Olivia, Mourning (10 page)

“Way you got that money tied to you, ain’t no one gonna be stealin’ nothing, ’less you dead first. Anyway, we can take turns sleepin’. You think you gonna have a nice soft bed waitin’ on you in that log cabin? You gonna sleep on good hard Michigan ground. You best be gettin’ used to it. You wanna keep to your plan, you gotta get used to bein’ poor folks. For a time anyway.”

She stared out at the late afternoon sun on the lake and took a deep breath. He had a point. And spending two days on the deck of a steamboat could be her first adventure. Sitting all alone in a cabin would be boring. She’d never thought of it that way, but Mourning was right. By embarking on this journey she had volunteered to live like poor folks. She’d better get used to doing without, making do. But what clinched her decision to sleep on the deck was her desire to wipe the smirk from Mourning’s face.

I’ll show him. I’m not as spoiled as he tries to make me out to be. Anyway, I’ll feel safer with Mourning nearby than I would alone in a cabin.

“All right. We’ll both take steerage. I can sleep on a deck every bit as well as you.”

She went in to book their passage and then handed her tapestry bag to Mourning, together with his ticket. “You get our cases on board,” she said. “I’ll go buy food for the trip. The ticket agent said the boat will be stopping in Cleveland, so I’ll buy enough for just the first day.”

“Wait.” He went to the wagon and opened his bag. Take these.” He handed her two buckskin pouches. “Ask the folks in the store to fill them.”

“Of course, I was just about to ask for them,” she lied, angry with herself for having forgotten about water.

“How we gonna find each other on that boat?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” It seemed to have doubled in size during the course of their conversation. “You pick what you think is a good place – with any kind of privacy or protection from the wind – and wait for me to find you.”

She walked a few blocks to a general store and bought bread, butter, a small pot of jam, a few slices of cheese, some salt beef, four hard-boiled eggs, four apples, and two pears. She saw a pump handle out back and received permission to fill the skins from it. It made a heavy load and she trudged down to the wharf. She took tiny steps over the gangplank to the lower deck, handed her ticket to a man in a black jacket and cap, and stepped aboard the
Windsong
.

Shoulders aching, she set her burdens down and looked around. There were all manner of people on the boat. Many looked prosperous – men in suits and top hats and women in flowered prints and bonnets – but more were poor folk in suspenders and ragged homespun. She frowned, not seeing any black faces. Flocks of seagulls cawed overhead and one of them perched on the rail next to her. She had never seen one before and stared into its cold black eyes, thinking it reminded her of a snake. Then she breathed in the fishy smell of the lake and turned to look at Erie, strung out along the shore.
Just look at that city
, she thought.
And the lake. You can’t even see the other side!

She retrieved her bundles and worked her way through crowds of people. It didn’t take long to spot Mourning, standing near the back of the boat, in what she had to agree looked like a cozy spot. The upper deck provided a roof and the support beams formed a corner in which he had piled their belongings, defining a small space that was sheltered on two sides from the wind and the spray off the lake. There was only one problem.

“Here you are.” She set everything down and smiled uneasily in the direction of the other passengers. Mourning removed his hat and grinned at her while she slid the long rifle under one of the baskets.

She leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Everyone back here is colored.” Ten or twelve negroes were busy arranging their belongings in that part of the boat. A few tossed curious glances her way, but most were paying her no mind.

He made a great show of looking surprised. “My goodness, Miz Olivia, you right. My, my, my.”

“I don’t know if I can stay here,” she whispered. “I mean … maybe … I might not be allowed.”

He rubbed his chin. “Well, if you was to aks real nice … apologize for not knowin’ your rightful place –”

“You know what I mean. Maybe the white …” She gave up, stood straight-backed, and turned toward him wearing the nastiest look she could muster. Then she leaned over again. “You know, Mourning Free, your natural self is ornery enough. There’s no need for all this extra effort. I didn’t make the world the way it is and I didn’t make your skin black. I’m just trying to get along, same as you. I suppose I’d rather have been born a man, just like you’d rather have been born white –”

“Ain’t never said I rather be white.” He shook his head. “Ain’t never said that.”

“Just stop being so … so … the way you’re being. We’re going to have enough problems not of our own making. It isn’t any easier for me traveling with you than it is for you traveling with me.”

He pursed his lips, looking contrite. “Guess you right ’bout that. This be the only part of the boat they ’llow coloreds, probably cause it be so noisy, right over the engine. But that make it the warmest place, too,” he said cheerfully. “Maybe you got to stay in the white part.”

She looked around, terrified at the idea of sleeping on the deck all alone. “Well, is there some kind of line, between the white part and the colored part? So I could be on the white side of it and you on the colored?”

“Dunno. Man just told me to come back here.”

“Well, we’ve got to stay together so we can take turns watching our things. But there’s no need to call attention to ourselves. I’ll go walk around the white part until it gets dark and then put my hood up before I come back here. You keep a space for me.”

He nodded.

“But first, let’s go over there by the rail and have something to eat. They didn’t say you can’t walk there, did they? I’m near on starving to death. Here’s what I bought.” She handed the bags of food over for his inspection.

“All that for one day?” He made a show of collapsing under the weight of the bags. “Good thing you dint buy for a week. Sink this ship down to the bottom of the lake.”

They stood on either side of a tall wooden crate that stood by the rail and used it for a table. Olivia tore chunks of bread from a loaf, slapped slices of cheese onto them, and they ate hungrily. Then she looked up and saw two white women approaching them; one of them nudged her friend and nodded at Mourning. Olivia kept her chin high, stared straight at her, and gave her a sweet smile; she was surprised at how quickly the woman looked away.

Now there’s a lesson for my new life
, she thought.
Being bold may not always help, but it never seems to hurt.

Soon there was a lot of noise and hustle. Steam was up, the engine chugged, sailors hauled in ropes, and the boat pulled away from the pier with a series of great whooshes. They leaned over the railing and broke into wide smiles.

“Here we go, partner.” She held her hand out to him.

He hesitated for a long moment before clasping it in his and repeating, “Partner.”

Chapter Ten

Olivia’s stare lingered on their clasped hands for a moment; Mourning’s was so dark, hers so pale. She must have touched him before, but she couldn’t remember when. His skin felt so much warmer than hers and she couldn’t stop staring at the physical difference that separated them.

She’d grown up around Quakers and abolitionists and occasionally slipped into the Quakers’ Meeting House on Sunday mornings. It was a stark, empty room with wooden benches arranged in a square, facing one another. Whoever wished to speak stood up and did so. Most of what they said made sense to her, especially when they talked about the “colored situation.” Even – or perhaps especially – as a child she had understood how appalling it was for one human being to be able to buy and sell another. For her it was pure instinct and not based on a religious belief that all human beings were God’s children. Olivia had yet to make up her mind on that score – whether there was such a thing as God. Her father had said all religions were a tub of eyewash. All that Christian mumbo-jumbo was nothing but a trick, so people wouldn’t mind dying.

With Mourning for a friend, she knew how ridiculous it was to believe that skin color had anything to do with intelligence or integrity. She thought more highly of Mourning Free than she did of anyone else in town, with the possible exception of Mr. Carmichael. So when people talked about negroes being simple-minded, lazy, and child-like, she silently rolled her eyes. But there was one thing she couldn’t argue with – colored people sure did look different. She suddenly noticed Mourning watching the way she was staring at their hands and pulled hers away.

“It ain’t gonna rub off,” he said with a sneer.

“I wasn’t worried it would and you can please stop looking at me like that.”

“You think you different from other white folks, but you ain’t. You all the same. Think the world belong just to you.”

She turned to look him in the face. “I don’t think I’m better than you and I don’t think I’ve ever acted like I do.” She had begun speaking angrily, but her voice grew softer. “You’ve got to admit, though, we sure do look different.” She put her hand back on the rail next to his, their forearms touching. “Just look at that.”

His face relented into a grin.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” she ventured, cringing in anticipation of an angry response. “I can understand why the first white men who set foot in Africa thought those natives must be something way different from them.”

“It ain’t but skin.”

“Well, I know that. But just imagine a person who’d never seen black skin or hair like yours before. It sure would seem strange. What if we get off this boat in Michigan and everyone we see is covered with a coat of fur, like a dog, or bark, like a tree? You’ve got to admit, that would take some getting used to. And I bet those first white folks looked just as strange to the Africans that saw
them
. Maybe those natives would have treated the whites just as badly, if they’d been the ones holding the guns.”

Mourning stared out at the shoreline, his face relaxed and expressionless.

“But there’s one thing I won’t argue with.” She lightly nudged his elbow with hers and he glanced over at her. “White folks have sure had enough time to get used to the way colored people look. You’d think by now they’d have stopped saying all the stupid things they do.”

They stood together, silently watching Erie grow smaller. The sun was still warm, but the breeze off the lake was cool on their faces. The boat didn’t go far out, so the wild green shoreline remained in sight. They were still standing at the rail when the sun set over the water ahead of them. They stood on their tiptoes and stuck their heads out to admire its last blaze of color. Then they both slid down to sit on the deck, backs against the side of the ship.

“You look like a flower growin’ out a one of them lily pads,” Mourning said, nodding at the way Olivia’s skirts billowed around her torso.

“A wilted one. And starving again. Can you reach the food?” she asked

Mourning took out his knife to slice the crusty bread and stopped making fun of her for having bought two whole loaves. They were both famished. He drank from one of the skins of water and passed it to her. Olivia was conscious of waiting until she thought none of the white passengers milling around the deck were looking before she lifted it to her lips to drink.

No reason to antagonize people
, she thought, still harboring a fear of being ordered into the white section.

Apart from that worry she felt relaxed and at peace, sitting next to Mourning and sharing a meal. Part of her regretted that the trip would take only two days. It was a luxury to be nowhere, no one around who knew her, with nothing to do but stretch her muscles and listen to the sounds of the lake and the steady chug of the engine beneath them.

Then she saw the two snooty white women marching toward her, this time with a man in tow. He freed his arms from their grasp, removed his hat, and bent down to speak to Olivia.

“Is this nigger bothering you, Miss?” he asked.

“No, everything is just fine,” she replied with a smile. “He’s just serving me my evening meal, but I appreciate your concern.”

“Are you sure?” He glanced nervously at the women on either side of him.

“Absolutely sure.”

“Well then…”

They went away, the women looking back over their shoulders and muttering something about white trash. Mourning said nothing; he stared at the toe of his shoe, his face a slab of stone.

“I suppose you think I should have said something more to them,” she said.

He maintained his silence.

“People like that are a waste of breath. What would an argument accomplish, besides making a scene? I’m trying my best not to draw attention to us. I don’t want one of those guys in the black caps coming to tell me that this section is for coloreds and I have to go over there.” She nodded in the direction in which the two women and their male companion had disappeared. “I’d be too scared without you.”

He turned toward her and shrugged, but she interpreted it as a friendly shrug.

“I’m not a fighter, Mourning. I’ve never wanted to change the world. All I want is to make my own little piece of it as nice as I can. We’ll both have a lot more trouble doing that if all the white folks we meet get it into their heads that we’re way too friendly for their liking. We’re going to need good relations with our neighbors and if telling them you’re my hired man – and me bossing you like you are – will keep them from getting all rankled, well so what? It’s none of their business anyway. And once you’ve gotten to know the colored folks in that Backwoods place and you’ve got your own land –”

“I know.” He interrupted her. “I ain’t gonna make no argument with you ’bout none a that. Just seem like they need to be a whole lot a people makin’ a whole lot a scenes ’fore anything gonna change.”

“I’m sure you’re right about that.” She pressed her aching back against the side of the boat. “But there’s more than one way to prove a point. I could go off and march around with those suffragist ladies, shouting and carrying on about how women don’t need men taking care of them. Or I can just go ahead and do a good job of taking care of myself. You having your own land and being a better farmer than all the white folks will say a lot more about how smart and hard-working negroes are than a bunch of yelling would.”

Once the sun had disappeared, the air turned cold. Before they settled in for the night Olivia took a leisurely walk around the deck, then pulled the hood of her cloak up and tried to stay in shadows as she made her way back to the colored section. She and Mourning put on their winter coats, hats, and gloves, and balled up some of their other clothing to pillow their heads. Then they stretched out head-to-toe, keeping a proper distance, with the water pouches, bag of food, and Mourning’s tool case and bag between them.

They could hear other passengers being sick over the rail, but the gentle motion of the boat seemed to agree with both of them. Neither of them felt like talking and Olivia enjoyed silently watching the stars light up the strip of sky that was visible between the rail and the roof. She began eavesdropping on one of the colored couples behind them.

“I don’t know how I let you bring us on this perilous, perilous journey,” the woman, who was dreadfully seasick, was saying. “I’m a die right here on this cursed boat and that be for the best. Might as well meet my maker here, with my children gathered round me, escape the dangers and tribulations of that wilderness you dragging us to.”

Olivia smiled, thinking,
she doesn’t mean a word of it. You can hear it in her voice. It’s just their way
. Olivia turned her head a bit; one look at the couple confirmed that opinion. The woman’s head rested on her husband’s chest. He was smiling over the top of it as he held her close, stroking her hair and softly repeating that everything was going to be all right.

It’s a sort of playacting
, Olivia decided.
She gets to say out loud all the things she’s afraid of and the more she complains, the more he gets to show how patient he is and how much he loves her.

Finally the man spoke. “You know I’m gonna build you a great big house in the woods,” he said. “Under the tallest chestnut tree you ever seen. You ain’t never gonna do for no one else again. They gonna be a pump right inside the house and you gonna hang them curtains you been saving.”

Olivia turned to peek at them again, feeling terribly alone. She couldn’t help being jealous of that woman.
Maybe it isn’t so awful to have a man who wants to take care of you
, she thought,
even if he does think that gives him the right to boss you now and then. I wouldn’t mind having someone hold me like that, make me feel safe. Not if he was a kind and gentle man like that one.
She wondered if Avis ever spoke that way with Mabel. She couldn’t imagine it, but Mrs. Hardaway always said, “No one on the outside ever knows nothing about what goes on between a man and a woman.”

Olivia drifted off to sleep, imagining strong arms around her and a soft voice murmuring in her ear. She was startled awake by a colored boy leaning over her, reaching for their bag of food.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She batted her arms and he disappeared into the shadows.

Mourning sat up and she told him what had happened. They groped around in the dark, taking count of their belongings. Nothing seemed to be missing. Mourning found some twine in his toolbox and tied each piece of their luggage to one of their limbs. Olivia sat hugging her knees, looking miserable.

“You don’t gotta be afeared,” Mourning said. “It was only a kid.”

“I’m not scared,” she said. “I just … I think maybe I hit him. I mean, I woke up and there he was –”

“So you feelin’ bad?” He shook his head in disbelief. “You wanna feel sorry ’bout something, feel sorry you dint hit him harder. Little thief.”

“But he was just a little boy trying to take some food. What if he’s all alone on this boat and hungry?”

“So he coulda aksed. If he aksed, you woulda gave him some food, right?”

“Well, of course.”

“So what he gotta go stealin’ for?”

After they were settled back down she lowered her voice to a whisper and asked if he had heard the couple behind them talking.

“Uh-huh,” he said.

“He’s so nice – the way he talked to his wife. I can’t imagine my father ever talking to my mother like that.”

“Old Seborn loved your mamma plenty, don’t be worryin’ ’bout that. I never seen no man cry like him, day he found her.”

“What do you mean, ‘found her?’ Found her where?” she asked, suddenly shivering with cold.

The air between them seemed to have grown thick.

“Found her where?”

“We gotta get some sleep,” he said and turned over.

Olivia would have shaken his shoulder, demanding he tell her, but knew it wouldn’t do any good. When Mourning decided to be stubborn, he was good and stubborn.

Never mind, Mourning Free
, she thought.
I’m going to have all the time in the world to find out what you meant. I’ll pry it out of you with a crowbar if I have to
.