Olivia, Mourning (18 page)

“That’s no thing.” She grinned. “I’ll call you to chop it down. You know, my clothes are too bright for hunting. You think I can borrow one of your shirts, wear it over my dress?”

Now he grinned. “Like to hear what Lady Grody gonna say about that.”

“It’s not ‘Lady Grody.’ The journal is published by a Mr. Godey.
For
ladies.” Then she saw from his grin that his mistake had been intentional and grinned back. “Where are your clothes?” she asked.

“Where they gonna be at? Out in the barn where us critters live.”

She glanced at him, but was glad to see only amusement on his face. She went to the barn, picked his gray shirt off a nail, and pulled it on over her dress. Then she went to the cabin for the Hawken and her possibles bag and took a wine-colored leather volume from one of the wicker baskets. It was the last thing she had bought in Detroit – a journal. She hadn’t yet written a word in it, but now she would have time. She intended to keep track of everything. The work they did, what they ate, even their arguments. She checked the stopper on her pot of ink, wrapped it tightly in a rag, and slipped it and the long narrow case that held her quill into the pocket of her apron. She waved good-bye to Mourning, who was up on his ladder mumbling, and called out, “I’ll be on the other side of the stream.”

She easily retraced her trail and settled down with her back against the tree. She measured powder, loaded the Hawken, and practiced taking aim before propping the cocked rifle next to her.

Finally she opened the journal, lifting it to her face and breathing in its wonderful scent. The cover was bumpy leather, just like her Bible, but wine-colored instead of black.
This was how Gulliver must have been born
, she thought.
And Chingachgook. A man had put black ink to white paper and created a world of words.
She knew she would never make that kind of magic, but at least she could pass on her memories. At first she wrote as quickly as the quill allowed, trying to get down every clever word Mourning had said, every sound she had heard, every smell and breeze. Then her hand slowed, as she tried to describe her feelings. She tried to write as if no other soul would ever read her words.

She was lost in thought, the end of her quill tickling her nose, when she glanced up and saw them. A doe and two long-legged spotted fawns stood not five yards from her, the doe broadside, presenting a perfect target. Holding her breath, Olivia slowly set her quill in its case, closed the book, and lifted the rifle. She had the doe in her sights and her finger pressed hard on the trigger when one of the fawns perked its head up and turned enormous innocent eyes in her direction. It cocked its head and blinked, and Olivia lowered the gun. Not this one. How could she leave those little fawns alone and helpless in the woods? She watched them lower their heads to eat and then walk slowly away.

An hour later she was sitting with the Hawken between her knees, wondering if Mourning would be angry when she told him why they were having griddle cakes for supper again, when a buck stepped into the clearing. Olivia slowly lifted the rifle to her shoulder and took her shot. The deer disappeared into the woods, but Olivia knew it had been a kill shot and she wouldn’t have to track it far.

She loaded the rifle again, left her journal and possibles bag beneath the tree and strode to where the buck had been standing. The blood trail was easy to follow. Plunging eagerly into the woods, she had to force herself to take the time to mark her trail. She soon came upon the buck, its visible eye looking like glass. Finding it already dead was a great relief; there was no need for her to stick a knife into its throat to put it out of its misery.

She looked behind her; Dougan or Dixby would have no trouble making it most of the way in. Mourning and she would only have to drag the dead weight of the deer a few dozen yards. She paused to listen. Mourning must have heard the shot, but she didn’t hear anyone coming. She stopped to retrieve her journal and possibles bag and briskly headed toward home.

When she reached the bottom of their hill she could see that Mourning had made good progress with the roof. He had nailed the poles in place and the bottom two rows of bark lay neatly across them. But the ladder was empty and there was no sign of him. She called his name and then stopped short. Two figures emerged from around the barn and waved to her. Jeremy Kincaid. That had to be him with Mourning. When she hurried closer she saw that their new neighbor had indeed come to call.

“You’re looking grand, Miss Killion.” Jeremy removed his hat and bobbed his head.

“Good to see you,” she mumbled. Then, in a stronger voice, she announced, “I got a deer.”

Mourning raised both arms over his head and wiggled his backside. “Hallelujah. Hallelujah. I heard that shot and I been prayin’. I ’bout forgot how meat taste.” He glanced up at the sky. “We better get trackin’, ’fore it get too dark to follow a trail.”

“There’s no tracking to do. It was a good shot. Nice-sized buck.” Olivia did her best to sound matter-of-fact and not boastful. “Bring one of the team and I’ll lead you to it. We won’t have to drag it far.”

“Well, let’s go,” Jeremy said. “I’m glad to lend a hand with the gutting and dressing.”

Olivia caught the look of relief that flashed over Mourning’s face.
He must be afraid of having to do a lot of things
, she thought.
Just like me. Only difference is, he’s better at hiding it
.

“Take me a minute to fix Dixby up with a single harness,” Mourning called over his shoulder as he started for the barn. “They still coffee in the pot.”

Olivia looked at Jeremy, but he silently declined the offer, holding up his hand, palm out and shaking his head. She went into the cabin to put the journal and possibles bag away, pulled Mourning’s shirt off, and combed her hair. Then she joined Jeremy, staring down at the river.

“This is a pretty location,” he said. “I’ve always enjoyed the sound of the river from here, the way you can barely hear the rapids.”

Olivia smiled and listened to the soft rush of the water.

“You seem to be getting nicely settled in,” Jeremy said.

Mr. Kincaid had cleaned himself up to come calling – he was shaven and wore a dark blue shirt of good linen.

“Can’t complain. It’s nice to have a visitor, that’s for sure.” She paused before she nodded at his chest and said, “Shame to get that nice shirt all bloody.”

He shrugged. “So, now do I get to hear the long story of how your friend came by the name of Mourning Free?” Jeremy tilted his head toward the barn.

Olivia smiled. “It isn’t really so long. His parents were slaves in Virginia and ran north. His mother was with child, with him, but she walked all the way to Five Rocks – that’s the town in Pennsylvania that we come from – and the anti-slavery people took them in. His father chose Free as their new family name.”

“Fitting choice, I suppose.”

“Bit too fitting. The abolitionists tried to talk them out of it – said it was a dead giveaway that they were fugitive slaves. But they were set on it. Then Mourning’s father caught the influenza and died. That was just a few weeks before his wife died birthing.”

She paused for a moment.

“The colored midwife they’d brought over from the next town picked up the poor little baby …” Olivia paused and clasped her hands over her heart, looking up at the sky, “held him to her breast and paced about moaning, ‘Oh, this mourning child, this poor, poor mourning child.’ She said it over and over again and it stuck. Everyone started calling him ‘that poor mourning child,’ and Mourning was what got written in the church registry.”

Jeremy grinned. Olivia feared she may have gone too far; her audience could have taken her to be making light of one of the saddest stories she’d ever heard. And what about Mourning – how would he feel about her telling this story for the entertainment of a stranger? She felt her face flush with shame.

“So he was born an orphan,” Jeremy said.

“Yes.”

“Who raised him up?”

She wished she could change the subject, but heard herself go on talking. “A colored family took him in for a while, but he always pretty much took care of himself. He worked everywhere in town and whoever he was working for gave him a place to sleep and fed him. He used to help in my father’s store – did everything but wait on customers. My father didn’t think that even Five Rocks, packed with Quakers though it may be, was quite prepared for a negro store clerk discussing corset sizes with white ladies.”

“No, one would assume not. So the two of you grew up together?”

“I couldn’t say that, but I’ve known Mourning all my life. I was the one who taught him how to read and write,” she said.

“Come on,” Mourning called, emerging from the barn with a rope in his hand and Dixby at his side. “Let’s go get supper.”

“Take an axe and your knives,” Jeremy called back and Mourning went to fetch them. “And something to put the heart and liver in,” Jeremy added.

“I’ll get a pan,” Olivia said.

When she came back out of the cabin Jeremy was bare-chested, hanging his pretty blue shirt on the wagon post. Mourning was quite a way ahead and Olivia hurried along beside Jeremy, remembering a novel in which the young women were constantly stumbling, providing the young men with an opportunity to grasp their elbows. But what if she pretended too well and fell flat on her face? Worse, what if Jeremy had no interest in holding onto her elbow?

“By the way,” Jeremy said, “I brought you and Mr. Free a little housewarming gift. I left it on your table. It’s a bag of coffee beans. I buy them at a shop in Detroit that gets them all the way from Brazil. Best coffee you’ll ever taste.”

“Well thank you, Mr. Kincaid. That was most kind of you. We’ll enjoy it. We do like our coffee, though neither of us is very good at making it.” The moment she spoke, a scowl hovered over her face. She didn’t like the way “we” and “us” had sounded – as if she and Mourning were a couple.

“Would you object to calling me Jeremy?”

“No, of course not,” she said.

With that, her manners were all used up. Having seldom spoken to anyone she hadn’t known all her life, she had no idea what she was supposed to say now. Should she tell him to call her Olivia? Everyone in Five Rocks did, but that was because they still thought of her as a child. Perhaps he was supposed to ask her permission. This was one count Mabel Mears had been right on – Olivia could have used an older woman to teach her these things. Then her stubborn streak took over. What did she care what a bunch of fuddy-duddies thought? Civilization on the Michigan frontier would survive her lack of proper etiquette just fine. As long as you were kind to other people, wasn’t that the most civilized thing?

“And Olivia is fine with me,” she said. “Truth be told, you’re the first person who’s ever called me Miss Killion, except for Mourning – and he only does when he thinks I’m acting snooty. And Mourning might faint on the spot if anyone called him Mr. Free.”

They were catching up to Mourning and she wondered if he could hear what they were saying.

“Well, then Mourning it will be. He seems a right good skin. Doing a grand job on the roof.”

“Oh Mourning is the handiest fellow you’ll ever find. He can do anything.” If Mourning could hear them, she hoped lavish praise would help compensate for her having spoken about his private business. Then she changed the subject. “How long have you been out here?”

Jeremy thought for a moment. “Going on eight years. Came out in ’34.”

“How does your family like life in Michigan?”

“I don’t have any family here.”

She waited for him to embellish or ask her a question, but he remained silent.

“So where are you from?” she asked as they caught up with Mourning.

“Maine.”

“Maine? Oh my, then you must have seen the Atlantic Ocean!”

“Certainly have and it is a sight. But if there’s one thing not lacking in Michigan, it’s large bodies of water. Lake Huron is just as pretty and doesn’t burn your eyes the way saltwater does. Lake St. Clair is lovely too and they’ve finished putting in a road all the way to Mt. Clemens.”

“If you don’t farm,” she asked, “What do you do? Hunt or trap or something?”

“No, nothing like that. I do spend a lot of time in the woods.”

She again waited for him to embellish, wanting to know “Doing what?” but he did not seem inclined to volunteer information about himself

“We haven’t been into town yet,” she said. “We’ll have to go soon, get some milk, eggs, and butter.”

“Well, I warned you, it isn’t much of a town,” he said.

They caught up with Mourning and Olivia took the lead. It wasn’t long before Olivia said to Mourning, “You’d better leave Dixby here, where it’s easy for him to turn around,” and continued toward the dead buck. In her haste, she let her dress catch on a branch and stopped to extricate herself, examining the tear in the fabric and muttering about stupid women’s dresses.

“So why are you wearing one?” Jeremy asked.

“What else would I wear?”

“I know women who have a seamstress run up trousers for them. At least for when they’re working. Or riding.”

Olivia was barely able to hide her shock and did not respond.

“There it is,” she said, pointing at her buck, but feeling less excited than she had a moment ago. What women?

Olivia left them to their bloody task and spent the walk home pondering what Jeremy had said. Women who wore trousers? Who ever heard of such a thing? The guidebooks made no mention of it. Maybe he’d been fooling with her. And then the truly troubling question kept repeating itself – what women? If he had no family, he couldn’t have been referring to sisters or cousins. And what were those women doing that they needed to wear trousers?

Olivia had begun to see herself as special – resourceful and adventurous. Now that feeling abandoned her. She was nothing but a boring girl who obeyed the rules and whined a lot. She imagined one of those trouser-clad women strolling through the woods with Jeremy and riding bareback with him to Lake Huron, to swim in her birthday suit.

When she reached the cabin she washed her hands and face, lit two lanterns, and searched for her mirror. It was the first time since leaving home that she had bothered to look at her reflection and she was pleasantly surprised. She couldn’t see that the past few days had made her look as worn down as she felt. It was a good thing she’d done as Mourning said and started wearing her straw bonnet when she was out in the sun. She brushed her hair, rubbed some powder over her teeth, and rinsed her mouth. Some of the women in Five Rocks dusted their faces with flour and then wetted red crepe paper and rubbed their cheeks with it to make them rosy. Olivia stared in the mirror and wondered if that might make her look any better. Finally she made a face at herself and stood up. Those women looked ridiculous. Besides, she didn’t have any red crepe paper. Enough wasting time on nonsense. She looked like she looked. If he didn’t like it, too bad.

She decided to celebrate their first real meal – and first dinner guest – by eating inside. Maybe sitting at a properly set table would remind Mourning that some people actually used utensils to move food from plate to mouth and didn’t regard their fork as a giant toothpick. She wished they had some honey wine with which to toast Uncle Scruggs and Aunt Lydia Ann.

A small pouch lay on the table. She opened it and breathed in the heavenly aroma of Jeremy’s coffee beans, before setting them on the counter next to the coffee grinder. She would serve it to them later, outside, together with one of the jars of sweet peaches she had bought in Detroit and kept hidden from Mourning. They could at least clink their tin cups together in honor of Uncle Scruggs.

She decided to get out the only tablecloth she had brought from home. Aunt Lydia Ann had cross-stitched it in a red and green design – probably for this very table – and it seemed fitting to use it tonight. Mourning was sure to later make some sarcastic remark about her putting on airs for Jeremy and the tablecloth would be one more thing to carry down that hill and launder, but she didn’t care. This was a special occasion. She also picked some wildflowers, arranged them in a tall tin mug, and set it in the center of the table. Then she laid and lit a fire in the pit, already imagining the sizzle of fat and smell of roasting meat. A loud snort from the barn startled her and she went to investigate. The biggest, reddest horse she had ever seen stood there, tethered on a long rope.

“Well, hullo.” Olivia stroked its neck. “You must belong to Mr. Kincaid. What’s your name? You wait right here, I’ll go get you a treat.”

She returned with a withered apple cut into quarters. While the horse ate from her hand she spoke to it in a soothing voice. “There, what a good boy you are.”

She had always loved horses. When some men in Five Rocks had banged on the front door to tell Seborn they were going to shoot the horse that had killed her Uncle Scruggs, Olivia had run to Ferguson’s Livery in her nightdress and stood in front of the horse, arms outstretched like a cross.

“What do you want to shoot him for?” she said, in tears. “He didn’t do it on purpose. It wasn’t his fault Uncle Scruggs was bending down behind him. If Mr. Sorenson hadn’t fired his stupid pistol, this poor horse wouldn’t have gotten spooked and kicked.” She had prevailed by sobbing. “Uncle Scruggs would never have wanted you to murder him.”

“Are you making friends with old Dougan over there?” she asked the big red horse. “Well, I see they’ve given you feed and water, so I’d better get back to getting your daddy something to put into his belly.” She took a step back and noticed its perfectly matched white stockings. “Lord, what a beautiful animal you are. See you later.”