“Yes. Yes, he did, And he’s almost finished putting one on the barn. That’s where he stays. Out in the barn.”
“Fine job. Hard to get good help. How’d you come by him?”
“I … uh … asked around in Detroit,” Olivia lied badly. “Soon as I got off the
boat.”
“And you picked up a colored boy and took him along with you? A complete
stranger?” Iola raised her eyebrows to her scalp.
“Well, he’s not really a stranger. He … uh … used to live in my hometown.
And some folks back home told me about him before I left, said he was in
Detroit and he was a good worker and completely trustworthy. So I went looking
for him. Lucky for me, he happened to be in need of a job.”
“Right lucky.” Iola studied her fingernails with a frown. “Where is your
hometown?” She raised her eyes and trained a piercing stare on Olivia.
A sudden chill passed over Olivia and she suddenly felt afraid of letting this
woman know anything about them, especially where they were from. Mourning
was right, there were plenty of white folks you had to watch out for.
Olivia ignored Iola’s question and said, “Let me slice some bread for us to have with that butter.”
That day was the first time she had managed to get her bread baked clear
through. They had gotten used to eating crusty rings, with the damp yeasty
center cut out of each slice, but she could have won a prize for today’s loaf and
was eager to show it off to her guests. She set out plates and knives, sliced the
bread, and put Iola’s butter on a plate and a spoon in the jar of jam.
“You got a crate for setting your butter and milk in the river?” Iola asked. Her
tone was suddenly neutral, no longer dripping with censure.
“I sure do.” Olivia nodded amiably. “I have to thank you again. It was so
generous of you to bring this. Especially when you had to carry it all that way.”
“Neighbors are meant for doing kindnesses to one another. That’s what Jesus
teaches us,” Iola said.
“I’ve met another one of our neighbors,” Olivia said. “Jeremy Kincaid. I
suppose you must know him.”
Iola nodded. “That one’s a strange bird. But I guess he’s all right. Keeps his
own counsel.”
“How long of a walk is it to your place?” Olivia asked. She put on a pot of
coffee and then joined them at the table, spreading a thick layer of butter on a slice of bread.
“’Bout two hours. Could take more. Depends who you’re walking with.”
Olivia bit into the bread and exclaimed, “Oh, Mrs. ... I mean, Iola, this butter
is absolutely delicious!” Then Olivia turned to Filmore and made a lame attempt
at conversation with him. “So when will you start planting your buckwheat?”
He had been sitting with his head lowered and eyes on his plate, seeming to
hide behind his thick, curly black beard. Olivia had no doubt that he would much
rather have been out in his fields. Making chit-chat seemed to be an ordeal for
