stepped inside, leaned the shotgun against the fireplace, and sank into Iola’s rocking chair, exhausted and glad to be out of the sun. The wagon seemed so far
away. Detroit might as well have been on another continent. She knew she
should get out of there, but was depleted of energy. She felt like climbing the ladder to the loft and curling up in their bed. No one was going to come and what if they did? She could say she’d come to say good-bye and found them like
that. It had been such a shock, she had to lie down.
She remained rocking in the creaky chair for a long while. Then she rose and
idly walked about the cabin. There was a silver watch on the mantle piece. She
hesitated for only a moment before slipping it into her pocket. Then she went to
the cookie jar where Iola kept her egg and butter money and took the three dollars she found. When she climbed up to the loft and overturned their mattress,
she found a hidden treasure – close to fifty dollars in gold coin. She added it to
the money bag and straightened the bed.
A large soup pot was overturned on the kitchen table. Olivia lifted it and
discovered a plate of Iola’s fried chicken. She bent down and sniffed. She knew
it must have been there since at least yesterday, but it smelled all right. Her stomach demanded food and she sat at the table, no plate or utensils, and gnawed
on a drumstick. She quickly devoured all three pieces, tossed the bones outside,
and licked her fingers. Then she rose and foraged for more food, for the trip to
Detroit. Better her than the raccoons. Beneath another overturned pot she found
an uncut apple pie. She took the wicker basket that stood next to the hearth, set
the pie in it, and tossed in a few apples, some tired-looking cucumbers, and some
jerky. Then she retrieved her skin of water from the woods behind the barn and
Filmore’s rifle from the chair in the yard.
As she strode back toward the cabin for the basket of food, she heard the milk
cow and her calf. Poor things. They must have been shut up in the cow shed all
this time. On her way to let them out she also noticed how miserable the
chickens looked, pecking at the bare yard. A barrel of chicken feed stood by the
door to the shed. Olivia lifted the lid, tossed them a few handfuls of grain, and
let the lid fall back in place. Then she frowned. Who knew how long it would be
before anyone happened this way. Next Friday, when Iola didn’t show up at the
store with her butter and eggs, would anyone bother to come check on them? If
not, it could be weeks. Months. She set down everything she was carrying and
pulled with both hands to tip the barrel on its side, letting the grain and seed spill
onto the ground.
Then she entered the shed. The cow was fine – still had plenty of feed and a trough half full of water – and her calf was closed in the stall with her. Olivia considered leaving the door to the shed open so they would be able to get out, but decided against it. She’d only be letting the wolves in for a steak dinner. She
hauled water from the Stubblefields’ well until the trough overflowed and then filled every bucket she found with water and set them in a row by the inside wall
of the shed. A pile of hay stood in the corner and Olivia opened the door to the
stall so the cow would be able to get at it.
“Sorry to leave you like this.” She stroked the cow’s nose. “But someone’s
sure to come find you. Lucky you’ve got your baby with you, so you don’t have
to worry about not being milked.”
That reminded her of the crate Iola kept in the stream that ran behind the farm. She walked down to the bank, yanked the rope to draw it out of the water,
and added the two bottles of milk and slab of butter to her basket. Then, laden
