Her mother entered the room just as the conversation waned.
Alma’s father stood. “My dear, you remember George, don’t you?”
After a sharp nod from Alma, rose to his feet as well. “Mrs. Blanchard.”
Her mother neither bowed nor extended her hand, but acknowledged him with a flat smile. She took her husband’s arm and they processed to the dining room.
offered his arm to Alma, and they followed behind her parents. His light touch and careful distance felt strange after all the intimacy they had shared. A year’s worth of stolen moments—hurried kisses, covert glances, passionate rendezvous—flashed in Alma’s mind. How freeing it would be after tonight to share their love openly.
They passed by the crowded dining hall, where the Indian students had gathered for supper. Despite her mother’s protests, Alma still ate most of her meals seated beside Minowe and at the long wooden tables. She looked for her friends through the sea of gawking faces. wore a broad, playful grin and crossed her wrists in front of her heart. Minowe smiled, too, but it seemed forced, wistful. She’d worn that expression ever since Alma shared with them the true purpose of visit.
Perhaps Minowe just missed her brother. Alma missed him too. Asku’s presence had always stilled her, fortified her hope and courage. If only he were here tonight.
At the entry into the formal dining room, Alma paused and gave Tshikw’set’s arm a light squeeze. His muscles felt tense enough to snap. When he pulled out her chair, its legs scraped softly atop the floor. They both winced, though neither of her parents paid the noise any mind. The soft light of the chandelier illuminated handsome but grave face. He sat down across from her more upright than she had ever seen him deign to sit.
Trays of food rested on the small buffet to the right of her father. “George, may I have your plate? Roast? Potato? Beans?”
“Yes, if you please.”
Her father dished the food and handed back his plate. “Cora, my dear?”
Alma watched from the corner of her eye as plates passed to and fro, pleased he had remembered not to start eating until Father had served them all. Though she knew he disliked pomp and ceremony, he hid it well. Only the occasional heavy breath and clenching of his jaw betrayed his unease and nerves. Alma contented herself that these were things only a lover would notice, and smiled reassuringly at him whenever her parents looked down over their food.
“I’m so proud of you graduates,” her father said, breaking the silence. “You here in La Crosse, Harry back East.” He took another bite of roast and leaned back in his chair. “What a time he must be having at Brown. The philosophical debate, the sport and camaraderie, the libraries and club halls . . .”
“The sophistication of a real city,” her mother added.
If her father heard bitterness in her mother’s voice, he made no show of it. “What about the others in your graduating class? Do you keep in touch with them?”
“Frederick’s faring good in St. Paul. Catherine has went home to the Oneida reserve, I think.”
“A blanket Indian again,” her mother said. “What a shame.”
Alma flinched and looked at . His hands tightened around his knife and fork, and his forearms flexed.
“Catherine had such talent with sewing,” Alma said with forced lightness. “You remember her lacework, don’t you, Mother?”
“I suppose her skills were a huckleberry above the rest,” she replied. “But I don’t see what good they’ll do her on that reservation.”
“Perhaps she could open a shop in Green Bay.”
Her mother dabbed her mouth with her napkin, then waved it in Alma’s direction. “You’re such an optimist, dear. I suppose you get that from your father. The world is not the rosy place you think it is.”
Alma bit her lip and allowed the conversation to dwindle. Nothing but the tap of knives and forks over the glazed clay dishes sounded from the table. After a minute or two, her father wiped his mouth and pushed back from the table. “I must say, George, I quite expected you to return to the reservation yourself after graduation.”
shifted in his chair. “It will always be my home, but there are things in La Crosse that I am fond of also.” His eyes flashed to Alma. “I am grateful to Mr. Wallis for taking me on in his shop that I might stay.”
“I ran into Mr. Wallis in town just last week. He speaks very highly of your work. Says you’re never tardy or loaf about on the job.”
“It is kind of him to speak so.”
Her father leaned back, eyes twinkling. “You’re a credit to this school, my boy! You and the others, I cannot tell you how much your success pleases me.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now tell me, George, there was something you wanted to discuss?”
“Yes, I . . . er . . .” He glanced at Alma and her mother.
“Of course. Let’s retire to my study. Ladies, if you’ll excuse us, please.”
rose behind her father. Alma locked eyes with him and they both drew in a deep breath. She smiled once more, a final token of encouragement. This was the easy part. Her father had devoted his life to saving the Indian. Clearly, he’d grown to like . She watched the men exit the room, then glanced up at her mother. The woman wore a tired expression, her lips downturned and eyelids droopy, as if the meal had sapped her of all energy.
“Not much of a conversationalist, that one?”
“He was just nervous.”
“Why should he be nervous coming back to Stover? More of a simpleton, I should think.”
“He’s really very bright.”
“Bright?” Her mother laughed. “He could barely string together more than two sentences.”
Alma balled her napkin and threw it down beside her plate. “Not everyone has to be a prattling fop. Besides, English isn’t the language he was born to.”
“Come now. You can hardly count those funny noises they make at one another as a true language. It’s gibberish!”
“Mother, how can—”
“You’re far too impassioned about this, my dear. Your entire face is ruddy, even your ears. It’s not at all becoming.”
Alma took a deep breath. Engaging her mother like this would hardly benefit the situation. She needed the woman as sanguine as possible when her father broke the news. “You’re right. Forgive me. Come, let me play something for you in the parlor.”
“That would be nice. My nerves are a bit frazzled from all this tedium. Some Chopin would be love—”
“Alma Marie Blanchard!” Her father’s voice bellowed down the hallway.
Alma cocked her head. His voice was like the shrill cry of reveille after a fitful night, confusing and illusory, and she wondered whether she’d heard the sound at all or just imagined so.
He hollered again, the dark timbre of his voice unmistakable. She stood and hurried toward the study. Her mother kept pace behind her. “Good heavens, what’s he ranting about now?”
“Alma!”
What could possibly have gone wrong? Her throat squeezed around her voice. “Coming, Father.”
When they reached the study, she found her father pacing before the crackling hearth. His head twitched from side to side. His lips moved without sound. stood near the doorway. His eyes blinked in rapid succession. His mouth hung agape. She took a step toward him, but her father looked up and pinned her feet to the ground with a wild stare.
Her mother too stood paralyzed at the doorway. “Francis, whatever has come over you?”
His eyes remained fixed on Alma. “George tells me you wish to marry.”
She looked between and her father. “I do.”
“Marry whom?” her mother asked.
She took a deep breath. “I should like to marry George.”
“This George? An Indian?” Her mother laughed. “Impossible, ridiculous.” No one else joined her laughter. Her face turned pinched and waxen. “This is madness.”
“She’s confused is all.” Her father turned to Alma, eyes suddenly p
leading.
“You said but a minute ago how proud you were of George,” Alma said.
“Proud? Proud! That is entirely irrelevant.”
Alma straightened and looked her father directly in the eye. “I love him.”
Her mother collapsed into an armchair and began to sob. “I told you something like this would happen, Francis.”
He waved her off and continued to pace. “Unnatural. Unholy. Think of the disgrace you’d bring to this school. After all these years of work.”
Alma shook her head. What had come over him? “You said yourself—”
“Enough!” He sliced the air with a wild gesture. “I’d sooner escort you to the grave than to the altar with this man.”
Alma staggered back, clutching the doorjamb for support. moved toward her.
Her father’s eyes widened with venom. “Don’t.”
For once, obeyed.
Silence choked them. Only the popping fire dared to sound. Then her father straightened, smoothed his coat, and rang a small silver bell. Abraham, a young Ho-chunk boy apprenticing as her father’s assistant, hurried in through the parlor.
“Fetch Mr. Simms.”
Abraham nodded and scurried away.
“Shut the door, Alma.” A measure of calm had returned to her father’s voice, but his jaw clenched around the words.
Alma refused to move, disbelief as much as anger anchoring her where she stood.
He shouldered past her and jammed the door into its frame.
Another whimper from her mother. Her father paid the noise no heed. “Have you made your intentions known to anyone else?”
“No,” Alma said. “We wanted your blessing first.”
He moved to his desk and began rummaging through the drawers. “And what about you, boy? Have you told anyone?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Then we can all forget this discussion ever happened.”
“What?” Alma took a step forward. “No—”
At that moment, a knock sounded on the door and Mr. Simms entered. His wiry hair stood on end, and a day’s worth of white stubble covered his sunken cheeks. “Something you be needin’, Mr. Blanchard?”
“Escort George here from the grounds.”
“Father! What are you doing?”
Mr. Simms looked between and her father with an arched brow. After a moment, he shrugged. “Come on, lad. Off with ya.”
“No! You can’t do this! Father, I love him.” Alma ran to and threw her arms around him.
,” he whispered. “We’ll find another way.” He peeled her arms from around his neck and stood to face her father. His lips barely moved as he spoke. “You’re a hypocrite, Mr. Blanchard. You say the Indian is the brother of the white man, but in your heart you don’t believe.”
“I have spent my life working for the advancement of your kind!” He slammed his hand down upon the desk. “Equality is one thing. Miscegenation is another thing entirely. The idea of you with my daughter! It’s unnatural, criminal! If God had intended for the races to mix, he would not have put us down on separate continents.”
“Then why are you here? If your God gave this continent to the , what right have the white man to be here at all?”
Mr. Simms grabbed his arm, but shrugged him off. His wide, dark eyes fixed on Alma. She brushed away her tears and stared back at him, saying with her eyes what her lips could not. His expression softened, just for a moment; then he shouldered past Mr. Simms and stomped from the house.
When the sound of his angry footsteps disappeared, Alma sank to the floor and wept. Her father glared at her, and her mother fixed her with an expression of disgust. “Think of the ruin you almost brought upon this family, Alma!” she said. “Do you think any eligible gentleman would be interested in you if he knew you have been consorting with some wild man from the woods?”
“I don’t care about those men. I love .”
Her father moved around his desk and helped her mother from the chair. On the way out of the room, he stopped and looked down at her. His face held none of its former kindness or affection. “I am gravely disappointed in you, Alma. You’re not to see that Indian ever again.”
Who was this man? Surely not her father. Not the man whose lap she’d sat upon listening to stories. Not the man who slipped her candies and swung her in his arms. Not the man who brought her among the Indians, dressed her in a matching uniform, told her she could be their friend.
“Please, Papa,” she wailed, long beyond caring who heard. “Please!”
He closed the door on her cries. She lay for several minutes atop the scratchy rug, his words playing through her mind like an ostinato passage of music. Only the key was off, the piano untuned. This wasn’t how the night was meant to end. This wasn’t the man she’d believed her father to be.
Alma staggered to her feet. From the top bookshelf, his jar of bonbons caught her eye. She grabbed it and hurled it at the door. The jar shattered, sending a spray of glass and candy onto the rug. She watched them scatter, the peppermint sticks and toffee wheels rolling into dusty corners and beneath chairs. The dwindling firelight glinted off the broken glass, and licorice perfumed the air. The once-sweet smell made her ill.
She tramped atop the wreckage to the dented door, candy and glass crunching beneath her slippers, poking through their soft soles at her tender feet.
CHAPTER 35
Minnesota, 1906
Alma felt every bump and sideways jostle as the buggy rambled along the faint road toward Detroit Lakes. The same wind that had hassled her all day followed her still, its cold fingers sneaking beneath her scarf, nipping every inch of exposed skin. It cut through the trees, ripping leaves from the branches and sending them in an upward flurry before abandoning them to the ground. Its low howl made conversation impossible, but for this Alma was grateful. She could read the anger burning in Stewart’s face.
He’d spent all evening searching for her through the village, had called upon the sheriff, the deputies, the agent, even the grocer to keep watch. When she’d ridden up on the back of the Indian’s mule, he’d pulled her down and embraced her so fiercely she thought her ribs might snap.
Now, even though their shoulders brushed as the buggy rocked, he felt a mile away. The oil lamps they’d borrowed and fastened to the frame creaked and swayed on their hinges, casting roving pools of light on the uneven road. She should repeat her apology, take his hand, and swear she’d never be so reckless again. Instead, she sat motionless, letting the wind frazzle her hair and spoil the delicate silk blooms on her hat, searching the darkness for some mental foothold, some way to make sense of the day.
Dinner was nearly over by the time they arrived at the hotel. Alma’s limbs felt as heavy as sandbags changing from her day clothes into eveningwear. Her head throbbed. The blister on the back of her heel had bled through her stocking, but she had not the time nor care to change them. Instead of remaking her hair, she smoothed back the fuzz around her temples with water and then tucked whatever errant strands remained behind her ears.
Stewart awaited her in the sitting room adjacent to their sleeping chamber. The anger that had brewed on the long ride home still showed in the hard angle of his jaw, the way he stared beyond her, through her, never quite meeting her eyes.
Downstairs, they took their places in the small dining hall alongside the hotel’s only other guests, an older couple on vacation from Des Moines who were finishing the last bites of their gummy apple cobbler.
Alma tried to feign interest as the gentleman regaled them of his fishing exploits in the nearby lakes. Tepid pork and mushy potatoes slid tastelessly down her throat. Somewhere between two seemingly identical stories of “walleye so big they just about snapped my pole” Alma’s mind drifted back to the shabby cabins and shacks, to the overlogged forests and barren farmlands, to the meager annuities and rations. The reservation wasn’t even supposed to exist anymore. Assimilation, integration—lies her father had told, lies she’d believed. The t
ruth mocked every moment she’d shared with her Indian friends, every laugh, every smile, every kiss.
“Alma . . . Alma.” Stewart nudged her with his knee beneath the table. “They’re asking how we met. Would you like to tell the story or shall I?”
It took a moment to clear the past from her mind. The flickering sconces, the cheap wallpaper peeling at the edges, the lingering smell of burnt meat from the kitchen—slowly the present took shape around her. She looked up at the old couple. Their pale eyes were expectant, their lips—hers thin and painted, his dwarfed beneath a bushy white mustache—curved with placid smiles. Inwardly, Alma bristled at their blithe dispositions. “You go ahead.”
Stewart forced a tight smile and turned back to the couple. “It’s not all that remarkable of a tale.”
“Oh, go on,” the woman from Des Moines said.
“I saw her first at one of those moving-picture shows.”
The woman leaned forward. “I love those! Which film?”
“In truth, I don’t remember. One of those French numbers—”
“Cendrillon,” Alma interrupted.
“I hardly watched it, you see.” Stewart’s gaze flashed to her but didn’t stick. “I was completely taken by her. But the hall was crowded and she slipped away before I could find her.” He folded his napkin slowly and set it beside his dinner plate.
In the silence, Alma wondered what he was thinking. She thought of the flickering lights, the black-and-white images dancing across the screen, the oohs and aahs of the audience. Did he wish now he’d saved his dime?
“It was months before I saw her again. This time at Fairmount Park. She was there alone, reading. I watched her for the entirety of my lunch hour, not taking a bite. But it felt bad form to approach without introduction.”
“Indeed,” said the woman. “Young men today are frightfully forward. No sense of taste and manners. I was telling my grandson just the other—”
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