by John Smelcer
Phillip had lost himself at Wellington. At seventeen, nothing remained of the gentle-natured boy who had first passed beneath the rusted gate. He had converted. Now, he was the school terror, beating up other boys for any reason that struck him, molesting girls, taunting teachers, vandalizing property, and stealing from everyone. He had been arrested twice for stealing cars, and the police suspected him of breaking into the school’s main office and taking money from a strong-box, but nothing was ever proven, the black strong-box never found.
Not even Dr. Dichter succeeded in catching Phillip in a clear-enough violation of school rules to punish him, as he so intensely wanted to do.
Highmountain was the boy Simon had bumped into in the cafeteria on the very first day of school. And Philip hadn’t forgotten the encounter. Several times during the year he had caught Simon alone, giving him a black eye on one occasion. Generally, though, Simon was successful in simply running away.
Philip was trouble no matter how you slice it.
To make matters worse, he had a gang. Together, they ruthlessly intimidated the other students. More than bullies, Philip and his gang were the headmaster’s enforcers. At his request, they meted out the school’s less-than-legal punishments, like whipping younger boys.
One of their favorite victims was Arthur Pretty Shield. He was an easy target, smart in his subjects, always moping around, depressed, alone and friendless. Just about every week Arthur was beat up for something, sometimes simply for occupying the same space as Philip and his gang, for breathing the same air.
“This is for stinking up the place, you damn crybaby,” they’d shout while punching him in the stomach or kicking him. Once, they actually broke one of his ribs. Arthur told the doctor he fell down the stairs, such was his fear of retaliation if he told the truth.
But their favorite victim was Charley Two Fists, a prideful little Apache, who was smaller than any of them but who always fought back, sometimes with unexpected success. His grandfather was a chief. Charley and Noah were friends, and they shared a class.
One night, after waiting down the hall for Charley’s roommate to leave for the bathroom, Philip and several of his friends barged into Charley’s dorm room. It was dark inside when they closed the door and began beating Charley. They certainly would have killed him had Charley not wriggled free and leaped out the three-story window. When his roommate returned, the door was ajar. Charley wasn’t in his bed, and the window was shattered, a slight wind blowing the curtain. When the roommate looked out the window, he saw Charley lying on the cobblestone walk, all crumpled and twisted, blood seeping from his head, his teeth scattered on the walk like a pocketful of dice.
Charley died instantly.
He never had to fight for pride again.
The school buried him in the very last row of the nearly full cemetery, the cause of death listed in the local newspaper as an accident. Noah attended the hurried funeral. He read a poem and got goose bumps when they accidentally dropped the pine coffin into the grave, an arm dangling from the busted-open lid. Charley’s tombstone read simply, “Two Fists, Apache.”
The next day, a crow perched on the tombstone, cawing and cawing, until the groundskeeper chased it away.
No one saw who it was in the room that night. No one heard a thing. But everybody knew who it was. Charley’s death was labeled accident, possibly a suicide—just one more lie in a parade of lies—and Philip Highmountain got away with murder.
ONLY TWO DAYS of school remained. Almost all of the students were staying for the summer. They would not leave Wellington until they graduated. For some that meant only a year or two. For others it meant many more years. One girl, Catherine Yassie, hadn’t seen her folks in more than six years. Stricken with tuberculosis at the age of ten, her parents had taken her to a hospital, where, once cured after three months of treatment, she was sent straight to boarding school without getting to say goodbye to her family.
But a lucky few, those whose parents could afford it, would be allowed to go home for the summer. Those who stayed would be put to work, earning their keep at odd jobs around campus. Some would get low-wage jobs at local farms or orchards, picking vegetables or fruit. Noah and Elijah and a dozen other boys got jobs working as laborers for a construction company, carrying lumber for the builders and cleaning up the scraps, more go-fers than carpenters, despite their training.
Ever since the death of Lucy’s mother, Simon’s grandmother had been petitioning the government to allow her to act as Lucy’s guardian. Even though she only knew Lucy from Simon’s letters, she was determined to help her. Simon’s grandmother organized cake walks and pancake breakfasts at church; she made dream-catchers and sold them to tourists. By summer vacation, she had raised enough money to bring both Simon and Lucy home.
Arthur Pretty Shield prayed that he’d get to go home, writing letters every week to his parents begging them to find a way so that he could go home. But in the end, they couldn’t save him. Arthur would spend his allotted years at Wellington like the rest of the students too poor to see their families. School officials told Arthur that he’d spend the summer working in the laundry, one of the worst jobs of all. His worst nightmare realized, Arthur sank into an ever-deepening depression. He didn’t speak to anyone. He didn’t look at anyone. His mind was elsewhere, someplace dark and unfathomable. It had drowned beneath a hopeless sea, lying on its side on the mucky bottom alongside the wrecked hull of Philip Highmountain’s soul. Arthur became the living dead, unable or unwilling to participate in the world of human interaction.
Something had to give.
On the last night of the school year, Elijah and Noah were walking across campus after supper. They had stayed so late that the kitchen staff kicked them out. It was dark when they passed the administration building.
Noah saw a figure climbing out a window.
“Hey,” he said, pointing. “Isn’t that Pretty Shield? What’s he up to?”
They stopped and watched the shadowy figure running across the lawn, disappearing around the corner of the next building.
They didn’t think much of it at the time. But fifteen minutes later, all hell broke loose. Sirens came screaming down the road, followed by fire trucks that pulled up alongside the administration building, which was on fire. Flames blazed out several windows on the ground floor. Students from nearby buildings gathered around the scene, firemen warning them to keep back.
Suddenly, the closest building lit up in flames too, its courtyard and nearby trees aglow. One of the fire trucks moved closer to combat the new fire. More and more students arrived, standing back a safe distance. No one said a word, every face expressing a strange ambiguity. No one was smiling, but no one was sad either. No one seemed concerned or worried. No one laughed and no one cried. All the young Indian faces reflected a blank stare, the flickering reddish-yellow light of the twin fires in their eyes. It was the look of indifference, as if they didn’t care one way or the other—burn or not burn.
But then, quietly, as the fire burst out another window and set a nearby tree afire, one student began to clap, slowly. Another student joined in, matching the slow, methodical rhythm of the first. Then a dozen more and five dozen more, until every single Indian boy and girl was clapping in perfect harmony, the tempo increasing faster and faster, until eventually the synchronization fell apart and the night filled with the discordant sound of hundreds of hands clapping to their own time.
One boy, Arthur Pretty Shield, stood in the back row, alone as always. For the first time during the long year, he was smiling, tears streaming down his face. His clapping was the most enthusiastic of all.
Elijah and Noah exchanged glances, flashing big grins.
Both fires were contained during the long night. Neither building was destroyed. Wellington had survived, as inexorable, patient, as steadfast as winter, as certain as night. It prevailed. Made of everlasting stone and concre
te and hardened commitment, it endured. Both buildings would be repaired before fall. The fires were only a small victory and a minor setback. But for one lonely, desperate boy, it was a victory nonetheless.
By morning, the fire trucks were gone. Inspectors quickly determined that both fires had been set purposefully. School officials even knew who did it. A shiny cigarette lighter was found at the source of the second fire with the initials P. H. scratched into the case. Dozens of other students, including a few gang members, identified the lighter.
It belonged to Philip Highmountain.
And by a strange and perfect coincidence, Philip had no alibi. He couldn’t account for his whereabouts after supper. Truth is, he was out in the staff parking lot trying to steal a car, but the approaching sirens and flashing red lights in the darkness frightened him. Thinking the police were after him, he ran into the woods to hide. By noon, shouting his innocence, Highmountain was handcuffed and taken away in a black-and-white squad car. Hundreds of relieved and smiling children lined the driveway as the car drove down the hill and beneath the wrought iron gate, turning left at the highway. It was the last time anyone ever saw Philip Highmountain.
Revenge can be a beautiful thing, as warm and comforting as sunlight.
MISS CREGER ARRIVED at the headmaster’s office at eleven a.m. to deliver her resignation letter in person, having made an appointment with his secretary the day before. Miss Creger had been to the headmaster’s office before, and she remembered that there were two waiting chairs in front of the old gray-haired secretary’s desk: a short one for children and a taller one for the older students and staff. But when she arrived punctually, only the child-size chair was sitting against the wall. For forty-five minutes she fidgeted uncomfortably in the tiny chair, feeling small and insignificant, listening to the secretary busily typing official daily forms.
Tak-tak-tak-tak.
In chorus with the grating sound of typing was the ticking of a large, round clock on the wall.
Tick-tick-tick-tick.
Miss Creger was developing a headache. Every time she interrupted the secretary to remind her that she had made an appointment, the response was the same.
“The headmaster’s a very busy man,” she’d reply dryly, without looking up from the typewriter. “I’m sure he’ll be with you momentarily.”
While she waited, Miss Creger rehearsed a prepared speech in her mind. In the speech, she wanted to say why she was leaving, how she had come to Wellington excited about the opportunity to inspire young minds, how she wanted to implement all the current teaching practices and strategies she had learned at college. She wanted to tell the headmaster how the school had crushed all her hopes and enthusiasm, how it was broken and needed repair, how she just couldn’t be part of it any longer. She expected to have a productive discussion about the problems with the school’s policies and their remedies, especially about the various uses of punishment. She would specifically cite the cruel imprisonment of Simon Lone Fight, being careful not to disclose that it was she who had written the anonymous letter threatening to contact the police. She would speak to apathetic teachers and to bullying and abuse and about creating a more nurturing environment. She even had a couple quotes she planned to use to support her argument, sayings such as Minds are like fires that must be kindled by curiosity and Kindness begets kindness.
Finally, at a quarter to noon, Miss Creger was called in to Dr. Dichter’s office. Without ceremony she handed him her letter in an envelope. The headmaster barely glanced at the letter before sliding it back into the envelope.
“Good day, Miss Creger,” he said, as he turned around in his leather chair so that his back was to the anxious, young teacher.
“But I wanted to talk to you about . . .”
“I said good day!” he snapped, without turning around.
This wasn’t the first time Dr. Dichter had received a teacher’s resignation in such a manner. At the end of every school year, it seemed, some young, sympathetic, and idealistic teacher came to see him with resignation letter in hand. He prided himself for being able to ascertain which new teacher it would be. In the early years as headmaster, he sat and listened respectfully to the litany of concerns and complaints. But over the years, he had grown weary and intolerant, and he now embraced a policy of stifling the rants before they even began. Such monologues accomplished nothing, he had decided. They were a waste of his time. If it was up to him, and it was, none of the school’s policies were going to change. Not a one.
Nothing ever changed at Wellington.
As Miss Creger left the headmaster’s office, the thin, gray-haired secretary, still sitting behind her desk, held out a white envelope.
“Dr. Dichter instructed me to give this to you when you left his office,” she said.
Miss Creger opened it. Inside was her final paycheck.
It was dated the day before.
As the disillusioned teacher left the school, walking past the cemetery, her dainty shoes clicking on the cobbled sidewalk, she wondered how many of the children’s heart-torn hopes and dreams would end up buried there. With her face wet from tears, Miss Creger walked beneath the wrought iron gate.
THAT AFTERNOON, Noah and Elijah walked with Simon and Lucy to the train stop. Low clouds overhead threatened rain. On the way, they all promised how they would write to one another all summer.
“And ask your grandmother to send a box of fry bread,” Elijah requested, almost begging. That’s one of the many things he missed about home, the taste of good fry bread, the smell of it filling the house.
“You keep an eye on Lucy, and make sure nothing happens to her,” Noah said, shaking a finger at Simon, scolding him like an old lady.
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, Mom,” replied Simon, smiling down at Lucy, who was holding a small, plaid suitcase she had borrowed from another girl who was not going home.
The four of them stood on the platform waiting for the train, which arrived five minutes late. When it came to a full stop, they said their farewells and hugged, as a few other Indian children boarded the west-bound train. Most of them had no one with whom to share good-byes.
“I’ll see you in the fall.”
“Stay out of trouble.”
“I’ll think about you every day.”
“I promise, I’ll write.”
“Don’t get lost on the way home.”
“Take care of each other.”
“Thanks for everything.”
It was drizzling when Simon and Lucy boarded the train and handed their tickets to the porter. From the small platform, Noah and Elijah watched as their friends found a seat and waved at them from a window. A few minutes later, a shrill whistle blew and, with a clanking jolt, the train pulled away. Noah and Elijah stood on the empty platform and watched until the train and their friends vanished around a curve, then they walked back to the school in silence, both longing to be going home.
Rain was pouring down by the time they passed beneath the school gate. Aboard the warm train, Lucy and Simon were weeping silently, and neither knew why for sure. For the next several hours, the two friends quietly played cards, each lost in thought and occasionally looking out the rain-streaked window at the passing world. Every minute aboard the rattling train carried Simon and Lucy another mile toward home—and a million miles away from Wellington.
Epilogue
AND ALTHOUGH THE FIRST YEAR at Wellington turned into memory, the way all moments and years must, no matter how joyous or dreadful, other years followed the way spring follows winter and dawn follows night. For Noah, Simon, and Elijah, three more years came and went before they left for home. For Lucy, four more years passed. Without her friends, the last was the hardest and loneliest. In between, most students graduated and returned to wherever they were from, to where it was they had once called home: to north or west, east or south. Some did not return home;
they simply left Wellington, left everything, ran away. Either way, their departures emptied beds for new arrivals to take their place.
Indian out, Indian in—forever new, forever the same, a relentless machinery that lasted for almost a hundred years.
A story such as this one can have no happy ending, no tidy or joyful resolution, no coming-of-age or lessons learned. There were none. Too many lives were impacted and irrevocably changed. The lost years could not be recovered; the lost identities could not be restored. Many of the children who returned home after graduation were never fully accepted as Indian. And though it had not been their choice to go the boarding schools, some became outcasts, not so much for anything they had done, but because of what they represented: the dissolution of Indian identity.
For the most part, the schools stripped the children of their Indian heritage, but it failed miserably to replace that heritage with the promised new one. Neither white nor fully Indian, the stolen generations grew into adulthood, rambling through life as best they could—as we all must—without a clear sense of identity, never fully fitting in anywhere.
The endings were all the same, more or less, differing in their sadness only by degree. At best it can be said that some stories were less harsh, some more. And the children weren’t the only ones harmed. The despondent parents were affected by the absence of their children, as were siblings by the absence of brother or sister. Even the eventual offspring of the children would be affected. How does one love others when no love was afforded to them?
And what of the community?
There was no community resolution.
