Olivia, Mourning (31 page)

Later Iola returned with another meal. Olivia was on a chair, hugging her knees to her chest. She smiled when she saw the left side of Iola’s face, swollen and painted shades of blue and yellow. Iola set Olivia’s tray on the bed, picked up a large wad of something wrapped in muslin, and held it out to Olivia.

“Put that on your foot. Keep the swelling down.”

Olivia ignored her.

“Up to you.” Iola shook her head. “But a nice poultice of stewed white beans is the best thing for it.”

Olivia declined to take it from her, but raised her face to stare into Iola’s. “I want to know what happened to Mourning. If you tell me where he is, I won’t give you any more trouble. I promise.”

Iola replaced the poultice on the tray and put her hands on her hips. “Oh, I’m not worried about that. You get to feeling like you’re dying again, you’re just going to have to go ahead and die.” Iola brought her face close to Olivia’s. “I even brought you a fork to eat your dinner with, I’m that sure of you behaving yourself from now on. Because I’ve got a promise to make to you.” She leaned in closer. “You try to get away again, you raise your hand to either of us, you know what’s going to happen to you? One of us will come into this barn alone, but it won’t be me. I’ll help tie you up, but then I’ll leave Filmore with a bottle of whiskey and tell him I have to go into town. He’ll have to manage on his own. He’ll be free to do whatever he wants. Now I know you’re young, don’t have any idea of the kinds of disgusting things a man can want to do to a woman. Not to mention what he’ll want you to do to him. You sure don’t want to find out, but you will, you give my any more trouble. So you enjoy your dinner while you consider on that.” She turned and left.

Olivia had no appetite. She laid the poultice over her foot and sipped the tea, but let her food go cold. She picked up the fork and imagined stabbing it into Iola’s eye, but set it back down, beaten. When Iola came back for the tray, neither of them spoke. Then Iola noticed the blood where Olivia had cut herself and grabbed her arm.

“Stupid girl,” she said and stomped out. When she returned she was carrying a small glass jar and smeared some of its contents over the wound.

Most of that night Olivia lay awake.
Don’t think about it
, she told herself.
Don’t think about tomorrow. There’s no way you can stop it. They’ll only hurt you more. All you can do is wait for it to be over. Save your anger and hatred for later, after they let you go. Stay strong. You’ve got to eat. Get up and walk around. It only lasts a few minutes. Think about other things.
When she finally escaped into sleep, she dreamt of her father’s funeral, of jumping down after him into that black pit.

The clank of the barn door woke her in the morning. Her limbs felt heavy, as if she could barely move. When she opened her eyes and remembered where she was, the rage that filled her quickly dissipated into apathy. Iola put her head in and told her to get up and use the chamber pot. They left the barn door open while they stood outside and waited for her to finish. Then they came in and Olivia succumbed to being tied up without a struggle. Filmore, drunk again, enthusiastically climbed up and shoved himself into her. It took longer this time.

After they left, Olivia rolled over and sobbed, weakly beating her fists against the mattress. Five more days. She couldn’t survive five more days of this. Not one more day. She didn’t want to. She wanted to die. She didn’t want to inhabit this body. Finally, she stood, went to the barrel, cleaned herself, and splashed water over her face.

No
, she thought,
they are not going to get away with this. They have stolen my life, it will never be the same, but they are not going to get away with it. If I get through this without losing my sanity, I will tell people what they did to me. Someone will believe me
.

When Iola brought her a breakfast of fried eggs, buttered biscuits, and an apple, Olivia kept her voice steady and said, “I want two buckets of warm water, a washrag, some soap, and a towel. And a dipper. And I want a hairbrush. And something else to wear while you launder my dress. And a blanket.”

Iola hesitated before she nodded and said, “All right.”

Olivia forced herself to eat. Iola soon returned with the things Olivia had requested, including one of Iola’s worn housedresses. She set them down and said, “Take off your dress and hand it out the door before we lock it.”

“I want you to leave the door open a crack, enough to let some light in. And I want some books.”

“You know we aren’t going to leave the chain off the door.”

“I didn’t ask you to. I said open enough to let some light in. Just a strip of light, too narrow for me to get through, but wide enough to read by. And to let some fresh air in here.”

“We don’t got no books, ’cept for my Bible.”

“I do. On my bed at home. Go get them.
The Pioneers
and
The Last of the Mohicans
.”

Iola stood staring at her for a long while. “All right. But it won’t be until later. We got a farm to take care of, in between waiting on you.”

Filmore tested the lock on different links of the chain until he was satisfied. After Olivia heard him clomp away, she tore her filthy dress from her body and tossed it outside. Then she scrubbed herself. The water tingled on her skin and for a moment she felt almost human.

Left with nothing to do but think, Olivia tried to puzzle out why Filmore had needed a horse on the day they abducted her. It may have had something to do with Mourning, but what? Filmore had been home when Olivia arrived and hadn’t gone anywhere since then, except to return Beauty to Emery Meyers. So what had he needed the horse for? Then she remembered. That first day – was it only two days ago? – she’d been unconscious for Lord knows how long. That was when he’d done it – waited until she was safely captive and then gone to do whatever he did to Mourning. Made sure Mourning wouldn’t come looking for her. Yes, that was the only explanation. Mourning had been fine that day, working out in the farm. She imagined him hearing a rider approaching, looking up and seeing it was Filmore, taking off his hat and coming to greet him with a smile. Then what?

Iola looked exhausted when she brought Olivia’s books with her supper. “I need something for my feet,” Olivia said, the only words either of them spoke. “At least a pair of socks.”

When Iola came back for the tray and to empty the chamber pot she wordlessly placed some woolen socks on the bed and a pair of house slippers on the floor.

When they came the next morning, Iola said to Filmore, “I don’t think we need to bother with the ropes today.”

She was right. Olivia lay lifeless while he violated her, though she did whisper in his ear, “You know you’ll burn in hell for this.”

“It’s God’s will,” he slurred.

“You’re sick. Both of you. You’ll go to prison.”

“No, we won’t,” he said. “No one will believe you. We go to church and you don’t.”

It was like talking to a child who wasn’t right in the head and she gave up. Iola kept her nose in the Bible, pretending not to hear. When it was over, she brought Olivia another clean dress and laid it on the bed.

Every time they came into the barn he seemed to smell worse. Olivia stopped thinking of him as a human being. He was a wild animal. While he was on her, she turned her face to the wall and counted. Once it took only up to ten; once as high as eighty-four.

“What did you do to Mourning?” she asked every day.

The response was always the same: “What makes you fret so much over that ignorant nigger?”

Every day, after they left, Olivia cleaned up and then sat by the door reading. When she lost control of her thoughts and they threatened to destroy her resolve, she repeated over and over:
They are wild beasts. This will not last forever. I will survive. This is not my fault. I will make them pay.
The thought that helped most to keep her strong was:
Mourning needs my help.

Filmore began to whisper things in her ear while he was raping her: “You like this, don’t you? Not like Iola.” Or “Ain’t doing God’s will fun?” On the seventh day, he rose up off her, leaned back, and howled: “Woman is the gate of the devil – the path of wickedness – the sting of the serpent.” Then he half-fell off the bed and staggered out.

After a long pause Iola said, “So, you’ll be going home today. I told you it would be over before you knew it.”

But she locked the door behind her. When she returned with the usual bucket of warm water she also set Olivia’s shoes on the floor next to the chair. Then she drew a pair of her own drawers out of her apron pocket and laid them on the bed.

“I’ll not have you leaving here half-naked, like a whore. It’s time you learnt to behave like a decent Christian woman. You wash up while I go get your dress and your breakfast. You have to eat well now. Take care of yourself.”

Again the door closed behind her. The sound of the lock clicking shut paralyzed Olivia. They were never going to let her go. But she dragged herself off the bed and began cleaning Filmore from her body. Iola soon returned, set a tray of food on the bed, and then held out the dress Olivia had been wearing the day she came.

“Go on, put it on.” Iola nodded disapprovingly at Olivia’s thin chemise. “Get yourself covered up. Learn some modesty.”

Olivia took the dress, but her fingers felt numb and she stared as if she didn’t know what to do. Finally she pulled it over her head.

“One of the buttons fell off when I was washing it, but I sewed it back on for you,” Iola said as if expecting thanks.

Olivia’s head jerked up as a sickeningly familiar smell reached her. Filmore came in, set a water skin and leather bag next to the breakfast tray, and hurried out without looking at Olivia.

“There’s some fruit and bread in there for you to take home with you,” Iola said, nodding at the bag on the bed while Olivia fumbled with the buttons of her dress and ties of her apron. “Get them drawers on you,” she ordered and Olivia obediently stepped into them, shivering with revulsion. “Well, go on now, sit down and eat,” Iola said impatiently. “Your eggs are getting cold.”

Olivia sat and stared at the plate. Fried eggs dusted with black pepper and two flapjacks generously spread with butter and jam.

“Go on, eat. Then it’s time for you to go home,” Iola said. “Filmore will come by tomorrow, see what needs doing around your place. He’ll bring eggs, butter, and bread. Tomorrow’s Friday, so he has to deliver eggs and butter to the store anyway. I’ll send some chicken too, if I have the time to fry one up. If not, you still have plenty of venison. You get yourself a good rest. It’s been hard on you, I know, and now you’ve got to look after yourself. The walk home will do you good, but you best lie in bed after that. I’ll stop by day after tomorrow, see how you’re feeling. Bring you some of my tea.”

Olivia recoiled when Iola reached out to pat her arm. On her way out Iola paused in the doorway and turned to say, “You don’t got to worry about Filmore bothering you none. That’s all behind you. He wouldn’t dare. He knows I’ll be talking to you.”

Iola disappeared from the doorway and Olivia remained motionless, frowning at the food. It took a few minutes for her mind to register the fact that Iola had left the door standing open. As if all Olivia had to do was stand up and walk out of hell. She rose and took a few hesitant steps. It looked like a beautiful day out there.

Go
, she told herself.
Get away from them. Fast. Before she comes back. Go. Go. Go
.

But her limbs didn’t obey. She walked hesitantly to the door and stopped at the threshold, leaning forward to peek out. A few chickens were scratching in the yard, but she saw neither of the Stubblefields. She turned her head the other way. There was the trail. The way home.

Suddenly alive, she took quick steps to the bed and sat to pull on her shoes, fumbling with the laces. Clumsy in her panic, she sent the tray of food clattering to the floor. She rushed to the door and paused again, looking out at the clearing as if she had never seen it before.

She stumbled toward the trail and into the woods and ran until her lungs felt ready to burst. When she tripped over a branch and fell, loud sobs escaped her. It had rained lightly the night before and she lay on the damp ground for what seemed a long while before sitting up and looking around, still in a daze. Above the treetops was a brilliant blue sky, scattered with cotton clouds. A gentle breeze whispered and songbirds chirped to one another.

But it’s a different world
, she thought.
For me it will never be the same. For the rest of my life I will dwell in a dark secret place. No one else will ever be able to understand. There’s no way for anyone to set me free from it. I’m out of that barn, but I’ll always carry a different kind of prison on my back
.

It required a tremendous effort to force herself to her feet. She felt as if the blood had frozen in her veins and began trembling with cold. Something rustled in the underbrush and she shrieked. Someone was coming! Filmore was after her! She hid behind the thick trunk of an elm to watch for him, but the trail remained empty. She began to fear that she would find him waiting for her when she got home. She’d open the door to her little cabin and there he’d be, lying on her bed, leering. Her knees buckled at the thought.