than havin’ to put a roof on or not havin’ no window. Come winter you gonna be
glad you ain’t got one, lettin’ in all that cold.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
In truth, she hadn’t given any thought to winter. Now that she did, her spirits
drooped. With a roof on it, that cabin was going to be dark and stuffy, even on
days when the weather was fair enough to leave the door open. The roof poles
would be barely two feet above her head in the middle of the room; near the front and back walls she wouldn’t even be able to stand. She’d bang her head trying to sit up in that bed. She couldn’t imagine being cooped up in there for months, snow piled against the door, no sunlight, only candles and lanterns
burning up the little bit of air. But she forced her voice to remain cheerful.
She went back inside to refill their plates and set the coffee pot on the edge of
the fire to boil. After they’d had a cup, they finished unloading the wagon together.
“There’s a bed in there, built like a platform,” she said. “Could you help me
slide my wicker baskets under it?”
“Sure.”
“And set my mattress on top of it?”
He raised his hand in salute, easily slid the mattress onto her bed, and then said, “Once I be done with the roof, it be easy for me to build you a frame over
that bed. You can spread sheets over it and around the sides, like curtains.
Goody’s wife done like that so she don’t gotta worry about the dust what come
blowing through the roof getting’ on her bed.”
Olivia smiled and nodded. He finished moving her things and then hauled the
tools, seed, and grain into the barn and spread a sheet of canvas over them. His
own mattress he tossed outside, leaning it against the front wall of the cabin.
“Didn’t you call her ‘Mamma’?” Olivia asked.
“What?”
“Before. You said something about Goody’s wife. But she raised you from a
baby. Didn’t you call her ‘Mamma’?”
“Nah. I call her Alice. Like I call Goody, ‘Goody.’ But if I’d a said ‘Alice’
you warn’t gonna know who I’s talking about.” He harnessed Dixby and Dougan to the wagon and headed back toward the woods. “These animals gonna need
more water,” he called over his shoulder.
“Okay, I’ll get more.”
When he had disappeared she allowed herself the luxury of stretching out on
the sheet of canvas for a few minutes. Pressing her back against the hard ground
helped to relieve the ache, and the sun felt wonderful. Soothing. When she heard
the steady blows of the axe begin again she felt guilty and forced herself up.
She hauled eight more buckets of water, using four to fill the trough. That should do them for today. Now what? More food. She arranged the dishes and
utensils on the kitchen shelf and poured some beans in a pot to soak. Then she
kneaded water, flour, salt, and some of her yeast culture into dough for a loaf of
bread and left it to rise with a plate turned over it, in lieu of a clean cloth.
Next she picked up the scythe and cut more weeds, clearing an area for a fire
pit and a path to the river. How had Mourning made this look so easy? Then she
got the shovel and dug the pit. She knew she should gather large rocks to set around it, but was too exhausted and there was too much else left to do. That would have to wait for another day. For now she had to gather more firewood,
