“I’m sick. There’s bread in the bake kettle that should be ready to come out,
but I’m sorry, I didn’t do anything else.”
He came to her bedside and hesitantly put the backs of his fingers to her
forehead.
“You burnin’ all right. I best be gettin’ that Mrs. Stubblefield.”
“No. No point in that.”
“I ain’t much on doctoring, but I bet she got some medicine, bring that fever
down.” He dipped a small towel in the bucket of water, wrung it out, and gently
swabbed her face.
“I’ll be all right … as long as I keep drinking.” Speaking required a terrible
effort, but Mourning looked so scared, she tried to keep her voice steady. “Folks
are always all right,” she said, “as long as they manage to keep liquid down.”
Mourning frowned for a moment, then turned and stooped to pull the bake
kettle out of the fire. He had wrapped both hands in rags, but dropped it, cursed,
and shook his burnt fingers. Then he folded the rags over double, bent down to
remove the lid from the kettle, and shook the loaf out onto the wooden counter.
“I be outside eatin’ some apples, till it be cool enough to slice,” he said and
stepped through the doorway.
Olivia lay in bed, wishing he would disappear for the rest of the day.
“The jam’s there on the table,” she said when he came back in.
“You want I should fix you something to eat?”
“Lord no.”
He set a pot of water on the crane and swung it over the fire, then stood in the
doorway eating bread and jam and casting nervous glances her way. When he
finished, he made a cup of tea and brought it to her, but she shook her head. He
touched her forehead again and said, “I best go get her.”
“No. I’d just as soon not have her around. Go on back to work, Mourning. I’ll
be all right. I can take care of myself.” Olivia wanted him far away – fast. She
was uncomfortably aware of how awful she smelled and her bowels were
churning.
He came back to check on her a few times during the day. The first time
Olivia pretended to be asleep, but later he caught her eyes open and asked, “You ain’t gonna die on me?”
“I almost wish I was,” Olivia said and turned away. She had no tolerance for
pain and sickness and derived some illogical satisfaction from thinking how bad
Jeremy would feel if she did die. That would show him.
“I once seen Mrs. Monroe fixin’ something for a fever,” Mourning said. “I
’member what she done – boiled up some milk and poured a glass a wine in it.
Kept cooking it till it got all full a lumps. I could go into town, get some milk
and wine.”
“Go back to work, Mourning. Thank you for worrying about me, but I’d
