Satisfied that they would survive drinking from it, she rolled it back to its place
by the door, found the dipper in the wagon, and proudly hung it over the edge.
Then she reached for the second bucket of water, but frowned at the leaves
and other unidentified debris floating on its surface. No, this wouldn’t do. She should strain the water through a clean rag, but didn’t have one large enough to
cover the mouth of the barrel. She looked around, frustrated and impatient.
“Blast it, you start to do one thing, but you can’t do it until you’ve done some
other danged thing, and then you can’t do it …”
Finally she went to the wagon, rummaged for the clothes she had changed out
of that morning, and freed one of the petticoats from the bundle. “At last you’re
finally good for something,” she said to the annoying undergarment as she
spread it over the top of the barrel and tied a rope around it, to hold it in place
while she poured the water through it.
When she loosened the rope to peek proudly at the clean water, her smile
faded. The bottom of the barrel barely looked wet. Filling it to a level they would be able to reach with the dipper was going to require more trips to the river than she could bear to contemplate.
“One thing at a time,” she said “One at a time. Don’t think about all the things you have to do. Just about the next one.”
Chapter Fifteen
The crack of the axe rang out and Olivia smiled. Mourning was not far away.
Everything would be all right. She paused to listen to the steady blows and when
they stopped she imagined him taking off his hat and wiping his brow on the sleeve of his shirt. If he still had his shirt on.
She carried two more buckets of water and then stood gazing at the river,
trying to shake the dull ache from her arms and imagining how it would feel to
stand naked in its rushing water. Boys in Five Rocks were always talking about
swimming in their birthday suits. Why didn’t girls get to do any of the fun things?
She sighed and made two more trips up and down the hill with the buckets
and then looked around the filthy cabin. She should wipe down the surfaces, but
there was no point cleaning the floor until after the roof was on. In the far corner,
behind the table, was a large wooden box that she hadn’t noticed before. She dragged the table away from it and happily realized it was a bed. It stood waist
high and had no ladder, but she managed to boost herself onto it. She wouldn’t
have to sleep on the floor! Further inspection revealed that there was no
footboard, creating a large storage space under the bed. How clever Uncle
Scruggs had been. Her wicker baskets would fit nicely down there.
Aunt Lydia Ann’s kitchen consisted of a wide shelf mounted to the left of the
door. Mourning was right; this place wasn’t so bad. She turned to admire the stone chimney and fireplace. The iron crane creaked loudly as she swung it over
the hearth. Then she frowned; that chimney hadn’t been cleaned for sixteen
years. If she lit a fire she was likely to burn the whole place down. At home, every few months, Tobey put on his “sweep clothes,” stepped into their chimney,
climbed up a ladder, brushed away the soot, and spread a fresh layer of clay.
How was she supposed to do that in a new dress?
She fetched the broom and stuck its long handle up the chimney, banging it
against the sides. No bird nests fell down – only some dry leaves and black dust.
She crossed her arms and scowled again. Then she went to the wagon, found a
