Olivia, Mourning (35 page)

The wind came up again and the cabin door banged, causing Olivia to jump. She left the rifle on the chair, took cautious steps, and nudged the door open with the barrel of the shotgun. As far as she could see, everything was in place. She stepped inside, leaned the shotgun against the fireplace, and sank into Iola’s rocking chair, exhausted and glad to be out of the sun. The wagon seemed so far away. Detroit might as well have been on another continent. She knew she should get out of there, but was depleted of energy. She felt like climbing the ladder to the loft and curling up in their bed. No one was going to come and what if they did? She could say she’d come to say good-bye and found them like that. It had been such a shock, she had to lie down.

She remained rocking in the creaky chair for a long while. Then she rose and idly walked about the cabin. There was a silver watch on the mantle piece. She hesitated for only a moment before slipping it into her pocket. Then she went to the cookie jar where Iola kept her egg and butter money and took the three dollars she found. When she climbed up to the loft and overturned their mattress, she found a hidden treasure – close to fifty dollars in gold coin. She added it to the money bag and straightened the bed.

A large soup pot was overturned on the kitchen table. Olivia lifted it and discovered a plate of Iola’s fried chicken. She bent down and sniffed. She knew it must have been there since at least yesterday, but it smelled all right. Her stomach demanded food and she sat at the table, no plate or utensils, and gnawed on a drumstick. She quickly devoured all three pieces, tossed the bones outside, and licked her fingers. Then she rose and foraged for more food, for the trip to Detroit. Better her than the raccoons. Beneath another overturned pot she found an uncut apple pie. She took the wicker basket that stood next to the hearth, set the pie in it, and tossed in a few apples, some tired-looking cucumbers, and some jerky. Then she retrieved her skin of water from the woods behind the barn and Filmore’s rifle from the chair in the yard.

As she strode back toward the cabin for the basket of food, she heard the milk cow and her calf. Poor things. They must have been shut up in the cow shed all this time. On her way to let them out she also noticed how miserable the chickens looked, pecking at the bare yard. A barrel of chicken feed stood by the door to the shed. Olivia lifted the lid, tossed them a few handfuls of grain, and let the lid fall back in place. Then she frowned. Who knew how long it would be before anyone happened this way. Next Friday, when Iola didn’t show up at the store with her butter and eggs, would anyone bother to come check on them? If not, it could be weeks. Months. She set down everything she was carrying and pulled with both hands to tip the barrel on its side, letting the grain and seed spill onto the ground.

Then she entered the shed. The cow was fine – still had plenty of feed and a trough half full of water – and her calf was closed in the stall with her. Olivia considered leaving the door to the shed open so they would be able to get out, but decided against it. She’d only be letting the wolves in for a steak dinner. She hauled water from the Stubblefields’ well until the trough overflowed and then filled every bucket she found with water and set them in a row by the inside wall of the shed. A pile of hay stood in the corner and Olivia opened the door to the stall so the cow would be able to get at it.

“Sorry to leave you like this.” She stroked the cow’s nose. “But someone’s sure to come find you. Lucky you’ve got your baby with you, so you don’t have to worry about not being milked.”

That reminded her of the crate Iola kept in the stream that ran behind the farm. She walked down to the bank, yanked the rope to draw it out of the water, and added the two bottles of milk and slab of butter to her basket. Then, laden with her provisions and weapons, she strode toward the woods, now anxious to be hidden among the trees.

She had gone some way up the trail before it occurred to her – she couldn’t walk off with every penny. A bear wouldn’t have pocketed Iola’s egg money. If everything of value was gone, that could make the Law think a human had robbed and killed them. She stood among the trees for a moment, reluctant to go back, but then sighed and set her burdens down. She half-ran back to the cabin, carrying only one of the guns, and returned the three dollars to the cookie jar.

Then she marched out, finally turning her back on the Stubblefield place for the last time. But she felt no relief. None of the comfort she had expected. She felt hollow and incapable of confronting the rest of her life.

She walked as fast as she could. The basket of food was heavy and awkward to carry, and she kept switching it from one hand to the other. Her body ached and she thought she might be getting ill. She did not think about Iola and Filmore. She forced one foot in front of the other and thought about a hot bath, a cup of coffee, and a soft mattress. After a while she stopped and sat on the ground to drink one of the bottles of milk, which seemed to help settle her stomach. When she reached into the basket for the second bottle, she noticed that the butter was already beginning to melt and tossed the greasy mess aside.

After finishing the milk she paused to listen to the woods. They seemed too quiet – nothing but the buzz of a fly or bee.
Remember the sounds,
she thought.
Remember the gentle slopes of this forest. The trees that reach up to the sky. The carpet of ferns, the wild raspberries, strawberries, and grapes. This may be the last you’ll ever see of the Michigan woods. Uncle Scruggs’ paradise
. She sighed as she got to her feet and pitched the empty bottles into the woods, far from the trail.

Dixby and Dougan were waiting patiently, but Olivia had nothing to say to them. Annoyed by the flies, she removed the pie from the basket, set it on the wagon seat, and turned a bucket over it. Then she splashed water over her face and took a long drink. Feeling limp and used up, she dragged herself up onto the mattress, curled up into a tight ball, and quickly escaped into sleep.

When she woke a few hours later it was still light. She sat up and looked around, blinking as if she had no idea where she was. Then she lay back down and cried until she was worn out.

When Olivia’s sobs subsided she stretched out on her back, hands behind her head, and stared up at the blue sky. Before long the force of her new habit drew her hands to her stomach. Was she? Was it Mourning’s?

“Ain’t no use worryin’.” She sat up and spoke aloud, mimicking Mourning’s deep voice. “You gonna know when you gonna know. And feelin’ sorry for yourself ain’t gonna get you no closer to Detroit City.”

It won’t be so hard
, she consoled herself about the trip ahead.
It’s only a four hour drive to Detroit. Four hours is nothing. Why would a wheel decide to fall off today? Once I find my way back to the road, all I have to do is stay on it. There’s no way I can get lost. I’ll be there before dark, if I ever get myself moving. I’ll take a room in one of those nice hotels, pay for it with Iola’s money. She can treat me to a bath and my supper too. Tomorrow morning I’ll sell the wagon and team and all this junk. I already know how to get on a steamboat. Once I’m stuck on that tub for three days I’ll have nothing but time to stew about the rest. All I need to worry about today is today.

Hungry again, she took the overturned bucket off the pie and attacked it with the rice-encrusted spoon, eating straight out of the tin pan. She let the crumbs fall where they may and noisily spat out the few apple seeds she encountered.

“So this is how men acquire such terrible table manners,” she said to Dixby and Dougan. “I guess it would be pretty easy to get used to acting like a pig, on the trail all alone. Or with other people who are just as piggy.”

She ate without tasting, until her stomach began to ache. Then she looked down, amazed to discover she had devoured more than half the pie. She heaved what remained of it, pan and all, into the woods. Then she wiped her mouth on her sleeve, her hands on her trousers, and released the first uninhibited belch of her life.

While she harnessed the team she again felt frightened of traveling back to the city alone. She made sure all three weapons were loaded, put the shotgun on the seat beside her, tucked the pistol into the waistband of her pants, and placed Filmore’s rifle behind her in the bed of the wagon. She fretted a bit about robbers and strange men, but mostly was terrified of Iola and Filmore. She kept imagining them leaping out of the woods onto the road in front of her.

The trip was uneventful. The only distractions were a mob of wild turkeys waddling down the side of the road and a deer crossing in front of her. But the lack of diversion was not to her benefit. Flashes of the past week began to torment her. The stench that permeated these memories was so real that she more than once turned around to make sure Filmore wasn’t crouching behind her. She tried to keep up a steady stream of conversation with Dougan and Dixby.

She knew she was approaching Detroit when she saw farmers putting up a fence and then had to circumvent three men laying down new logs in the road. They removed their hats and offered greetings; she nodded politely and kept one hand on the shotgun. Then there it was. Civilization. Buildings. People. Too late, she realized she should have stopped to change out of Mourning’s trousers, but didn’t really care. So she wouldn’t stay at one of the fancy places. The United States Hotel was good enough. She surprised herself by actually finding her way to the livery where Mourning had bought the team and wagon.

“I would like to leave my wagon here,” she said to the owner, a short bald man with an enormous mustache, “and ask you to look for a buyer for the team and wagon and everything in it. Except for those.” She pointed to the two wicker baskets.

“Bad time to be selling things.” He rubbed his chin. “I’m not sure I can get you –”

“I have great faith that you’ll get a fair price for it all,” she said crisply. “Is there someone who can take those two baskets and the water skins over to the United States Hotel?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll need them as soon as possible.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“They are to be delivered to Miss Olivia Killion.”

“Yes, miss.”

She carried the pistol, shotgun, rifle, and possibles bag with her and started up the street, avoiding eye contact with the respectable women she passed, knowing she must look as if she were off to war. But she didn’t attract as much attention as she might have, thanks to the other bizarre sights on the street that day – a group of wild-haired white men in Indian garb, trappers in outlandish fur hats and pelts, and long-haired Jesuits in flowing brown robes.

Relieved to see the red, white, and blue flag over the entrance to the hotel, she marched in and asked for a room. The clerk did not bat an eye at her apparel. After he handed her the key she said, “My things will be delivered shortly. Please send them up when they arrive and then I’ll be wanting a hot bath. In the meantime, I would greatly appreciate a cup of coffee. Hot. Very hot.”

The clerk nodded amiably at each request and she climbed the stairs to her room. It was simply furnished – single bed, dresser, small table, and two chairs – but appeared to be clean. She hated to sit on the blue and red flowered bedspread in her filthy clothes, but couldn’t resist sinking down onto the soft mattress. She hadn’t been lying there long when a quick rap on the door brought her back to her feet. The clerk and another man carried her baskets in and a boy of ten or twelve handed her a tin cup of coffee covered with a china saucer.

“Just one moment, miss,” the clerk said and went out, leaving the door open. He soon returned with a large tin bathtub, a towel and washcloth, and a bar of soap in a tin holder. “When would you like us to bring the water to fill it?” he asked.

“Now. I mean, as quickly as you can. Please.”

When they closed the door behind them she picked up the coffee and took a sip. It was delicious, but hot. Very hot. She set it back down and removed the things she needed for her bath from the baskets. Then she moved one of the chairs to the window and drank her coffee while watching the bustle in the street below. When she finished she unlaced her shoes and took a deep breath before gingerly working her feet free. It was not as bad as she’d feared, after so many hours in them. She straightened her legs and wiggled her toes. Peeling her socks away was another matter; they had clotted into her bloody blisters and she ripped one and then the other off, almost crying with pain.

The clerk soon returned with two rough-looking men. They brought with them five buckets of steaming hot water and one of cold. The buckets were large, almost twice the size of those Olivia had carried up their hill, and she rose to grip one of the handles, checking to see if she could lift it.

“You want we should pour the water in for you, miss?” the clerk offered.

“Yes, that would be kind of you. But please leave one bucket of hot water aside.”

They did so and she was finally alone. Standing naked on the rag rug and using the remaining pail of hot water, she scrubbed herself with the washcloth, removing the worst layer of grime. Then she stepped into the tub, squatted in its blessed warmth, and gripped the sides as she slowly sank down. The tub was small – she had to sit with her knees folded against her chest – but the hot water was soothing, especially to her battered and bloody feet. A tin cup hung from the side of the tub and she poured cup after cup over her head. When the water cooled she dried herself quickly, slipped under the bedcovers, stretched, and then curled up.
All night. I get to sleep on this amazing bed all night. Everything smells so clean. I smell clean.

She was still naked under the covers when there was a rap on the door and a man’s voice asked if he could remove the tub. She jumped up, pulled Mourning’s shirt and trousers back on, and opened the door. One of the rough-looking men came in and dipped a bucket into the tub. He pitched the water out the window without bothering to check if anyone was on the sidewalk below and went back to fill the bucket again.

“Wait. What if there’s someone standing down there?” Olivia went to the window.

“Then the fool better move his arse.”

She backed away. When he was gone she returned to the paradise of that bed.
There’s no reason I have to leave tomorrow
, she thought.
The longer I stay, the better the chance of getting a good price for the team and wagon. Why not linger here in heaven, where people who know nothing about me bring me anything I ask for, and Iola pays for it?

And so she did. The next morning Olivia put on the dress that looked the cleanest, sent the rest of her clothing out to be laundered, and went in search of a dress shop. She paused in front of one on Fort Street called “
Chez Mademoiselle Lafleur
.” A white card in the window advertised original designs all the way from Paris, France, as well as a rack of “ready-mades” just in from New York.

A tiny bell jangled when Olivia entered, causing the woman behind the counter to look up from the book she was reading. Olivia found it difficult not to stare at her. The tight curls that framed her face were bright blonde and her large brown eyes were fringed by thick lashes. The light olive tone of her skin glowed next to the gold and green brocade of her dress. She radiated warmth, emphasized by the shiny brown-red she had painted her lips.

“Hullo,” Olivia said.

“
Bonjour, Ma chérie
. How nice to have you visit my shop.” The woman came from behind the counter and offered her hand, speaking in what Olivia assumed to be a French accent. “I am Mademoiselle Lafleur. But you must call me Michelle.”

Olivia had guessed her to be in her thirties, but now saw that she had the figure of a younger woman. She was obviously proud of that figure; the bodice of her dress was low-cut, displaying the ample cleavage her corset showed off. Olivia wondered if it was customary for shop owners to introduce themselves. Seborn certainly never had; he’d just looked up and waited for them to tell him what they wanted. Of course, he’d already known everyone who came into his store.

“Olivia Killion,” she said and shyly slipped her hand into Michelle’s.

“What a lovely name. But,
Mon Dieu
, look at your hands! What have you done to them?”

“I’ve been working on a farm.” Olivia pulled her hand away, embarrassed.

This woman even smelled elegant and Olivia felt like a graceless clodhopper. She had grown proud of her blisters and scratches – badges awarded for a hard day’s work – but next to soft, stylish Michelle, she felt coarse.

“Here in Detroit?” Michelle tipped her head to the side and smiled at Olivia, obviously curious about her.

“No. About 35-40 miles west of here. I’m just passing through on my way back East.” Olivia kept her eyes on the floor.

“You must be tired from your journey. You look a bit peeked. Pardon my asking, but I can recommend a good place to eat if you’re hungry.”

“Thank you, but I’ve eaten.” She didn’t know why, but the woman’s kindness made her feel like crying. “Could I see your ready-to-wears?”

Michelle showed her to the rack and Olivia looked through it, pausing at a gingham dress in two shades of blue, with white trim at the neck and sleeves.

“Yes,” Michelle said, “that one looks about your size. I’m sure it will look lovely on you. I have a room in the back where you can try it on.”

Olivia nodded and continued looking at the other dresses, wishing Michelle would go away.

“Please excuse me. I will be back in just a moment.” Michelle seemed to have read Olivia’s mind and walked out, setting the bell on the door ringing.

Olivia looked around, wondering if a clerk she hadn’t noticed was minding the shop, but Michelle seemed to have left her alone. A few minutes later the jingling bell announced her return.

Michelle set a brown bottle on the counter and reclaimed her seat on the stool. “Let me know if I can help you with anything.” Her attention returned to the book while Olivia continued pulling dresses from the rack. She picked up the blue gingham and was looking to see how much of a hem it had, when a hand touched her shoulder. She did not punch Michelle in the face as she had Jeremy, but flinched and pulled away, almost tipping the rack over.

“I’m sorry … I didn’t mean … are you all right?” Michelle bent to look into Olivia’s face.

“No, no, it’s I who must apologize.” Olivia’s face was red. “I … I …” She didn’t feel like repeating the lie she’d told Jeremy. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m sorry. I’ll be going.”

“Please, no, don’t be silly. There’s no reason for you to leave.” Michelle reached out, as if to place her hand on Olivia’s arm, then pulled it back.

Through the fog of her humiliation, Olivia noticed that Michelle’s French accent had evaporated.

“Sit down and rest for a while if you’d like. That blue dress would be lovely on you. It’d be a shame for you not to try it on.”

Olivia stood staring at the dress and said nothing.

“Better yet, first let me fix your hair for you.”

Olivia’s hand went to her head and she felt her face flush again. It must have been weeks since her hair had a proper washing.

“Forgive me for saying so,” Michelle said as she drew closer, “but your hair . . . It’s a shame. A lovely girl like you. Why don’t you let me give you a good shampoo? I do that for many of my customers. I have a special basin in the back. I originally meant this place to be a ladies’ hair salon.”