“There, there.” The housekeeper patted her back. “You been such a good
daughter all this long time. Don’t you worry no more. The church ladies will come get him ready for laying out. I’ll just make him presentable. Why don’t you go cover the mirrors?”
By the time Mrs. Hardaway finished cleaning Seborn up and removing the
soiled sheets Tobey had returned. He and Olivia pulled chairs to the bedside and
waited for the doctor and their brother Avis. Olivia slipped her hand into
Tobey’s.
“You feeling alright?” he asked.
“Better than I should. How about you?”
“Mostly glad it’s over, I guess.”
“Me too. And ashamed of feeling that way.” Olivia stared at the floor.
“Can’t help what you feel.”
She squeezed his hand and put her other palm over it. “I guess you’re the only
person in the whole wide world that I really care about. I wish it weren’t true, but I guess it is. Since Uncle Scruggs died anyway.”
“Thing you like best about me is I’m not Avis,” Tobey said.
Olivia turned her gaze back to their father. “He looks real old, doesn’t he?
More like a grandfather than a father. Doesn’t seem right. I felt so much worse
when that horse kicked Uncle Scruggs in the head.”
“Can’t help what you feel,” Tobey repeated.
The stone chimney ran through their father’s room, so it was the warmest in
the house, but they could still see their breath. Olivia couldn’t blame her father
for never wanting her to wash him, but now that all the busybodies were going to
be parading around him, whispering and shaking their heads, she wished he
didn’t look so neglected. Olivia thought about giving him a quick shave, but the
impulse didn’t manage to evolve into action. She felt as if a heavy mantle of exhaustion had settled over her. The next four days, until they lowered her father
into his grave, passed in a blur.
After the funeral Mr. Carmichael, the town’s attorney, came to the house to
read the will. There were no surprises; the store and house both went to the oldest son, Avis. Olivia sat and listened, slowly beginning to comprehend her
new situation.
The next morning she rose early and slipped out the front door, hoping to be
unseen. A thick layer of ice covered the porch steps and she clutched the wooden
handrail. Clumsy in her thick-soled boots and heavy black coat, she plodded up
Maple Street through the deep snow. She was relieved to see that no one was stirring; the January cold seemed to be keeping the nosy neighbor ladies under their quilts. She hoped that none of them were spying from behind their
parlor curtains, tsk-tsking about Old Man Killion’s daughter. “What is that
girl up to now, traipsing around all by herself, not a day since they put
her father in the ground? Never did know how to behave, that one.”
Olivia had heard the good women in the pews behind her all through her
father’s funeral service, a flock of pecking hens in winter poke bonnets. They lowered their voices, but not enough; she heard their opinions of what that
Killion girl ought to do. Or not do. Just what was wrong with her and how it ought to be fixed. “But what can you expect, what with that mother of hers.
Never was right in the head.”
Olivia turned left onto Main Street, toward the row of weathered clapboard
