Olivia, Mourning (5 page)

He shook his head. “You got any brains? What ’bout folks out there in Michigan? How you think they gonna like this colored boy showin’ up with a white girl?”

“They don’t have to like it. There’s nothing they can do about it. They don’t have to know we’re partners or anything. You’re my hired man. What’s wrong with that? I don’t plan to live there on the farm with you. I’ll get a room in town and buy a horse to ride out to the farm every day. There won’t be anything for them to talk –”

“Never mind, Livia.” He waved his hand at her again, sounding weary. “Stop wastin’ all that air. I can’t go to no Michigan, not with you and not with nobody. I gotta stay here in Five Rocks.”

“Why? What’s so wonderful about Five Rocks?”

“I got Mr. Carmichael here.”

She looked at him blankly. “All right, so it’s very nice of him to let you sleep in his office –”

“It ain’t that.” He moved his chair a bit closer to hers. “You know my parents been slaves?”

She nodded her head.

“So that mean, by the law, I be a slave too.”

“That can’t be so. You were born here. There’s no slavery here.”

“Don’t matter. By the law, I belong to the man what owned my parents. Slave-chasers ’llowed to come into free states, take back property.”

“But that was so long ago. If there was ever anyone chasing after your mother and father they’re probably dead by now. And even if they’re not, they have no idea you exist. Don’t know your name or where you live. How could anyone come looking for you?”

“You don’t understand. It don’t matter none to them slave-catchers. They come lookin’ for a nigger they can’t find, they just as glad to take one they can find. Truth is, it ain’t no mind to them if I be free by the law or not. If I got nobody to stand up for me, anyone what want to can tie me up and throw me in his wagon. I do him just fine. One nigger as good as another. Out in Michigan, ain’t nobody gonna stand up for me.”

“And here Mr. Carmichael will.”

Mourning nodded. “First night I go to sleep in his office after that town meeting he come in, say he think he gonna keep me company till I fall asleep. When I wake up the next day he still sittin’ there in that chair. He give me a piece of paper say I been born to free parents, say I be a Free Man of Color. Got a stamp and his mark on it. He tell me that any time I need, he gonna stand up with me in front of a judge, swear it be so. And folks here ain’t gonna call Mr. Carmichael no liar, even if they know he ain’t talkin’ the truth. So I don’t got something to lose. I got everything to lose.”

“Don’t you think I’d stand up for you? I can lie as good as him. Probably better.”

At least Mourning didn’t say what she knew he must be thinking: “Ain’t nobody gonna pay no mind to no girl.” What he did say was, “Maybe so, but you ain’t got no ’fficial stamp.” Then he rose and opened the door for her to leave.

Olivia trudged home, back to wondering if there wasn’t some way she could persuade Tobey to come with her and share the land.
Sure, I can convince him to do that. All he has to do is change everything about him
, she thought and sighed, resigned to the fact that she would have to hire someone else.
But who?

It had been relatively easy to imagine entering into such a venture with Mourning Free, whom she had known all her life. She trusted him. Regarded him as a person of high character, in his own prickly, stubborn way. And she couldn’t imagine the two of them having man-woman problems. Olivia had seen how men could behave, as if they wanted to wrap some woman up in a big spider web. But Mourning had never looked at her in that sticky way. Even when they were children, he’d never twisted her arm, pushed her into the river, or done any of the things little boys do to get a little girl’s attention. And she’d never wanted him to. True, he had grown into a tall, hard body, his skin smooth and shiny. His white teeth flashed in a lovely way when he smiled.
But that’s pretty much never, ornery as he is
, she thought.

She made the unconscious assumption that the color of Mourning’s skin was a brick wall between them; neither of them would dare take a hammer to it. Where was she going to find anyone else with whom she would feel that safe?

She sighed and forced herself to reconsider. Maybe Five Rocks wasn’t so horrible. After all, every town must have its share of nosy, annoying women. And Avis wasn’t really such a bad sort. Truth be told, he usually said and did the right thing. Olivia couldn’t deny that he was a good and decent man. Most folks in town would probably say Avis was the only one of those three Killion children that was worth a lick. Perhaps she could work in the store, but take a room in another town, get a horse like Big Bad, and ride to work. If she lived far enough away, not every single person she met on the street would know all the stories about her mother and father. Maybe now that she was grown, she could find some place to be just plain Olivia.

As she climbed the back steps she heard Mabel Mears’ voice in the kitchen, bossing Avis and Tobey. Avis’s beloved must be fixing supper again. Olivia closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the icy doorframe, exhausted.

She tried to console herself. At least the food would be delicious. Olivia hadn’t realized how bad a cook Mrs. Hardaway was until the formidable Mabel invaded their kitchen. With no basis for comparison, Olivia had assumed that beef was by nature dry and leathery and that there was nothing to be done with a chicken but toss it into a pot of boiling water and serve it pale and pimply, scattered clumps of pinfeathers still clinging to it. The first meal Mabel prepared for them had been an eye-opening spread of flaky biscuits, pot roast you could cut with a fork, glazed carrots, and fluffy mashed potatoes. Now Olivia smelled Mabel’s fried chicken. She always got a perfect scorch on it, crispy outside and ready to fall off the bone.

“Avis, dear, come get the big platter down.” Mabel’s voice carried easily through wood and glass. “Tobey, you slice up the bread. Not that knife, use this one. I had it sharpened last week. Then you can ladle out the gravy. Better wrap this towel around you, save your coat. Where on earth can that Olivia have gotten to?”

Olivia increased the pressure of her forehead against the cold wood. Shivering, her head aching, she remained outside on the steps, listening to Mabel issue more commands and then demanding, “Doesn’t that sister of yours know what time you have your supper? I hope everything isn’t going to get all dried out because some people choose to be inconsiderate.”

No. I can’t do it
, Olivia thought.
Anything would be better than living and working with Mabel Mears. I’ll get a job in a textile mill. Go west to a logging camp and do laundry. Become a mail order bride.
Finally, Olivia could stand the cold no longer and pulled the back door open.

“Well, there you are,” Mabel said. “Oh my, you’d better leave those boots out on the porch, before they leave a puddle. You boys sit down, everything’s ready.”

Olivia did her best to ignore her, but Mabel took the chair next to her. After Avis mumbled the Grace that Mabel had taught him and the food had been passed, Mabel leaned back and reached for a journal that lay open on the pie safe behind her.

“I know it’s not good manners to read at the table,” Mabel said, “but I’ve been wanting you to hear this, Olivia, and I don’t know when else I’ll get the chance, seeing as you spend so little time at home. And when you are here, you’ve got yourself locked in your room. Anyway, it’s the most interesting article, here in my ‘Godey’s Lady’s Book.’” She looked pointedly at Olivia before beginning to read. “A sensible woman is always aware of her inferiority. She performs those tasks that she can, but never forgets her dependence on the stronger sex and is always grateful for the support of a man. She knows that she is the weaker vessel, and it is as such that man honors her. Her weakness is not a blemish, but what endears her to man.”

Olivia refrained from rolling her eyes as she wondered if the will of big, strong Avis had ever once prevailed over that of “endearingly weak” Mabel. Olivia knew where this was going – a tedious lecture about how a young lady had to behave in order to attract gentlemen callers.

Olivia hid her annoyance and changed the subject, keeping her voice calm and neutral. “I was reading something in there myself the other day. Your ‘Godey’s Lady’s Book’ says it’s perfectly acceptable for a woman to travel on her own, without a chaperone.”

“Well, I suppose that depends on where she’s going, doesn’t it?” Mabel said and licked a glob of gravy off her finger before setting the journal back down on the pie safe.

“Why would it depend on that?” Avis asked. “If she needs a chaperone, she needs a chaperone. And if she doesn’t, she doesn’t.”

“Well, dear, isn’t it obvious that there’s a difference between an overnight journey and, say, a stagecoach ride to another town?”

“Not obvious to me. If it’s all right for her to take a stage to another town, I don’t see why she can’t check herself into a hotel room in that other town and then go on with another stage ride the next day.”

“There is all the difference in the world. If family puts her on the stage and she’s met by her hosts at the other end of the line, that’s a whole different thing. She’s never actually alone.”

“Except when she’s on the stage,” Avis said and motioned for Olivia to pass the bread basket.

Mabel’s impatience all but fumed out of her ears. “The driver is bound to protect her as long as she’s in his coach, now isn’t he? So she’s not really alone.”

“Well, suppose the stage makes a stop?” Avis wasn’t actually grinning, but Olivia could see how much he enjoyed getting under Mabel’s skin. They could bicker for hours over nothing, as if they’d already been married for about two hundred and fifty years.

Avis turned toward Mabel. “Does she have to arrange for someone to meet her and stand guard while she gets off for a drink of water?”

“Honestly, Avis Killion, I don’t know why you always have to be so contrary. Obviously, the driver is responsible for her safety during the entire journey, including the stops.”

“I haven’t seen many stage drivers I’d entrust with the safety of a woman I cared much about.” Avis wiped up gravy with a piece of bread.

Olivia closed her eyes, imagining night after endless night of this.

“Can you pass me those mashed potatoes?” Tobey broke in. “Your gravy is as good as ever, Mabel. You’ll have us all busting out of our britches. Anything interesting in the Pittsburgh paper?” he asked Avis.

“They caught that gang was robbing all the banks, so I guess it wasn’t anyone we know.” Avis seemed to be waiting for a laugh, but no one obliged.

“I’d like to please be excused.” Olivia wiped her mouth and put her napkin next to her plate.

“Why you haven’t hardly eaten a thing,” Mabel protested.

“I’m full. It was delicious, Mabel, but I’m tired.”

“Some people might think a young lady could spend some time with her family.” Mabel frowned.

“Leave her be, Mabel,” Avis said softly and Olivia pushed her chair back.

Mabel’s hushed voice followed Olivia to the stairs. “Honestly, you don’t have to make it sound as if I hound the poor girl. You know as well as I do that she lacks the guiding hand of an older woman. And you know I care for her just like I was her big sister.”

Olivia went up and flopped onto her bed, pulling the quilt over her. She shivered, wishing she had stopped to take some hot stones from the shelf under the stove. She plumped the pillow and her hand touched the guidebook she had found among Uncle Scruggs’ things. It was the kind they printed up for folks planning to make the journey out west, over the Mississippi and across the plains. Olivia had gotten it out of the attic and all but memorized it, reasoning that if she prepared herself for everything it talked about, she would certainly be able to manage the much simpler journey to Michigan. The guidebook explained what was needed to set up a farm, how to survive in the outdoors, how to make medicine from various plants, and how to preserve different kinds of foods. It even listed the quantities of flour, sugar, coffee, beans, cooking oil, whale oil, soda, baking powder, and salt that a family needed to survive for the first year. She sat up and started thumbing through it again, but shoved it back under the pillow at the sound of a soft tap on the door.

“You feeling okay?” Tobey asked as he peeked in.

“No worse than usual. You feel like going for a walk?”

“A walk? It’s starting to get dark and it’s freezing out there.”

“I thought we might go down to the cemetery,” she said. “Lay some green branches on father’s grave.” She knew it was unfair to use that excuse to drag him out of the house, but felt desperate to get away. The constant drone of Mabel’s voice downstairs made her feel like a prisoner in her room.

Tobey sucked in a deep breath and pursed his lips. “Okay, I guess, but just there and back.”

When they came down and reached for their coats Mabel raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were so tired,” she said.

Olivia trumped her with, “We’re going to visit Father’s grave,” thinking that ought to shut her up.

She and Tobey trudged through the snow toward the eastern side of town, where Main Street curled around on itself, forming a cul-de-sac that everyone called “The Circle.” Jettie Place was the only one who lived down there. Her small red barn sat close to the road. The front half of it had been converted into her bakery shop; the large ovens and workroom occupied the back. Mrs. Place’s house stood to the left of and slightly behind the barn, on the curve of “The Circle.” She didn’t have any neighbors and that seemed to suit both her and the town just fine. The sign over her bakery said “Jettie’s Place,” but none of the townswomen called it that. That would have sounded too friendly. Mrs. Place’s bread and pies were too good for them to be able to boycott her establishment, but they sniffed their noses whenever they mentioned “that woman’s bakery.”

Now, as they passed Mrs. Place’s house, Olivia watched out of the corner of her eye, trying to take in every detail of the house and bakery without turning her head. She had often gone into the shop to buy bread and cookies when she was a little girl and Mrs. Place had always been kind to her. She used to tuck extra treats into the bag and call Olivia “you sweet child.”

Olivia couldn’t remember how old she had been when she first heard one of the busybodies say it outright – call Jettie Place “Old Man Killion’s whore.” But she had been old enough to have a vague idea what that meant. Her father and Mrs. Place must get in a bed together and do whatever the horrible thing is that husbands and wives do. Olivia had gone into “Jettie’s Place” a few times after that and stood staring up at “the whore” – a tired-looking woman with bright yellow hair and rouged cheeks and a laugh that was too quick and too loud. It was difficult for Olivia to imagine Mrs. Place and her father sipping a cup of tea together. Removing their clothing? Impossible.

Not that Olivia minded the idea of her father having a connection with another woman. Her mother had died a long time ago, so there was no reason to mind on her account. Olivia simply failed to understand. Why on earth would anyone want to be in the same room with her father when he didn’t have his clothes on? Olivia had seen his drooping potbelly and spindly legs. He hadn’t exactly been a sparkling personality either. He spent all day in the store, took short breaks for his meals, and then did the accounts or read for a few hours before retiring. Saturday nights he played whist with friends. At least so he told his children. That must have been when he did his fornicating with the woman who called herself “Mrs.” although Olivia had never seen any evidence of a Mr. Place, dead or alive. She wondered if her brothers had heard the same whispers about their “carrying on.” They must have, but Olivia had never spoken to them about it. Not even Tobey. Not until the day before her father died.

Now, as they neared the cemetery, Olivia slipped her arm through Tobey’s. “I’m already forgetting him,” she said. “I’ve been trying to remember what his laugh sounded like, but I can’t.”

“We didn’t hear it all that much,” Tobey said. “Except for when he’d say that one thing he used to repeat all the time, until one day Mrs. Brewster got after him.”

“What thing?”