Olivia stuck her uncombed head through the doorway. “You’re wearing your
work clothes?”
“We ain’t goin’ to no church on a Wednesday.”
She paused, realizing she’d had no idea what day of the week it was. One day
blurred into another. “I suppose I’ll look silly in this dress,” she said, running her
hands over its skirt. “I didn’t think it was Sunday. I just thought we’ll be meeting
folks, and I want, you know, to make a good impression.”
Mourning’s blank face expressed a total lack of interest in her attire and she
raised her chin. “Well, I’m going to keep it on. I might as well enjoy looking like
a human being for one day.”
“Never know, might run into that Jeremy fellow.” Mourning raised and
lowered his eyebrows.
She ignored him. “Maybe there’ll be someplace nice to eat.”
“You gonna spend good money on food? We got all the venison we can eat
right here.”
“Well, maybe we can have a glass of nice cool lemonade.”
When she was ready to leave and came into the yard wearing her velvet
bonnet, Mourning made a show of dusting off the seat cushion and bowing
deeply before he stepped aside for her to climb up onto the wagon.
“Okay, Mourning Free, off we go. Our first trip into the great town of Fae’s
Landing. Let’s take that longer way Jeremy told you about, where we don’t have
to cross any water.”
“Yes, Miz Olivia,” Mourning replied, but there was no rancor in his voice and
they chatted amiably all the way.
He had removed his shoes as soon as he got up on the wagon, like the guide
books said, to save the leather. It made her remember him as a child, going barefooted all summer. Her heart tightened in her chest and she wished that she,
or someone, could have looked out for him better.
They entered Fae’s Landing on a wide, rutted trail that passed the general
store and ran toward the river. “Well I can’t say as I’ve ever seen such a sorry
and worn-out looking place,” Olivia murmured. “This Podunk town makes Five Rocks look good.” She bit her upper lip and shook her head.
“It got a store,” Mourning said. “That what we come for.”
“Pier Street.” She read the battered sign out loud.
Mourning followed it down to the edge of the water. The “pier” revealed
itself as a few lengths of straggly rope staked to a flat stretch of riverbank where
folks tied up their rafts and canoes. From there a narrow, bumpy dirt road cut north toward the “bridge” Jeremy had told them about – six logs, laid side by side over the river.
“Lord, I’m glad we didn’t come up on that thing at night and try to drive over
it,” Olivia said. “Wouldn’t much like to have to go under it, either. Look how low it sits. People on rafts must have to lay down flat and pray they don’t get knocked clean into the water.”
Mourning declined to comment. He turned the wagon around and drove
slowly up and down the two nameless dirt roads that ran perpendicular to Pier Street. They were lined with sagging, weather-beaten, lopsided homes. The
houses were all built of sawed lumber, but every part of them that could peel off,
