Olivia, Mourning (22 page)

“Please stop by to visit any time.” Olivia gave her hand to Mrs. Stubblefield again. “It’ll be a lot less lonely knowing we’ve got neighbors, even if you are so far away. You too, Miss Meyers.” Olivia turned back to the store clerk. “I’d appreciate the company. Gets lonely out there.”

“Don’t I know what you mean,” Miss Meyers said. “Gets just as lonely here in town. You take care.”

Olivia left the store and climbed up onto the wagon seat, next to her hired man.

“What you be needin’ a rug for?” Mourning asked as she tossed it into the back.

“To hide the door to the cellar.”

Mourning emitted a loud snort and shook his head. “You been told all the trappers ’round here been usin’ that cabin for years. Ain’t no one for miles don’t know that cellar be there.”

“Just drive,” Olivia said, looking straight ahead.

Mrs. Stubblefield emerged from the store as they drove off. Olivia glanced back in time to catch a glimpse of Iola’s chin hitting the road, when she got a look at Olivia’s hired man.

Over the next month they settled into a routine. With Olivia’s help, Mourning got a good start on putting a roof on the barn and spent the rest of his time chopping down new growth trees and uprooting stumps.

As Olivia began to feel more at home, she gave names to areas of their property. “The farm” was the two acres closest to the cabin that Uncle Scruggs had once cleared and that Mourning intended to plant first. In the center of the farm, on a small rise, stood a tall old oak tree, whose low branches jutted in all directions. Olivia called it the climbing tree and asked Mourning not to cut it down. That was where her children were going to build a tree house and hang swings. Behind the cabin were the little woods. The big woods spread out beyond the farm. In those big woods Olivia discovered a large clearing, which she guessed to be eighty rods wide. She assumed a whirlwind had taken all the trees down and so called it her windfall. It was there she went to sit on the fallen logs and write and sketch in her journal.

Not that she had much leisure for that. She spent her days keeping the barrel full of water, laundering their clothes, baking bread, and a stirring a boiling pot over the fire. She also put in her garden, became proficient at splitting the logs Mourning and she cut, and helped Mourning in the field. He showed her how to use the scythe to gather the brush around a pile of stumps that needed burning and left her to light and contain the fire.

She had quickly grown used to wearing Mourning’s trousers and shirt. When he went back to town for their door he returned with two pairs of boy’s trousers and two flannel shirts for her. He also bought the mirror she’d been wanting – so she could try sketching her new “Michigan self” – and a pie safe someone had been selling cheap. The tin panels in its doors were battered, but it would do for storing the flour bin, dishes, and the pies he hoped Olivia would soon be baking.

Rain never stopped them from working, except for the day the wind started howling and the trees cracked loudly. When the first branches blew past, they both ran for the cabin and slammed the door behind them. They took turns standing at the peek hole to watch the trees bowing in prayer and snapping back up, angrily shaking their tops. That storm lasted the day and most of the night. Olivia passed it writing and sketching in her journal, shivering when the lightning and thunder seemed to make the sides of the cabin shudder.

“The wind is so much stronger in Michigan,” she said, casting a frightened eye at the roof. “Do you think that’s because everything is so flat?”

Mourning shrugged, sucked his front teeth, and got to his feet. “I got to go check on the team again.”

“You were just out there,” Olivia said. “What’s the point of you getting soaked every half hour? I’m sure they’re fine.”

He ignored her and had to use both hands to pull the door shut behind him.

“You’re going to blow the fire out doing that,” Olivia called after him, though she wouldn’t have minded if he did. She didn’t think having the cook fire was worth the way it ate up all the air in the oppressive little cabin. She would have preferred being able to breathe, even if it meant cold food.

The fire did seem about to go out when Mourning returned from the half-roofed barn carrying his mattress. He struggled to get it through the doorway and wordlessly lay it on the floor, as far from Olivia as possible. For the rest of the day he sat on it, playing his harmonica, whittling, or just staring at the wall. Olivia felt him watching her when he thought she wasn’t looking, but he did not seem inclined to talk. He answered any questions she asked, but did not initiate conversation. Finally, she put out the lantern and said, “Good night,” to which he grunted in response. After lying awake for what seemed like hours, Olivia lifted her head to see if Mourning had fallen asleep. The embers in the fireplace were still glowing and she could see him staring at her, his face a sheet of stone. She turned to face the wall, wondering if she had done something to make him angry. But the next day, when they emerged from their prison into the sunlight, he assumed his usual manner.

Mourning drove into town once a week for eggs and milk, but Olivia chose not to accompany him. It was too depressing. Besides, she thought it best that they be seen together as little as possible. And, most of all, she didn’t want to be gone if Jeremy came to call. Olivia had been keeping careful count of the days on her new calendar, and too many of them were passing with no sign of the sorely missed Mr. Kincaid. One morning they did, however, have visitors. She and Mourning were out in the farm together, struggling with an enormous tree stump, when a voice called out.

“Hey there, neighbors.”

A dark-haired, bearded giant stood at the side of the cabin waving his hat. A woman stood at his side, holding a basket covered with a white cloth. She barely reached his shoulder. Olivia walked toward them, mortified that she had been caught wearing trousers. She was soon close enough to recognize the woman.

“Mrs. Stubblefield, hullo, how are you? It’s so nice to see you again,” Olivia said, remembering something she had heard her mother (or perhaps it had been Tobey quoting their mother?) say more than once: “Good manners are for when there’s not a thing else in the world you can think of to say.”

“And you must be Mr. Stubblefield. I’m Olivia Killion. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He shyly shook the hand Olivia offered.

“None of that Mr. and Mrs. nonsense,” Iola said, making no effort to take her eyes off Olivia’s trousers. “We’re going to be just like family, so we’re plain old Iola and Filmore to you.” The friendly words did not resonate in Iola’s voice. She spoke in the tone of a mother biting back what she felt was well-deserved criticism.

Olivia smiled and nodded. “You must be thirsty after your long walk,” she said, trying to keep her voice light and cheerful, as if unaware of the woman’s glowering disapproval. “The water barrel is right over here. Please, make yourselves at home. We don’t have any chairs yet, but those stumps aren’t so bad. I’ll be right out, soon as I get out of these work clothes. It’s just so dangerous, trying to burn off a field wearing a wide skirt. I learned that the hard way yesterday – set my dress right on fire,” she lied.

She escaped into the cabin, closed the door, and released a long sigh. Then she hurriedly tore off her shirt and trousers, pulled a dress over her head, and ran a comb through her hair. When she came back out the Stubblefields were standing as she had left them.

“This is for you.” Iola reached down to pick up the basket that she had set in the grass and handed it to Olivia.

Olivia lifted the cloth to find four eggs, a jar of jam, and a slab of butter. “Oh my, that is so kind of you. Thank you so much. We certainly will enjoy it. Let me put it inside, out of the sun.”

“That’s what neighbors do for each other. We all know how hard it is starting out. Times we had nothing to eat but lumps of flour boiled in milk. Or in plain old water.” Iola followed Olivia toward the door and peeked in.

“Come in,” Olivia said and showed them to the inside stump chairs.

Filmore had to bend at the waist to pass through the door and the top of his head brushed the roof poles when he stood straight. It was dark and stuffy inside the cabin and far more pleasant out in the yard, but Olivia thought it more hospitable to invite them in. Iola seemed just as curious about the little cabin as the women back in Five Rocks had been about the Killion home.

“Where has Mourning gotten to?” Olivia wondered aloud. She stepped outside and saw that he was still working in the field.

“Mourning, come meet our neighbors,” she called, hands cupped around her mouth.

He hesitated for a moment and then drove his axe into one of the stumps and walked slowly toward the cabin.

“Iola and Filmore Stubblefield, I’d like you to meet my hired hand, Mourning. Mourning Free.”

“Pleasure,” Mourning mumbled, hat in hand.

“Surely, surely.” Iola nodded.

“Nice piece of land you’ve got to work,” Filmore said.

“Yes sir, it is,” Mourning said. “I best be gettin’ back to workin’ it. Nice meetin’ you folks.”

“Your boy put this roof on?” Filmore asked.

“Yes. Yes, he did, And he’s almost finished putting one on the barn. That’s where he stays. Out in the barn.”

“Fine job. Hard to get good help. How’d you come by him?”

“I … uh … asked around in Detroit,” Olivia lied badly. “Soon as I got off the boat.”

“And you picked up a colored boy and took him along with you? A complete stranger?” Iola raised her eyebrows to her scalp.

“Well, he’s not really a stranger. He … uh … used to live in my hometown. And some folks back home told me about him before I left, said he was in Detroit and he was a good worker and completely trustworthy. So I went looking for him. Lucky for me, he happened to be in need of a job.”

“Right lucky.” Iola studied her fingernails with a frown. “Where is your hometown?” She raised her eyes and trained a piercing stare on Olivia.

A sudden chill passed over Olivia and she suddenly felt afraid of letting this woman know anything about them, especially where they were from. Mourning was right, there were plenty of white folks you had to watch out for.

Olivia ignored Iola’s question and said, “Let me slice some bread for us to have with that butter.”

That day was the first time she had managed to get her bread baked clear through. They had gotten used to eating crusty rings, with the damp yeasty center cut out of each slice, but she could have won a prize for today’s loaf and was eager to show it off to her guests. She set out plates and knives, sliced the bread, and put Iola’s butter on a plate and a spoon in the jar of jam.

“You got a crate for setting your butter and milk in the river?” Iola asked. Her tone was suddenly neutral, no longer dripping with censure.

“I sure do.” Olivia nodded amiably. “I have to thank you again. It was so generous of you to bring this. Especially when you had to carry it all that way.”

“Neighbors are meant for doing kindnesses to one another. That’s what Jesus teaches us,” Iola said.

“I’ve met another one of our neighbors,” Olivia said. “Jeremy Kincaid. I suppose you must know him.”

Iola nodded. “That one’s a strange bird. But I guess he’s all right. Keeps his own counsel.”

“How long of a walk is it to your place?” Olivia asked. She put on a pot of coffee and then joined them at the table, spreading a thick layer of butter on a slice of bread.

“’Bout two hours. Could take more. Depends who you’re walking with.”

Olivia bit into the bread and exclaimed, “Oh, Mrs. . . . I mean, Iola, this butter is absolutely delicious!” Then Olivia turned to Filmore and made a lame attempt at conversation with him. “So when will you start planting your buckwheat?”

He had been sitting with his head lowered and eyes on his plate, seeming to hide behind his thick, curly black beard. Olivia had no doubt that he would much rather have been out in his fields. Making chit-chat seemed to be an ordeal for him, especially with a strange neighbor lady who wore men’s pants and lived with a colored boy. But he looked up at her and valiantly rose to the occasion.

“Don’t know that I will plant any. Didn’t come to much last year. Wild turkeys trampled it down, ate most of the grain. Had to go out every day and shoot one of ’em.”

“That’s too bad. At least you must have had a lot of good turkey dinners.”

“Yes, missy, that we did.” Apparently out of words, he hunkered back down over his plate.

After a short silence Iola seemed unable to contain herself any longer and gave Olivia a long stern stare. “Look, child, I don’t mean to be minding your p’s and q’s, but it ain’t right, you and that nigra, alone here like this. You probably think it ain’t my place to say, but I feel a Christian duty to speak my mind when I see a body leading herself into sin and peril. It ain’t Christian and you ain’t safe.” She nodded pointedly in the direction of the field.

“Oh, Mourning is –”

“People are so naïve.” Iola batted a hand as she cut Olivia off. “Especially young folks like you. Put your faith in anyone. Don’t know the things can happen in this sorry world. But you’ll see. You live a while, you learn. You listen to an older and wiser sister, you save yourself a world of trouble and sorrow. One thing I can tell you is you can’t trust these nigras. Their instincts are primitive. No self-control at all. Why it says so right in the Bible –”

“There’s no danger in Mourning.” Olivia broke in, her voice firm.

Iola did not respond; she simply stared.

Olivia was surprised by how little she cared for this woman’s opinion, considering the way she had fretted about what people out in Michigan were going to think and say. Now the only emotion she felt was anger. She hadn’t come all this way, hauled water and chopped wood, and generally broken her back, in order to live her life trying to please an old hag like her. Iola was just going to have to accept Olivia on her own terms or not at all.

But
Olivia took a deep breath and calmed herself, hoping to maintain an amicable relationship with this annoying neighbor. So far Iola seemed to be all there was, other than Norma Gay at the store. And Iola was far from alone in holding that opinion of colored men. If you refused to talk to anyone who was prejudiced against them, you’d soon have no one to talk to at all.