“I thought you were so tired,” she said.
Olivia trumped her with, “We’re going to visit Father’s grave,” thinking that
ought to shut her up.
She and Tobey trudged through the snow toward the eastern side of town,
where Main Street curled around on itself, forming a cul-de-sac that everyone
called “The Circle.” Jettie Place was the only one who lived down there. Her small red barn sat close to the road. The front half of it had been converted into
her bakery shop; the large ovens and workroom occupied the back. Mrs. Place’s
house stood to the left of and slightly behind the barn, on the curve of “The Circle.” She didn’t have any neighbors and that seemed to suit both her and the
town just fine. The sign over her bakery said “Jettie’s Place,” but none of the townswomen called it that. That would have sounded too friendly. Mrs. Place’s
bread and pies were too good for them to be able to boycott her establishment,
but they sniffed their noses whenever they mentioned “that woman’s bakery.”
Now, as they passed Mrs. Place’s house, Olivia watched out of the corner of
her eye, trying to take in every detail of the house and bakery without turning her
head. She had often gone into the shop to buy bread and cookies when she was a
little girl and Mrs. Place had always been kind to her. She used to tuck extra treats into the bag and call Olivia “you sweet child.”
Olivia couldn’t remember how old she had been when she first heard one of
the busybodies say it outright – call Jettie Place “Old Man Killion’s whore.” But
she had been old enough to have a vague idea what that meant. Her father and
Mrs. Place must get in a bed together and do whatever the horrible thing is that
husbands and wives do. Olivia had gone into “Jettie’s Place” a few times after that and stood staring up at “the whore” – a tired-looking woman with bright yellow hair and rouged cheeks and a laugh that was too quick and too loud. It was difficult for Olivia to imagine Mrs. Place and her father sipping a cup of tea
together. Removing their clothing? Impossible.
Not that Olivia minded the idea of her father having a connection with
another woman. Her mother had died a long time ago, so there was no reason to
mind on her account. Olivia simply failed to understand. Why on earth would
anyone want to be in the same room with her father when he didn’t have his clothes on? Olivia had seen his drooping potbelly and spindly legs. He hadn’t exactly been a sparkling personality either. He spent all day in the store, took short breaks for his meals, and then did the accounts or read for a few hours before retiring. Saturday nights he played whist with friends. At least so he told
his children. That must have been when he did his fornicating with the woman
who called herself “Mrs.” although Olivia had never seen any evidence of a Mr.
Place, dead or alive. She wondered if her brothers had heard the same whispers
about their “carrying on.” They must have, but Olivia had never spoken to them
about it. Not even Tobey. Not until the day before her father died.
Now, as they neared the cemetery, Olivia slipped her arm through Tobey’s.
“I’m already forgetting him,” she said. “I’ve been trying to remember what his
laugh sounded like, but I can’t.”
“We didn’t hear it all that much,” Tobey said. “Except for when he’d say that one thing he used to repeat all the time, until one day Mrs. Brewster got after him.”
“What thing?”
“Don’t you remember? Whenever Avis or me started acting smart, he’d elbow
us in the ribs and say, ‘Well, I guess you’re a pretty fart smeller, aren’t you?’
Then he’d laugh.”
Olivia forced a smile and they walked on in silence.
“Have you seen her since that day?” Olivia nodded ever so slightly back toward “Jettie’s Place.”
