“How do you think you’re going to explain the sudden appearance of a
baby?”
Iola’s eyes lit up and she rose to pace. “I’ll put pillows under my skirt.” She
spread her hands across her stomach. “Folks will know the Lord has finally
visited me with the joy of a child. And he has, Olivia. You’re going to bring me
that joy. What higher purpose could you serve? There’s no meaning to your life
now. We’re going to give you that meaning. You’ll come to thank us. You don’t
want to be a mother, so the Lord wants us to use your healthy young womb to
bring new life into the world.” She stopped at Olivia’s side. “I’ll do the birthing
for you and once it’s done, you can go wherever you please. In the meantime Filmore will tend your fields and I’ll see to all your needs. You’ve nothing to worry about. You’ll be well cared for. You sure you don’t want that cup of tea now?” Iola asked as she picked up the tray and turned to leave.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The door rolled shut and the clank of a chain was followed by the horrible, final click of a lock. Olivia rose and paced, imagining her tormenter’s skull being crushed to pieces. Her hatred focused on Iola. Filmore deserved to die, but
a bullet between his eyes would do. But Iola. Olivia would happily stick a jagged
knife in her eye or douse her in kerosene and strike a match.
What would convince the she-devil to open the door while Filmore was gone?
There was no point in whining about being hungry or wanting to bathe. Iola
would have to believe that Olivia was in danger, that something posed an
immediate threat to her healthy young womb. Did they have poisonous snakes in
Michigan? Olivia vaguely remembered someone on the boat talking about
Massasauga rattlers, but hadn’t he said they lived in swamps? What about deadly
spiders? Olivia didn’t know. All she could think of was to claim to be bleeding
heavily between her legs. But first she had to have a weapon, something she could use to splatter Iola’s brain.
She picked up one of the chairs. It was heavy enough. Too heavy. She could
barely raise it shoulder-high, let alone swing it around. One of its legs would make a good club. She could hide it in the bed, tucked between the mattress and
the frame. But how could she take the chair apart? Perhaps if she bashed it against the side of the bed. No, Iola would be sure to hear that. Olivia put the chair down and sat on it, enraged by her helplessness.
She heard their voices outside. Then the horse clop-clopped away and Olivia
looked around in desperation. There must be something. Maybe they had
forgotten a piece of rope. She tore the sheet from the mattress and shook it out,
then got down on her knees and peered under the bed. Nothing. She looked at the sheet again. She could tear it into strips and braid them together. That would
choke the life out of Iola as well as a rope. Better yet, she could use her petticoat.
It would be easier to rip to pieces and there would be no bare mattress for Iola to
notice when she opened the door.
Olivia retrieved her bloody undergarment from the pile of hay and looked for
something to help her start the tear. She remembered a rusty nail she had
unsuccessfully tried to pull out of the wall and used it to pierce a hole in the cloth, near the seam. Once she had split the hem the material gave easily, ripping
with a sharp, clean sound, all the way up to the waist. She tore six strips, careful
to leave the section of the garment that was stained with her blood intact. That’s
what she would show to Iola when she opened the door a crack. Olivia twisted
the strips of cloth together in pairs, braided the three pairs, and knotted both ends. She had her weapon.
Now she needed more gore. Gritting her teeth, she scraped her left forearm across the head of the nail, tearing the skin open. Oblivious to the pain, she let
