over and adopted her cozy “girl talk” tone, passing on harmless gossip about people in town that Olivia had never heard of. Olivia did her best to hide her boredom, wearing a strained smile and nodding. Iola seemed to especially enjoy
telling her about all the diseases folks were afflicted with and the remedies she
could have brewed up for them, if they only had the good sense to ask. Then she
began quizzing Olivia again about her time of the month.
“Did that tea I gave you help?”
“Yes, it did. I usually get real uncomfortable right before and on the first day,
but this month I hauled water and chopped wood, just like any other day.”
“And how long ago was that?”
Olivia didn’t want to answer and looked away.
“I’m only asking so I can bring you some more tea. I do it up different,
depending on what time of the month a woman gets the curse.”
“Well, yesterday, actually.”
“You started bleeding yesterday?” This somehow seemed to cause concern to
Iola.
“Yes,” Olivia said stiffly.
“Well, it’s good for me to know.” Iola patted Olivia’s arm. “When Filmore
brings them oxen back, I’ll send some tea with him for next month.”
“That’s kind of you.” Olivia’s tone was cold.
Iola turned her gaze on a pair of trousers that hung on the nail Olivia had pounded into the back wall. “You still traipsing around in them? It ain’t right, you know.” Iola seemed oblivious to Olivia’s obvious resentment of her prying.
“I don’t care if you are all alone, with no one but a colored to see you. It still ain’t right. Ain’t Christian. Bible says a woman shouldn’t wear a man’s clothing.
And here you are, in togs that belong to a nigger man.”
“It’s much easier to work in them.” Olivia spoke through a forced smile and
clenched teeth. “How’s your garden doing, Iola?”
Olivia was relieved when they finally walked off with Dixby and Dougan.
Maybe having neighbors wasn’t so wonderful after all. She’d begun to harbor a
creeping misgiving – perhaps coming to Michigan had been a mistake. Not
because they couldn’t harvest a crop; she knew they could. So far things had gone better than she’d dared hope. The fears that had begun to plague her had nothing to do with money and property.
The night before, while sinking down into sleep, she’d had a vision of herself
slowly shriveling up. Uncle Scruggs’ fields blossomed and flourished, while she
stood in the midst of the plenty they yielded, turning brown and wrinkled.
Faceless people stood at a distance, but she said nothing to them. She had
forgotten not only her manners, but how to speak at all. She was alone and would be forever.
But how could coming here have been a mistake, when she had no alternate
version of herself? Work the land for a year, she thought. You’re already here, might as well sell a crop and make some of your money back. Then you’ll see.
Anyway, you promised Mourning.
Still, doubts nagged. At eighteen, a year seemed forever. By twenty folks
would be calling her an old maid. She might start looking like Iola. What if she
started thinking and talking like her?
After the Stubblefields left, Olivia changed into her work clothes and found
Mourning in the barn. The last thing she felt like doing was working.
