jars of sweet peaches she had bought in Detroit and kept hidden from Mourning.
They could at least clink their tin cups together in honor of Uncle Scruggs.
She decided to get out the only tablecloth she had brought from home. Aunt
Lydia Ann had cross-stitched it in a red and green design – probably for this very
table – and it seemed fitting to use it tonight. Mourning was sure to later make
some sarcastic remark about her putting on airs for Jeremy and the tablecloth would be one more thing to carry down that hill and launder, but she didn’t care.
This was a special occasion. She also picked some wildflowers, arranged them in
a tall tin mug, and set it in the center of the table. Then she laid and lit a fire in
the pit, already imagining the sizzle of fat and smell of roasting meat. A loud snort from the barn startled her and she went to investigate. The biggest, reddest
horse she had ever seen stood there, tethered on a long rope.
“Well, hullo.” Olivia stroked its neck. “You must belong to Mr. Kincaid.
What’s your name? You wait right here, I’ll go get you a treat.”
She returned with a withered apple cut into quarters. While the horse ate from
her hand she spoke to it in a soothing voice. “There, what a good boy you are.”
She had always loved horses. When some men in Five Rocks had banged on
the front door to tell Seborn they were going to shoot the horse that had killed
her Uncle Scruggs, Olivia had run to Ferguson’s Livery in her nightdress and stood in front of the horse, arms outstretched like a cross.
“What do you want to shoot him for?” she said, in tears. “He didn’t do it on
purpose. It wasn’t his fault Uncle Scruggs was bending down behind him. If Mr.
Sorenson hadn’t fired his stupid pistol, this poor horse wouldn’t have gotten
spooked and kicked.” She had prevailed by sobbing. “Uncle Scruggs would never have wanted you to murder him.”
“Are you making friends with old Dougan over there?” she asked the big red
horse. “Well, I see they’ve given you feed and water, so I’d better get back to getting your daddy something to put into his belly.” She took a step back and noticed its perfectly matched white stockings. “Lord, what a beautiful animal
you are. See you later.”
She turned to leave, but was guilt-stricken for neglecting poor Dougan. She
walked over to stroke his head. “Yes, you’re a good boy too. It’s not your fault
you’re not pretty like him, is it? Couldn’t beat him in a race either. But you do
your job and I want you to know we appreciate it.” She scratched behind his ears.
Then she set to peeling potatoes and cutting them into thick wedges to fry up
with salt and pepper. Once they were on the plate, she’d sprinkle them with vinegar, the way Mabel did. She imagined the three of them sitting outside after
their meal. Olivia’s teacher once told her that her cheekbones, and the shadows
beneath them, were her most striking feature, so she’d look good in the firelight,
wouldn’t she? She turned to pick up the mirror again, but stopped, hating this way of thinking, as if the only thing that mattered about a girl was the way she
looked.
Instead she pried the cork out of the jar of peaches and poked a sharp knife
into the half-inch layer of paraffin. Why hadn’t she bought any glass bowls? All
they had were tin plates and cups. But when she dipped a spoon into the jar and
cut off a bite of peach, she knew it wouldn’t matter if she served them on a shovel. Those sweet peaches were delicious and it required some effort on her part not to gobble them all down.
There was still no sign of Mourning and Jeremy, so she decided she might as
well use the time for herself. She gathered her journal, pencil, and eraser and walked partway down the hill to sit among the tall weeds. Biting her bottom lip,
