Olivia, Mourning (30 page)

Olivia remained frozen until the barn door rattled closed. Then she sat up and hugged her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth, every muscle painfully contracted. She wanted to tear off her clothes and race to the river. To run until she dropped with exhaustion. To subject her body to exertion so extreme, it would expel the physical memory of everything else that had happened.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, one moment imagining clawing Iola’s eyes out, the next feeling unworthy of existence. She began scratching at her thighs, raising angry welts. If only she could peel off her skin, discard her body, escape not only this barn, but herself. She could no longer bear to be Olivia Killion. Olivia Killion was filthy. Disgusting. Indecent. Was this her punishment for what she had done with Mourning? For leaving her family? For not going to church? For wearing trousers? Paralyzed by self-loathing, she found no escape into the easy release of tears. She could not free her mind of that horrible image of herself, tied down like an animal, legs spread wide apart.

She rose and stumbled to the water barrel. There was no towel or rag, so she reached under her skirt and stepped out of her cotton petticoat. She bunched up its bottom edge and sloshed water onto it, using her cupped hand in the absence of a dipper. She cleaned between her legs and tossed the filthy, wet undergarment onto the pile of hay. Then she splashed water on her face, rinsed her mouth, and spat several times before taking a long drink. She wanted to kick, scream. To kill Iola and Filmore, tear them to shreds. But she remained motionless, hands on the rim of the barrel.

You have to think
, she told herself.
They are going to come back. Maybe they plan to tie you up again
.

The sight of the discarded petticoat, stained with her blood, made her feel like vomiting. She wadded it up and shoved it into the pile hay where she wouldn’t have to look at it. Then she studied the barn in the dim light that filtered through the cracks between the boards. It was empty except for the bed, two chairs, the hay, and the water barrel. That was why Filmore had moved everything outside – so there would be nothing sharp or heavy in here, nothing for her to use as a weapon. She rose and paced the length of all four walls, placing her hand on each board, fruitlessly searching for one that was loose or rotten.

The floor was of dirt. Perhaps she could dig under the wall, if only she had some kind of utensil, even a tin cup. Then she remembered the chamber pot Iola had mentioned and got to her knees to retrieve it from under the bed. It was tin, with a thin lip all around the edge, and she could already imagine herself crawling out of her prison. She chose a place to dig behind the hay, where they wouldn’t see it the moment they came in, but the dirt floor was packed tight. She barely managed to scratch it. Perhaps if it were wet. She went to the barrel and cupped her hand, splashing water over the side to fill the chamber pot, but quickly lost patience. She had no time for that tedious process, had to get out of there before they came back.

Overcoming her disgust, she plunged the tin pot into the barrel that she was to drink from. She poured water over the scratches she had made and filled the pan again and again, but the earth remained unyielding. She rose and walked the walls again, desperately kicking at the dirt floor, searching for a softer spot. It was no use. She’d never manage to dig her way out of here, even with a shovel. She sank down onto the hay and put her face in her hands, but the hay scratched her calves and ankles, forcing her back to her feet.

Fire
, she thought.
This hay is as dry as hay gets. Must be last year’s. I’ll move a heap of it up against the wall and set it ablaze. Folks in Fae’s Landing are sure to notice the smoke. Nothing brings people running like a fire. Mourning will see it too, and Jeremy. They’ll both come to help put it out
.

She eagerly reached into her pocket, searching for her flint and punk wood. They were gone. Iola must have taken everything after Olivia passed out. Her disappointment was like another slap in the face and she felt herself dissolving. Then she heard the faint strains of their voices.

“I gotta be getting Beauty back over to Emery’s,” Filmore was saying.

“First let me give her dinner,” Iola said. “Chicken’s just about ready. You can go after that, once she’s all locked up.”

Their steps faded away. Olivia slid the chamber pot back under the bed and ran her bare foot over the floor by the wall, concealing her attempt to burrow a way out. Then she sat on the bed, hands clasped in her lap.

Think
, Olivia told herself.
This may be the only chance I’ll get, the one time I’ll know for sure that Iola is out there alone. I’ll hear the horse’s hooves, know exactly when Filmore leaves. It will take him at least an hour and a half to ride into Fae’s Landing and walk back. There must be a way to get Iola to open the door while he’s gone. So when she brings me the food I have to behave … how? Not like I want to murder her. I have to seem subdued, as if I’m not a threat. Perhaps I can even make her believe I understand why they are doing this. Salvation. God’s will
.

Olivia shook her head.
How could Iola believe that? Because she’s crazy. Because she believes it. But what does she believe? What does she think they are doing? She must want Filmore to get me pregnant with a child for Jesus, but then what? Does she think they can hold me prisoner for nine months? Then what? Kill me, after she’s got her hands on the poor baby?

Olivia heard someone coming and froze. The door rattled open and Olivia watched silently as Iola came in with a tray and set it next to her on the bed. To Olivia’s great shame the smell of the food made her realize how hungry she was. Iola had brought two pieces of fried chicken, a heap of fried potatoes, string beans, a biscuit thick with butter, and a slice of apple pie.
What kind of poison did you put in that, you witch
, Olivia wanted to scream; but she sat stiffly and nodded at the food.

“That smells goods,” she said, straining to keep her voice neutral. But she couldn’t help saying, “You didn’t add any of whatever you put in the tea, did you?”

“That was for your own good,” Iola said, shaking her head. “Ease the way. No need for it now. But any time you’d like more of my tea, or even some whiskey, you’ve only to ask. No shame in requesting a little help when you’re doing the Lord’s work.”

Olivia imagined Iola slowly sinking into a cesspool of diarrhea, the filth filling her mouth and nostrils. Iola had left the door open and Olivia could see the shadow that Filmore cast as Iola rose to leave.

“No,” Olivia said and forced herself to continue. “Please. Stay while I eat. I want to try to understand.”

Iola pulled up a chair. She put a hand to Olivia’s forehead before she sat down. “You’re looking a little peeked,” she said. “Good meal will do for you. You got to keep your strength up.”

“There’s only a spoon,” Olivia said as she moved the plate aside.

“I know. Did you expect me to bring you a knife?”

Olivia took a few hesitant nibbles before she began to eat hungrily. Iola nodded, smiled, and said, “There’s a good girl.” Olivia hadn’t eaten since yesterday and she certainly did need to keep her strength up. There was no napkin and when Olivia finished she wiped her hands on her skirt.

“I can get you some tea,” Iola said. “Just regular tea and sugar.”

“No. Not right now.” Olivia’s voice was low and dull. “But I would like you to tell me why. Why in God’s name are you doing this?”

“Why? Because that’s exactly what it is. In God’s name. Who do you think brought you to us?” Iola leaned forward eagerly. “Do you really believe it was chance that delivered a wanton, Godless girl like you into our hands? If ever a couple was deserving of a child to raise, with a true Christian education, it’s me and Filmore. Why, you’re not fit to be a mother. You know that. Said right out you don’t want to have any children. Shame on you. So Jesus sent you to us, to bear Filmore’s child. My child.”

“But you can’t expect … What do you think, that I’m just going to agree to have a baby for you?” Olivia strained to keep her voice level, as if this were a normal conversation, two neighbor ladies discussing a mutual interest.

“Well, of course not. We knew it would take you some time to see your way to it. That’s why …” She raised her hands, palms up, and looked around the barn.

“You can’t be sure that I’ll become with child.”

Iola sat back, looking crafty. “Can’t I? I know when you last bled. Regular as a clock, you are. This is your time of the month to conceive. And conceive you will.”

The realization was awful. Iola must have started planning this the very first time the Stubblefields came over to welcome their new neighbors. All those nosy questions – did Olivia bleed regularly, what time of the month, for how many days – had begun the first time Iola laid eyes on her.

“So you plan on keeping me tied up in your barn for nine months?”

“Oh no, there’s no need for that. A week will suffice. Long enough to be certain the seed has been planted.”

Olivia had to bite back a cry. A week. Seven days. Seven times to suffer Filmore tearing her apart. The sickening smell of him. The weight of him crushing her. Iola sitting next to her, gloating.

“And then what’s to stop me from telling everyone what you’ve done?”

“Oh, you won’t do that. Not once you’ve had time to think on it. Who exactly are you going to tell? We’re your only friends. Oh, I know, you think you’re going to run to your nigger boy. Well, you can forget about him. Not that he’d be any help to you, but that’s neither here nor there. He’s gone. Filmore saw to that. You won’t be seeing any more of him.”

“What have you done to Mourning?” Olivia cried, rising and clenching her fists to refrain from striking her.

“We haven’t done anything to him. You can thank us for that. Not that a soul would pay any notice or care if we had. Nobody’s going to miss that pet coon of yours. We haven’t done him no harm, but he’s gone and I promise you he won’t be coming back.”

Olivia sat and tightly clutched the sides of the seat of the chair, wishing she could strangle the life out of this evil woman. What had they done to poor Mourning to make him go away? Was she lying? Had they killed him?

“I’ll tell folks in town,” Olivia said, managing to keep her voice steady. “Not if you let me go today. If you do, I promise not to say anything to anyone. But if you keep me here for a whole week, I’ll tell the world.”

“Oh you will, will you? Just who do you think is going to believe you? You have no friends there. What fool’s going to take the word of a girl like you – what up and left her own Christian family to go live with a nigger – against respectable church-going folk like us? You know what they’ll say? Shameless girl got herself in trouble and now she’s looking for some poor man to lay the blame on. Think about it, dear. If someone had told you a story like that about me and Filmore last week, would you have believed it? I hardly think so.”

She leaned back and smiled. “So there’s no good to come of you telling anyone. You’d only be shaming yourself. You can’t go back home, either. Not in that condition. No, your only good lies in keeping quiet and letting Filmore’s seed come to fruition. Last three or four months, depending on how big you get, you won’t go into town. You know as well as I that no one will miss you. You’re alone, Olivia. Alone. We’re all you have. We’re your family and your friends.”

“How do you think you’re going to explain the sudden appearance of a baby?”

Iola’s eyes lit up and she rose to pace. “I’ll put pillows under my skirt.” She spread her hands across her stomach. “Folks will know the Lord has finally visited me with the joy of a child. And he has, Olivia. You’re going to bring me that joy. What higher purpose could you serve? There’s no meaning to your life now. We’re going to give you that meaning. You’ll come to thank us. You don’t want to be a mother, so the Lord wants us to use your healthy young womb to bring new life into the world.” She stopped at Olivia’s side. “I’ll do the birthing for you and once it’s done, you can go wherever you please. In the meantime Filmore will tend your fields and I’ll see to all your needs. You’ve nothing to worry about. You’ll be well cared for. You sure you don’t want that cup of tea now?” Iola asked as she picked up the tray and turned to leave.

The door rolled shut and the clank of a chain was followed by the horrible, final click of a lock. Olivia rose and paced, imagining her tormenter’s skull being crushed to pieces. Her hatred focused on Iola. Filmore deserved to die, but a bullet between his eyes would do. But Iola. Olivia would happily stick a jagged knife in her eye or douse her in kerosene and strike a match.

What would convince the she-devil to open the door while Filmore was gone? There was no point in whining about being hungry or wanting to bathe. Iola would have to believe that Olivia was in danger, that something posed an immediate threat to her healthy young womb. Did they have poisonous snakes in Michigan? Olivia vaguely remembered someone on the boat talking about Massasauga rattlers, but hadn’t he said they lived in swamps? What about deadly spiders? Olivia didn’t know. All she could think of was to claim to be bleeding heavily between her legs. But first she had to have a weapon, something she could use to splatter Iola’s brain.

She picked up one of the chairs. It was heavy enough. Too heavy. She could barely raise it shoulder-high, let alone swing it around. One of its legs would make a good club. She could hide it in the bed, tucked between the mattress and the frame. But how could she take the chair apart? Perhaps if she bashed it against the side of the bed. No, Iola would be sure to hear that. Olivia put the chair down and sat on it, enraged by her helplessness.

She heard their voices outside. Then the horse clop-clopped away and Olivia looked around in desperation. There must be something. Maybe they had forgotten a piece of rope. She tore the sheet from the mattress and shook it out, then got down on her knees and peered under the bed. Nothing. She looked at the sheet again. She could tear it into strips and braid them together. That would choke the life out of Iola as well as a rope. Better yet, she could use her petticoat. It would be easier to rip to pieces and there would be no bare mattress for Iola to notice when she opened the door.

Olivia retrieved her bloody undergarment from the pile of hay and looked for something to help her start the tear. She remembered a rusty nail she had unsuccessfully tried to pull out of the wall and used it to pierce a hole in the cloth, near the seam. Once she had split the hem the material gave easily, ripping with a sharp, clean sound, all the way up to the waist. She tore six strips, careful to leave the section of the garment that was stained with her blood intact. That’s what she would show to Iola when she opened the door a crack. Olivia twisted the strips of cloth together in pairs, braided the three pairs, and knotted both ends. She had her weapon.

Now she needed more gore. Gritting her teeth, she scraped her left forearm across the head of the nail, tearing the skin open. Oblivious to the pain, she let the fresh blood drip over the old on the remains of the petticoat. Then she lay on the bed, facing the door, her knees curled up to her chest, her “rope” hidden under the top edge of the sheet, and the bloody cloth wadded between her legs.

“Iola,” she called out softly.

There was no reaction and she shouted four more times, each time more loudly.

“What?” Iola asked through the door. “You should be getting some rest.”

“Something’s wrong. I’m bleeding … down there.”

“That’s perfectly normal. Nothing to fret about.”

“No, please, help me. I feel awful and there’s so much blood.” Olivia tried her best to imitate a dying woman, gasping for breath. “Maybe you have some kind of tea.”

“I’m telling you, it ain’t nothing to worry about. Every woman bleeds her first time.”

“It’s not a little. It’s gushing all over. I feel like I’m going to die.”

There was a long silence before Iola said, “I’ll be in with some tea for you when Filmore gets back.”

Olivia kept still.

“Olivia?” Iola called out. “I said I would bring you some tea.”

Olivia waited a moment before emitting a low moan.

“You’re not fooling me, Little Missy. You’re perfectly healthy. Not one thing wrong with you.”

Olivia moaned once more, barely audibly, but heard Iola walk away. A few minutes later footfalls returned.

“I’m going to open this door,” Iola said, “but not until I know you’re over on the bed. Let me hear your voice.”

“I … I am …”

“You stay where you are. You’ll be good and sorry if you don’t.”

The lock and chain clanked again and sun streamed into the barn. Iola stood silhouetted in the strip of light, surrounded by dancing motes, peering at Olivia. She cautiously approached the bed.

“Take that cloth from between your legs and throw it here.”

Olivia appeared to attempt to obey, but her limp wrist let the cloth drop next to the bed. Only then did she notice that Iola was holding a pistol, pointed at the floor. Iola moved toward the foot of the bed, but remained at a distance and raised the weapon.

“Open your legs.”

“I can’t. It hurts too much.”

“I said spread your legs. Roll over on your back and let me see you. Pull that skirt up.”

With a great show of difficulty, Olivia did as told.

“Ain’t no bleeding. Ain’t nothing wrong with you at all.”

In one movement Olivia was up and off the bed, the braid of fabric clutched in her right hand, hidden behind her back.

“You stay put, right where you are.” Iola waved the pistol.

“What are you going to do, Iola? Kill me? Kill your baby?” Olivia took slow steps toward her. “Go ahead. Shoot me. I’d rather be dead than let your stinking, disgusting clodhopper husband near me again.”

Olivia took another step forward and Iola took one back.

“I’m walking out of here,” Olivia said. “The only way you’re going to stop me is to kill me. But you won’t do that, will you? What use am I to you dead? For all you know, your husband’s foul seed is already growing inside me.”

“You don’t need your legs to have a baby,” Iola said. “You take one more step and I’ll make a cripple of you.”

Olivia stopped. She heard a rider approaching and from the way Iola turned her head Olivia knew she’d heard it too. How could Filmore be back already? Jeremy. Maybe it was Jeremy.

Olivia lunged at Iola, knocking the pistol out of her hand. Both women fell to the ground, Olivia on top. Olivia put her right knee on Iola’s chest, leaned into it with all her weight, and managed to wrap the braided cloth around the older woman’s neck. She desperately pulled the ends in opposite directions as the horse’s hooves grew closer. If it was Filmore, Olivia had to get to that pistol, fast. Olivia leaned forward, applying more weight. Then she punched Iola in the face as hard as she could.

“How do you like it?” she shouted and pummeled her again and again.

Iola’s nose gushed blood. Olivia glanced at the pistol. Could she release her hold on Iola long enough to go for it? Then she saw Filmore, framed in the doorway.

“What …” He didn’t seem to understand what was going on.

Iola came back to life and began shrieking, “Get her. Get her.”

Olivia hesitated. The pistol was too far away, she’d never make it. So she tightened the cloth around Iola’s neck.

“You come near me, I’ll kill her,” Olivia said. “I’ll strangle her dead right here.” She pulled hard. “We’re going to get up and walk out of here.” It took all of Olivia’s strength to drag herself to her feet, bent over and still clutching the ends of the cloth.

Filmore watched dumbly, as Olivia struggled to pull Iola to her feet.

“Get her now you damn fool!” Iola sputtered, as she raised her right knee and brought her work boot down hard on Olivia’s bare foot. “Don’t just stand there like a stupid ox! Get her!”

Olivia was doubled over, nearly blinded by the pain in her foot, and Filmore had no difficulty overpowering her. One hard shove sent her sprawling to the floor. Iola spun around and raised a foot as if to kick her in the stomach, but stopped herself.

“Get her back on the bed,” she ordered her husband, her voice seething with contempt. “You stupe. She near killed me with you standing there watching.” Iola rubbed her throat, wiped her still bleeding nose with her apron, and then bent to pick up the pistol and put it in her apron pocket. “Look what she done to me.” She put her hands to her disfigured face. “I come in here to help her and that’s the thanks I get.”

Filmore was standing over Olivia, not touching her.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Get her back on the bed.”

Iola picked the braided rope off the floor and added it to her pocket. Filmore grabbed Olivia’s upper arm, yanked her to her feet, and shoved her toward the bed.

As they locked the door, Olivia heard Iola ask Filmore what he was doing back so soon.

“Come for the money I owe him. Forgot to take it.”

“So sometimes having a dimwit for a husband can be a blessing in disguise,” Iola muttered, her voice fading away.

Olivia put her face in her hands and sobbed until she was beyond exhaustion. Then she lightly probed the top of her foot, wondering if Iola had broken any bones. It was extremely painful, but she could stand and put her weight on it. She curled up on the bed, resigned, knowing there would be no escape. They were going to keep her there for six more days. Six more times to submit to Filmore’s assault on her body. Her thoughts lingered on the head of that rusty nail. That was her only way out of here, to tear both wrists across it. It might hurt terribly for a few minutes, but then consciousness would quietly drain away. It would be over. Nothing left to endure. But she knew she wouldn’t do that. She had to find out what they’d done to poor Mourning. He might need her help.

She spread her hands over her stomach and prayed she was already pregnant with his child. That would put her in a fix, but at least she would be able to love the tiny new life growing inside her. Wouldn’t want to rip the monster child out. Maybe she wasn’t being punished for lying down with Mourning – maybe it was just the opposite. God had led Mourning and her to seek the comfort of one another’s bodies that night in order to keep her safe. Mourning’s child was already nestled securely in her womb, protecting her from Filmore.