Olivia, Mourning (34 page)

“For me too,” she said.

She pulled her hand away and climbed onto the wagon seat, anger rising in her. She drove off without so much as a glance back at him. Once she was out of earshot, she threw her head back in a bitter laugh. God did have a sense of humor. Then she convulsed in sobs, arms folded over her knees, forehead resting on them. When she quieted, she couldn’t find the energy to sit up and retrieve the reins, let alone commit murder and drive to Detroit. All she wanted to do was die. She began scratching her arms, hating her body.

It was all Jeremy’s fault. If the stupe had shown the tiniest speck of interest in her, before she was all packed up and come to say good-bye forever, none of it would have happened. If the Stubblefields thought she had a beau, they would never have dared. And she wouldn’t have thrown herself into poor Mourning’s arms. She wouldn’t have to wonder whose child might be growing inside her. Mourning would be safe and sound at home, complaining that she warn’t never gonna learn how to bake. She wouldn’t have to go shoot two people dead.

She finally calmed herself and wiped the tears away. She knew it was ridiculous to blame poor Jeremy, but she didn’t care.
Stupid Jeremy
. She repeated it over and over as she picked up the reins and drove.
Stupid, stupid Jeremy
. A few miles up the road she turned onto a trail that she was fairly certain was the one that would take her into the woods near the Stubblefield cabin.

The trail began to narrow and Olivia whoa-ed the team to a halt at a place where the wagon could still turn around. Anxious to find her way to the Stubblefield cabin and back before dark, she quickly saw to the oxen and changed into trousers, a loose-fitting shirt, and her work shoes. She took her mother’s gold watch from the money belt and slipped it into her pocket, together with Mourning’s compass. She made careful note of the time, needing to know exactly how long it took to walk there. Then she slung the shotgun, a skin of water, and the possibles bag over her shoulder and tucked the pistol into her waistband.

“You two behave yourselves,” she called over her shoulder to the oxen. When she realized she was going to have to sell Dougan and Dixby in Detroit the thought made her sad. She shook her head and said aloud, “Well don’t that say something about me. My only friends in the world are a couple of cows.”

The woods enveloped her and she felt even more alone. She was too tense to appreciate her favorite kind of weather – cool, crisp air and lacy wisps of clouds in the sky. She walked at a steady pace, head down, grimly set on her goal.

When she stopped to rest and quench her thirst doubts began to pick at her brain. She tried considering the possibility that Iola was right. Maybe she was being stupid and the only logical thing was to stay here until the baby was born. Then next year she could go back to Five Rocks and claim the land that Filmore would have been working for free. No. No. No. How could she even think of such a thing? Nothing – not being a social outcast, not prison, not being dead –
nothing
could be worse than staying here with the Stubblefields looking after her. And how could she even think of letting them get their filthy hands on an innocent little baby? She would, however, have loved to see the look on their faces if “their” baby turned out to be black.

What you have to do
, she told herself,
is concentrate on getting through tomorrow morning. That’s all there is right now. Everything else has to wait on that. Once it’s over and done with, you’ll get yourself to Detroit and onto a boat. Then you’ll have plenty of time to lie around blubbering and worrying about the rest of your life. For now, you have to be strong. If you’re going to walk up on them holding a loaded shotgun, you sure and well better be prepared to pull the trigger
.

After she began moving again, a horrible thought struck her. What if they brought someone home with them, for Sunday dinner? Olivia imagined herself blasting at the door as it swung open and then saying “Oops!” when Emery Meyers fell dead at her feet. What else could go wrong? What if she’d just shot them and then some fool dropped by for a visit? She gave her head a short violent shake. There was no point in fretting. She was going to do what she was going to do and just had to pray that nothing like that happened. Anyway, Iola hadn’t been afraid to hold Olivia prisoner in the barn without gagging her. That must mean that they got about one visitor a decade.

Concentrate on relevant details
, she told herself.
Should I bury the bodies? No, that would take too long – and I would have to touch them. If I don’t bury the bodies, the wolves will have at them. Or bears. People will think it was a bear that killed them. Yes, sure
, she shook her head, disgusted with her muddled thinking.
They’re definitely going to think it was a bear that emptied two barrels into them
. Could the Law tell they’d been shot, if only bones were left? Olivia had no idea.

It took her close to an hour to reach the edge of their clearing. She arrived out of breath, tired, and more than a little surprised that she had actually found the way. Hidden well behind the tree line, she stared at the barn. Such an innocent-looking building. Memories slithered from the dark corners of her mind and she felt queasy, recalling foul breath, whiskey, and sour sweat. Her knees grew shaky and she bent over, nauseated, but did not vomit. She straightened up and steadied herself against a tree. When her head cleared she frowned at the pile of farm implements still outside. She would have expected them to dismantle the bed and put everything back the moment she’d run up the trail. Were they that sure she wouldn’t tell anyone? They felt safe to leave all the evidence sitting there?

How long have I been standing here?
she wondered and looked at the watch. Almost twenty minutes.
Why is it so quiet?

No smoke curled from the chimney and the only movement was that of the brown and white hens pecking in the yard. What if they’d gone away? Hadn’t Iola once mentioned a friend somewhere near Pontiac? No, that was ridiculous. They were busy conspiring, not paying social calls. There was only one place they could be – out searching for Olivia. Right this minute they were probably in her cabin, peeking out the door for a sign of her. She pictured herself drumming her fingers on the table in their cabin, while they paced anxiously around hers.

She watched for another half hour before turning to go back. It was unsettling, not knowing where they were, but she felt certain they would return home to sleep in their own bed. They had to get ready for church in the morning. And Olivia had to get to their cabin early enough to watch them leave.

She walked rapidly back to the wagon and had a short conversation with Dougan and Dixby. When her empty stomach complained, she ate a few spoons of jam and chewed on an apple. Then she prepared for her second night alone in the woods, again sleeping in her clothes and shoes. She had no nocturnal visitors, human or otherwise, and managed to sleep, waking well before the sun was up. She stared up at the black sky, her mind blank.

Suddenly the pinched face of Mrs. Brewster, the self-proclaimed moral compass of Five Rocks, filled Olivia’s mind. It’s all a test, she said from under her nest of tight white curls and sky blue poke bonnet. To pass it, you must find forgiveness in your heart.

Olivia dismissed that notion with a blink. She most definitely could
not
find forgiveness. Wouldn’t even try. She didn’t want their evil brains alive, remembering what they’d done to her. She’d rather spend eternity down in hell with people who thought like her, than up in a heaven with a raft of fools willing to grant pardon to the likes of Iola and Filmore Stubblefield.

She climbed down from the mattress. While she retied her work shoes, she wondered if she would panic, lack the courage to squeeze the trigger.
You’ll know soon enough
, she told herself. She cleaned and reloaded the shotgun and pistol, then stood and took deep breaths, one hand on Dixby’s back.

“You know what I think?” she asked the disinterested cow, who continued chomping on the long strands of buffalo grass protruding from either side of his mouth. “I think it
is
a test – but I’ll fail it if I
don’t
go through with this.”

She scraped the last dried-out spoonfuls of rice from the pot, swallowing without tasting. Then she freed the oxen. She hated to risk them wandering off, but hated more the image of them dying a slow agonizing death, tied to a tree, if she didn’t come back. When the horizon began to weep a thin line of pink she gathered her weapons and water and set off. For the first time she noticed the whooshing sound Mourning’s old gray trousers made as they flapped around her legs. They’ll hear me coming a mile away, she fretted.

When she arrived at the clearing she stationed herself behind the same tree she had the day before, both hands on the shotgun, watching the silent cabin. Lazy, nearly horizontal, rays of sunlight filtered through the trees, and the air was still cool. Everything looked the same. No one stirring, no smoke coming from the chimney, pathetic-looking brown and white hens scrabbling about the dusty yard. Olivia squatted on her heels, took a long drink of water, and waited. Why was there no smoke? Iola always bragged about her Sunday dinner bread – how she set her bake kettle just exactly so on the edge of the hearth, so that by the time they got home from church they had a perfect loaf, still warm, but not one bit burnt. What if they weren’t coming home for dinner?

Suddenly the front door opened, just a tiny bit, and Olivia pulled back behind the tree. No one came out. Then a strong wind rose up and the door swung into the cabin with a loud bang. No one pushed it shut. No one was home.

Olivia watched for another ten minutes but knew Iola could not be inside. She would never have left the door standing open like that, for dust and leaves to blow in. But neither would Iola have left home without pulling the door shut tight and putting the latch on. So where was she? Perhaps they’d left for church early and then robbers or Indians had been in the place. What if the robbers were still there? No, Olivia had been watching for too long.

Before she dared step out in the open, Olivia circled around through the woods behind the barn. From there no one in either the cabin or barn could see her. She set down the skin of water, bent low, clutched her weapons, and scurried to the back wall of the barn. If Filmore was anywhere, it would be inside the barn. And if she was going to encounter them separately, Filmore had better be the first to go. She edged her way around the far side of the barn, still hearing nothing.

Go on, get inside and out of sight fast
, she said to herself.
No one’s in there now, but they could come up the trail any minute.

Still bending low, she took the last steps to the door and looked around warily, thinking she heard a swarm of bees. Then she put her hand out and pushed, cringing at the horribly familiar sound of that door rattling on its rail. After another moment’s hesitation, she took a deep breath and stepped inside.

It smelled like a skunk having a breakfast of rotten eggs and the buzzing grew louder. The light was dim, but straight ahead Olivia could see Filmore sprawled near the back wall. A cloud of horseflies swarmed around him, evil glints of green reflecting off their wings. Her first thought was that he must have gotten drunk and been sick on himself or soiled his drawers. She raised the shotgun and took hesitant steps forward, until she was close enough to see that half of his face was missing and the top of his head was a bloody stump. The hay he lay upon was a mass of congealed blood. Had it been an accident? Had something fallen on him? Could a single blow do that much damage, or had someone in a rage beaten him repeatedly?

A rough-edged piece of lumber lay a few feet from him, its surface dark with what she assumed was blood. She kicked at it, thinking it must be one of the boards Iola and Filmore had tied her to. She turned toward where the bed had stood. It had been disassembled into pieces of lumber that lay in a pile. He must have been taking it apart when whoever killed him came in.

Only then did she notice Iola, on the floor next to the pile of wood. She lay flat on her back, limbs splayed, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. Flies buzzed around her, but there was no gory mess. Olivia knew she must be dead, but with no visible injury felt compelled to nudge Iola’s ankle with the toe of her boot. Not until she bent closer did she see the thin trickle of blood forming a line out of the side of Iola’s mouth and the long white maggots crawling out of her nostrils. Olivia gasped, straightened up, and backed away a few steps. While she stood there staring, a brown and white barn sparrow alighted on Iola’s nose and began pecking, piercing her open eye with its beak. Olivia doubled over and vomited.

She remained bent over, hands on her knees, until the nausea passed. Then she went to the water barrel to clean out her nose and mouth. She rolled the door farther open and set a chair outside, far from the smell. She had to think. They must have already been dead when she was here yesterday. Who could have done this? Mourning was first to come to mind, but why would he? He had been gone for a week. Why on earth would he come back on just the day they let her go? Maybe it was robbers? Or someone else they had done some awful thing to. Maybe she wasn’t the first girl they’d tied up in their barn. There might be droves of people who wanted them dead.

She rose, went back inside, and stood over Filmore, studying the floor around him. Then she paced back and forth across the barn. There was nothing. No scraps of paper or cloth. Nothing but Filmore’s rifle, which lay near Iola. Whoever had battered the Stubblefields to death had done so without leaving anything of his own behind. And had not been much of a thief or he wouldn’t have left the rifle. Olivia bent to pick it up. She stared at Iola for a long while, wishing her the worst hell had to offer, not a drop of forgiveness or pity in her heart. She raised the rifle and took aim at Iola’s head. After a long moment she lowered it and spat into the odious face. It wasn’t enough that she and her husband were dead. They were supposed to have died knowing who killed them.

Olivia went back outside to sit on the chair, both her shotgun and Filmore’s rifle resting across her knees. Last night she had fantasized about burning the whole place down, watching flames devour that barn, but nothing would bring folks running quicker than a fire. Besides, with no ball or buck shot in them, it would be best to let the bodies lie as they were. The wolves would pick them clean. She was surprised they hadn’t done so yet, but then remembered that the barn door had been closed.

No one would ever know for sure what had happened, but she didn’t think the Law would be in any rush to search for a human killer if they could blame the deaths on wild animals and be done with it. And they would, unless they found that bloody piece of lumber. She went back into the barn, picked up the incriminating weapon, and carried it into the woods. Then she stood in the yard, wondering what folks would make of that pile of lumber in the barn and all the farm implements piled outside. She wished she could eavesdrop at the trappers’ camp fires and hear the yarns they would spin, never coming within a million miles of the truth.