Olivia wrinkled her forehead. “Why would you say that?”
“I told you ’bout them.”
“You can’t know what they think about coloreds.”
“I know what I know.”
“Well even if you’re right, who cares? This is my cabin and it’s where you break your bread, long as you’re working for me. They don’t like it, they don’t
have to accept any more invitations. What do you think I’d do, if you and I went
over to their place and they invited me in for something to eat and not you?”
He shrugged.
“Well of course I would decline the invitation. I’ve always said a person can’t
fight the whole world, but this isn’t the whole world. This is my place. I sure have the say about what goes on in my own home. That’s the way things will change – when people start behaving right to the people standing next to them.”
The Stubblefields soon arrived. Olivia saw them exchange glances when
Mourning took his place on one of the stump chairs, but they settled into
conversation quickly enough, as if they sat to table with Negroes every day.
“You got to put in some Indian corn, boy,” Filmore said. “Not this year. Too
late. But come the end of next May. You ain’t had good eating till you had Michigan sweet corn. It’ll grow most anywhere, but you got to eat it fresh.
Course you also gotta put in some other strains what keep better. We just about
live on meal. Why Yula here –”
“That’s right.” Iola broke in. “I make a right tasty mush and I’ll have to teach
you how to make my ashcake.” She turned toward Olivia. “I’ll bring you over some of my corn pone and hominy.”
“I see you’re clearing more trees ’round the cabin,” Filmore said. “That’s
good. Land out here is rich, but it’s got too darn much shade.” He clapped his hands at a mosquito. “You get your land ditched and a lot of those will disappear.
You don’t, they’ll eat you alive.”
“Your meat came out quite tasty,” Iola said as she took a bite of venison.
“Few more weeks the mushrooms will be out. I’ll show you how to find the right
kind, make a catsup sauce. It’s right delicious with fish and meat. Even on a spud.”
“Have you ever seen any Indians?” Olivia asked Filmore.
“None that would bother you. Only heard of one ever killing a white man and
that was for chopping down his bee tree. But they can scare the bejeesus out of you –”
“Filmore! I will not have you taking our Lord’s name in vain,” Iola said.
He flinched and apologized, like a small boy to his mother, then continued.
“But it’s true. Injun will waltz right into your cabin, real quiet like, without so much as a howdy-do or knock on the door. See, the way they do is, if they put a
stick lying on the ground across the entrance to their wigwam, you ain’t
supposed to go in. So if you ain’t got no stick, they feel welcome to sashay right
in. Course most of ’em around here don’t live in no wigwams. They got houses
like us, except a whole mess of families live in the same one together. Still savages, but they farm the same as white folk.”
During the meal Mourning kept his eyes on his food and did not speak unless
asked a direct question. When Filmore’s plate was clean, he pushed back and
removed his pipe from his pocket.
“You get on outside with that filthy thing.” His wife batted a hand at him.
Mourning followed him. As soon as the men were out the door Iola leaned
