Olivia, Mourning (27 page)

“No problem to fix one up. All you need is enough rope and two pulleys. Those are for washing up the rest of you.” He gestured toward the two large leather pouches that lay on the ground a few yards away. “Filled them this morning so they’ve been in the sun all day, heating up. Water should be nice and warm.”

Jeremy picked up a piece of rope that hung over a tree branch, with a hook tied to its end. He attached the hook to a metal ring sewn to one of the pouches.

“Watch this,” he said and whistled for Ernest. The horse clomped over, took the other end of the rope in its mouth, and walked away from the tree. It seemed as if Ernest actually looked back over his shoulder to make sure the bag of water was high enough.

“There, stay there, Boy,” Jeremy said and Ernest obeyed.

Then Jeremy removed a plug from the bottom of the skin and stood back to hold his hand under the stream of water that spurted out. “It is nice and warm,” he said, getting splashed as he returned the plug to close off the flow.

Olivia stared up, again in awe. It was so simple. Why didn’t everyone do this? There was a mirror nailed to the tree and nails for hanging up clothes. A block of soap rested on a tiny shelf. There was even a ramp of wooden slats on the ground, to protect bare feet from the mud. He had thought of everything.

“What’s that?” She pointed at a small container.

“Special soap the Indians use. They make it from yucca root. Say it’s good for your hair.”

She wanted one of those too and flushed as she imagined standing naked in the open air under a stream of water, her clean skin tingling.
It would probably be easy for Mourning to rig one up, once he saw the idea,
she thought.
But would I dare use it? Why not? It doesn’t have to be out in a clearing like this. Mourning can put ours behind the barn.

I have to stop being so timid. So conventional. That’s why Jeremy hasn’t come calling. He knows life with me would be prison. I’m Francie Everman in trousers and I don’t even know how to bake a pie.

“Did you think up this wonderful invention up all by yourself?” Olivia asked Jeremy.

“No, saw something like it in a book. There have always been people like me, figuring ways to wash under running water. An Indian helped me fix it up. Those ‘savages’ use a similar system and laugh at the ‘civilized’ white men who sit in a tub of their own filth.”

He went into the cabin for cups and came back out to the porch, where he set them on the table. There was that sinewy forearm again. His hands were delicate, the nails white and neatly trimmed. He moved gracefully, at ease with himself. How different life would be if Jeremy wanted to share it with her. If he chose to make her feel good about herself. All the drudgery would serve a purpose. They could build something together.

Jeremy went back inside and returned with a bowl filled with lumps of brown sugar.

“Where’d you get the maple sugar?” she asked, struggling to hide the strain in her voice.

“An Indian gave it to me. Kitchi Sucsee.” He spoke the name as if he expected her to recognize it.

“Who’s that?”

“The Indian who works for the banks.”

“An Indian works for the banks?”

“Someone must have told you about him – the one who brings the reserve money down the river.” He looked as if he expected her to say, “Oh yes, I know about him,” but her face remained blank.

“I don’t see how you’ve managed to live here for more than ten minutes without hearing that story.”

She shrugged.

“Well, can I assume that you
do
know that the banks out here print their own wildcat bills?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of that.”

“But the law requires them to keep a reserve of federal money.” He paused to sip his coffee. “And a bank examiner comes around every so often to make sure they have enough of it. But these arsewise banks around here hardly ever have
any
real money. What they do is, they pool all their federal money into one kitty of reserve cash to show to the examiner. He always visits the same bank first, so that’s where they keep the money. After he finishes counting it at the first bank Kitchi Sucsee – that’s Indian for Great Deer – takes the bags of scrip to the next bank down the line. Since he goes by river in his canoe, he gets there before the examiner, who then counts the same money all over again.”

“You’re fooling me.”

“No, it’s true. Everyone who lives here knows they do it. That’s one of the reasons they all hate the banks. But that’s not the story. The story is that one time Kitchi Sucsee got to the first bank a little late and had to hurry – or, if you ask me, he was probably drunk as a sow, the way these bloody Indians are with whiskey – but for whatever reason, he tipped his canoe over. Lucky for him, he managed to fish the bags of money out, but obviously the notes were soaking wet when he got to the next stop. So the bank manager gave that examiner all the whiskey he could tipple, taught him how to dance a horn, and then fed him a five-course meal and pie. Kept him busy long enough for those bills to dry out by the fire.”

Olivia laughed along with him, but all she could think about was the ride home, her sitting behind him on that horse. Did she still want to put her arms around him?

“Well, I’d better get Ernest done up.”

He slipped the bit into the horse’s mouth, smoothed a blanket over its back, and hoisted himself up. Then he turned and offered Olivia his hand.

“I think I need you to go over by one of those stumps,” she said.

He wore the expression of a man who is being patient with a lesser being as he clucked for Ernest to take a few steps. Then he grasped Olivia’s hand while she put her left foot on the stump and swung her right leg over the horse’s back. Settled close behind Jeremy, she breathed in his woodsy scent.

She spent most of the ride home wondering if there was a woman in Northville. It was a long way to go every two weeks just to lose at poker. She held her back painfully rigid and her knees clamped so hard around poor Ernest’s flanks, she worried she was going to break his ribs. To her surprise, the urge to put her arms around Jeremy was not hard to resist.

“Are you a Democrat?” she asked, unable to think of anything else to say.

“You can bet I don’t vote Whig.”

“Not even for Harrison? Son of the Middle West?”

“Not even. Course, there’s nothing to say Tyler will be any better. I’ll give him one thing – that log cabin bill he wants to pass is all right.”

“What’s that?”

“Haven’t you heard about that either? It would let a settler claim 160 acres of land before it’s offered for public sale. Then later, once he’s scraped the money together, he can buy it for $1.25 an acre.”

“In Michigan too?”

“I guess everywhere. It’s a federal law.”

“For coloreds too?”

“Don’t remember it saying anything otherwise.”

She quickly figured in her head. This sounded like a far better deal than the one she was offering Mourning. After a long silence she changed the subject, asking Jeremy if he would vote for an abolitionist party.

“I don’t believe in one human being owning another, no matter how black his skin is, but no, I wouldn’t vote for the abolitionists.”

“Why not? How do you think the slaves will ever get freed, if people don’t vote for a political party that wants to free them?”

“I vote for a man, not a party. And no one but naïve women like you trusts reformers of any stripe. They get carried away with themselves, do more harm than good. Think their cause justifies whatever they feel like doing.”

“What harm could the Abolitionists do?”

“Spoken like a truly naïve woman. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard what your abolitionists have been spouting lately about ‘wage slavery’?”

“No. What’s that?”

“They say that the first battle they have to fight now is against the low wages paid to white men. Ending negro chattel slavery would only throw millions of coloreds on the labor market and drive low wages even lower. So the white slaves have to be freed before the black ones. And most of your reformers would just as soon ship your beloved free negroes off to Haiti, which I don’t suppose you would approve of.”

She bit her bottom lip. All day this man had lectured her in a tone that grew increasingly superior. Now he seemed to have gone out of his way to make her feel condescended to. She was impressed that he knew so many things, but had grown weary of his company. How could she have longed so desperately for this chicken-chested blowhard to touch her?

It was growing dark when they rode up to the cabin. Mourning was still out in the farm, but walked in to meet them.

“Hullo, Mourning,” she said.

Mourning nodded to Jeremy and then asked Olivia, “Where you been at? I thought sure a bear or wolf went and et you.”

“I ran into Jeremy and he showed me the way to his place.”

“Look at you, ridin’ bare back, just like an Indian warrior.” Mourning held out his hand to help her down.

She scooted back and put an indifferent hand on Jeremy’s shoulder while she slipped her leg over Ernest’s back and then gripped Mourning’s hand and descended with a thump.

“We’d be happy to have you stay for supper.” She looked up at Jeremy, hoping he would refuse.

“No. Thanks for the invite, but I’ve got to be going. Get some kip. Mind yourselves. Good to see you again, Mourning. After.” He touched his hat and rode away.

Mourning stood next to Olivia, watching Jeremy disappear into the dark.

“So I guess you had a good time,” Mourning said.

Olivia stared at the dark trees for a long pause before she turned to face him and said, “No. No, I didn’t. Not at all. He’s got a great cabin and you have got to see this pulley system he rigged up for bringing water up from the river. And his shower. It’s amazing. He’s a clever man and a good neighbor, but you’ll be glad to hear he’s like you said.”

Mourning looked at the ground. “Never said I be glad ’bout that. But least he be your friend. Ain’t what you want, but havin’ the person you care ’bout as a friend ain’t nothin’.”

Olivia looked into Mourning’s face, appearing startled, as if she had just awoken. As if the clouds had parted and a mystery had been solved. It was a devastating realization.

It’s Mourning
, she thought.
Mourning is the one I care for. Has been for a long time. Not just as a friend. He’s the one it could be wonderful to share a life with. But with Mourning there is nothing to hope for, no “if only he wanted me.” Never. I might as well wish both of us dead as wish for him to express desire for me. Nothing will ever change that. And no other man will ever feel like part of me, the way Mourning does
.

She slowly raised her hand to touch Mourning’s cheek before she spoke. “You’re absolutely right. Having the man I truly care about as a friend is not nothing. I’d say it’s quite something.” The words hung between them for a moment and then she said, “I’ll go start supper. I apologize for running out on you today.” She turned away.

“I already put a pot of beans on to boil.” He called to her back. “Figured to eat ’em with some a that venison.”

“All right. Thank you for doing that.”

“You been hidin’ more a them peaches, ain’t you?”

“Indeed I have,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll get a jar.”

Later, after they had eaten and were sitting by the fire having their coffee and peaches, she poked at the embers with a stick and said, “I suppose you can see that I’m feeling low, but it’s nothing to do with Jeremy. I guess I’m getting lonely out here, with no women to talk to except that Iola –”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. They come to get the team this afternoon and she say she gonna be coming back to visit you again tomorrow.”

“Lord spare me. What on earth for?”

“Ain’t said nothin’ special. Just that she be comin’ to pay you another visit. I thought you gonna be glad, that you wanna be all friendly-like with her.”

“Well I do, but sometimes she gives me the collywobbles. There’s something about the way she looks at me.”

He played his harmonica for a while and she told him Jeremy’s stories – about how the river had gotten its name and the banker Indian.

“You know,” she said, “he told me something else. You should go over to that Backwoods town and ask the colored farmers there about it.”

“’Bout what?”

“He said that President Tyler is trying to make a new law – or maybe he already did – that let’s you claim 160 acres and pay for them later. And when you do pay, it’s only a dollar twenty-five an acre.”

“Colored people too?”

“I asked him that. He couldn’t say so for sure, but he didn’t remember reading or hearing anything that said they couldn’t. But you should go to Backwoods, find out. They might have a colored newspaper or a colored lawyer you could ask.”

“I’m a do that. I been wantin’ to visit over there any how.”

“If it’s true, you’d be better off working your own land than staying here –”

“I ain’t gonna walk out on you.”

She smiled gratefully. “Well, that’s good to hear. But you should find out about it. So should I, for that matter. Can I come with you?”

“You think I gonna trust you here, alone with my tools? Course you gotta come.”

She lay in bed that night, hating how sorry she was feeling for herself. She should be thanking her lucky stars. How many people had a friend like Mourning?

When Olivia woke the next morning she lay in bed for a while, feeling miserable. She had no desire to move a finger, but her chores awaited and nosy old Mrs. Stubblefield was coming over. Olivia dragged herself out of bed and went to work. Iola turned up after lunch and Olivia took her inside for a cup of tea.

“You’re feeling all right, aren’t you?” Iola asked, patting Olivia’s arm. “Your time hasn’t come early, has it? You’re looking a bit peeked.”

Olivia pulled her arm away and thought,
This old bat is going to make me homesick for the busybodies in Five Rocks.

“It’s always such a shame.” Iola reached to squeeze Olivia’s arm again. “Every time a woman bleeds, it’s a child lost to Jesus.”

Olivia’s face was blank as she listened to Iola’s long lecture, impatient for her nosy neighbor to be gone. But when Mrs. Stubblefield finally took her leave, Olivia went back to feeling lost and alone.