She knew it was a mistake to ask again so soon, but couldn’t help herself.
“What did you mean last night?” she asked. “What you said about my father
finding my mother?”
“Don’t know what you talkin’ ’bout.” He shook his head and gazed out at the
lake.
Why was he lying? “You said something about the way he cried when he
found her.”
“I been real tired last night. Don’t know what I said. Listen, if you be needin’
the privy, go straight ahead. But I gotta go soon.”
“That’s all right,” she said, blushing. “You go first.”
She finished her coffee and tried to smooth her wrinkled clothing and re-
comb her hair with her fingers. Then she sat thinking. He must have been
referring to the day Seborn found Nola June dead in her bed. Olivia frowned as
she calculated. Her mother had died in February 1829 when Olivia was not yet
six. Mourning was no more than three years older than her. What on earth would
Mourning Free have been doing in the upstairs of their house when he was eight or nine years old? Maybe he’d been bringing in firewood and ran upstairs when
he heard a commotion? She shook her head. He would never do that. He
wouldn’t step up onto the porch of a house belonging to white folks, without being told to do so.
Mourning returned and it was her turn to use the privy. There was one for
men and one for women. Five-holers, so there was no privacy. When she
returned they stood by the rail and poured water from a pouch over one another’s
hands.
Then they took turns strolling about the deck. The sky was clear and she
knew the air would warm up, once the sun made its appearance. The man in the
black cap and jacket who had taken Olivia’s ticket when she boarded tipped his
cap to her.
“Morning to you, Miss. See you’ve gotten your sea legs just fine,” he said.
“It’s lovely out here on the water,” she smiled, knowing it was ridiculous to
feel as proud as she did for not being seasick.
“Not always. You’re having grand luck with the weather. Last trip I thought
sure we was going under. Had to pull into a cove on an island right afore Cleveland. Three days we sat there shivering, hiding from that storm . . .” He went into great detail about the height of the waves and the child who was almost washed overboard, using his hands to illustrate the way the bow of the boat had bobbed forward, as if it were about to dive for the bottom.
When Olivia managed to extricate herself and resumed her stroll, she set her
mind on taking in every detail of the enormous steamboat. It was quite a sight.
An area of the lower deck had been roped off to serve as a pigpen and a few skinny dogs stood around it yapping. She wondered what made those pigs worth
transporting all the way to Michigan. Were there no pigs to be had in Detroit?
They were making their usual pig stink, so she didn’t stay to wonder for long.
Everyone on the boat seemed to have something to say to anyone willing to
listen, each one more expert than the next about Michigan, farming, boats, and
the weather. Many of the passengers were ruddy-faced, blonde-haired people
whose language made them sound like they were constantly clearing their throat.
