of the ovens felt good, not oppressive as it became later in the day. It always smelled homey and delicious, even after Mrs. Place was done with the day’s
baking. That was when the townswomen started bringing their meats to roast and
puddings to bake. For the few pennies Jettie Place charged, they preferred to let
her keep a fire stoked, especially when the days were so hot.
Most days Olivia went back to the house before the shop opened, but
sometimes she stayed, lurking in the back room, freezing like a statue whenever
the bell announced the arrival of a customer. She always wore her soft
moccasins, so she could silently creep over to her chair to sit, often with dough-
covered hands held out to her sides, as she eavesdropped on what the customers
had to say.
No one ever made any mention of Mourning Free. Olivia also listened for
Tobey, half eager to hear his voice, half just as glad he didn’t come in. It would have felt awful to be hiding from him on the other side of a wall. When everyone
had gone and the store was empty again, Mrs. Place would rap her knuckles on
the wall three times, letting Olivia know she was free to go back to peeling apples or spooning gobs of dough onto cookie sheets.
Other days Olivia stayed in the house, reading and napping between frenzies
of cleaning. A few times she got careless and opened the back door to shake out
a rug or scrape mud from a shoe, but she never saw anyone in the field. Mrs.
Place brought her a few books from the reading room and Olivia spent the
evenings with her nose in them or being taught how to knit. After their initial burst of too much candor for comfort, the two women remained careful of one
another. Their conversation was spare, consisting mostly of Mrs. Place repeating
what she had heard in the shop. Olivia choked back the questions she still longed
to ask about her parents.
Life in prison was boring, but boredom seemed to be what Olivia needed.
Memories still tormented her, but she gradually began to relax and sleep through
the night. Without being intrusive, Mrs. Place managed to make her feel
mothered. Taken care of. She lived in a warm, orderly home with a kind woman.
Perhaps living through enough uneventful days would make her feel human
again. She read and knitted the evenings away, taking comfort from the tedium.
When three weeks had gone by with no appearance of her monthly visitor,
Olivia sighed. “I guess I’d better start knitting booties.”
“Still too soon to say for sure,” Mrs. Place replied. “But, yes, it does look that
way. Don’t you worry, we’ll work out what to do.”
Olivia was sure. That night she lay in bed, palms pressed to her stomach. She
felt no revulsion and considered that a sure sign that Mourning was the father.
There was still no news of him, though Olivia often begged Mrs. Place to inquire
about him.
“I don’t got to ask. I woulda heard. Ain’t no way Mourning Free is back in town without my customers yapping about needing him to do one thing or
another.”
“Please, Mrs. Place. Maybe he’s outside of town, working on someone’s
farm. Please, just ask in the Livery and the Feed and Grain. They would know.”
