“I don’t know, but Mother would kill you.”
His laughter ebbed to silence. “I’ll do it white man way, then.”
Both panic and delight sprang inside her. She sat up and studied him. His dark eyes held a smile, but the rest of his face was serious. “You shouldn’t joke about such things.”
“You don’t want to be wife of an Indian?”
“No, that’s not it. I—”
He pulled her against his chest and began to nibble her neck.
“Stop! Stop,” she said between giggles. “You’ll leave a mark.”
Rolling atop her and pinning her arms, he continued until water ran from her eyes.
Breathless and still laughing, she shouted out, “Of course I want to marry you!”
He stopped and leaned over her, hands on either side of her chest. His chin-length hair hung around his face, a thick black curtain obscuring his expression in shadow. She reached up and tucked the strands behind his ears. The glow of the firelight twinkled in his eyes. She no longer felt the cold of the storm, nor registered the cry of the wind, as if the world had shrunk to encircle only them.
“I’m saving every dollars I get. Some I send home. There’s never enough food in the winter. Much fighting with the agent over our timber. . .” His eyes narrowed, clouded by thoughts beyond their warm little world. She trailed her hand over his cheek and along the taut muscles of his neck. His necklace swayed in the air between them like the lazy pendulum of a clock in need of winding. She ran her fingers down the strand of smooth quill and shiny black stones. When she reached the beaded medallion at its end, she tugged slightly.
blinked and his eyes cleared. He bent down and kissed her. “In springtime, , I’ll have enough moneys to speak my intentions to your father. The way.”
A niggling unease lurked beside her joy. Her father would consent, but her mother? The drama she would make of it! Alma pushed the thought away and drew his face down to kiss her again.
At some point, she would have to brave the dark forest and bitter cold. At some point, before the light of dawn spilled over the horizon, they would have to let the fire die and part from the warmth of each other’s bodies. But for now, she closed her eyes, tasted his lips, and let her mind believe nothing existed beyond the dugout walls.
CHAPTER 33
Minnesota, 1906
Alma hurried down the agency steps, letting the door slam behind her. She imagined the workers jerking upright at the sound and scowling. She imagined the stacks of paperwork teetering, a document or two cartwheeling free on the unsettled air. They weren’t just citations, reports, and rolls; they were people’s lives. She admired Stewart his objectivity, wished she’d been of greater help. But the faces behind the names haunted her, their voices a constant whisper in her ear. No, her only help now was Minowe.
When she reached the road her feet stalled. She looked right, then left and right again. Frederick had instructed her to follow the thoroughfare beyond the agency, hadn’t he? So left then—north.
She took a step and hesitated again. How far had Frederick said to go before she’d spot the path off the road? Ningo’anwe’biwin. But what in tarnation did that mean? Her fingers clenched. She’d forgotten her gloves inside the agency and her nails bit into her palms. Why had Frederick been so cryptic, so utterly unhelpful? She knew she’d heard the phrase before, had once known its meaning, but couldn’t pluck it from the threads of her memory.
No use standing around. The sun, now directly overhead, had baked the road solid. Alma’s boot heels snagged on the wagon-wheel ruts and pock-like hoofprints that scarred the dirt, making her wistful of the morning’s mud. She wrung her hands and muttered reassurances to herself as she walked. This reunion was not about them. Minowe would see that. Surely, they could set aside the past, for Asku’s sake.
After a few minutes, she stopped and looked around. Field and forest sprawled around her, a gradient of yellow and brown with a few sprigs and leaves still clinging to their summer green. Nowhere did she see a side path or fork in the road as Frederick described. Insects hummed in the air, jumping and flitting through the dried grass. Had she gone far enough? Too far? Maybe she’d been wrong; maybe this wasn’t the way at all.
She spun around and marched back the way she’d come. She recalled seeing a small path through the woods, just beyond the schoolhouse. Perhaps that was what Frederick meant.
The path, wide and bright where it met the road, quickly narrowed. Towering bluestem and matted chokecherry bushes pressed in on either side. The charming houses she’d seen in town gave way to weary cabins. She studied the women tending their sparse gardens or grating their laundry against wooden washboards, but none bore any resemblance to Minowe.
Farther on she passed an old woman weaving pale rush stalks into a wide mat. Her cotton skirt was torn and threadbare, her wispy hair drawn into a knot at the nape of her neck. Several small children ran half-clothed through the yard. The sun beat off their beautiful brown skin, and their laughter lingered like drifting milkweed seeds in the air.
When she saw Alma, the old woman hollered to the children and corralled them about her. The wrinkles around her eyes and mouth deepened. The little ones peered at Alma between the fluttering rush strands and around the woman’s wide-set haunches. Alma smiled and nodded in their direction. Renewed giggles bubbled up from the children. One gave a timid wave.
Alma thought to stop and ask the woman if she knew where Minowe lived, but the old woman’s scowl kept her walking. At what point had she lost the warmth, friendliness, and curiosity so alive in her grandchildren? Maybe that wasn’t fair. She looked old enough to remember the early treaties and ever-shrinking land. She would remember the Indian Wars too. Little Big Horn. Wounded Knee. Sugar Point. Perhaps she’d seen her own children taken, sent away to boarding school, and feared Alma had come to steal her grandchildren as well.
All for the best, Alma told herself as she continued onward. But those words, her father’s words, had lost their steel. She passed more weathered cabins. More guarded glances. The old woman’s scowl haunted her. She’d read about the wars and treaties as a girl. Growing pains of the burgeoning West. The right of the strong and civilized to conquer the weak. And yet, how different it must have seemed to this woman. How different it seemed to that night they’d met in the dugout.
A sharp pang gripped her, like her insides had been cranked through a wringer. What would think of her now—all her rationalizing and excuses? Alma shut her eyes and banished the thought. Her limbs felt heavy and her feet ached. Best return to the agency. Stewart would worry soon.
But she’d not found Minowe, not made any progress in helping Asku. She forced her weary eyelids open and pressed her muscles into action. Just a little farther.
The forest thinned. Tree stumps littered the landscape. Only the small, the gnarled, or the sickly still stood. Soon the stubble of trees opened to a bald patch of land where a small shack teetered in the wind.
Surely Minowe could not live here. Alma’s whole body turned cold at the thought. She swallowed her discomfiture and forced a steady gaze. The shack sat without foundation directly upon the ground. Tarpaper covered the slab siding and shingleless roof. Square holes sufficed for windows, their rag dressings flapping each time a breeze stirred. She shuffled up to the door and raised her fist to the splintery wood. Her whole arm trembled. Her knuckles wore a sheen of sweat. She felt naked without her gloves, embarrassed, and decided it improper to call without them. But just as she stepped back the door opened.
A woman stood in the jamb, her calico skirt tied high about her waist to accommodate her growing belly beneath. Her deep-set eyes were too dark, her drawn lips too full, her russet skin too youthful to be Minowe. Alma exhaled, equal parts relief and chagrin. “I . . . um . . . pardon the disturbance.”
A man appeared from the shadowy house and stood beside the woman. His gaze swept the clearing before settling on Alma. He pulled a colorful strand of tightly woven beads
from beneath his shirt. A wooden cross hung at its center. He held it out for her to see, then reached for the door.
“Wait, I’m not a missionary.”
He frowned. “We have no money.”
“No.” Alma blushed and tugged at her brooch. “I’m not selling anything.”
His eyes narrowed and he roped an arm about the woman, resting his hand just below the swell of her belly. Beneath the bluster, there was tenderness in his touch, intimacy, and Alma found herself reaching back, searching for her own husband’s hand, but she met only air. “I’m looking for a woman named Minowe. I wonder if she might have a . . . er . . .” She glanced at the tarpaper siding, then down to the packed dirt floor. “A house nearby.”
The couple said nothing. She groped for the Anishinaabemowin words. House came quickly to mind, also the verb to search for, but the phrase demanded context. Did she say Niijikwe Minowe: my friend Minowe? Nishiime: my sister, as she’d called her all those years ago? Nimiigaadenimdimin: my enemy? Alma settled for the less descriptive Minowe izhinikaazo anishinaabekwe: a lady called Minowe. She uttered only the first few words before the man cut her off.
“No one of that name lives around here,” he said.
“Are you sure? I was told she—”
“Yes, we are sure.”
Before she could say anything else, he pulled the woman from the jamb and closed the door.
Alma retreated from the clearing, tears smarting in her eyes. None of this was as she’d expected—the dreadful reservation, the hostility from a people she’d known to be nothing but warm and kind. Her pace quickened, despite the flush of fatigue. Frederick’s words made sense to her now. Asku’s anger. They’d been promised a future that had never come. Prosperity, equality—words she’d heard a hundred times. Lies.
And . Her throbbing feet beat faster. If he saw her now, how could he feel anything but disgust? Had he been right when he’d labeled her All those years after Stover, clouded in her own misery, she’d ignored the truth. No, not ignored it; she’d run from it. Was running still.
Alma’s stride petered to a shuffle. Her breath came short and wheezing. A sticky spume had built at the corners of her lips. She pulled a hankie from her handbag and raked the cloth atop her mouth and tongue. Over and over again, as if she’d tasted something foul, as if wiping her skin raw could erase all she’d said and thought and done.
The wind blew and she wondered what it must be like for the couple in their tiny shack. She imagined the cheap framework whining, the rags about the windows beating this way and that. How cold it must be in the winter. How damp when it rained.
She glanced back over her shoulder, but the shack was gone from view. Scraggly trees and waist-high brush surrounded the faint trail. Something didn’t look right. Had she taken the wrong path from the clearing? She’d meant to return the way she’d come, but nothing around her was familiar. Her hands grew clammy. The sun dangled just above the horizon. Had Stewart noticed she’d not yet returned from her “quick stroll about the yard”? Of course he had; that’d been hours ago. How worried he must be.
She turned around and retraced her steps. Not five minutes on, she met a fork in the road. Drat! Which direction had she come? On blind faith she veered right and continued on. And on. A blister formed on the back of her heel. Each step sent a shock of pain.
The sky bruised over and crickets stretched their wings. The air grew cold. Alma buttoned her duster and buried her bare hands beneath her armpits. To her right, the weeds rustled. To her left, a branch snapped. She jumped and glanced about. Nothing.
No need to fear, she reminded herself. How different was this from the countless times she’d sneaked into the forest as a girl? Yet her bounding pulse refused to slow.
A headwind harried her every step, tugging at her dress. It stole beneath her collar and rattled the overhead leaves. But then, carried on its swells, came a whiff of smoke. Alma hurried along the path toward the smell. She tripped, fell, and clambered to her feet without regard for her scraped hands or dirtied skirt. Her side stung with exertion, but she dare not slow and lose the scent.
She stumbled into a clearing. Twilight’s fading glow lit the outline of a tiny house. This time she did not hesitate to knock.
“Please,” she said when the door opened. “I’m lost.”
A man stared down at her, his face obscured in darkness, his wide shoulders and set jaw backlit by the crackling fire within. Alma’s heart crowded her throat. He moved slightly and the strand of colorful beads and wooden cross around his neck caught the fire’s light. “Of course, ma’am,” he said. “Biindigen. Come inside.”
CHAPTER 34
Wisconsin, 1891
Alma inspected the partially set table, then smiled down at Mabel and Ada. “Very good. Now place the knife at the top of the setting just below the salt cup and the fork here to the left of the plate.”
The two third-year students did as she instructed, finishing off the four table settings. The double pendant lamp with its lace filigree gas shades had yet to be lit, but enough of spring’s afternoon sunlight spilled into the dining room from the hall to illuminate their work.
A shadow fell across the table. A soft ahem. “We’re having a dinner guest?” Alma’s mother said from the doorway. “I was not informed.”
“Yes. George. He’s . . . er . . . one of the former students here,” Alma said. “He asked to call upon Father, and Father invited him for dinner.”
Her mother shook her head. “Probably come to beg a recommendation for some position or other. I hope he is not in need of a loan. Wasn’t the whole idea that they be self-sufficient?”
Alma bristled. “He does very well at the Carriage Factory. I’m sure his business with Father is something else entirely.”
“Whatever it is, I shan’t bother with my formal toilette. And there’s no need to set out the china. Use the earthenware.”
The two young girls began to remove the plates before Alma could protest. As she watched her mother saunter away, a burst of anxiety clutched her. What would the woman say when she learned the real reason for visit? Alma gulped down a few breaths and turned back toward her pupils with forced ease.
She showed the girls how to fold the napkins and where to place the water and wine goblets. Her father insisted such domestic skills would prove useful to the girls someday, qualify them for service in even the most fashionable of houses. Alma knew the girls enjoyed the break from scouring pots or folding laundry, so she was happy to teach them. Still, she cringed at the idea of them making a living this way. Surely they’d been brought here to achieve something greater than servitude.
After a final survey of the table, she released the girls to play in the yard and hurried to her room. Excitement had returned, dancing in her stomach like a moth at a flame.
She pulled four different dresses from her wardrobe and laid each atop her bed. The occasion demanded modesty, nothing too fancy, nothing that would attract her parents’ attention. She held up one of the gowns—dark navy with a buttoned collar—and looked into the mirror. Modest, yes, but too much like her everyday attire.
Next, she selected a peach-colored gown with lace trim and scooped neckline. had seen her in it last year on the way to the Steeles’ spring ball. She remembered the way his eyes hung on her. he had told her afterward. Beautiful.
Her cheeks flushed and she returned the dress to the bed. Though she longed to hear him breathe that word again, tonight called for something less ostentatious. She rejected the next dress for the same reason and settled for a gown of soft blue silk, simple yet handsomely crafted.
Gay cries sounded from the front yard. “George! George is here!”
Alma hurried with her petticoats and buttons, her feet hardly touching the floor.
The front door whooshed open and a mob of footfalls spilled into the foyer. The other Indian students had always adored , especially the younger ones with whom he had sat at the front of the class. The din quieted and she k
new her father had taken charge, dismissing the students to their dinner-hour chores. Her insides continued to rattle. She tidied her hair with sweat-slickened hands, then flew from her room.
She and had planned for this evening for weeks. What he would wear, when he should broach the issue with her father, what he would say—they had scripted every detail. Her mother, of course, posed the greatest obstacle, but once given, her father would not lightly withdraw his consent, even in the face of his wife’s hysterics. As long as George could consult her father alone and garner his support, all would be well.
She grabbed hold of the banister at the top of the stairs and took a deep breath. With each step she descended, excitement overcame her nerves. She reached the parlor serene and expectant.
“Good evening, Miss Blanchard,” said with a bow.
His tense, upright posture made her smile. “George.”
She sat down on the couch beside her father. sat opposite them, clasping and unclasping his hands. Sweat dampened his hairline. His face had the look of one about to retch, but his eyes were steady, confident, ever glinting with a hint of mischief. She longed to reach out and still his hands with her own, but kept them prisoner in her lap.
To all this, her father appeared oblivious. “George was just telling me about a new spring system they’re using on carriages these days. Rubber tires, too, you say? Like those of a bicycle?”
“Uh . . . yes . . . it’s something they’re experimenting with.”
“You don’t say?”
“Some even talk of a motor engine.”
“Oh yes, I’ve heard of that. A Motorwagen they call it, made over there in Germany.”
“France too. Perhaps someday we won’t need for horses anymore.”
Her father laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far, my boy!”
Each convivial word further quelled Alma’s nerves. hands relaxed and regained some of their color. She did not allow her eyes to rest on him for long, glancing back at her father whenever the older man spoke, but they lingered long enough for quick appraisal. His suit was clean and pressed, the shirt beneath so bright it must be new. He had not cut his hair, as she had prodded, but at least wore it neatly tucked behind his ears. His shoes gleamed from a recent polish.
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