public house. She’d heard that in one of those places you were half certain to get
robbed the minute you fell asleep.
The tinkle of the bell when she opened the door to the steamship office
startled her; it sounded just like the one in Killion’s General. A man in a black
cap stood behind a counter selling tickets. On the wall behind him hung an
enormous black slate. There it was in white chalk – the S.S. Windsong –
departing for Detroit. What a lovely name for a boat . She went back outside to
pace the wooden sidewalk and crane her neck for sight of Mourning Free. Her thoughts wandered to home, knowing that by now someone must have found the
note she had left, saying she had gone to look for a better paying teaching job than she would find near Five Rocks.
Poor Tobey may have guessed the truth, she thought. If so, part of him feelslike he ought to come after me, but another part is arguing that he has no right
to interfere in my life.
For once it was a relief to know that when there was any doubt about what he
should do rattling around in Tobey’s mind, you could pretty much count on him
not to do anything at all. A lifetime passed before Mourning came strolling
cheerily up the street, hands in his pockets and whistling.
“Hullo, Mourning.”
“And a good morning to you, Miss Olivia.” He grinned and took off his wide-
brimmed felt hat. He was wearing his church-going clothes, but they were thick
with dust. He had obviously tried to polish his shoes with lard mixed with soot
from the cook stove caps. They were a terrible mess, with dirt, leaves, and even
an acorn clinging to them.
“Where are our bags?” she asked, thinking he was no good at pretending. She
could tell he was just as scared as she was.
“Someone bringin’ ’em real soon.” He looked behind him just as a wagon
driven by a young black man turned the corner. “See, right there.”
They waited for the driver to pull up beside them and Olivia saw that her
wicker baskets and Mourning’s toolbox, leather case, and carpetbag were safe in
the bed of the wagon. She asked the driver if he could wait for them to get tickets and then take them down to the port. He nodded agreeably and put his feet up.
“There’s a boat leaving in about two hours,” she told Mourning. “I’d better go
pay our way.”
Mourning followed her inside and they studied the sign over the ticket
window that listed prices. First class to Detroit was $18. Steerage was $7.
“What should we get? What do you think steerage is?” she asked in a
whisper.
“Don’t know.” Mourning shrugged, giving her an “I thought you so smart and
know all them things” look. “I forgot to aks, last time I took a boat to Detroit,”
he said.
“Steerage is deck passage,” a white man standing behind them said to Olivia.
“It means you spend the entire trip on the deck. Will you and your boy be traveling on the Windsong?”
“Yes, I guess so,” she said.
