She wished now she’d waited in the foyer all those years before to hear his last words to her. She wished she’d read his letters and maybe even written one in return. She wished she’d cried for him, not just at his grave, but all those nights when her heart ached, cried for him when she heard the news of his death, instead of calmly sipping her tea and remarking about the weather. She wished she’d left the flower to decorate his grave.
“What’s etched here beneath the name?”
Stewart’s voice drew her back across the miles to White Earth. He was crouched down, studying another marker. She blinked and found her eyelashes clumped and sodden. For a moment she let the tears fall, one then another, hot and wet atop her skin. Then she fanned her cheeks and joined Stewart beside the grave. Carved just beneath the crossbar, clogged with beads of dried paint, was the image of an upside-down crane.
“It’s his totem. His clan.”
“They still follow all that?”
“Some.”
Stewart rose from his haunches and stretched his arms, his neck and shoulders undoubtedly sore from the long ride in. “Let’s get one of those new Franklin Roadsters when we return home.”
“They’re too loud.”
He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her. “But they’re fast.”
Alma smiled, imagining them driving through the Pennsylvania countryside, engine rumbling, wind rushing at their faces, the smell of gasoline mingling with the scent of spring’s first flowers. But the image faded quickly.
She pulled away and glanced above the steeple at the wide October sky. Already the sun labored in its descent. They had an hour, maybe two, before they must return to Detroit Lakes.
“Could he have meant another cemetery?” Stewart asked.
She’d not seen another church when they drove through town. Perhaps the Catholics kept a small plot behind the mission school. They checked there without success. No cemetery. No Zhawaeshk.
Alma sat on the edge of a water well and dropped her head into her palms. Asku had described visiting a cemetery once. Here, near the agency. But he hadn’t spoken of crosses or headstones. She looked up and scoured their surroundings.
A spattering of trees skirted the schoolyard and beyond it a clearing bright with sunlight. Alma took Stewart’s hand and led him through the pines and cottonwoods. A host of miniature houses crowded the clearing, their pitched roofs rising above the sedge and switchgrass. They were long and narrow, stretching three, four, five feet or more. Each had a small opening—a window perhaps—no bigger than a playing card, with a sill or small ledge jutting out beneath.
Stewart ran a hand over the rough-hewn wood. “What are they?”
“Grave houses,” she whispered.
A belch startled her. There, a few paces off, sat a young man, leaning against one of the houses. Zhawaeshk. It must be him. Her hold about Stewart’s arm eased. At last, someone who could answer questions about the night of the murder, who could help prove Asku innocent. She forgot herself in her relief and started toward him, only to stop after a few steps. In his hand the man held a jar of brownish liquid, just like the ones Alma saw passed beneath the merchant stalls. He’d painted circles around his eyes—a sign of mourning. Recent tears had caused the paint to run, streaking his cheeks black.
“Boozhoo,” she said softly. “Zhawaeshk na gidizhinikaaz?”
He turned his head at her voice, blinked, and frowned. After a long drink from the jar he tried to stand, but his legs faltered. He collapsed onto one knee. Sharp-smelling liquor sloshed over the edge of the jar and onto the beaded cuff of his buckskin shirt.
Stewart frowned. He hesitated a moment, pulled fast his gloves, and then hauled the man to his feet. “Are you Mr. Zhawaeshk?”
The man shrugged free of Stewart’s hold, planted a steadying hand atop the grave house, and took another swig. “Who is wanting to know?”
Stewart brushed off his coat, his frown deepening into a sneer. His father had drunk. He’d mentioned this to her only once, in a breezy, offhanded way, but she saw now the admixture of pain and revulsion in his eyes. She walked over and squeezed his arm, then laid a hand on the man’s back. “Whose grave is this?”
He cast her a scowl over his shoulder, then took another drink. “Niwiiw. My wife.”
Alma felt Stewart’s arm tighten around her waist. His gaze softened. “When did she die?”
“What care you?”
“The paint around your eyes. It must have been recent,” she said.
He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Berry-picking season.”
“I wish her well on the Path of Souls,” Alma said.
The man choked on his drink and turned to her with leery eyes. “How do you know of jiibay-miikana?”
“My friend Askuwheteau told me.”
He snickered. “Askuwheteau have no friends.”
That couldn’t be true. Everyone at Stover had loved Asku. “You must be thinking of another man.”
“Son of Odinigun, of the Gull Lakes Band.” Another bitter laugh. “I know who you speak of.”
“Whom,” Alma said, as much from habit as from spite.
“You thinks I care of white man’s words?” He thrust out his arms. His loose shirtsleeves fell back to his elbows, revealing several raised scars on the underside of his forearms. “I didn’t care when the sisters did this and I don’t care now.”
Alma gaped. She’d heard of teachers striking students’ forearms with switches; had seen Miss Wells do it once or twice with her vile ruler. But this? It must have taken dozens of strikes to leave such scars.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .” She turned her face away, but he pressed closer, shaking his bare arms before her.
Alma shuffled back, bumping hard into the eaves of one of the grave houses. The weathered boards whined and shuddered. The entire grave house swayed. She gasped and tried to steady herself. Her wheeling arm struck the roof boards, splintering the wood and knocking loose the nails that held one of the boards in place. It swung free with a rusty cry. Sunlight spilled into the opening. As she teetered backward she caught a glimpse inside, horrified she might see skull and bones or decaying flesh, but unable to look away.
Dirt. Only dirt.
Stewart caught her just before she fell and toppled the entire house. She covered her wide mouth with her hands. “Oh God.”
The man’s dark eyes went wild. “Awas! You don’t belong in our sacred place.” His fingers clenched around the jar like talons, sending a shiver through the amber liquid. His other hand closed into a fist.
Stewart stepped between them and squared his shoulders. “Now, see here. We meant no disrespect. We only wanted to ask you some questions.”
“I will speak no answers. Awas! Go!”
Stewart’s hands twitched at his sides. “I can get a subpoena for your testimony.”
Zhawaeshk cleared his throat and spit. Wet mucus sprayed across Stewart’s shiny leather shoes.
Alma had never seen her husband’s face color so quickly. His jaw tightened. His nostrils flared. “Apologize, sir.”
Zhawaeshk shook his head.
Stewart yanked off his gloves, stuffed them in his hat, and thrust them at Alma. Had he gone mad? Boyhood fisticuffs aside, he’d never actually fought a man—not that she knew of. True, Zhawaeshk was drunk. Even as he set his jar aside and tied back his hair, he swayed and fumbled. But he stood just as tall as Stewart and looked at least a decade younger. Where Stewart’s hands were smooth and groomed, Zhawaeshk’s were scarred and calloused. His mouth twisted with a sneer. He raised his fists. Stewart did likewise.
“Wait!” Alma pushed between them. “Stop. This is no place for such madness.”
Zhawaeshk stood so close she could smell his sour breath, feel its heat on her cheek. The veins of his neck showed like cords beneath his skin. How slow they pulsed compared to her own frenzied heart. How calm and sinister he appeared—a man with nothing to lose.
Stewar
t’s arm roped her waist, pulling her sideways, away from the fight. “Alma, please—”
Before he could finish, Zhawaeshk leaned in and jabbed Stewart in the mouth.
Her husband blinked and brought a hand to his lips. Blood smeared onto his fingertips. For a moment, he just stood there, eyes glassy, as if the whole scene were too absurd for his analytical mind to process. Then he pushed her farther aside and swung his fist at the Indian, striking him in the eye. Black paint smeared across his knuckles. The force of the blow seemed to surprise all three of them. Zhawaeshk stumbled back. Stewart shook out his hand. Alma sucked back a yelp.
Within seconds, Zhawaeshk steadied himself, his sneer gone, his gaze serious as the dead.
“Bekaa! Stop! Look.” Alma pointed at the grave house behind Zhawaeshk, the one he’d been leaning against when they found him. In his backward stumble, he’d kicked a small hole in the base of the house with his heel. His drink had spilled, too, its foul contents seeping into the small birch bark–wrapped bundle beside it. The spirit bundle for his wife, Alma guessed.
Zhawaeshk flung himself to the ground and frantically dried the bundle on his shirt. Fresh tears rimmed his bloodshot eyes. He took the liquor jar and flung it far beyond the houses. A howl burst from his throat and he started to rock, beating his forehead against the grave house roof.
His sobs grated at her heart. She knew all too well the agony of such grief. She reached for Stewart’s hand, but he gave no response to her touch. His fingers remained limp within her hand, his face drawn in openmouthed shock. His lip had begun to swell. Blood stained his jaw. At last, he reached for his hat, which she’d forgotten she still held, and turned to go.
“Wait.” She turned to Zhawaeshk. “I know we shouldn’t have come to you here.” Her throat closed as she struggled to hold back her own tears. “We’re desperate.”
“Go,” Zhawaeshk said.
Stewart tugged on her arm. “Come on, darling.”
Her feet would not move. She looked over the low grave houses, each pointing west, directing the dead toward the hereafter. Despite the sunlight, her skin grew cold.
“It’s not Asku’s time.”
Zhawaeshk looked up at her. “Perhaps it is. He’s a hero now in the eyes of our people. Before, he was nothing.”
“How can that be? Daga. Please. Help me understand.”
Zhawaeshk turned from her and whispered something to the grave. He pulled a chunk of maple sugar and a few strips of dried meat from his shirt pocket. After laying them reverently upon the windowsill, he struggled to his feet. “Help me fix the houses and I will tells you all I know.”
They found a few scraps of wood and a handful of rusty nails alongside the clearing. Hammering with flattened rocks, Zhawaeshk and Stewart squatted side by side and patched the houses. Alma stood beside them, holding Stewart’s coat and jacket, handing them nails, and listening.
Zhawaeshk’s tale pained her. Were it not for a few details she knew to be true, she’d have branded it all as lies. By his recounting, Askuwheteau had returned from Brown withdrawn and bitter. He was offered a job at the agency but refused, wanting nothing to do with the white man, nor the half-breeds who lived like whites in the village. But he had no place among those who still followed the seasons either. He couldn’t hunt or weave a fishing net. Couldn’t build a canoe or skin a deer. Many words he had forgotten. Everyone thought him maminaadizi, uppity. Laughed at his funny white man ways. He tried his hand at farming his allotment and failed. Too proud, Zhawaeshk said. Too angry to ask for help. He sold his father’s allotment and squandered it on firewater. Would have sold his own, too, had they let him. He had no home, no people. Even Minowe kept away. He hung around town like a shadow, drunk and cussing the world.
“What about Agent Andrews? Was there bad blood between them?” Stewart asked. They were at the well beside the schoolhouse now. He drew up the bucket and handed it to Zhawaeshk.
The Indian drank, then looked around the empty schoolyard. The alcohol’s hold seemed to have faded. He was jumpy now, restless. He peered down the thoroughfare, scanned the fringe of nearby trees, then rubbed his arms. “After this summer, when they divided up our timberlands, everyone have got bad blood with him.”
Alma stood a pace off, her mind struggling to reconcile Zhawaeshk’s story with her memories. But something now in his voice—the cut of anger, the hush of fear—commanded her attention. “Why?”
He hesitated, then spoke quickly about crooked ledgers and land deeds, secret deals with lumber companies, favoritism showed to mixed-bloods who’d be more likely to offer up the pine on their new allotments.
Perhaps that explained the tension she’d felt back in the annuity line.
“Was Mr. Muskrat cheated in these dealings?” Stewart asked. He’d taken a small notebook from his jacket pocket and jotted down notes as Zhawaeshk spoke.
“No, he could read the funny marks on those land maps, so he got a more better allotment. But afterward he spoke out for the rests of us. Said they should make the whole process over again so it were fair.”
“And did they? Reallot the land?”
Zhawaeshk shook his head. “Plenty people were happy when Askuwheteau shot Agent Andrews.”
Stewart’s hand flagged. He stopped writing. “You saw him shoot the agent, then?”
Alma felt the world still. Insects ceased their humming. Leaves quit their chatter. Even her heart and lungs seemed to slow. Could it all really end here? Could Asku really have stolen upon the agent and shot him in the back? Bang. Bang. Bang. Each shot sounded in her mind. She could almost smell the gun smoke. Please, not Asku. Never Asku.
“No, I not saw him. We were behind the store with our drink. Askuwheteau got up and went away. Many moments later I heard gunshots. Agent Andrews was dead on the road. No one was there.”
“So it could have been anyone?” Alma said, her voice a bit too loud, her tone more like a statement than a question. “Asku mightn’t have had anything to do with it at all.”
Zhawaeshk rubbed his arms again. His sleeves fell back, bunching around his elbows, exposing his scars. He looked at the angry raised lines and then back at Alma. “Askuwheteau have wounds like this too.”
She bristled. What kind of picture did this man paint for Stewart? That of a louse, a drunk, a deviant. Asku was none of these things, not when she knew him. And he’d never been struck. Not once.
She started to speak, to protest, but Zhawaeshk waved her off. “Not ones you could see.” He thumped his chest. “Here. On the inside. We all of us do.”
CHAPTER 23
Wisconsin, 1890
The Christmas ball dominated conversation well into the new year. With each retelling, the evergreen in the foyer grew taller, the mayor’s mansion larger, the food and festivities grander.
Routine had just begun to dull the excitement when a cry—shrill and urgent as the steamboat horns that blared from the Mississippi—split the January air.
Standing on the top stair of the root cellar, Alma’s head whipped toward the sound. Mr. Simms rushed from the workshop across the yard, bearing a large sagging mass in his arms. George raced next to him, cradling the other half of the lanky object.
The jug of molasses slipped from Alma’s hand. It crashed through the crust of snow and shattered on the frozen ground beneath. Alma’s eyes flashed down to the dark liquid oozing between the shards of broken clay, then back up. Mrs. Simms shouted up from the cellar, but her words did not register. The men carried not an object, but a boy, his body limp, his head lolling like a marionette lost of its strings.
The breath in Alma’s lungs froze. Her stomach twisted and tightened. The cook’s heavy footfalls echoed behind her, ascending the cellar steps. “Heavens above, child, whatever is the—my God.”
The woman’s ruddy face went white. She stood rooted beside Alma as the men approached.
“Clear the counter, Martha,” Mr. Simms shouted. “Then go fetch Mr. Blanchard. This boy needs a doctor!”
>
Her husband’s electric words seemed to shock the life back into her. She bustled past Alma and rushed toward the kitchen, taking the icy steps to the back door two at a time. The men passed in a blur of red. It showed in their cheeks and frost-nipped noses. It colored the fronts of their shirts and stained their forearms. It dripped on the white snow beneath them.
Alma came to life and hurried behind them into the kitchen. Pots and pans lay scattered on the floor where Mrs. Simms had swept them. George and Mr. Simms laid the body down on the wooden counter. The boy’s face was slack and ashen—Charles. He was a Mohican a few years younger than Alma. His stories by the bonfire silenced the night wind, and he stole apples even more deftly than Alice.
Her eyes moved from his face down his torso. When they lit on the twisted, mangled flesh that had once been an arm, she gasped and stumbled backward. Three fingers were missing from his swollen hand. Lacerations crisscrossed his arm, extending well above the elbow, exposing bright-red muscle and splintered bone. Blood was everywhere, spurting in some places, oozing slowly in others.
“Rags, Miss Alma, fetch some rags.”
She heard Mr. Simms’s voice like a distant echo. Her legs moved of their own volition to the cupboard. She grabbed a thick stack of fresh towels and staggered back.
The older man’s burlap hands guided her fingers to the crushed arm. “Keep pressure there now.” He tossed a few rags across the table at George. “You too.”
Her hands trembled as the white linen bloomed scarlet. Warm liquid seeped between her fingers. Her stomach heaved and the room began to spin.
“Breathe, Azaadiins,” George whispered. He moved his hands so the tips of his fingers overlapped with hers. He too trembled.
A few inches above their hands, Mr. Simms tied a thick strip of leather around Charles’s arm. “Keep on the pressure until the bleeding stops.”
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