Olivia, Mourning (15 page)

He rummaged in the back of the wagon and then loped off, ax and saw over his shoulder. Watching him walk away, Olivia felt like crying, but shook it off. Good Lord, Killion, what a big baby you are. If Aunt Lydia Ann could do this, so can you.

What should she do first? Mourning would need the wagon to haul logs, so she should unload it. But he would also be hungry, so she should get a fire going and hang a pot of rice and beans over it. Maybe mix up dough to rise for a loaf of bread. But she’d need water to do that. And for the animals. One must always take care of the animals first. She grumbled out loud – “Can’t cook until I’ve got wood and water and can’t get water until I cut a path to the river through this blasted mess of weeds.”

She took a bucket in each hand and headed toward the river, cursing the thorny weeds that tore at her skirts and scratched her ankles. She knelt on a flat rock to splash cold water over her face before filling the buckets. When she stood to pick them up, she emitted a loud “Oh.” How could water be so heavy? Then she slipped on the wet clay around the rock, slightly twisting her ankle, but quickly regained her footing.

“All right Killion, let’s be optimistic,” she spoke aloud. “What would merry old Mourning say? ‘Look how lucky that was, you breaking your leg there. Now you know where to get clay for chinking the logs.’”

Partway up the gentle hill she set her burden down to rest for a moment and stared at her hands. They were already red with a maze of tiny scratches. She took a deep breath and continued, making it to the barn without spilling a drop. She brushed the dust and debris out of the dry trough and poured both buckets in. “There you go, boys.” She patted the tops of their heads and they nodded agreeably.

Shoulders aching, she made a second trip, this time setting the buckets by the door. She picked up one of them to pour the water into the barrel, but paused. The inside of the barrel was filthy. Dried leaves and cobwebs clung to its sides. What if there were mouse droppings in there? She sighed and knew she would have to use some of the precious “uphill” water to clean it. She lifted a bucket into the barrel, tipped it, and ran it around the inside walls to rinse them. Then she tied a clean rag around the handle of the broom and swished it around before turning the barrel on its side and rolling it over to where the weeds were the thickest, so that she could tip it upside down without the rim touching the dirt. Satisfied that they would survive drinking from it, she rolled it back to its place by the door, found the dipper in the wagon, and proudly hung it over the edge.

Then she reached for the second bucket of water, but frowned at the leaves and other unidentified debris floating on its surface. No, this wouldn’t do. She should strain the water through a clean rag, but didn’t have one large enough to cover the mouth of the barrel. She looked around, frustrated and impatient.

“Blast it, you start to do one thing, but you can’t do it until you’ve done some other danged thing, and then you can’t do
it
…”

Finally she went to the wagon, rummaged for the clothes she had changed out of that morning, and freed one of the petticoats from the bundle. “At last you’re finally good for something,” she said to the annoying undergarment as she spread it over the top of the barrel and tied a rope around it, to hold it in place while she poured the water through it.

When she loosened the rope to peek proudly at the clean water, her smile faded. The bottom of the barrel barely looked wet. Filling it to a level they would be able to reach with the dipper was going to require more trips to the river than she could bear to contemplate.

“One thing at a time,” she said “One at a time. Don’t think about
all
the things you have to do. Just about the next one.”

Chapter Fifteen

The crack of the axe rang out and Olivia smiled. Mourning was not far away. Everything would be all right. She paused to listen to the steady blows and when they stopped she imagined him taking off his hat and wiping his brow on the sleeve of his shirt. If he still had his shirt on.

She carried two more buckets of water and then stood gazing at the river, trying to shake the dull ache from her arms and imagining how it would feel to stand naked in its rushing water. Boys in Five Rocks were always talking about swimming in their birthday suits. Why didn’t girls get to do any of the fun things?

She sighed and made two more trips up and down the hill with the buckets and then looked around the filthy cabin. She should wipe down the surfaces, but there was no point cleaning the floor until after the roof was on. In the far corner, behind the table, was a large wooden box that she hadn’t noticed before. She dragged the table away from it and happily realized it was a bed. It stood waist high and had no ladder, but she managed to boost herself onto it. She wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor! Further inspection revealed that there was no footboard, creating a large storage space under the bed. How clever Uncle Scruggs had been. Her wicker baskets would fit nicely down there.

Aunt Lydia Ann’s kitchen consisted of a wide shelf mounted to the left of the door. Mourning was right; this place wasn’t so bad. She turned to admire the stone chimney and fireplace. The iron crane creaked loudly as she swung it over the hearth. Then she frowned; that chimney hadn’t been cleaned for sixteen years. If she lit a fire she was likely to burn the whole place down. At home, every few months, Tobey put on his “sweep clothes,” stepped into their chimney, climbed up a ladder, brushed away the soot, and spread a fresh layer of clay. How was she supposed to do that in a new dress?

She fetched the broom and stuck its long handle up the chimney, banging it against the sides. No bird nests fell down – only some dry leaves and black dust. She crossed her arms and scowled again. Then she went to the wagon, found a burlap bag, and held it up. If she cut holes for her head and arms it would come to her knees. Now all she needed was a knife. Good luck finding that. She climbed into the wagon and began unloading, setting things that were to go into the barn on one side and things to go in the cabin on the other. Finally she came across the kitchen utensils.

She went inside, removed her apron and dress, and slipped the burlap bag over her muslin chemise. Then she took the shovel down to the river, scooped up a blade of the black clay, and carried it back to the hearth. Standing on a wooden crate, she methodically spread clay over the inside of the chimney, making several trips back to the river for more of the black mud. When she was finished she had to use some of the precious uphill water to get her hands clean enough to touch anything. Then she found a clean chemise and towel and ran barefoot through the weeds to the river. She could still hear the ring of Mourning’s axe and so dared to pull the burlap off and slip into the cold water in her flimsy undergarment. She lay back, willing the current to wash the grime from her hair.

After a few minutes she thought,
if the boys can do it why can’t I
, and pulled the soiled chemise over her head, tossing it onto the bank. The water felt wonderful on her naked body, but she found herself unable to relax and enjoy it. What if Jeremy Kincaid came to call? When she realized that she no longer heard Mourning’s axe, she scrambled out of the water and struggled into the clean chemise. Holding the towel around her, she fled back to the cabin.

Dressed again, she swept out the hearth and cabin and went into the woods to gather kindling. She laid and lit a fire, then went to the wagon for rice and beans. Where on earth were the pots and sacks of food supplies? If she wanted to find anything, she’d have to finish unloading the entire mess.

“One thing at a time,” she said with a sigh, “one thing at a time.” It was so hot. How could the heat be this bad in the middle of May? She grabbed up a pot, filled it with water, put it on the crane to heat, and returned to the wagon for the sacks of food. Mourning was right, why had she bought so much stuff?

She found the rice and beans, but the sacks were too heavy for her to budge. She held the corners of her apron in one hand and scooped rice into it with the other. She managed to descend from the wagon without spilling, shook the rice into the pot, and added more water to cover it. She grimaced at the paucity of the meal. But there was no time to soak and cook beans. Anyway they still had bread, cheese, and jam left from Detroit. At least the rice would be hot.

She had resumed unloading the wagon when Mourning appeared on the trail, his long legs gliding through the weeds. He had tied the sleeves of his shirt around his waist and his bare chest glistened in the sunlight. She raised her hand in greeting, but he paid her no mind, heading straight for the water barrel.

“There’s drinking water in the skins and in that bucket by the barrel,” she called out.

He removed the wooden stopper from one of the skins and held it up to let a stream of water pour over his head. She had to bite back a desperate protest: “There’s a whole river full of downhill water right there. Why are you pouring out all my uphill water?” But she said nothing. When she approached him, he shook his head and grinned.

“What?” she asked uneasily.

He said nothing, but started laughing.

“What’s so blasted funny? You can stop thinking I haven’t been doing anything all day. It may not look like I got much done, but I had to clean and clay the chimney –”

“Look like you been clayin’ somethin’ all right and usin’ your face and hair to do it. You best not be findin’ your mirror today.” He reached out and extracted a strand of slimy plant matter from her hair.

She wiped her hands over her cheeks and they came away black. “Oh Lord. How I must look.”

“Little color in your face do you good.” He was still shaking his head and grinning when he turned to stick his head into the cabin. “See you got a fire lit. I carry them sacks of food inside for you.”

Olivia added a few spoonfuls of salt to the rice before going to the river to clean up. She was squatting on her heels, splashing water on herself, when she looked up and saw a graceful white swan drifting toward her. The lovely creature seemed to be fascinated by Olivia and turned its head as it floated past. Olivia stared until it was out of sight. What a beautiful sign. Another good omen.

She rose and filled the buckets she had brought. When she started back up the hill she saw Mourning, still shirtless, making smooth strokes with the scythe, clearing the weeds in the front yard. She stopped and stared. Those Italian sculptors would have loved his body. Slim, but every muscle and tendon defined. For a moment she tried to imagine him white.

Then she sighed and set her mind back on all the tasks she had yet to perform that day. She strained the water into the barrel and went inside to check on the rice, slice bread, and put the cheese and jam on a plate. When she looked out the door, Mourning was lying on a sheet of canvas he had spread in the little clearing he had made, hands behind his head and still shirtless. She walked over to him with the plate of cold food.

“The rice will be done in a while,” she said, setting the plate next to him on the canvas.

“Look at you,” Mourning said, shielding his eyes with one hand as he grinned up at her. “Ain’t here but a few hours and already got a meal cookin’.”

“Some meal. It’s just plain rice,” she said, but took a great deal of pleasure in his praise. She was smiling when she turned to check the bubbling pot again.

“That sun feel good,” he said, rising up on his elbows when she returned with a plate of rice for each of them. “After we done eatin’ we gotta finish emptyin’ the wagon, so I can go get the trees what I cut. I found some logs too. Faces nice and smooth, like they been cut with a two-man saw. Big ’nuff around to make nice chairs.”

He held the edge of the plate to his mouth and used his knife to scrape the rice in. “Mmm,” he said. “You gonna win first prize in the rice-cooking contest.”

“I’m sorry I was so . . . you know . . . when we arrived,” she said. “But I’m feeling better now. I’ll get used to things here. I can see that it’s not so bad.”

“Ain’t bad at all. It be real good, Livia. Look how wide and deep that river be. It ain’t gonna dry up in the summer. You got your cabin up on a nice slope, so you ain’t gonna get flooded and not too much snow gonna pile up on you. But it ain’t so steep you think you gonna die walkin’ up it. Them things more important than havin’ to put a roof on or not havin’ no window. Come winter you gonna be glad you ain’t got one, lettin’ in all that cold.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

In truth, she hadn’t given any thought to winter. Now that she did, her spirits drooped. With a roof on it, that cabin was going to be dark and stuffy, even on days when the weather was fair enough to leave the door open. The roof poles would be barely two feet above her head in the middle of the room; near the front and back walls she wouldn’t even be able to stand. She’d bang her head trying to sit up in that bed. She couldn’t imagine being cooped up in there for months, snow piled against the door, no sunlight, only candles and lanterns burning up the little bit of air. But she forced her voice to remain cheerful.

She went back inside to refill their plates and set the coffee pot on the edge of the fire to boil. After they’d had a cup, they finished unloading the wagon together.

“There’s a bed in there, built like a platform,” she said. “Could you help me slide my wicker baskets under it?”

“Sure.”

“And set my mattress on top of it?”

He raised his hand in salute, easily slid the mattress onto her bed, and then said, “Once I be done with the roof, it be easy for me to build you a frame over that bed. You can spread sheets over it and around the sides, like curtains. Goody’s wife done like that so she don’t gotta worry about the dust what come blowing through the roof getting’ on her bed.”

Olivia smiled and nodded. He finished moving her things and then hauled the tools, seed, and grain into the barn and spread a sheet of canvas over them. His own mattress he tossed outside, leaning it against the front wall of the cabin.

“Didn’t you call her ‘Mamma’?” Olivia asked.

“What?”

“Before. You said something about Goody’s wife. But she raised you from a baby. Didn’t you call her ‘Mamma’?”

“Nah. I call her Alice. Like I call Goody, ‘Goody.’ But if I’d a said ‘Alice’ you warn’t gonna know who I’s talking about.” He harnessed Dixby and Dougan to the wagon and headed back toward the woods. “These animals gonna need more water,” he called over his shoulder.

“Okay, I’ll get more.”

When he had disappeared she allowed herself the luxury of stretching out on the sheet of canvas for a few minutes. Pressing her back against the hard ground helped to relieve the ache, and the sun felt wonderful. Soothing. When she heard the steady blows of the axe begin again she felt guilty and forced herself up.

She hauled eight more buckets of water, using four to fill the trough. That should do them for today. Now what? More food. She arranged the dishes and utensils on the kitchen shelf and poured some beans in a pot to soak. Then she kneaded water, flour, salt, and some of her yeast culture into dough for a loaf of bread and left it to rise with a plate turned over it, in lieu of a clean cloth.

Next she picked up the scythe and cut more weeds, clearing an area for a fire pit and a path to the river. How had Mourning made this look so easy? Then she got the shovel and dug the pit. She knew she should gather large rocks to set around it, but was too exhausted and there was too much else left to do. That would have to wait for another day. For now she had to gather more firewood, before it was dark. There was no shortage of dry wood on the ground and soon the pit was filled with kindling, with a tepee of thicker branches rising over it. She’d also heaped piles of kindling and branches behind the cabin, enough to last for a few days. She’d have to get Mourning to build something like a spit over the fire pit, so she could cook outside.

She lifted her arms over her head and stretched. Lord, wasn’t that enough for the first day? But she couldn’t lay down to rest while Mourning was out there swinging his axe. She hauled more water and then gathered their dirty traveling clothes and her chemise into the washtub and carried it down to the river. She was on her way back up the hill for laundry soap and a bucket to use to fill the tub when the woods grew silent. Hallelujah. Please God, let him have declared the work day over.

She had never done laundry and stared at the tub for a few minutes. She knew boiling water was supposed to be involved, but not today. For today “cleaner than they were before” was going to have to do.

Suddenly faint-headed, she knelt on one of the flat rocks and bent over to stick her head in the river. Then she sat back on her heels and asked herself how she was feeling. Was she glad they had come? Homesick? Optimistic? Excited? Scared? She wasn’t aware of any strong emotion. Only two things occupied her mind: how much she wanted to lie down and what she wouldn’t give for a plate of Mabel’s fried chicken.

She sighed and began dipping the hard bar of laundry soap into the river and scrubbing it against a white rock. The suds that finally appeared burned her scratches and broken blisters and brought tears to her eyes. She held each garment in the river, letting the current flow through it, before scrubbing it with the soap and plunging it into the tub. Then she left everything to soak and trudged back up the hill to pick out two trees to tie a clothesline between.