Olivia, Mourning (19 page)

She turned to leave, but was guilt-stricken for neglecting poor Dougan. She walked over to stroke his head. “Yes, you’re a good boy too. It’s not your fault you’re not pretty like him, is it? Couldn’t beat him in a race either. But you do your job and I want you to know we appreciate it.” She scratched behind his ears.

Then she set to peeling potatoes and cutting them into thick wedges to fry up with salt and pepper. Once they were on the plate, she’d sprinkle them with vinegar, the way Mabel did. She imagined the three of them sitting outside after their meal. Olivia’s teacher once told her that her cheekbones, and the shadows beneath them, were her most striking feature, so she’d look good in the firelight, wouldn’t she? She turned to pick up the mirror again, but stopped, hating this way of thinking, as if the only thing that mattered about a girl was the way she looked.

Instead she pried the cork out of the jar of peaches and poked a sharp knife into the half-inch layer of paraffin. Why hadn’t she bought any glass bowls? All they had were tin plates and cups. But when she dipped a spoon into the jar and cut off a bite of peach, she knew it wouldn’t matter if she served them on a shovel. Those sweet peaches were delicious and it required some effort on her part not to gobble them all down.

There was still no sign of Mourning and Jeremy, so she decided she might as well use the time for herself. She gathered her journal, pencil, and eraser and walked partway down the hill to sit among the tall weeds. Biting her bottom lip, she stared for a long moment before starting to sketch the cabin. She vaguely remembered watching her mother paint her watercolors, but Olivia had never put her own hand to drawing. She wished she had one of the new, softer erasers Avis had read about, that made it easier to rub out your mistakes. She was still working on the picture when she saw Mourning and Jeremy approaching. Both shirtless, they were walking on either side of Dixby, with the gutted buck slung over his back.

Olivia rose and waved, then hurried inside to tuck her journal under the mattress. Back outside, she set the frying pans – one for the meat and one for the potatoes – at the edge of the fire. She walked down to meet them and took the pan holding the heart and liver from Mourning. Both men had smears of dried blood on their stomach, arms, and chest. On Mourning it was barely discernable. On Jeremy the contrast with his pale skin made him look even whiter, like a bed sheet. With his shirt off, his narrow shoulders and the deep depression where his neck met his breastbone reminded her of a plucked chicken, but she scolded herself for that observation.
The way a man looks shouldn’t count for so much either. God gave us our faces and bodies and all we can do is live with them. Pretty people didn’t do anything to deserve looking like that. Why should we think more of them for it?

While she cut up and fried the heart and liver, she studied her hands and arms. What had made white folks so sure their pale, fishy skin was better? Why hadn’t they thought, gosh, look at these lucky people, they have such lovely dark skin? But she knew the answer. People always think whatever they have is just perfect. Whatever they do, the fact that they did it makes it the right thing to do. Once they choose a religion, that makes it God’s holy word.

Mourning and Jeremy were down past the barn, staring up at a tall tree from which a sturdy bough jutted, fifteen to twenty feet off the ground.
Yes
, Olivia thought,
that would be a good place to hang the buck. Far from the cabin and high enough so that not even a bear could get at it
. For a moment she imagined a pack of frustrated wolves or coyotes, leaping up at the carcass time after time and then giving up and going to look for easier pickings – like her or Mourning. They
had
to get doors on the cabin and barn. But there was no point in thinking about that now. Now she was going to have a delicious dinner and enjoy the company of her good friend and the man who – perhaps – had come to call on her.

Olivia walked toward the two men, carrying a plate of fried liver and heart. Too hungry to resist, she popped a few pieces into her mouth on the way. With her fingers. Now she knew for sure she couldn’t be counted on to preserve gentility on the frontier.

Mourning threw a length of rope over the tree branch. Jeremy tied one end around the hind legs of the carcass, while Mourning fastened the other to Dixby’s harness and led him away, hoisting the deer into the air.

“You plan on eating some of this critter tonight?” Jeremy asked.

“Indeed we do.” Mourning nodded.

“Then lower it down a bit and I’ll cut out the back straps. They’re good eating – right tender.”

Olivia came up next to them and held out the plate. The meat disappeared in what seemed seconds. Mourning and Jeremy returned to their bloody job and soon joined her around the fire. They put some of the meat they had cut into one of the frying pans and rigged up a spit for the rest.

Jeremy studied the sky. “Normally I’d say leave the carcass hanging to dry for a few days, but it looks like bad weather coming. You’d best smoke it tonight.” He looked at Mourning’s blank face and continued. “Just finish skinning it, cut the meat into smaller pieces, and hang them over a slow burning fire. You got to watch the wind and keep the meat in the smoke. And the fire not too hot. Four-five hours ought to do it.”

“I thought we spose to pickle it,” Mourning said.

“You could do that.”

While the men went to clean themselves up in the river, Olivia finished frying up the meat and potatoes.

Mourning returned before Jeremy and bent down close to her, whispering. “What he been sayin’ back there – ’bout my skin?”

“Your skin?” Olivia asked, puzzled.

“When we been walkin’ before, two a you behind me, I heard him say something ’bout my skin bein’ good.”

Olivia frowned for a moment and then realized what he was referring to and grinned. “No. What he said was that you ‘seem like a right good skin.’ It’s an expression the Irish use – means a good person. My Mammo Killion used to say that about people.”

“He sure talk funny sometimes,” Mourning said.

Olivia considered this. “He must have Irish grandparents, like me. Doesn’t have an Irish accent, but once in a while one of those sayings creeps in.”

“He sound like a skin what don’t know who he be.”

“Well you know, people pick up the way their own folks talk. Don’t even realize that other people might not understand some of the expressions they use. You know . . .” She hesitated. “I’ve always wanted to ask you about the way you talk.”

“What wrong with the way I be talkin’?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with it. Not at all. It’s just different from the way everyone else in Five Rocks speaks.”

She paused, but Mourning said nothing.

“You’re the only colored person I know, but I’m guessing other colored folks talk like you. Is that right?”

“Spose so.”

“But you grew up listening to white people all day, so I would think you might talk more like us.”

“You forgettin’ I been livin’ with them Carters.”

“Well, yes, but even then you worked for white folks. Spent most of your day with white folks. And you ran away from the Carters when you were what, nine?”

“I be talkin’ like colored folks cause I be colored folks. Not like Mr. Jeremy Kincaid what can’t decide if he Irish or American. I know what I be.”

She wondered what had aroused this hint of animosity and glanced over her shoulder to make sure Jeremy was still out of earshot. “Did he do something to make you angry?” she asked. “I thought you two were getting along just grand.”

Mourning followed her glance down to where Jeremy was still crouched on the white boulder, splashing his upper body with water. “I ain’t meanin’ to say nothing bad ’bout him. He be a right good skin hisself, helpin’ me with that buck, teachin’ me what I gotta do. Ain’t bad company neither. But I can tell you one thing – that there be a man what got a whole mess a habits from livin’ on his own and likin’ it. He ain’t gonna change one thing in his life to ’ccommodate no one else.” He paused and looked directly into her eyes. “What I sayin’ is – that ain’t no man what gonna marry you.”

Olivia’s jaw dropped. “Marry me! What an idea. Honestly, Mourning.”

Jeremy had started up the hill and Mourning spoke quickly, under his breath. “I know you been thinkin’ on it. I seen the way you be lookin’ at him and I tellin’ you – that man there ain’t gonna be takin’ on no wife.”

Jeremy’s approach saved Olivia from having to respond. She wondered if her face looked as red as it felt and busied herself turning the pieces of meat.

“That felt good,” Jeremy said, still shirtless and dripping.

Too distracted to think to offer him a towel, Olivia mumbled, “I introduced myself to your horse. Beautiful animal. What’s his name?”

“Ernest.”

“Ernest?” She laughed. “Not what I would have expected.”

She waited a moment for him to say something else. He didn’t. She rose and went inside to grind the coffee beans, wondering what had made Mourning talk like that. Had Jeremy said something about her? Did he dislike her? But he was the one who came calling; if nothing else, he must want to be friends. She sighed and fretted and finally went back out with the coffee pot, setting it near the fire, ready to brew. The three of them sat watching the meat and potatoes fry.

“What are we going to do with all that meat?” Olivia looked back toward the tree where the deer hung. “Maybe we should take some of it into town to sell.”

Mourning looked at her as if she were unbalanced. “Let someone else enjoy the fresh venison what our expert hunter lady got? You gone loony?”

“Well, it’s not going to stay fresh forever. How much do you think we can eat in a week or two?”

“Don’t you worry. I got a Michigan-size appetite. Feel like I could eat the whole thing. Anyway, you gonna pickle it,” Mourning said.

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“Must tell you in them guide books,” Mourning said. “I think all you gotta do is boil up a big pot a water and throw in a mess a sugar and salt and a handful a saltpeter. Once it be good and boilin’ you take it off the fire, skim the foam off, and let it cool ’fore you set your meat swimmin’ in there. You just gotta remember to put a big old rock on top a the meat, hold it down under the water.”

“That’s about right. It is quite simple,” Jeremy agreed.

“And if I don’t do it right, will we know if the meat’s gone off?”

“No worry on that account,” Jeremy said. “If you make a
hames
of it, you’ll smell it. So will people in the next county.”

“Well, I guess all I can do is try,” she said. She poked at the meat sizzling in the skillet, declared it done, and pulled both frying pans out of the fire. “I set the table inside,” she said. “Like a real dinner.”

“It’s quite nice out here, I thought,” Jeremy said. “Air’s a little chilly, but we’ve got the fire. Can make all the mess we want.”

“You set yourself down, Livia.” Mourning nodded in agreement. “I go get them plates. Tonight I’s waiting on you, hunter lady.”

Mourning dished the food out and neither he nor Jeremy waited for it to cool. Olivia watched them dig in, eating with their fingers and licking them. Those adventurous women in trousers probably had no use for knives and forks. Olivia hesitantly put her utensils aside and gnawed at the fried venison as enthusiastically as her companions.

After they had eaten more than their fill Olivia carried over a bucket and they poured dippers of water over their hands and splashed their greasy mouths and chins. Tired, Olivia did not offer to hunt up a towel and neither of the men asked for one – they wiped their mouths on their hands and their hands on their trousers. Olivia raised her arm, intending to use her sleeve, but couldn’t. Her dress may be torn and filthy, but she couldn’t bring herself to use it as a rag. She wiped her hand across her mouth a few more times.

She set the coffee pot in the fire and served the peaches, which they happily slurped. When she poured the coffee they obliged and shouted a loud, “Hear, hear,” in honor of Uncle Scruggs, but the conversation quickly turned to a discussion of how much bark the roof would take. Then Mourning raised his chin and pointed it over Olivia’s shoulder.

“You want Dougan and Dixby to spend the night standin’ there?” he asked.

She looked at him blankly.

“Your vegetable garden – you want it next to the cabin there, like I said?”

“Oh. Sure.” She had not given it a moment’s thought. “Do you have a vegetable garden?” she asked Jeremy.

“No.”

She managed to find other questions to ask Jeremy, but the result was the same – a simple yes or no.

“Well.” Jeremy stood up. “Time I was going. Let you tend to that meat.”

“We appreciate all your help.” Olivia started to get to her feet, but Jeremy waved her down, saying, “Don’t bother yourself. I can find my way to Ernest.”

While Jeremy was in the barn saddling his horse Olivia stared into the fire, willing Mourning to keep his big mouth shut.

“Delicious dinner,” Jeremy said as he mounted. “We’ll be by, Ernest and I.” He raised a hand to his hat and said, “After,” in farewell.

“You’re always welcome,” she called to his back, despising herself for the pleading tone of her voice.

“Guess you ain’t never heard a hard to get,” Mourning muttered as Jeremy disappeared into the dark.

Olivia did not respond.

“That talk about makin’ a
hames
– that ’nother one a them Irish things?” Mourning asked as he rose.

“I guess so. I never heard that one before, but it must be.” She turned away to clear up the dishes and then scooped up some ashes from the edge of the fire for scouring the frying pans.

“I gotta get to diggin’ a garbage pit,” Mourning said, more to himself than to her. “Now that we lucky ’nuff we got garbage.” He rose and stretched. “You get some water boilin’ while I finish butcherin’ that animal.”

Olivia built up the fire, filled the two biggest pots with water, and wandered about with a lantern searching for rocks large enough to hold the meat under the brine. Neither she nor Mourning was inclined to conversation. When they had finally finished with the meat, Olivia said good night, left her dress in a heap on the floor, pulled her nightdress on, and collapsed onto her bed. She lay looking up at the dark clouds and feeling vaguely angry with Jeremy, though she could find no justification for this emotion. He had behaved like the perfect neighbor – seen that they needed help and stayed to offer his. Had even brought them a gift. So why did she feel so insulted?

He must have a lady friend. So why couldn’t he just say so? Nothing would be easier than tossing her into the conversation. “Me and my girl don’t plan to farm.” “My girl really loves riding Ernest.” Then it would be different. Olivia would know. She wouldn’t be left thinking that she must be so ugly, boring, or stupid that he wouldn’t give her a second look, not even out here, in the middle of nowhere.

Lord in heaven, how many girls were there for him to choose from? If she were the last one on earth, would he still pay her no mind? Why? What did he think was wrong with her? He’d never heard of Crazy Nola June or Old Man Killion whoring with Jettie Place.

The air had turned cold. Shoot, why was she losing sleep over some stupid man with a chest like a chicken? There was hardly anything left of the night and they had so much to do tomorrow. Mourning said they
had
to get the rest of the roof on. She snuggled under the comforter and fell into a restless sleep.

A loud clap of thunder awakened her, just as a light sprinkle turned into a downpour. She was soaked before she got out of bed. She grabbed the wet bedding and tried to wad it up on the narrow kitchen counter, which was under the finished part of the roof, but her quilt fell to the floor. She picked it up and even in the dark could see the muddy streaks. How would she ever get it clean? It wouldn’t even fit into the wash tub.

Where was Mourning? Had he taken the wagon into the barn? The rain let up a little and she peeked out the door, but could see nothing. “Mourning!” she shouted. “I’m an idiot. Come in here if you want.”

She searched for their precious lucifer matches and found them on the counter under an overturned pot, miraculously still dry. There did not seem to be any leaks in Mourning’s roof. She dragged one of the stumps over and sat on it, shivering, her back pressed against the logs of the front wall. When the rain lightened to a drizzle she crouched by the bed to check that her things weren’t standing in a puddle, but the water seemed to be draining toward the door. Had Uncle Scruggs been that clever? Purposely built the floor with just the slightest incline? She checked the lanterns, punk wood, and food stuffs; Mourning had wrapped them all and set them on the counter against the wall, where they would be protected from the rain. Then she found her wooden clogs and ventured outside.

She nearly slid on the wet ground, but caught her balance.
Wouldn’t that be wonderful,
she thought
, to be not only chilled and wet, but covered with mud and with no dry wood for a fire?
She took small, careful steps to check on the woodpile. The sheet of canvas was in place and the back wall of the cabin seemed to be offering sufficient protection.