The Image Seeker
Amanda Hughes
ISBN: 9781095315590
Copyright © 2019 Amanda Hughes
All rights reserved.
I dedicate this book to my father, who rode the rails in the 1930s, and to my mother, who was hungry throughout much of The Great Depression
My sincere thanks to these people:
Madeline Huntwork for always lending an ear,
Lou Hughes for his expertise in Modern Olympic Events and the marathon,
Caitlin Attwill for her knowledge of early 20th Century cameras and darkroom equipment, and Kim Attwill for German translation.
I am indebted to Mille Lacs Indian Museum for their help in researching the Anishinaabe people and Indian boarding schools of the 1920s and for graciously allowing me to use their private library.
“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”-Oscar Wilde
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Author’s Note
About the Author
Chapter 1
Kansas City 1931
Something didn’t feel right as the old-timer climbed into the boxcar. He put a wedge in the door so he wouldn’t get locked inside and looked around. Except for a dusting of straw on the floor and several large sacks of meal in the corner, he was alone. All was well.
He sighed and sat down. He was on edge tonight. Freight hopping in the rail yard was a dangerous proposition. Even though the train dicks were gone for the night, he was still nervous. He wished he could catch rides on the fly like the others outside of town, but he was too old and crippled; his running days were over.
He wrinkled his nose. Something smelled off. He wondered if there had been cattle in this car or if some meat had fouled. When the train lurched into motion, he put his hand down to steady himself but jerked it back up again. The floor was wet. He stumbled to his feet, wiping his hands on his overalls, dismissing it.
He needed to rest. That bag of meal would make a fine bed for the night. But when he grabbed it, an arm flopped over. “What the hell!” It was no sack of meal. It was a person. The old man strained to see in the dim light. “Hey!” he said, pushing the body with his foot. “You all right?”
There was no response. Is this guy sleeping or dead? In thirty years of riding the rails, he’d never found anyone who had left for the Big Rock Candy Mountain.
He kicked the body again; still no response.
The hobo grimaced. That wet was probably blood. Did he give up the ghost, or was he murdered?
He steadied himself as the train rattled along, still staring at the body. He would not ride in the car with a stiff. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed an arm and started to pull the corpse toward the door. But when he heard a moan, he let go and looked again. It was a woman, and she was bleeding.
“Well, shit, I’m not hangin’ around to get blamed for this.”
The hobo leaned out the door. It was a clear moonlit night, and the train was gaining speed. No question he would break something when he landed, but anything was better than time in the big house again.
Without a second thought, he grabbed his bindle and jumped.
* * *
Billie opened her eyes. She stared up at the moonlit sky as the train clattered down the tracks. Funny, she had never slept by the door before, and there were a million stars to watch. It was beautiful.
It reminded her of the words, “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” Where had she read that? Was that Oscar Wilde?
Billie knew it was dangerous riding here, but when she tried to move, she couldn’t sit up. She was so tired, so very tired.
Where’s Olive? I must find Olive. Is she in the corner sleeping?
Once again, Billie tried to sit up, but she couldn’t move. She was numb all over. I must slide over next to her, but I can’t seem to lift myself. I’ll just rest my eyes for a minute.
Poor kid, Billie thought. She’s all alone in the world. I don’t want her to be scared. She’s just like me when I ran away from St. Matthew’s Indian School six years ago…
Chapter 2
St. Matthew’s Indian School, Northern Minnesota
1924
“When girls reach a certain age,” Mildred Hayes murmured, “Mr. Withers takes them up to the attic room. You know, the room with the round window and─”
Billie, a slight girl with soft, brown eyes and dark hair, gawked at her schoolmate. “And?” she asked nervously.
Mildred looked over her shoulder and back again. “You’re fourteen now. That’s the age he likes best.”
“I’m still thirteen.”
“Close enough.”
“What does he do?”
Mildred whispered in her ear, and the blood drained from Billie’s face. “What!” she gasped. “Why would he do that? Do the other teachers do it too?”
Mildred shook her head. “Just Withers.”
“Wilhelmina Bassett!” Sister Agnes barked, walking up in her long black habit. “Quit whispering with Mildred and plant those tulips. Now march!”
“Yes, Sister,” Billie replied. Mildred went one way; Billie went the other, right down the steps outside. She was feeling sick to her stomach. She couldn’t get the image Mildred described out of her mind. She heard the math teacher took girls to the attic room, but this was the first she heard of what happened up there. It was terrifying and disgusting.
She didn’t notice the warm autumn sun dappling the grass or the scarlet and orange leaves on the maples and oaks. She was too preoccupied. The trees were pruned, and the gardens were full of brilliant flowers. Everything was meticulously maintained by the Indian students as part of their education at St. Matthew’s Academy. The boys took care of farming and building maintenance while the girls gardened, cooked, sewed, and did laundry. They had class in the morning and work detail in the afternoon.
Billie carried a tray of bulbs and her gardening tools across the expansive front lawn. She swallowed hard to keep down the contents of her stomach. She stopped by the front gate and knelt down. She had been instructed to plant tulips on either side of the entrance.
When she first passed through this gate in 1916 at the age of five, the institution had been in existence for twenty-five years. What started as a mission to convert the Anishinabe tribes to Catholicism, later became a boarding school to assimilate Indian children into mainstream American life.
Over the years, additions were made, and now the sprawling four-story, yellow sandstone building was home to over ninety Indian children from all over Minnesota. With tall, narrow windows that looked out over the grounds, a cross over the portico, and a wrought-iron fence, it was an imposing structure.
As Billie planted the flowers, she began to relax. Digging her fingers into the cool earth felt good, and it took her mind off her worries. Sister Agnes told her where each tulip should go and how deeply they should be
buried. Billie followed directions well. From the moment she came to the boarding school, she had excelled. She had been at St. Matthew’s Academy for so many years now, she could barely remember her home near the big lake called Misi-zaaga’igan or Lake Mille Lacs.
When she finished, she sat back on her heels and sighed. It was a job well done, but instantly her anxiety returned. She looked up at the round window at the top of the academy. It looked like the single eye of a cyclops staring down at her.
She must avoid Mr. Withers at all costs. She had to make it through the school year, and then she could go to the Hofmann farm for summer work. She would be safe there.
There were three lay teachers at the boarding school, all of them men. Thankfully, Mr. Withers was the only one taking girls to the attic room.
Hastily, Billie gathered her tools and returned inside. After washing her hands, she dashed up to the dormitory. She had to change her soiled apron before going down to supper. Billie’s floor housed the older girls. There were two rows of twelve beds with large wardrobes on either end of the room holding the girls’ uniforms: white blouses, blue skirts, black stockings, and high-buttoned shoes.
As usual, this time of year, the heat was stifling in the dormitory. To keep the older girls chaste, the nuns nailed the windows shut and locked the doors every night, regardless of the weather. But the adolescent girls did not complain. It was preferable to the rank-smelling, bed-wetter’s dormitory downstairs.
Just as the dinner bell rang, Billie hopped in line and marched behind the other girls. The boys entered from another door. With military precision, each student stopped behind a chair and waited until Mother Superior led them in Grace. Once prayer was complete, chairs scraped, and the children started chattering. Student attendants walked from table to table, dishing up food from large bowls as tins of milk were set down.
From across the room, Sister Kathryn looked at Billie and raised an eyebrow. The little girl next to her had her elbows on the table. “Remember, no elbows, Alice,” Billie said quickly, lowering the child’s arms. It was the responsibility of the older students to instruct the younger children in table manners.
“I wish we had chicken every night,” Clarice Roberts said. She was a girl Billie’s age. “Instead of just once a week.”
“Did you make this bread, Clarice?” Miriam said, dropping the loaf on the table with a clunk.
Clarice narrowed her eyes, leaned forward, and said, “Say, why don’t you stick that slice─”
Everyone looked up.
“In some gravy.”
They went back to eating as the older girls smirked.
“What’s the news going to be in the school paper this week?” Ivy Brubaker asked Billie.
She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m looking for stories. Anyone got anything to contribute?”
“How about I write an article about the new play?” Miriam offered.
“All right but remember the whole piece can’t be about how dreamy Johnnie Kelly is,” Billie said.
“You think he’s the cat’s pajamas too, Billie Bassett.”
Billie took a bite of chicken and murmured, “He is pretty swell.”
Miriam was one of Billie’s closest friends. With a large round face, small eyes, and a heavy build, she was not an attractive girl, but she was loyal and a good student. There were sides to her that Billie didn’t understand, but she accepted these without question.
Janet Wolf jumped in excitedly, “Billie, you should write a story about the man coming to take our school photograph next week.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“This is the first ever school photograph at St. Matthew’s.”
“That’s true,” Billie murmured, putting her fork down. “I wonder if he would let me interview him.”
“That means you would actually have to talk,” Ivy teased.
“Shut up.”
Ivy looked over her shoulder. “Don’t let the sisters hear you, or it’ll be lye soap in your mouth.”
“It’s almost as bad as cursing or speaking our family language.”
“Lye soap is still better than that first bath in kerosene. Remember that?” Clarice asked.
The girls shuddered.
“Do they still do that to the new students?”
Billie nodded. “They did it to my brothers.”
Miriam shrugged. “Let’s talk about something else,” Miriam said. “How about Johnnie Kelly?”
* * *
Every evening, there was schoolwork to be done, but once it was complete, Billie sat down to read. This particular night, she grabbed a book and curled up in a window seat outside the school library. She read everything she could get her hands on.
Each morning in Sister Agnes’ English class, she was allowed to sit in the back of the schoolroom and read the newspaper for ten minutes. This was a privilege bestowed upon her because she was the editor of the St. Matthew Herald. It was a job Billie took very seriously, and Sister Agnes took Billie Bassett very seriously. It was not often she favored a child, but she found the quiet, thoughtful young girl exceptional. She could see she had a bright, inquisitive mind, an eye for detail, and something hard to find─ passion.
Billie was one of the few students that liked Sister Agnes. Most of them were afraid of the crippled, old nun with arthritic fingers and a stern attitude.
“Do not limit yourself to the same books and articles,” she told Billie. “Read anything and everything and then decide whether it has merit. Never let anyone tell you how to think.”
When Sister Agnes said these words, she always lowered her voice, which Billie found curious. It was not until she was older that she realized an open mind was not supported by the Catholic Church.
Billie drew her knees up and opened The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. She adored the work of the Bronte sisters. When Sister Agnes told her they had felt trapped in a man’s world, Billie liked them even more. She felt that way too. She was expected to marry, have children, and help her husband run a farm right after school. But she wanted to be a great journalist, like Nellie Bly, or a columnist, like Dorothy Parker, and being Indian complicated things even more.
The bell rang for bedtime. Billie shut her book and started upstairs. After putting on a nightgown and washing her face, Sister Regina announced, “Bed check!”
The girls scrambled onto their cots, pulling the covers to their chins.
“Miriam Hayes,” Sister Regina said. “Hands on top of the covers.”
“My ankle was itching.”
“You know the rules.”
When Sister Regina locked them in for the night, Miriam said, “Always making sure we are good little girls.”
Billie sat up on one elbow. “Miriam, I have something to ask you.”
“What?”
“Has anyone ever told Mother Superior about Mr. Withers?”
“Yes, but she refused to believe it,” Miriam whispered. She looked around to be sure no one was listening. “The girl got expelled, so don’t even think about telling.”
“I won’t.” There was a long pause as Billie gathered courage. At last, she asked, “Has he? Has he ever taken you to the attic room?”
“Shut up and go to sleep, Billie!”
Billie nodded and dropped back down, her stomach twisting with fear. Should she run away? Boys ran away all the time. They usually died in the winter snows, but sometimes they got away.
She rolled over. She could run back to Pemmican Falls, but that’s the first place they’d look. Billie sighed. Thinking about home made her feel safe and drowsy. She remembered the small tarpaper shack that smelled of fresh bread. She could hear her mother humming and see the lake where they gathered wild rice. Billie thought back to the time she was allowed to visit home years ago. It was a bittersweet summer, the summer she was eleven.
Chapter 3
Mille Lacs County, Minnesota
Spring 1922
Billie was clutching the cardboard lunchbox on her
lap so tightly she dented it. The nuns insisted she take two sandwiches along for her bus trip home, but she wasn’t hungry. She lifted the lid and folded back the newspaper wrappers. One sandwich was cheese; the other was apple butter. It was a nice gesture, but she couldn’t eat. Her stomach was in knots.
What if her mother didn’t recognize her? It had been six long years. She was eleven years old now, and her braids were gone. The nuns cut them off the first day of school, so she would look like white children. Her straight, black hair was now chin-length, and she was taller. Most certainly, her mother wouldn’t know her.
Billie started fidgeting. She couldn’t get comfortable. At least she had the whole seat to herself. She sighed and looked out the window at the farmhouses and barns going by. What if no one had read the letter she sent about coming home? Her mother had never learned to read, and her father could no longer make sense of things; he had returned from the Great War addled and confused.
Billie felt as if she barely knew her family; her memories of Pemmican Falls were so few. St. Matthew’s Academy was only eighty miles away, but it may as well have been eight thousand. So many things had changed since she left. Her mother had given birth to three more children, and Frankie and Oscar were at St. Matthew’s. And then there was her father’s condition after his return from the war. Frankie, the eight-year-old, had told her about it.
“Pemmican Falls!” the driver announced as the bus pulled into a gas station.
With a wildly beating heart, Billie picked up her lunchbox, her moth-eaten carpetbag and stepped off the bus. It pulled away leaving her by two red gas pumps with tall glass holding tanks. She looked up at the cylinders with long hoses. It was the first time she had seen a gas station. A sign above a small building said, “Gas, Groceries and Indian Trading Post.” Three men were sitting in front, smoking and visiting.
A middle-aged man with brown, wrinkled skin and a mop of short, dark hair came up and said, “You a Bassett?”
She nodded.
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