CHAPTER 30

Wisconsin, 1890

 

At the cry of the bugle, the Indians marched from the schoolhouse double file. Scarlet and blue banners festooned the veranda. The students paraded down the freshly painted stairs and across the yard.

Alma watched their synchronized approach from her seat at the piano, carried out to the lawn for the occasion. One hand shielded her eyes from the bright midmorning sun while the other rested atop the ivory keys.

As valedictorian, Asku led the march, his fox eyes beaming, his shoulders back and head held high. Her own carriage swelled at the sight. His gaze flickered in her direction and he smiled broadly. They’d chosen his suit together: a single-breasted morning coat and matching striped trousers, both light brown. She’d given him the silk cravat he wore as a graduation gift. Both pride and sorrow pulled at her heart. She’d never met a more intelligent boy—white or Indian. Nor had she known a more constant friend. Already she could foretaste the bittersweetness of his absence.

The other graduates marched behind him—Catherine, Frederick, Alice, and dressed in finely tailored clothes. The rest of the students followed, red corsages pinned to their black uniforms.

. . . the looming prospect of his departure panicked her. Since their afternoon in the meadow nearly two months before, she’d broached the subject of his future several times, but his response was always vague, evasive. He had siblings back on the reservation and his mother. They needed him, he said. But she needed him, too.

The company of Indians marched down the aisle, bisecting the throngs of seated commencement guests. Heads crowned in felt hats and flowery bonnets swiveled, following the procession toward the grand dais at the edge of the yard. Red, white, and blue flounces skirted the platform. Atop it stood an oak lectern flanked by chairs. Her father perched on the centermost chair to the right, so buoyed by pride she thought he might float away. Miss Wells sat beside him like a glacier, her face pinched as if it knew no other expression, despite the day’s palpable excitement. Reverend Thomas and Mr. Chase—Superintendent of Indian Schooling, in all the way from Washington—joined them atop the dais. The superintendent’s eyes wandered over the yard and great brick schoolhouse, resting finally on the bright blue sky above, even as the parade of students approached. His plump fingers fidgeted in his lap, giving Alma the distinct impression he cared little for pomp and festivity.

She turned her attention back to the students, who had now reached the base of the dais. They arranged themselves in three lines, the smallest children in the front, each spaced a uniform distance from the next. Alma marveled at the display. They had drilled this entry every day for a month until Mr. Simms had lost his voice from shouting out commands. The result was as near perfection as any company could perform.

Her eyes lingered on the back row, flashing over her friends’ faces, until inevitably settling over . Something about him still whispered defiance. Whether it was his ruffled hair, his all-too-confident posture, or the sardonic curve of his lips, she could not tell.

Reverend Thomas approached the lectern and delivered the benediction. Alma peeled her eyes from and readied her fingers over the piano keys. When the reverend took his seat, she began to play. After a few bars, the Indians joined in with song.

Hail Columbia, happy land!
Hail, ye heroes, heav’n born band,
Who fought and bled in freedom’s cause,
Who fought and bled in freedom’s cause.

After “Hail, Columbia” ended, Alma moved right into “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” concluding her modest part in the commencement. She rose from the piano and took her seat beside her mother in the front row of the audience while the students marched around toward the back. Only the graduates remained—Asku, Frederick, Catherine, Alice, and . They took their seats atop the platform. Superintendent Chase delivered a short, generic address; then her father rose to the podium. His voice trembled with emotion, starting out quiet and ending just below a roar. The same words he had uttered a thousand times again passed his lips: progress, civility, triumph over savagery.

At the end, he wiped the perspiration glistening at the edge of his receding hairline and welcomed Askuwheteau to the stand. “And now it is my pleasure to present Harry Muskrat, a young man from the White Earth Chippewa reservation in Minnesota, and Stover’s first valedictorian. This fall, thanks to a generous grant from the Women’s National Indian Association and funds made available through Senator Dawes’s General Allotment Act, he will travel to the great state of Rhode Island to attend the prestigious Brown University.”

Asku stood and crossed to the podium. He moved with polish and grace, his posture without the air of haughtiness she saw so often in “well-bred” men. Despite his confident walk, his fingers curled and released at his side—his telltale sign of nervousness, one she knew no one in the audience aside from herself would recognize. Their eyes met and she smiled with full-toothed encouragement. His hands stilled and he pulled a slip of paper from his breast pocket.

“It is my honor to appear before you today under such great auspices. To this place, and its people, I owe an enduring debt. These walls have been my home for nine years, and I have passed here from a child to a man. From one who knew little of the world to one yet untested, but firmly set in the way of progress.”

Asku’s voice rang clear and steady. Golden sunlight lit him from above. His lively eyes swept the hushed crowd as he spoke, not once retreating to the unfolded speech atop the podium. Miss Wells’s lips softened into a smile. Her father wiped a tear.

“I come from a great and proud people,” Asku continued. “We have lived many generations upon this land. But if it be our destiny to continue, we must merge with the white man and meld to his ways. Like two forks of the same great river, our destinies lie intertwined. The course is set. We cannot uphold the past any more than we can reverse the water’s flow.” He paused. “Our hope rests in the future. A future made bright by unity with the white man. What we, the Indian, can offer we shall offer. What we can learn, we must learn so that both our peoples may prosper on this earth.”

Asku smiled amid a swell of applause. A tide of handshakes, backslaps, and hugs carried him back to his seat. Alma leapt to her feet, and the rest of the crowd did likewise. Only seemed unmoved. His hands banged together a couple of times, then knotted in his lap. His eyes wandered the sky. She could read the war playing out inside him by the way his forearms tensed and knuckles blanched. He hated what Asku said, and yet . . . and yet he cared for her.

A listless Mr. Chase distributed certificates of accomplishment to all the graduates and the ceremony concluded. The guests rose from their seats and drifted toward the large buffet of refreshments Mrs. Simms had set up at the far edge of the yard.

Alma moved to follow, but her mother grabbed her arm. Ahem. She examined Alma’s appearance with a roving eye. “You hit the wrong chord halfway through the first verse of the ‘Battle Hymn.’”

Was that all her mother had taken from the ceremony? “I’m only the accompanist.”

“The details matter, Alma. Let’s just hope Mrs. Pierce did not notice or she’ll have nothing else to say about the event. You know she fancies her daughter a better musician than you.”

Alma’s eyes drifted toward the cluster of people holding cups of punch and plates of cookies. As always, she sought . He stood in the shade of an oak tree talking with Mr. Wallis, who owned a carriage company in La Crosse.

“Alma! Are you listening to me?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, more care next time.” She hurried off before her mother spewed further admonishment, and slipped into the crowd, addressing no one until she reached Asku. “Your speech was wonderful!” She laced her arm around his and squeezed. “Gigiiminowe. Very eloquent.”

He beamed. “Thank you. I had not expected such a crowd.”

“Father’s been waiting for this moment for nine years. I’m surprised he did not invite the entire state of Wisconsin.”

They both laughed. She released his arm and they strode side by side to the refreshment table. The cups of lemonade and punch brought back memories of an earlier day, the sun slanting down on a similar spread, anticipation quickening her blood, waiting for the very first Indians to arrive. Her throat grew tight and tears caught in the web of her lashes. “How I shall miss you, Asku.”

He grinned and handed her a drink. “Come east with me, then. Enroll at Vassar or Mount Holyoke.”

“Mother says I already have more education than I shall ever need.” Her eyes flickered toward the oak tree where still stood. “Besides, I think I should miss it here too much.”

Asku followed her errant gaze to the oak tree. The rosy exuberance drained from his cheeks, leaving his expression wistful.

Alma bit her lip and hastened down the buffet toward a towering tray of butter cookies. “You’ll meet hordes of terribly interesting people at Brown.” She heaped a pile of cookies onto a plate and handed it to him. “The bustle of Providence will sweep you up, and you’ll forget all about me and this little school.”

Their fingers brushed as he took the plate. “No, I shall never forget you, Azaadiins.”

Before she could reply in kind, her father parted through the crowd with Mr. Chase. “There you are, Harry! Allow me to introduce Mr. Chase from the Indian Bureau. Mr. Chase, our valedictorian, Harry Muskrat.”

The superintendent’s thick lips curled and his nose wrinkled. “Muskrat?”

“The muskrat is an honored animal among my people. He gave his life so that the world could be built anew after the flood.”

“Hmm . . . interesting . . . Mr. Blanchard tells me you’ve been accepted to Brown. Bully for you, my boy! I’m a Yale man myself.”

The man’s watery gray eyes fell on Alma. The flat expression he’d worn throughout the ceremony livened. His thick lips, crowded between a graying mustache and beard, curved upward. “This must be your daughter.” He raised his top hat, exposing a crown of baldness beneath. “Miss Blanchard.”

Alma held back a grimace and bowed. Thankfully, her father steered the conversation back to Harry. Out of politeness, she endured a few more moments of the man’s sideways glances, then flashed Asku an apologetic smile and slipped away.

She scanned the crowd for . He no longer stood beneath the sweeping arms of the oak. He was not by the refreshment table, nor had he sought shade on the veranda.

At last, she spotted him through the dense gathering, standing with Frederick and a few boys from La Crosse. Their eyes met and he inclined his head toward the back of the house. He’d made his decision.

Alma hesitated. Could she bear to hear he was leaving? Just when she’d screwed up enough courage to follow, Lily Steele captured her arm. “There you are, Alma. What a quaint little affair. Almost feels like a real graduation ceremony.”

Alma grimaced. “It is a real graduation ceremony. They worked hard. They’re going off to jobs, colleges.” She slipped her arm free from Lily’s grasp. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, the . . . um . . . the cookies need replenishing.” She hastened to the buffet, grabbed the tray with the fewest shortbreads, and sped around the schoolhouse.

The vast backyard was nearly empty. Mr. Simms lounged in the open doorway of the wood shop, arms crossed, his cloudy expression untouched by the day’s gaiety. His hooded eyes followed the movement of the few guests who milled about inside, viewing the equipment and machinery. Alma wondered if they noticed the stain, the dark patch beside the lathe where Charles’s blood had seeped into the floorboards. No, she decided. Her father was a man of details. He would have made sure it was covered for the occasion. The boy had recovered, after all. Still, Alma lingered, the tray growing heavy in her arms. Yes, he’d recovered, but he would never be the same.

A flash of movement in the kitchen window caught her attention. She hurried inside.

The large room, always a center of bustle and activity, for once lay still. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, casting the room in a golden glow.

she whispered, setting the tray of cookies atop the counter.

He waved to her from between two towering cupboards. Stepping around the butter churn and a broom, she joined him in the small cranny.

“Before you tell me anything I have to—”

He silenced her with a kiss, his lips hungry, urgent. She forgot whatever it was she wanted to say and leaned into his embrace. When she was all but starved of breath, he pulled away. They crouched down for better concealment amid the jumble of kitchenware, their knees touching, backs pressed against the sides of cupboards. leaned forward and kissed her again.

Unease built in her stomach, even while his lips lingered over her own. A fierceness infused his embrace, an undercurrent of emotion she couldn’t quite name. She pulled back. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

“Mr. Wallis talked to me today of his carriage works.”

Alma spoke over him. “I knew when I saw your reaction to Asku’s speech—”

“Mr. Simms vouched for my skill with the saw and the lathe and the—”

“I knew you’d made up your mind to return to the reservation.”

“He hired me on at a dollar a day!”

Alma blinked. “What? You’re not leaving?”

He shook his head. Her elbow struck the butter churn as she reached for him. It teetered but did not fall. They laughed, and when their laughter was spent, they kissed again.

“Where will you stay?” she asked.

“Mr. Wallis recommended a boardinghouse near of the shop.”

Her smile faltered. “Do they take on . . . er . . .”

“Indians? Mr. Wallis seemed to think so.”

“And Father could write a letter recommending you.” She squeezed hand. “You’re really going to stay here in La Crosse?”

Alma felt weightless. Sunlight fell like a halo around them, gilding the broom and butter churn and cupboards, erasing from view the dust and cobwebs. She leaned forward and rested her head against his chest. His heartbeat—a pace quicker than its usual steady rhythm—sounded in her ear.

“Shan’t you miss your home?” she asked.

His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “Every day. The smell of pine trees, the smiling faces of my brothers and sisters, the sound of the , our sacred drum.” His arms tightened around her and he burrowed his fingers into her pinned-up curls. “But I would miss you more.”

“We don’t have to stay here forever. In La Crosse, I mean. We could settle closer to your reservation. Maybe Milwaukee or Green Bay. You could open your own carriage repair shop. I could work at a grammar school or teach piano.”

body shook with laughter. “You? A teacher like ?”

“I wouldn’t be so wicked as her.” She scowled in her best Miss Wells impression. “But I certainly wouldn’t tolerate troublemakers like you.”

“That’s not the life of you.” His voice was thick, suddenly void of humor. “You were meant for big houses and fancy dinners, china and silver.”

Alma lifted her head to meet his eyes. “I don’t need all that finery.”

“You don’t want to marry some rich white man?”

“No.”

The glint in his eyes faded, leaving them hard and weary as petrified wood. “You should, Azaadiins.” But as he said this, his arms tightened around her. “We’re not a good match, you and I.”

“We’re a perfect match.” She pulled back slightly from his embrace. Why didn’t he see that? What did it matter if they came from different worlds, so long as . . . She took a deep breath. “I love you.”

For all their joking before in the woods, she’d never actually said the words. Now she felt suddenly wary and unclothed. Her heart pounded through the ensuing silence. Had he heard her? Did he feel the same? His actions spoke of love, staying here instead of returning to his home, but nevertheless she longed for him to say it.

The light around them faded, obscured by some fleeting cloud. eyes dropped to the dusty floor and his brow furrowed. Despite the balmy day and warmth radiating from his body, Alma shivered.

Another moment of silence, then smiled—that wry, crooked smile she so adored. He raised his gaze to hers. “. I love you, too.”

Alma reached for him, not caring if she knocked over the butter churn or broom or even the entire cupboard. He loved her and he would stay. They kissed and huddled close until approaching footsteps outside shooed them away. Nothing of the rest of the day seemed to touch her—not Mr. Chase’s salacious glances, not Lily’s endless prattle, not the hours of cleanup after the guests had left. She watched the sun glide toward the horizon until it hung red and brilliant above the trees, its rays—for a fleeting moment—a bridge between earth and sky.