Between Earth and Sky Page 3

  His lips flattened. “I don’t see what we can do.”

  “Please, dearest.”

  The hard lines of his face softened. He lifted the phone’s receiver from its cradle. “Hello, Central? Can you put me through to the Federal Courthouse in St. Paul, Minnesota?”

  A pleasant female voice chirped out a response and the line went silent for a moment. Alma seated herself before his desk and scooted closer, trying again to be still.

  “Hello?” Stewart said when the line went live again. “May I please speak to the district clerk?” A muffled response. More silence. “Stewart Mitchell, Esquire here, I’m trying to reach the attorney assigned the case of Mr. Harry Muskrat. . . . Not involved directly, no . . . I just told you, I’m a lawyer. . . .” Alma shifted in her chair as the clerk’s voice sounded in the earpiece. “Yes, a phone number will do.” Stewart jotted down the exchange and returned the earpiece to the switchhook.

  His grip loosened from around the brass stem. A long breath whistled through his nose. His eyes probed Alma’s, as if to gauge her resolve. She nodded with such vigor her hat slipped forward over her eyes. She repinned it atop her chignon as he reconnected with Central. “Tri-State 5400, please.”

  Alma leaned in, balancing on the lip of her chair. On the other end of the line, the man’s voice was squeaky, his vowels broad and pitch lilting. The cadence struck her like a long-forgotten song. A shiver skittered from the nape of her neck down her spine and through her limbs. She had laughed, as a girl, the first time she’d heard people speaking that way. Not today.

  Unable to decipher the man’s muted words, she watched her husband’s face. At first, his expression was convivial. He introduced himself and explained the reason for his call. He nodded as he listened to Harry’s lawyer, and Alma found herself nodding in unison, hoping any moment he’d hang up and exclaim the conviction had been a mistake, the charges dropped. But then his brow furrowed. His head stopped bobbing. Alma stilled too. Her hands grew cold.

  “I see, I see,” her husband said into the receiver. And then another pause. His lips pressed together. The creases in his forehead seemed to deepen with each passing second. “He won’t say anything?” Stewart asked. “Not one way or another?” His chin jerked back and eyes widened. “I see.” Alma held her breath. More nodding, this time slow and somber. Stewart thanked the man, hung up, and pushed the phone away. His gaze fell to his hands, which he folded atop his desk.

  “Well?” Alma asked.

  “I’m afraid the circumstances surrounding your friend’s case are rather bleak,” he said, not meeting her eye.

  “What does that mean?”

  “The prosecution has at least one witness who saw your friend in proximity of the agent just before the shooting.”

  “That could be just . . . just coincidence.”

  “And the sheriff’s report said a trader had recently sold Mr. Muskrat a gun of similar description to that found at the scene of the murder.”

  Alma pushed back her chair. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “True, it’s circumstantial, but—”

  “These backwoods lawmen are trying to frame him.” She threw her gloves down on his desk and stood.

  “Why would they do that, Alma? That’s perjury.”

  “You don’t know what kind of twisted justice these men are capable of.” Her hand fluttered to her throat. “Being Indian is sin enough for them.”

  Stewart blinked at her. She wished for once he’d get angry, too, leap to his feet with indignation. Instead, he rose slowly, crossed to where she stood, and took her gently by the shoulders. “Darling, you mustn’t let this upset you so.”

  “He’ll die, Stewart!” A twinge of guilt twisted inside her as her voice echoed through the room, undoubtedly audible throughout the reception lobby and neighboring offices as well.

  Stewart flinched and dropped his hands from her shoulders. “If he does hang, it will be his own doing.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Your friend hasn’t said one word about the murder—not to the sheriff, not to his lawyer, not to anyone. He’s not talking at all.” He stalked to his desk and sat heavily in his chair. “The arraignment is tomorrow. His attorney is going to enter a guilty plea.”

  Alma groped for the back of her chair, her fingers digging into the velveteen upholstery as she steadied herself against the sudden ache and nausea. When she was ten, she’d fallen off her horse onto the hard, dirt-packed road. For a moment all went black. She knew nothing but pain and air-starved panic. Then the world came back into focus—each color a shock to her eyes, each sound a sting to her ears. She’d rolled over and retched until there was nothing left in her stomach but bile. Now, hearing those words, Alma felt the same sensation. She couldn’t let him die. Couldn’t bear more loss. More guilt.

  When she looked back up at Stewart, it was through bleary, tear-rimmed eyes. “He needs a better lawyer, one he can trust.”

  “I’m a patent attorney,” he said. “I have no experience defending murderers.”

  “Accused murderers.”

  “My license to practice law doesn’t extend beyond Pennsylvania.”

  To this she only huffed.

  Her husband sighed and ran a hand through his sand-brown hair. “Help me understand, Alma. Who is this man? We’ve been married five years and you’ve never once spoken of him. Why does this mean so much to you?”

  Alma turned back to the window. True, she’d spoken little of her life in Wisconsin. It was easier to live as if those memories belonged to someone else. She’d told him of her family’s move west when she was seven to open an Indian boarding school. She’d told him of her return to Philadelphia at seventeen to live with her aunt. Of the decade in between, he knew nearly nothing. Much of her longed to tell him—of Harry, of Margaret, of them all. How freeing it would be. The words perched on her lips, but she drew them back with a sharp inhale. He could never know. Not all of it.

  Another gust of wind stirred the trees, plucking the first of fall’s leaves from the boughs. She watched them swirl and scatter to the ground. The sinking feeling she’d felt at breakfast overwhelmed her again, as if time were folding in on itself and drawing her with it. “Is there no one from your past for whom you would dare the impossible?”

  For several heartbeats, there was only silence.

  “Perhaps I could appear pro hac vice.”

  She turned around. “What does that mean?”

  “With the public defender’s permission, I can appeal to the court to assist with the case even though it lies beyond my jurisdiction.”

  Alma rushed around his desk and sank onto her knees before him. “Really? You’ll do that for him?”

  He took her hands and kissed them. “Not for him, darling. For you. Give me a day or two to clear my schedule and make the necessary arrangements. Then we can go to St. Paul and see what we can do.”

  “Thank you, dearest!”

  “I can’t promise success.” He kissed her cheek and helped her to her feet. “First, I’ll need to get his attorney to change the plea. Then we need to get Mr. Muskrat talking.”

  “I can help with that,” Alma said quickly. “He’ll speak to me.”

  Stewart reached into his drawer and produced a small notebook, his eyebrows already pinched in concentration. “We may even need him to take the stand. He does speak English, your friend?”

  A phantom smell of tallow and ash invaded her nose, spreading over her tongue and seeping into her taste buds. “Of course he does. The only language permitted at Stover was English.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Wisconsin, 1881

  A loud whack brought silence to the room. Alma flinched and glanced up from her stew. Miss Wells stood at the end of the dining table, her ruler flat against the wooden surface.

  “English only, children,” she said.

  “But the Indians still don’t know any English,” Alma mistakenly said aloud.

  Miss Wells turned
and flashed that crooked-toothed smile Alma had come to hate. “Then they should refrain from speaking altogether.”

  Alma slumped, leaning her cheek against her palm, and returned to her dinner. For several minutes, only the clank of dinnerware and the rhythmic click of Miss Wells’s footfalls echoed off the dining hall’s whitewashed walls.

  Six long tables crowded the room—four on one side where the boys sat and two on the other side, nearest the main door, for the girls. Miss Wells paced the wide aisle in between, her overly starched skirt rasping atop the floorboards. At the front of the room another door flapped back and forth between the dining hall and kitchen, its hinges squeaking anytime someone passed through. At least once every night a howl rattled the conjoining wall when Mrs. Simms dropped a pot or singed a finger on the stove. The Indians would all giggle, Alma with them, and for a moment she didn’t feel so alone.

  The wooden bench upon which she sat was hard and splintery and made it impossible not to fidget. To her right sat Margaret. The Indian gripped the handle of her spoon flat against her palm the way a bandleader held his baton. Lumpy brown stew sloshed over the edges as she brought it to her mouth. Only two nights ago, Alma had shown everyone at the table the correct way to hold the utensil.

  “Like you’re holding a pencil,” she’d said, raising her arm and taking an exaggerated bite.

  A few of them had tried to mimic her for a short while. Others, including Margaret, ignored her completely. Maybe they’d never held a pencil either. She’d have to demonstrate that too.

  “It took you months to learn how to use a spoon, kitten,” her father had said when she complained.

  But she’d been just a baby then and didn’t remember it anyhow.

  Now, a full six days since the Indians’ arrival, she was growing tired of being an example. Maybe if they listened more, tried harder.

  The hum of voices rekindled throughout the room, whispers in funny-sounding languages Alma didn’t understand. As the voices grew louder, Miss Wells’s lips flattened and her nostrils flared. “English only,” she repeated, this time from across the room by the boys’ tables.

  The din waned but did not fully dampen. Another crack rang out.

  “Silence.” An edge rose in the teacher’s voice. Alma’s muscles tensed.

  The room quieted save for the songlike voice of Margaret. Miss Wells stalked across the room, grabbed the girl’s collar, and pulled her to her feet in a firm, fluid motion. “I said quiet!”

  She dragged her to the front of the dining room and released her collar. Margaret looked from side to side, pallor overtaking the color in her cheeks. Miss Wells yanked over a chair. Its legs scraped atop the floorboards, sending a shiver down Alma’s arms.

  “Climb up and stand before your classmates,” the teacher said.

  When Margaret did not move, the teacher grabbed her arm and bullied her onto the seat. “Don’t move,” she said, and retreated into the kitchen.

  Margaret turned toward the swinging door and stuck out her tongue. The other children laughed. Alma, too, but with a niggling unease.

  When Miss Wells returned from the kitchen, all quieted. In her hand she held a thick slab of lye soap.

  The smirk fell from Margaret’s face. Her eyes grew as round as wagon wheels. “Awegonen i’iwe?”

  Miss Wells took advantage of the girl’s gaping mouth and shoved in the soap. Margaret tried to spit it out, her throat convulsing as she gagged, but Miss Wells kept her hand flat against her face.

  Alma winced, imagining the bitter taste, remembering the way her hands burned and tingled after using it to scrub her skin.

  Margaret tried three more times to spit out the soap. Each time Miss Wells stymied her efforts, her long, bony fingers digging into the girl’s cheeks. Margaret’s face twitched as if she were fighting back the urge to vomit. Lamplight glistened in her glossy eyes. But she did not cry as Alma surely would have. Her hands became fists at her sides. A deep breath whistled in through her nose, and the grimace smoothed from her face. Save for the blinking of her eyes and rise and fall of her chest, she did not move.

  Miss Wells dropped her hand. Her nails had left crescent imprints around Margaret’s mouth. “All right, everyone, continue on with your meal.”

  No one, not even Alma, moved. Her hands knotted in her lap; her eyes hung on Margaret.

  “Eat!”

  Alma snapped to attention.

  The teacher smoothed back her hair and took a deep breath. “Eat. The soap stays in her mouth until every last bowl is cleaned.”

  The Indians sat still as figures in a tintype, their eyes wide and fixed. Clearly, they did not understand.

  Saliva dribbled down Margaret’s chin. Already her lips looked red and puffy. Alma picked up her spoon and sank it into her lukewarm stew. The sound of metal scraping over the bottom of her bowl echoed through the silence. Careful not to slurp, she forced down the slimy food. Another scrape. Another mouthful. Her hand trembled. Thirty-seven pairs of eyes followed her spoon from bowl to mouth. They still didn’t understand. She glanced up at Margaret, who stared back with a sullen, accusing expression. To her, Alma must seem a traitor, mean and unfeeling just like Miss Wells. After this, they would never be friends.

  She spied the boy named Harry seated across the room. His hands were clenched in fists atop the table, his expression frantic, angry. He looked ready to spring from his seat and tackle Miss Wells. Alma locked eyes with him and shook her head slowly. She waved her spoon, then brought it to her mouth. Harry’s eyes narrowed. His face remained hard, his hands flexed and still. Another slow, deliberate bite and Alma had to look away. He didn’t see she was only trying to help. None of them did.

  Then, from Harry’s direction, came the drawl of metal. “Eat,” he said loudly.

  Alma sat stunned. Aside from the classroom drills of hello, good morning, yes ma’am, no ma’am, and thank you, none of the children had uttered a single English word.

  He swallowed a spoonful of potatoes and broth, then dished up another. “Must eat.”

  One by one, other spoons joined the clamor.

  When Harry’s gaze once again met hers, his clever eyes regarded her in a way others didn’t—no fear, no suspicion, but plain curiosity, as if she were the strange and exotic one. As if she were a riddle he could not quite puzzle out.

  * * *

  That night, like every night since the Indians’ arrival, choked sobs filled the dormitory. It started the moment Miss Wells dampened the lamps and left the room. One girl at first, then another, until every bed rattled with the sound, as if sobs were contagious.

  Even Alma felt the pull. Her throat tightened and tears threatened if she blinked. She knew they missed their homes, their parents, the siblings they’d left behind. But this was a better place for them. Papa had said so. Clean clothes, healthy food, beds, hairbrushes, and learning.

  She rolled over onto her side and squinted through the darkness. One bed over lay Margaret, curled into a ball beneath the blankets. Her body quaked as she cried. She’d thrown up the minute Miss Wells removed the soap from her mouth after dinner. The teacher made her clean up the mess before permitting any of them to leave. At this, Margaret’s cheeks turned red to match the blisters forming on her lips. She grabbed the sodden rag Miss Wells threw at her feet and hung her head, but not before Alma had seen a tear sneak from the corner of her eye.

  Now, Alma reached beneath her mattress and pulled out Margaret’s doll. It soothed her to hold it, to stroke its soft leather body and trace the embroidered flowers on its dress. The very secret of it delighted her. She’d hidden the doll the day of the fire. The following afternoon while the Indians marched, she’d sneaked into the dormitory and mended its torn seam. Her stitches were ragged, the thread several shades too light, but she loved the doll anyway. In the cover of darkness, she fingered the black wisps sewn onto its head. Coarse and thick like real hair.

  Her dolls were much prettier, of course—white porcelain skin, pink lips
in the shape of a bow, thick curls that sprang back when you pulled them. The special ones, the ones her mother kept tucked out of reach, had real glass eyes the same shade of blue as her own. Instead of nubs, they had proper hands with fingers you could count.

  But Margaret’s doll was soft. Its brown leather body felt like real skin when she held it against her cheek. She’d never owned a doll so suited for play—one that would not chip, crack, or scuff. She twirled it atop her bedspread, as if her mattress were a parquet dance floor, then hugged it to her chest. The smell of smoke and pine sap clung to its skin.

  A hiccup-like sob drew her attention back to Margaret. She tried to ignore the sound, plugged her ears with her pillow, and hummed a soft tune. Her mother had taken the doll for a reason, just as she’d taken the Indians’ clothes and her father their hair. It had to be a good reason, for why else would they do it? Something about the Indians forgetting their old lives and starting anew.

  Through the soft down of her pillow she could still hear Margaret crying. The sound gnawed at her. Maybe she should return the doll—just for a little while—just until Margaret forgot her homesickness and the blisters on her lips healed. Then Alma could have it back and they’d both be happy. She squeezed the doll one more time, then whispered, “Margaret.”

  The girl didn’t answer. Alma leaned from her bed and poked the girl’s shoulder.

  Margaret started and rolled around. She looked at Alma through puffy eyelids. Her breathing was ragged and snot ran from her nose. Her lips looked like breakfast sausages.

  Alma smoothed the doll’s hair, straightened its dress, breathed a final whiff of its woodland scent, and then held it out. “Shh! Keep it secret.”

  At first, Margaret did not move, but peered at Alma with suspicion. Then her hand crept forward. She grabbed the doll and shrank back into the shell of her blankets. Only then did her expression soften, her swollen lips trembling as if attempting a smile. She wiped her nose with the sleeve of her nightshirt and rolled around.

  Immediately, Alma felt the doll’s absence, wished she too had something to hold on to. But they were friends now, she and Margaret. Weren’t they? The hope was enough to lull her to sleep.