This Tender Land Read online

  “You like playing with girlie things?” DiMarco said. “I think you need some time in the quiet room. Come with me.”

  Billy didn’t move. I figured it had to be because he knew—all of us in the dorm knew—what going to the quiet room with DiMarco might really mean.

  “Well come on, you little sissy redskin.” DiMarco grabbed him and started to drag him out.

  Before I knew what I was doing, I was up off my bunk. “He wasn’t talking Indian.”

  DiMarco stopped. “What did you say?”

  “Billy wasn’t talking Indian.”

  “I heard him,” DiMarco said.

  “You heard wrong.”

  Even as I was speaking these words, inside my head a voice was screaming, What the hell are you doing?

  DiMarco let go of Billy and came my way. The sleeves of his blue work shirt were rolled up to his biceps, which seemed enormous to me at that moment. The kids in the dorm were statues.

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me this is yours?” DiMarco held out the doll.

  “I made that for Emmy Frost. Billy just asked to see it before I gave it to her.”

  He didn’t even glance at Billy to see if some different truth registered on his face. He glared at me, not like a lion, whose appetite was understandable, but like the monster Windigo of the story I’d told Mose the night before.

  “I think you’ll both go to the quiet room with me,” he said.

  Run! the voice inside my head desperately advised.

  But before I could move, DiMarco had me by the arm, his fingers digging into my skin, delivering bruises I’d carry for days afterward. I tried to kick him but missed, and then he grabbed me by the throat and I couldn’t breathe. I saw Billy looking horrified, probably thinking his turn would come next, and beyond him the other boys standing stone still, terrified and helpless. Although I tried to fight, DiMarco’s choke hold was doing its job, and things began to go gray and vague.

  Then I heard a commanding voice: “Let him go, Vincent.”

  DiMarco turned with me still in his grip. Herman Volz stood just inside the dormitory doorway, flanked on either side by my brother and Mose.

  “Let him go,” Volz said again, and it sounded to me like the blessed voice of the soldier angel Michael.

  DiMarco released his grip on my throat but exchanged it for a viselike clamp on my shoulder, so that I was still his prisoner.

  “He attacked me,” DiMarco said.

  “Did not,” I tried to say, but because of what he’d done to my throat, it came out like a frog croak.

  “Red Sleeve was speaking Indian,” DiMarco said. “I was going to punish him. You know the rule, Herman. Then O’Banion here jumps in and attacks me.”

  “Billy wasn’t speaking Indian,” I said, still raspy but understandable.

  Volz said, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding, Vincent. I think you will not be taking these boys with you.”

  “Listen, you Kraut—” DiMarco began.

  “No, you listen. You let go of that boy right now and you leave this dormitory. And if I hear that you have harmed Odie or Billy or any other boy, I will find you and beat you within an inch of your life. Do you understand?”

  For a long moment, DiMarco’s hand still dug painfully into my collarbone. Then, with a rough shove, he let me go.

  “This isn’t over between us, Herman.”

  “Go,” Volz said. “Now.”

  DiMarco walked past me. Volz and my brother and Mose stepped aside to let him exit, then closed ranks again.

  In the quiet after DiMarco’s departure, I heard Billy Red Sleeve sniffling. I picked up the corncob doll and returned it to him.

  “Best keep that out of sight,” I said. “And don’t ever let yourself get caught alone with Mr. DiMarco, you understand?”

  He nodded, opened the trunk at the end of his bed, and dropped the doll inside. Then he sat down with his back to me.

  “You okay, Odie?” Albert was beside me now. “Christ, look what he did to your throat.”

  I couldn’t see it, of course, but I could tell from the expression on his face that it must be bad.

  “That man,” Volz said. “A coward, and worse. I’m sorry, Odie.”

  Mose shook his head and signed, A bastard.

  I’d been strapped before enough to raise welts and leave bruises, but there was something about being choked almost to death that was different. It wasn’t punishment, which everyone knew DiMarco enjoyed meting out. This was a personal attack. I’d hated the ugly gorilla before and been afraid of him. Now there was no fear, only rage. I swore to myself that DiMarco’s day would come. I’d see to that.

  “Where were you all day?” I asked Albert.

  “Busy” was all he said, and it was clear he didn’t want me pressing the issue.

  I turned back to Billy Red Sleeve. “You okay?”

  He didn’t reply. He sat slumped, staring at the floor, gone deep inside himself.

  I had Albert and Mose and Mr. Volz. I thought maybe Billy Red Sleeve believed he had no one, and I couldn’t help thinking what a lonely place that must be.

  But for Billy it would only get lonelier, because the next day he vanished.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SUNDAY MORNINGS AFTER breakfast we were required to attend the worship service, which was held in the gymnasium. We had two sets of clothing at Lincoln School, one for everyday wear and one just for Sundays and for whenever someone outside the school, usually someone well moneyed, was coming to look at the operation with an eye to donating. We sat in our Sunday clothes on bleachers. The service was conducted by Mr. and Mrs. Brickman, who occupied chairs behind a podium. The music was supplied by a portable pump organ, which Miss Stratton played. Mr. Brickman claimed to be a minister, though ordained in what church I never knew. He did the praying and preaching. His wife read the Bible lessons.

  Christianity was the only religion allowed observance at the Lincoln Indian Training School. Some of the kids had gone to church on the reservations, Catholic more often than not, and a few of the girls wore little crosses on chains around their necks, the only form of jewelry tolerated at the school. But the Catholic kids didn’t go into town to the Catholic church. They sat in the bleachers along with the kids who’d grown up in isolated areas where the spirits they honored had Indian names.

  Many of the staff were in attendance. Mrs. Frost was there every Sunday with Emmy, looking clean and fresh. I don’t think it was because she found the services particularly comforting in any spiritual way, but more that she wanted as much as possible to be a part of the lives of the children at Lincoln. I, for one, appreciated her there. Her presence was a reminder that the Brickmans were not everything, and that maybe even in the fires of Hell there might be an angel walking around with a bucket of cool water and a dipper.

  When he preached, Mr. Brickman was something else, a great storm of vengeful wrath, strutting and gesticulating, beating the air with his fists, pointing an accusing finger at some kid unlucky enough to catch his eye and prophesying that kid’s doom. But that kid stood for us all, because in Mr. Brickman’s view we were, each and every one of us, a hopeless cause, a bag of flesh filled with nothing but sinful thought and capable of nothing but sinful deeds. I figured he was right on the money where I was concerned, but I knew most of the other kids were just lost and trying their best to survive Lincoln School and stumble toward what their lives would be afterward.

  To begin his sermon that Sunday, Mr. Brickman read the Twenty-third Psalm, which was odd. Normally he drew his inspiration from some Old Testament passage that had a lot of smiting in it. After the psalm, he talked about God as our shepherd, which led to him and Mrs. Brickman and how, like God, they thought of us as sheep that needed their tending and they did their best to take care of us, which led to our need to be grateful to God for the salvation of our souls and to the Brickmans for the salvation of our bodies, for giving us a roof over our heads and food in our bellies. The whole point o
f the sermon, in the end, was that we needed to show our gratitude to Mrs. Brickman and him by not being such pains in the ass. I knew that the selfish way he twisted that beautiful psalm was a load of crap, but I did want to believe that God was my shepherd and that somehow he was leading me through this dark valley of Lincoln School and I shouldn’t be afraid. And not just me, but the other kids, too, kids like Billy Red Sleeve. But the truth I saw every day was that we were on our own and our safety depended not on God but on ourselves and on helping one another. Although I’d tried to help Billy Red Sleeve, I thought it wasn’t enough, and I vowed to do better, to be better. I would try to be the shepherd for Billy and all the kids like him.

  After the service, Mrs. Frost and Emmy stopped Albert and me and Mose on our way out of the gym. The Brickmans had already disappeared, and Mr. Greene, who was marching us back to the dormitory, said it was okay if we stayed behind for a bit. Like many of the men at Lincoln School, he was sweet on the kind, young widow.

  When we were alone in the gym, Mrs. Frost said, “I want to talk to you boys about something.”

  We waited, and I looked down at Emmy, who was smiling as if it was Christmas. I thought that whatever Mrs. Frost had in mind, Emmy had already cottoned to the idea.

  “How would you boys like to come and live with me and Emmy for the summer?”

  She couldn’t have surprised me more if she’d said, “I’m giving you a million dollars.”

  “Could we really do that?” Albert asked.

  “I’ve been considering it for a while,” Mrs. Frost said. “I finally talked to Mr. Brickman yesterday after the ball game. He agreed that it could be done, if you’re all willing.”

  Mose signed, What about the Black Witch?

  “Clyde said he would talk to Thelma, but he figured she would have no objection.” She looked at me. “Not having to worry about you anymore, Odie, is a big selling point in Mr. Brickman’s thinking.”

  “But why?” I asked. “I mean, I’m happy about it and all, but why?”

  She reached out and put her hand gently against my cheek. “Did you know that I’m an orphan, too, Odie? I lost my parents when I was fourteen. I understand what it’s like to be all alone in the world.” She turned to Albert and Mose. “I want to farm my own land again. If I’m going to do that for real, I’ll need a lot of help this summer and well into harvesttime. You two are almost of age. You’ll be leaving Lincoln School soon anyway. I don’t know what your plans are, but would you be willing to stay on with me?”

  “What about Odie and his schooling?” Albert asked.

  I didn’t care about my schooling, but Albert was always looking ahead.

  “If it works out, maybe he can attend school in town. We’ll have to see. Would that be all right with you, Odie?”

  “Heck, yes.” I felt like dancing, like wrapping my arms around Mrs. Frost and just dancing. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d been so happy.

  “So what do you all say?” she asked.

  “I say yippee!” I threw my arms up in celebration.

  Albert responded more soberly: “I think that would work.”

  Mose grinned ear to ear and signed, Lucky us.

  Mrs. Frost cautioned us to say nothing to anyone. She had to put some things together, and until all the arrangements were in place, we should just sit tight and—she eyed me particularly—“Don’t get into any trouble.”

  After she’d left, Albert turned to me. “Don’t get your hopes up, Odie. Remember, she’s dealing with the Black Witch.”

  Back in the dormitory, we changed out of our Sunday clothes. Albert and Mose and I kept looking at one another, and it was clear we could hardly believe our good luck. I wanted to shout hallelujah, but I kept it bottled up. Volz came in and spoke quietly to Albert and the two of them left together. Then Mr. Freiberg came in and took Mose and a couple of the other boys to clean up the baseball field and get it ready for the next game.

  I had some time before lunch, and I lay on my bunk and stared up and imagined what it might be like living with Cora Frost and Emmy.

  I barely remembered my mother. She’d died when I was six. Albert told me it was from something inside her that had just eaten her away. I had this final impression of her lying in bed, looking up at me out of a face like a dried and shriveled apple, and I hated that picture of her. I always wished I had a real photograph so that I could hold on to a different image, but when we’d come to Lincoln School, they’d confiscated everything, including a photo that Albert had kept of us all together, him and me and my mother and my father, taken when I was quite small and we lived in Missouri. So, in a way, Mrs. Frost had become the idea of a mother to me, and now it looked as if it might be that way for real. Not that she would adopt me or Albert or anything. But who knew?

  My reverie was interrupted by Mr. Greene, who suddenly loomed over me and asked, “You seen Red Sleeve?”

  * * *

  KIDS RAN AWAY from Lincoln School all the time. If they were off a reservation, they usually headed back that way, so it wasn’t hard for the authorities to locate them trying to hitch a ride. Very few made it to the rez before getting caught. If they did reach home, they just got sent back anyway. The hardest to locate were the kids who had nowhere to go, nothing to return to. There were a lot of those. When they ran, God alone knew what was in their heads.

  Mr. Greene questioned all the boys, but none had seen Billy take a powder. Just out of curiosity, I checked the trunk at the end of his bed. That little corncob doll was gone.

  On Sunday afternoons, one of the most ironic gatherings at Lincoln School took place, our weekly Boy Scout meeting. Our scoutmaster was a man named Seifert, a banker in town. He was round and bald, with a bulldog face and a perpetual sheen of sweat on his pate, but he was a decent guy. He did his best to teach us all kinds of things that might be useful if we ever found ourselves lost and alone in the forest. Which was funny because there weren’t any woods around Lincoln. We met in the gymnasium, where we got demonstrations on how to hone an ax or knife blade to a razor edge, how to identify plants and trees and birds and animal tracks. Outside on the old parade ground, we were shown how to pitch a tent, how to lash together branches into a lean-to for shelter, how to construct a fire and how to start it with flint and steel. In summer, when fewer activities were scheduled because of the reduced student population, all the boys were required to attend. If the situation hadn’t been so tragic, I’d have found it funny, this heavy white man showing a bunch of Indian kids things that, if white people had never interfered, they would have known how to do almost from birth.

  Albert was our troop leader, a position he took seriously. No surprise there. Mr. Seifert had donated two copies of the official Scout handbook to the school library, but I think Albert was the only one who ever read them.

  That afternoon we learned about knots. Which turned out to be interesting. There were all kinds of knots—who knew?—and they all served different purposes. I was pretty quick in picking up most of them, but there was one called a bowline that gave me no end of misery. It involved thinking of the rope end as a rabbit coming out of a hole and around a tree and back into the hole, or something like that. It was a knot favored by sailors, Mr. Seifert had told us, so I finally figured the hell with it. I was never going to sea.

  At the end of the meeting, Mr. Seifert sat us all down and looked at us like he was ready to cry.

  “Boys,” he said, “I’ve got some bad news. This is my last meeting with you as your scoutmaster.”

  He didn’t get much of a response, but he was probably pretty used to that by now. Most of us accepted everything he offered with stone faces.

  “The bank I work for is transferring me to Saint Paul. I leave next week. I’ve been trying to get someone else to act as your new scoutmaster, but I confess I’m having a little trouble in that regard.”

  He took a clean, white handkerchief from his pocket, and I thought he was going to wipe off the shiny coating of sweat on his
bald head and brow. But he blew his nose instead and wiped at his eyes.

  “I hope I gave you all a few things you might take with you into the rest of your lives. I’m not talking about knots or putting up tents. I’m talking about a respect for who you are, maybe a sense of what you can accomplish if you set your minds to it.”

  He looked us all over and seemed for a moment too choked up to speak.

  “You are every bit as good as any other kids in this country, and don’t believe anyone who tells you different. The Scout oath is not a bad code to live by. Will you join me in it now, boys?”

  He held up his right hand in the official Boy Scout sign, and we all did the same.

  “On my honor,” we repeated with him, “I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country. To obey the Scout law. To help other people at all times. To keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.”

  He let his arm drop to his side.

  “I wish you all the best of luck.”

  He turned to Albert, who stood next to him, and they shook hands. Then Mr. Seifert walked slowly out of the gym, looking like a man who’d lost something he valued greatly.

  We sat in silence after he’d gone.

  Then Albert said, “All right, everybody back to the dorm.”

  Volz and Mr. Greene were waiting at the gym door to escort us. As we filed out, I asked them both, “Any word about Billy?”

  “Nothing,” Mr. Greene said.

  “He will turn up,” Volz assured me. “They always do.”

  On the way back, I walked with Albert and Mose.

  “Transferring him, my ass,” Albert said.

  Mose signed, What do you mean?

  “Mr. Seifert refused to foreclose on farmers behind in their mortgage payments. The people in Saint Paul are turning the bank over to someone who’ll do that.”

  “What’s foreclose mean?” I asked.