Olivia, Mourning by Yael Politis Page A

coach finally arrived.
    Mourning was not traveling with her. Mr. Bellinir from the Feed & Grain drove to the port once a month to pick up supplies and Mourning had arranged to ride with him, together with his and Olivia’s belongings.
    The stage soon pulled up. Olivia paid the driver, bundled herself into the backwards-facing seat opposite a young couple, and exchanged brief hulloes with them before carefully arranging the rifle, laying her head against the side of the coach, and pretending to be sleepy. As they clop-clopped out of town and over the covered bridge Olivia’s peace of mind abandoned her. At last on her way, she grew damp with sweat. What if Mourning didn’t show up? What if she couldn’t find her way to the steamboat office? What if she was robbed?
    She finally managed to doze off and by the end of the six-hour journey had regained her resolve. What was the worst that could happen? She would spend a few nights in a public house, waiting for Mourning. If he didn’t come, she would just have to take the stage back home and think of a new idea . It was a discouraging thought, but no cause for panic. She alighted in Erie and stood on the sidewalk, blinking and beating the dust from her clothes. How did one transport oneself from one place to another in a huge city?
    “No one meeting you, Miss?” the driver asked.
    She shrugged and shook her head, embarrassed to be all by herself, an object of pity.
    “Stage office is right across the street.” He bobbed his nose in that direction. “They got a hotel, not too expensive, two streets over that way. Or you can hire a wagon back there, behind the livery,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. He finished removing the harness from the team of horses and led them off before she managed to open her mouth to thank him and ask how to get to the steamship company.
    “Excuse me.” She stopped the next man she encountered on the street. He was rough looking, but removed his worn hat and hugged it to his chest while she asked for directions.
    “It ain’t far, Miss. Two streets down and one over. Can’t miss it. You going to Detroit, there’s a boat leaving in a few hours – the Windsong .”
    She thanked him, smiling. Better to spend another night on the boat than in a 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 feels like 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