “Faces forward, students,” Miss Wells said. “Back to your studies.”

  Fifty-four grim faces turned forward. Chalk murmured against slate. Textbook pages fluttered. Behind her, Alma could hear George’s breath growing labored as the minutes ticked by. Halfway through her assignment, she stole a look back in his direction. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His skin flushed deep red; his outstretched arms trembled. His expression, however, remained composed, his stare fixed and determined.

  Alma shook her head and turned back to her equations. Eventually he would break, if not today, then tomorrow, and be better for it in the end.

  CHAPTER 15

  Minnesota, 1906

  “Beautiful building, isn’t it?” Asku’s lawyer, Mr. Gates, hopped up the steps to hold the door.

  Alma looked up. She had to hold her hat in place and tilt her head all the way back to see the crest of the red-tile roof five stories above.

  Mr. Gates smiled, displaying a neat row of small, yellowed teeth. “Brand new, you know. Laid the last stone only four years ago.”

  Stewart tarried street side, neck craned, mouth slightly agape. In his upturned eyes, Alma saw that glimmer of boyish glee. It infected her, pulled at the corners of her lips, just as it had the first time she saw it, early in their courtship when he’d invited her to the symphony. They never made it to the concert hall, waylaid by every building of architectural merit along the way. Structure, proportion, angulation—these words had meant nothing to Alma, nor held any particular interest. But the tenor of his voice was as pleasing as any orchestra, and his face, more animated than yet she’d seen, stirred in her a common delight.

  It’d been so long since she’d felt anything like it. The emotion lightened her step like a strong wine. “Perhaps you should have been an engineer or architect,” she remarked between Broad Street Station and the Academy of the Fine Arts building.

  He smiled, his cheeks lit with a touch of embarrassment. “In fact, patent law is much like the two. . . .” And from there went on to explain with similar rapture the care and invention it required. At some point he took her hand and held it in the crook of his arm—she didn’t notice precisely when, only that it had felt right resting there.

  Now, watching him at the curb, she fought to hold that shared delight, but it slipped from her grasp as quickly as it had come.

  “Impressive!” Stewart said, finally mounting the steps toward the entrance.

  “Impressive,” she echoed. On another day, she might have meant it. But today, still frazzled from her trip to Stover and with so much riding on the judge’s decision, the massive granite building with its towers and turrets, dormer windows and gables made her feel small and anxious. She took a deep breath and passed the threshold.

  Inside, the Federal Courts Building opened up into a grand interior courtyard. Sunlight streamed in through skylights more than a hundred feet above, splashing against the marble walls and columns. People of all standings bustled by—men sporting finely tailored suits, youths in grease-stained uniforms, families dressed in homespun cotton.

  Mr. Gates gestured to the glass and mahogany elevators at the far end of the hall. “Are you coming, then?”

  Alma reached back and found Stewart’s hand. He stroked her fingers, then tucked them into the bend of his arm. She could tell his initial frustration over Asku’s declination had faded along with the deep-set exhaustion around his eyes. In its place, a quiet but steadfast resolution had settled.

  On the third floor, they waited for nearly an hour on one of the polished wooden benches in the hallway outside of the judge’s chambers. Mr. Gates filled the time with a constant stream of banter. Stewart offered the occasional ah and how interesting, while Alma managed only a distracted nod. She adjusted and readjusted her hat, straightened her gloves, smoothed her green rep day suit, and tried not to think of Asku in his tiny cell. His coldness gnawed at her. Had she been wrong this entire time? Had Stover really done more harm than good? She thought of little Benjamin Franklin Redtail, of all the children she’d seen on her return visit. They were well fed, well clothed, learning useful skills and trades. But had any of them s
miled, just once, during her stay?

  A clerk greeted them without apology for the wait and showed them to the judge’s chambers. A dusty yellow globe on a brass chain lit the windowless room. Disheveled bookcases stood against the wall. The smell of smoke and mildew choked the air.

  Behind a broad oak desk sat Judge Baum. “You’d better have a good reason for this disruption. I’ve piss-little time between hearings,” he said without looking up, then bit off a large chunk of ham sandwich. A cigar smoldered in the ashtray beside him. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his jacket hung on the back of his chair.

  The clerk cleared his throat.

  Judge Baum’s eyes widened when he glanced up. He swallowed his sandwich, wiped his hands on a handkerchief, and stood. “Madame.”

  “Your Honor, this is my wife,” Stewart said.

  Alma dredged up her best smile and bowed. “Thank you for seeing us.”

  The judge did not return the smile. “Get her a chair, Fitzsimmons,” he barked to his clerk as he yanked down his shirtsleeves and shrugged on his jacket. Then he turned his scowl on the two lawyers. “Well?”

  Mr. Gates’s gaze fell to the floor while Stewart adjusted his necktie and stepped forward. “Pardon the intrusion, Your Honor, we’re here regarding the case of Mr. Muskrat.”

  “I know who the devil—forgive me, ma’am—I know who you represent, Mr. Mitchell. How many Philadelphia lawyers do you think I have running around here?”

  “We’ve come to ask for a brief continuance.”

  “How brief?”

  “Three weeks.”

  “What in tarnation for?” The judge winced apologetically at Alma, then turned back to her husband. “Mr. Muskrat won’t even open his mouth to assert his own innocence.” He took a long pull on his cigar and blew a cloud of smoke in Stewart’s direction. “He’s all but hanged himself.”

  Alma’s hands curled around the armrests, her nails digging into the wood. This man cared nothing of the trial, felt no stir of gravity or urgency.