Olivia, Mourning (28 page)

All the following week Olivia moped. She could feel Mourning’s eyes on her, watching. Worrying. She no longer hummed while she worked or begged Mourning to play camp songs in the evening. She went to bed early and rose late, but was always tired.

One morning she woke with a good excuse to lie in. She felt weak and shaky, sticky with sweat, but told herself it was only the unusual weather they’d been having – unbearably hot during the day and cold at night. The dank smell of the cabin, combined with the unpleasant odor of her body, made her feel worse. Faint strains of Mourning’s deep voice drifted in:

The birds without barn

Or storehouse are fed,

From them let us learn

To trust for our bread

Hearing Mourning sing a hymn usually aroused her curiosity about his religious convictions. That morning the only thing on her mind was how she was going to get out of bed. She staggered to the door and saw Mourning behind the plow, heading toward the back section of the farm where he planned to put in winter wheat. Still in her chemise, she braced herself against the outside wall of the cabin before she struggled to the woodpile for kindling and firewood. Once she had a fire going, she collapsed back onto the bed and lay listening to the birds.

Then her stomach cramped and she fled to the outhouse. Afterward she stood by the water barrel, gripping its rim with both hands and garnering the energy to wash up and take a few sips of water. Feeling slightly better, she went in and pulled on her clothes, mixed up dough for bread and left it to rise, and trudged down to the tub by the river, carrying a bucket filled with dirty clothes. She started scrubbing a shirt against the smooth boulder she used, but suddenly doubled over and vomited into the river. Then she crawled a few feet upstream to rinse her mouth and face. The cool water made her shiver and the ache in her bones told her she was good and sick. She turned and dragged herself back up the hill to bed.

Later she forced herself up, first to stoke the fire and then again to put the bread in the kettle to bake. Then she lurched out to the yard, threw up violently, and stooped to paw some loose dirt over the mess. She splashed water from the barrel over her face, blew filth out of her nose, rinsed her mouth, and went back inside, carrying one empty bucket and one filled with water. She sprawled on the bed, the usually tantalizing smell of baking bread causing her stomach to turn. Not many minutes passed before she had to get up and vomit again, and then again. Each time there was less in her stomach and it began to feel as if she were going to spit out internal organs. By the time Mourning came in for something to eat, Olivia was lying on the bed like a rag, soaked in sweat. He stood hesitantly in the doorway.

“Livia? You ’sleep? You all right?”

“I’m sick. There’s bread in the bake kettle that should be ready to come out, but I’m sorry, I didn’t do anything else.”

He came to her bedside and hesitantly put the backs of his fingers to her forehead.

“You burnin’ all right. I best be gettin’ that Mrs. Stubblefield.”

“No. No point in that.”

“I ain’t much on doctoring, but I bet she got some medicine, bring that fever down.” He dipped a small towel in the bucket of water, wrung it out, and gently swabbed her face.

“I’ll be all right … as long as I keep drinking.” Speaking required a terrible effort, but Mourning looked so scared, she tried to keep her voice steady. “Folks are always all right,” she said, “as long as they manage to keep liquid down.”

Mourning frowned for a moment, then turned and stooped to pull the bake kettle out of the fire. He had wrapped both hands in rags, but dropped it, cursed, and shook his burnt fingers. Then he folded the rags over double, bent down to remove the lid from the kettle, and shook the loaf out onto the wooden counter.

“I be outside eatin’ some apples, till it be cool enough to slice,” he said and stepped through the doorway.

Olivia lay in bed, wishing he would disappear for the rest of the day.

“The jam’s there on the table,” she said when he came back in.

“You want I should fix you something to eat?”

“Lord no.”

He set a pot of water on the crane and swung it over the fire, then stood in the doorway eating bread and jam and casting nervous glances her way. When he finished, he made a cup of tea and brought it to her, but she shook her head. He touched her forehead again and said, “I best go get her.”

“No. I’d just as soon not have her around. Go on back to work, Mourning. I’ll be all right. I can take care of myself.” Olivia wanted him far away – fast. She was uncomfortably aware of how awful she smelled and her bowels were churning.

He came back to check on her a few times during the day. The first time Olivia pretended to be asleep, but later he caught her eyes open and asked, “You ain’t gonna die on me?”

“I almost wish I was,” Olivia said and turned away. She had no tolerance for pain and sickness and derived some illogical satisfaction from thinking how bad Jeremy would feel if she did die. That would show him.

“I once seen Mrs. Monroe fixin’ something for a fever,” Mourning said. “I ’member what she done – boiled up some milk and poured a glass a wine in it. Kept cooking it till it got all full a lumps. I could go into town, get some milk and wine.”

“Go back to work, Mourning. Thank you for worrying about me, but I’d rather be alone. Go plow your fields.”

After the steady thuds of his footsteps faded away, Olivia lay in bed feeling worse than just sick. She was tired. Of everything. A swamp of exhaustion had begun sucking her down into it, even before this illness came upon her. She knew she would soon get better, be able to go back to her chores – but what for? Why bother? It had come upon her unexpectedly, this not caring about anything. She could remember how anxious she had been to get to Michigan, claim this property, and make a new life; she just couldn’t remember why.

For the next two days, as she lay in bed slowly recovering, she failed to regain any sense of urgency. So she would have her own farm; so what? There was no one to share it with. Mourning would go off to claim land of his own. She would go on hauling water and cutting wood to heat an empty cabin in the middle of nowhere. If she fell into the river and drowned no one would notice – or care if they did.

Not two months had passed since they’d boarded the boat in Erie, but it seemed so long ago. She was no longer Olivia Killion, the storekeeper’s daughter, but neither had she turned into someone new. She was nothing but two pairs of limbs that got up every morning to do chores.

The only time her mood briefly improved was when she managed to work up some anger at herself.
What’s the matter with you? There used to be things you cared about and wanted to do for yourself, the same way Jeremy does. Are a few weeks of hard work more than you can take? Look out for your own self, your own future. Who needs a man any way? All they want with a woman is someone to boss.

It didn’t work for long. She always ended up admitting that she surely did want a man. Not bossing her around, but giving shape to her life.

A few times each day Mourning came in to gently feed her spoonfuls of tea and Olivia managed to smile at the big black guardian angel hovering over her. He might as well have been the only other human being left on earth. When her fever finally broke, he brought his mattress from the barn, threw it down in front of the cabin, spread a sheet over it, and helped her outside.

“You sit out here in the sun,” he said. “Fresh air gonna do you good.”

He brought her a pot of tea and a plate of bread and jam. He also tossed down a blanket, towel, clean nightgown, bar of soap, and a washrag. He lugged the washtub over near her and filled it with water he had heated over the fire. Then he hauled Olivia’s damp mattress and bedding outside and spread them to air on the buffalo grass.

“I be choppin’ trees ’round back, so you can clean yourself up, if you be wantin’ to,” he said. “I come back in an hour or so, see if you be needin’ anything.”

“Thank you.” She smiled, wanting to tell him how much she appreciated having him there, but not knowing how. “I’ll give a whistle when I’m finished.”

That tub of clean water was what she needed first. After he’d been out of sight for a few minutes and the steady blows of his axe began, Olivia pulled off her sour nightgown. She first knelt next to the tub, stuck her head in it, and shook her hair out. Then she stood in the water and bathed herself.

Not only her fever had broken; the heat wave was over and the cool air felt wonderful on her worn out body. When she collapsed on the mattress, she imagined the Stubblefields coming up the trail and finding her lying there, naked except for the towel. That thought, however, was funny rather than frightening. What did she care about them? What did she care what anyone thought?

Once she felt completely dry, she pulled the clean nightgown over her head and covered herself with the blanket. Then she put her thumb and forefinger to the sides of her mouth and produced a loud whistle. She curled up and slept, until clouds blocked the sun and the chill in the air woke her. Then she rose, dragged her mattress and bedding back inside, cleaned her mouth with tooth powder, and brushed the tangles out of her hair. She climbed into bed and quickly fell asleep. Next thing she knew, it was growing dark and Mourning was rustling around the cabin, trying to scrape up something to eat without waking her. He saw that her eyes were open and came near the bed, squinting at her in the dim light.

“You feelin’ better?”

“Yes.” Olivia nodded with a smile. “Much better, thank you.” She lightly touched his hand. “I never had anyone take such good care of me.”

“You feel like eatin’?”

“Maybe just some toast.”

He put a chunk of bread on a stick by the fireplace. The warmth of the cabin felt good and the smell of the toasting bread aroused her appetite. Olivia watched Mourning throw potatoes into the pot for supper and put the kettle on. He handed her a plate with the toasted bread and she ate, still watching him. He pulled a stump chair close to her side and told her what he had managed to get done that day and that Filmore had brought the oxen back, along with some eggs and butter.

“That was a fright you gave me,” he said, as their eyes met after a long pause.

He looked ill-at-ease and rose to take the kettle from the fire. When he brought her a cup of tea, he moved the chair aside and rested his left hip on the edge of the mattress. Then he hesitantly put his arm around her shoulders, as if she required help sitting up. Feeling the warmth of him through her thin nightdress, Olivia closed her eyes and flushed red.

I don’t need any help to sit up and drink my tea
, she thought.
And he knows that I don’t. And he knows that I know that he knows.

She allowed herself to lean against him. He was so warm, so strong, so kind. Why did white people have to be so stupid? He must have cleaned himself up in the river; he smelled so good. Without thinking, she turned toward him and put her arms around his neck. Her breasts, unrestrained under the muslin chemise, pressed against his chest. The tin cup fell from Mourning’s hand, splashing tea on the floorboards, and he froze for a moment before returning her embrace. He held her close and she pressed the side of her face to his neck, breathing in the scent of him.

You can’t do this, you can’t do this
, a silent voice screamed from somewhere far away. Olivia ignored it. She was so tired of being alone. She didn’t care what people thought. Especially horrid people who said hateful things about a wonderful man like Mourning.
What do they know, ignorant corn-crackers?
Then the voice changed its refrain.
What’s the matter with you? His being colored has nothing to do with it. No one but a slut behaves like this with any man, of any color.

But Olivia couldn’t make herself care. She wanted to stay like that, with Mourning’s arms around her. It felt warm. Safe. When had anyone else ever cared about her he way he did? Besides, there was no one here to know, to talk. No one. There was only her and Mourning.

Mourning leaned back to look into Olivia’s eyes for a long moment. She returned his stare, unblinking. When he pulled her close she took in a deep breath and clung to him, both arms around him and face pressed against the side of his neck, eyes shut, close to tears. No one had ever held her this way. No touch had been so welcome, comforting and exciting at the same time. Her mind remained shocked by what she was doing, but her heart wanted his body against hers. Her aches and pains had disappeared; something else was flooding through her.

He leaned away from her again and she opened her eyes. His gaze locked on hers as he reached both hands behind his neck and took hold of her wrists. She let him pull them away, releasing her embrace, but after a moment she raised her hands again, placing her palms lightly on either side of his head.

“Yes,” she said softly.

“Move over.”

She slid down the mattress and farther toward the middle. He rose and shifted his body so he was still sitting, but facing her. He put his hands on her shoulders and continued to look into her eyes. Then he gently touched her face and brushed her hair away. She took in another sharp breath when he placed his hand on her breast and began tracing gentle circles through the cloth. Olivia closed her eyes and lay still. She had never imagined her body capable of producing such sensations and allowed herself to be lost in them.

Then she began to feel as if she were hovering over the bed, watching.
There is Mourning Free down there and, look, that girl is letting him put his hands on her breasts. How can she do that? Isn’t she ashamed? No decent girl would let a man do that.
Warmth spread down her body, until the soles of her feet felt as if they were on fire.
Tell him to stop. You must tell him to stop. You know he will, if you just tell him to.

But she kept silent and let him do as he pleased. When his hand reached under the chemise and touched her down there, her only fear was that he
would
stop. She didn’t know what she’d expected the things that men and women do together to be like, but certainly not this. No one ever talked about it feeling good. On the rare occasion that women in Five Rocks could be overheard whispering about the unspeakable, it was as something to be endured.

Olivia let herself drift into pleasure, struggling to push away the sense of shame that kept creeping up. When Mourning tugged at her nightgown she cooperatively lifted her hips, letting him bunch it up under her arms. She turned her head aside, eyes squeezed shut, astonished that she was allowing him to study her naked body in the dim light. Then he placed his warm hands on her belly, ran them down to her thighs, and spread them apart. Had her mother and father done this? Her father and Jettie Place? When the Reverend and Mrs. Dixby came to mind, Olivia almost giggled. Then she stopped thinking at all. Mourning had lightly rested the palm of one hand between her legs and was moving it in a slow circular motion.

“Open your legs wider,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Olivia obeyed and peeked at him. For a moment she returned to awareness and was curious. Had he done this before? He must have. He was working on her body with the same look of concentration he wore while whittling a whistle or mending a wagon wheel.

“Try to relax,” he said, as he bent her knees and pushed them apart. “You gonna like it better if you do.”

He moved away from her for a moment while he took off his shoes. Then he knelt between her legs. From beneath partly closed lids she contemplated the tent pole pushing his pants out and thought,
so that’s where it is, that’s how they do it
.

He unbuttoned his trousers and when he leaned over her Olivia went cold with fear. But then he touched her again and she floated off on a cloud of sensation. Her feet were burning and the pleasure she felt between her legs was so sharp it was almost painful.
What is wrong with me? Do any other women feel like this?

Mourning’s face hovered over hers for a long moment, as if giving her a last chance to push him away. Then he put his hand to his mouth and touched her down there again, his fingers slippery with saliva, before he slid his hands under her bottom, raised her up, and plunged into her with one long thrust.

Now there was pain. He pushed in and out, so heavy on her she could hardly breathe, for what seemed forever. Finally he pulled out of her and issued a loud moan. He rolled over with his back to her and lay still for so long that she began to fear he had died.

Then he turned back and looked into her eyes again before kissing her, his tongue exploring her mouth. Olivia put her hands on both sides of his head and gently forced him to lift himself, so she could see his face. For that moment she felt neither shame nor fear. She smiled, pulled him close to her, and kissed him back.

“Open your legs,” he said and began touching her again, managing to make her forget the burning pain.

When she woke the next day Olivia was alone in the bed. She listened for him, wondering if he had remained at her side last night or gone to the barn. She wished she could sink back into the oblivion of sleep and forget what they had done, but a dull pain down there made that impossible. Her face flamed red as she relived the details. She felt moist and sticky between her legs and dragged herself out of bed to wash. Lifting her nightgown, she saw that her inner thighs were streaked brownish-red. A smear of dried blood formed a sad-looking heart on the bed, next to another light-colored stain. She tore the sheet off, dipped a corner of it into the water bucket, and used it to clean herself. Then she plunged the sheet into the bucket, splashing the floor.

She crawled back onto the bare mattress, feeling desolate and paralyzed. Eventually she forced herself to dress and go out. Mourning was walking toward her, coming up from the river. His pace slowed when he saw her standing by the water barrel.
Dear Lord, what will he say?
They managed to exchange greetings without actually looking at one another.

“Thirsty?” Olivia held out a dipper of water.

He took the dipper and drank.

“I’m feeling much better now,” Olivia said. “I’ll be going back to work.”

“Good.”

“I’ll make breakfast,” she said, wondering how late it was. The sun had already climbed halfway up the sky.

He nodded and strode to the barn, where she could hear him clanking things around. She lit a fire outside and fried up eggs with strips of venison. While it was sizzling she fretted about her morals – or lack of them. But that worry succumbed to anxiety about what Mourning was thinking. He wouldn’t have done those things if he didn’t have some kind of good feeling for her, would he?

She didn’t expect declarations of undying love. She knew, as he surely did, that they could never do that again. It had been a terrible mistake that could bring nothing but disaster upon them. But why did he seem unable to tolerate the sight of her in daylight? Couldn’t he at least smile? Say something nice? Let her know he didn’t think she was a filthy slut? She felt like a discarded old boot.

I am a slut. Only a slut does things like that with someone she isn’t married too, and not even married women are supposed to like it. What is wrong with me? Now I have lost my only friend.

Another part of her despaired that Mourning wouldn’t ever touch her like that again. Kiss her again. Look at her that way. Would anyone? She tried to imagine doing that with Jeremy and couldn’t.

Maybe Mourning wasn’t disgusted by her. Perhaps this was simply the way men behaved. She remembered being in Mrs. Place’s bakery once when she was a little girl, short enough to be invisible to anyone on the other side of the counter. Olivia had overheard Mrs. Place in the back, laughing with some woman who was visiting her. “Don’t you go believing that,” Mrs. Place had said. “You think Seborn keeps coming around because the lovemaking is so great? Believe me, it ain’t. But that don’t matter none. You know what’s so attractive about women like you and me? They don’t got to talk to us much in between times.”

Olivia’s stomach churned as another sorry fact occurred to her. No white man would have her now. If no one had wanted her before, who would now that she was a fallen woman? Most folks would say a white woman couldn’t fall any lower than lying down with a colored. Olivia imagined everyone she’d ever known whispering behind her back. “Olivia Killion? Don’t you know? She’s that nigger’s whore.”

She knew those folks were despicable. None of those gossiping, bigoted, hateful people were anywhere near as honest and good and smart as Mourning Free. But she also knew it didn’t matter. That was the world she lived in – one in which Mourning was a nigger and she had just become the worst kind of white trash. No, no white man would have her. Not if he knew. Not the fiercest abolitionist and not the most quivering Quaker.

Olivia thought about Mrs. Place and the way she stayed in Five Rocks and ran her business with that tight smile on her face, knowing how everyone talked about her. No one invited Mrs. Place anywhere or sat in the same pew with her on the rare occasions that she ventured into church – and she had been sinning with a white man.

When the food was ready Olivia called Mourning.

He sat on one of the stumps with his plate with nothing to say but, “Sun feel good.”

“Yes, it does.”

Olivia sat across from him, picking at her food. It took her a while to come to a startling realization – there was no reason anyone need know what they’d done. After all, Mourning wasn’t going to be posting any notices. It was a novel thought to Olivia – that a person could do something so utterly unacceptable, yet suffer no consequences. She felt as if it must be stamped across her forehead. One look at her face and anyone would know. But the longer she sat there studying on it, the more it seemed possible for them to simply go on with their lives, as if nothing had happened. Wasn’t that what Mourning was trying to do?

She brightened for a moment before real fear seized her. What if her belly swelled up like a watermelon? For the first time she understood why they called it “getting caught” – because if you didn’t grow heavy with child, no one would ever know. She put a hand on her stomach and wondered how you could tell, what it felt like to have a baby growing inside you.

She had set her plate down and kept her eyes on the ground, but now raised them to Mourning. “Are you as scared as I am?”

He looked at her, a strange mixture of resentment and apology on his face. “I got a reason to be? No point bein’ scared, less you got cause.”

“How do I know? I don’t know how you can tell.” Her hand went back to her stomach. “Can a girl be with child after just one time?” she asked softly.

“Course she can.” His face softened. “But it be takin’ some time ’fore she can tell.”

“How can she tell?”

“Ain’t no woman never told you nothing? First thing is the next month when she don’t … you know.”

“Oh.”

“They be things a girl can do,” he said, averting his gaze from her. “Things a doctor can do. Need be, I go to that Backwoods place, try and find you one.”

“Well.” Her voice grew stronger. “I guess there’s no point in worrying about that yet. But we can’t … not ever again.”

“I know. And, Livia, I got to know, no matter what, that you ain’t gonna be sayin’ I forced it on you.”

“You think that of me?” She stood up and put her fists on her hips. “That’s what you’ve been looking so angry about? You think I could do that to you?”

“Don’t know. Happen to plenty a colored men.”

“Well, it won’t happen to you. You should know that without me having to say so.” She stomped away.

“All right then. Guess I do.” He called to her back.

They both set to work and didn’t speak again until supper. When it began to grow dark, he lit a fire in the pit and played his harmonica. Olivia joined him and poked a stick in the flames as she hummed along to
Green Sleeves
,
Yankee Doodle
, some hymns she didn’t recognize, and then his favorite, the one he always played last –
Amazing Grace
. The sky was soon black and she looked up at the stars, hugging herself. Maybe everything would be all right. Maybe he would still be her friend. She could get through anything, as long as she wasn’t all by herself.

She relaxed enough to grow curious. There were so many things she wanted to ask him. Here she was, what folks call an experienced woman, but she didn’t feel that way. She hadn’t even seen his mysterious thing. He’d sat there studying every little nook and cranny of her body, but Olivia hadn’t gotten a single glimpse of his privates. She almost giggled, imagining herself asking him to be fair – drop his pants and let her poke around.

“Mourning,” she said when he stopped playing, “you’ve done that before, haven’t you?”

He shrugged.

“Is it different with different people?”

“People got different faces?”

“Oh.”

He rose and threw dirt on the fire, then turned his back to her before he spoke. “I heard there ain’t so many men what know how to do the way a woman need. You gotta find you one what does. You ask me, most white women be plain stupid. When they huntin’ themselves up a husband, all they aksin’ is how much money he got. Then for the rest of they lives they sit around together, drinkin’ tea in fancy cups, and wondrin’ why ain’t none of ’em happy. You gotta find a man what can do right for you. Then you got to do right for him. You ’llowed to move. Don’t gotta be lyin’ there like no dead cat.”