Minowe, Hoga, and several of the older girls waited in the foyer. How beautiful they looked—their skin lustrous against their pale-blue dresses and elbow-length gloves, their sleek hair bound in elegant twists.
Footsteps thundered from the attic dormitory and the boys jostled past, taking the steps two at a time, with seemingly little care for their newly pressed suits. George glanced back at her and smirked.
That rogue. She shooed the younger children to bed and started down the stairs. Why ever had he been allowed to come? Surely he had some antic in mind to disrupt the evening.
The foyer was a jumble: her father and the boys donning overcoats, hats, and gloves; her mother, Alma, and the other girls with their cloaks and tippets. Shoes squeaked atop the floorboards. Petticoats rustled. She found herself pressed uncomfortably close to George. Nothing was amiss in his attire—not his usual open collar, rolled-up pant legs, or wrinkled shirt. The deep green cravat about his neck drew her gaze to his face and carefully parted hair. More shuffling. Someone bumped her from behind and she tottered forward, her hand reaching out for balance and landing squarely on his chest. Their eyes linked for a heartbeat, then, in tandem, flashed to her hand. She pulled back and muttered an apology to her feet. The front door opened for their departure and winter air stole in. Alma welcomed the cold rush over her skin and hurried out into the night.
Light glistened from every window of the Donelson mansion, refracting through the frost-covered glass. The inside was even more magnificent. Garlands of evergreen festooned the walls. A bushy fir tree towered behind the receiving line. Hundreds of tiny candles twinkled from its limbs. Red and gold ribbons wound through its boughs alongside strands of beads and popcorn. Small lace bags filled with candies and nuts hung from the branches.
Beside the great tree sat a wicker basket replete with programs. Alma took one for herself and each of her girlfriends. They flitted down the long, marble-tiled hallway into a grand ballroom. At one end, a string quartet played a gentle prelude. At the other end stood several tables draped in brilliant white linen and laden with sweets. A large crystal punch bowl sat in the center with dozens of tiny cups nestled around it.
A low murmur rippled across the room when they entered. The music sagged. Throats cleared. The Indians shuffled to one corner of the room, but Alma hesitated. Heat flooded her cheeks. She followed the stare of the crowd, their cocked heads and discreetly pointed fingers, and noticed for the first time how simple her friends’ gowns appeared amid the splendor, how sharp the contrast between the pale cloth and their dark skin.
Her slippers felt gummed to the floor. Sweat bled through her satin gloves. Should she follow the Indians or seek out her other friends amid the crowd?
Before she could shake her paralysis, the mayor’s nephew, Mr. Ellis, approached and asked for her dance card. Thank the stars! She would have given him every dance, had he asked.
Conversations rekindled around the room. Another gentleman stepped in behind Mr. Ellis and penciled his name upon her card. In the corner, a small crowd of revelers had formed around the Indians. Dance cards passed to and fro. The squall inside her quieted. She caught Minowe’s eye and smiled. Her friend grinned back with undiminished glee.
When Alma turned around, Edward Steele stood before her, resplendent in his black dress coat and white necktie. His oil-slickened hair shone like spun gold in the twinkling light of the chandelier.
“Don’t you look the part of an angel this evening, Miss Blanchard,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. He took her hand and kissed it, then teased away her dance card. “You’ve already given away the first dance, I see.”
She opened her mouth, desperate that some charming or witty phrase might form on her tongue. “I . . . you . . .”
“I’ll have your second dance, then, and the finale.” He took a step closer and handed her back her card. “You do galop, don’t you?”
The closeness of their bodies, the musky scent of his eau de cologne—Alma could only nod.
“Good. I’ve been told I’m one of the finest dancers in the city. I’m sure we’ll make a handsome pairing.” With that, he spun around, leaving her still searching for words.
By the time the music swelled for the first dance, Alma’s card was full and the abashment she’d felt at their arrival forgotten. One song rolled merrily into the next. The grand chandelier sparkled overhead, casting a brocade of jaunty shadows on the dance floor. Freshly cut evergreen boughs perfumed the air. Alma hoped the night would never end.
As she danced, she stole glances over her partners’ shoulders at her Indian friends. In the blur of movement, they were almost indistinguishable from the other guests, their homespun clothes and brown complexions but a splash of color against the gay backdrop.
The mayor’s nephew arrived for his appointed dance winded from the previous go about. A tinge of purple colored his face and beads of sweat glimmered along his hairline. Dutifully, she took his hand for the polka, breathing through her mouth so as not to gag from the pungent scent that filled the air between them when he raised his arms. Halfway through the dance he was panting, frothy spittle flying from his mouth every time he attempted conversation.
“Mightn’t we rest a moment, Mr. Ellis,” she said at last. “I . . . um . . . am feeling rather faint.”
His face sagged with relief. He accompanied her to a line of chairs at the edge of the dance floor and hovered over her, chest heaving, chewing his lip as he scoured the ceiling.
She saved them both by asking, “Would you be so kind as to get me a glass of punch?” When he retreated to the refreshment table, Alma sucked in a full, deep breath of unsoured air.
“I think it’s despicable,” she heard a man say from the alcove behind her.
“Despicable?” another voice echoed with a trill of amusement. “What do you think, Miss Downey?”
At this, Alma glanced over her shoulder. Her friend Annabelle sat on a velvet tuffet with a plate of cookies on her lap. Karl Dressler stood beside her and Paul Van Steenwyk leaned against a nearby wall, swirling the punch in his glass.
“I . . . um . . . it is rather shocking, I suppose,” Annabelle said.
Paul gave an impatient frown. Everything about him oozed languor—his sloppy posture, his crooked, but expensive tie—as if he found the privilege that came with being heir to La Crosse’s biggest bank tedious. “Yes, but shocking in a good way or a bad way?”
“A bad way.” Her tone was hesitant, more like a question than a statement.
Karl tugged on the sleeves of his ill-fitting suit and turned to Paul. “You think it’s all right that they’re here? Dancing about as if they’re the same as us?”
“They certainly don’t dress like us,” Annabelle said with a coquettish giggle. “Just look at those homespun dresses.”
Alma cringed and turned away. Hadn’t she had the same ugly thought when they first arrived tonight? She hid behind her fan, hoping the passing dancers wouldn’t notice the blotchy coloring creeping up from her bosom or the sudden moistness infecting her eyes.
“Beneath such triflings, though,” Paul said. “Are they not the same as us?”
“Certainly not,” Karl said.
Paul laughed as blithely as if they were speaking about a game of horseshoes. “Here, let’s have Edward settle this. Edward!”
Alma heard his confident footfalls and took cheer.
“What do you think of the mayor’s red guests?” Paul asked.
Of course he would defend her friends, and do so gallantly. His charm, his wit, why, any who listened would—
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t deign to dance with one,” Edward said.
Alma’s fan slipped from her grasp. It tumbled to her lap and then flapped to the floor like a lame bird. Had she heard right? He’d never maligned Indians before.
“Nor me,” Karl said, and she could hear the vindication in his voice. “Lice, fleas—who knows what sort of miasma they carry.”
“Oh, me n
either,” Annabelle said quickly.
“Well, I for one enjoy the spectacle,” Paul said. “These parties can be so drab.”
Alma reached down with a shaky hand and groped for her fan. Spectacle? Is that what this was?
Annabelle spoke again. “You don’t think they’re . . . dangerous?”
“Good heavens, no.”
“I’m not so sure,” Karl said.
“You needn’t worry, Miss Downey,” Edward said in the same solicitous tone he’d addressed Alma. “These Indians are civilized. At least that’s what old Mr. Blanchard would have us believe.”
Above their ensuing laughter, Alma heard a soft crack. She looked down to see the ribs of her fan snapped, its delicate silk leaves crumpled in her hand. Their words demanded censure. But even when she’d settled on what to say, she found her frozen vocal cords a traitor to the cause. As much as she hated Edward in this moment, some part of her still craved his approval and affection.
“Your punch, Miss Blanchard.”
She jumped a little at Mr. Ellis’s voice. “Oh . . . ah . . . thank you.”
She drank in silence, the sweetness hardly touching her tongue. The song ended and dancers shuffled about, looking for their next partner. Mr. Ellis had signed for her next dance as well, but she silently rejoiced when he’d begged off and slipped out to the veranda. Perhaps she’d take some fresh air, too, or try another glass of punch in the hopes of settling her roiling stomach.
As she stood, she recognized a new voice behind her. “Miss Downey? I believe this is our dance.”
“I . . . I . . . you must be mistaken.”
“My name is right there on your card,” George said.
Annabelle’s voice quavered. “No. I . . . er . . . promised this dance to . . .”
“Me,” Edward said. “I’m in line for this dance.”
Noise filled the ballroom—clanking glasses, boisterous footfalls, the whine of strings as a musician quickly retuned his instrument—but Alma could hear nothing but the silence behind her. She turned.
“There you are, George.” The sound of her own voice—loud and steady—came as a shock to Alma’s ears. “You promised me this schottische, remember? Surely Miss Downey here wasn’t trying to cut in.”
The rosy color in Annabelle’s cheeks ripened to scarlet. She looked from George to Alma to Edward with a befuddled expression. “What? No. I . . .”
The lively song began. Without daring a glance at Edward, Alma held out her hand and prayed George would take it before the others noticed her trembling. A few more notes sounded and his fingers closed around hers.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said when they reached the dance floor. “I didn’t need your saving.”
“I wasn’t saving you, I was saving Miss Downey.”
He smirked and slid his arm around her back. The tiny hairs on her skin enlivened. She found the new and pleasant sensation distracting and altogether unwelcome. She stepped when she should have hopped, then hopped when her feet should glide.
George bore her through the fumble, never losing his place in the dance. “I thought you were a more better dancer.”
She flushed. “Maybe if I had a better partner—”
“Like that dandy back there?”
Alma’s throat tightened. “No, not like him.” She should have said something earlier to those gossips, intervened sooner. What was the point of fitting in if it felt so awful? “Actually, you dance better than I expected. Of course, your form is too rigid, but the steps are correct.”
“You mean I dance well for an Indian.”
“No, for an obstinate brute who never cared to learn.”
A grin flashed across his face. “You would not care to learn with a partner like .”
She thought of Miss Wells—a common fixture at the Saturday socials during dance instruction—and joined George in smiling. “True.”
Their eyes met and quickly retreated. They finished the schottische in silence, Alma praying for the end. But when the final note played and George let go her hand, she found herself wishing for a few more bars.
“Good dance, Azaadiins,” he said.
She couldn’t decide whether the remark was sincere or sarcastic, but he’d never called her that before, her Indian name. The sound tingled in her ears.
A smooth, confident voice intruded. “Pardon me, sir, but I believe the honor of Miss Blanchard’s final dance belongs to me.”
Alma turned to see Edward Steele standing beside them. She noticed for the first time the way his flattened lips resembled a catfish’s. And his eyes, too small and far apart, had a fishy aspect as well. George met his smug stare, remaining beside Alma a moment more before striding away.
“The gall,” Edward said as he pulled her close and swept them into the tide of dancers.
“Surely you don’t begrudge him a simple dance.”
Edward’s jaw tightened even as he smiled down at her. “Of course not.”
Before, such a smile would have melted her. Now, it only strengthened her resolve. “You’re a hypocrite.”
His graceful step faltered. “I beg your pardon.”
“What do you have against the Indians anyway?”
He blinked and seemed to chomp upon his words before speaking. “These ingrates are already a headache for my family, hemming and hawing about selling their lumber.” The honey was gone from his voice and in its place straight bitters. “What do you think happens when they return home from your father’s school filled with ideas of equality?”
“It’s their land.”
“Says who?”
Alma’s temples pounded and her carriage stiffened. How had she ever thought him debonair and handsome? She looked away and waited for the song to end, accidentally treading upon his toes every chance she got.
CHAPTER 22
Minnesota, 1906
The gun merchant was right, she and Stewart did stick out. It seemed a pall followed them through the crowd as they searched for the witnesses on Stewart’s list. Games paused. Conversations stopped. Eyes tracked them.
Alma looked around. All the other whites on the reservation were peddling something: goods, religion, the government’s brand of rule and order. Carpetbaggers, the lot of them. No wonder the Indians were skittish.
The climbing sun warmed the air, but Alma clutched the lapels of her duster closed. She should have worn a different shirtwaist. A slimmer petticoat. A less ostentatious hat. She’d never expected to feel like a biiwide here, an outsider, but she did. Was this how Asku felt that summer he’d stayed in La Crosse with the Colemans? Was this how Minowe and felt dancing at the mayor’s Christmas ball? Alma smoothed the flyaway curls at the nape of her neck, but they sprang back into fuzzy ringlets before her hand left them. When had the air turned so muggy?
Minowe had always wanted curly hair. One night they stayed up long after evening prayers, rolling her dark hair in strips of muslin pilfered from the sewing closet. The next morning when they unwound the rags, the curls fell from her hair before Alma could fix them with bandoline and pin them in place. She’d laughed at their failed effort, laughed as Minowe snatched up the muslin and threw it in the potbellied furnace. With such perfect hair—so thick, smooth, and glossy—why would she want pin curls in the first place?
Now, Alma’s laugh was quiet and bitter. How foolish she’d been. Keeping one hand on her lapels, she clasped Stewart’s arm. With his patent-leather shoes, double-breasted overcoat, and shiny brown derby, surely he felt out of place too. But then, he’d never nurtured any false assumptions of belonging.
It didn’t help that she could feel Sheriff Knudson watching her. Undoubtedly the Indians noticed, too. Even when Alma asked in Anishinaabemowin about those named on the list, she met with polite resistance. No. Gaawiin. I don’t know who or where they are.
Stewart’s patience was flagging. She saw it in his tight jaw and pinched lips. He’d taken to folding the sheet of paper with the witnesses’ names again and again
after each failed encounter, until the list was so creased the names were nearly illegible. At last, someone admitted he knew one of the witnesses. He nodded toward the village center and suggested they try the cemetery.
In quiet shadow behind the Episcopal church lay four rows of crosses. The air smelled of newly trimmed grass and the wooden markers were freshly whitewashed. Drying bouquets of wildflowers—primrose, spurge, aster—dotted the graves. She’d known their Anishinaabemowin names once too. Offerings of corn and wild rice also lay beneath a few of the markers.
“I don’t see Mr.”—Stewart glanced down at the list—“Mr. Zhawaeshk. Or anyone else for that matter.” He pulled off his hat and blotted his brow with a hankie. SJM. She’d embroidered it in navy-blue stitching at one corner the first year they were married. He owned other handkerchiefs—ones she bought from Wanamaker’s with finer stitching and more elegant script—but he always carried this one.
“Perhaps he just left,” she said. “Or went to gather flowers.” Her voice lacked conviction. The one day of the year every Indian on the reservation came to town and they couldn’t find a single one to offer clues about Asku’s case.
A breeze stole through the cemetery, knocking askew one of the bouquets. Alma walked over and righted it. Several faded blue petals littered the ground. Another breeze and they tumbled away. DANIEL LITTLE SKY, the marker read, HUSBAND AND FATHER.
Alma stood and backed away. She hadn’t told Stewart, but she’d taken his advice and visited her father’s grave when she’d traveled to La Crosse. After calling on her mother and Miss Wells, she had a few spare minutes before her train departed for St. Paul and found herself wandering toward the old church. She passed a flower peddler along the way and bought a single white daisy. At the gravesite she stood dry-eyed and silent until the clock tower on Main Street struck quarter to four. Then she’d left, flower in hand.
At the time, she’d convinced herself that to weep would be a betrayal, that the sadness welling inside her was simply fatigue. But she knew now that was just another lie. The same lie she’d told herself for seven straight years, destroying every letter he sent, unopened. Even when her aunt had told her he was sick, dying, dead; even then she’d clung to the delusion that withholding her forgiveness hurt only him.
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