“Willage?”
“Yes,” Ladimir said, suddenly suspicious.
“Was . . . it . . . in . . .” Oliver took a breath, “Wirginia?”
Laughing out loud he gasped, “Or maybe Wermont?”
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“You laugh at me? You are willain.”
“Willain?” Oliver hooted. “I am willain?” He doubled over, holding his sides, repeating, “Willain, I am Oliwer the Willain.”
Ladimir’s face turned purple. He pulled himself up to his elbows and punched Oliver, knocking him off his chair and onto the floor.
“The pup’s a cheap drunk,” croaked the old man in the corner.
Peg materialized above him. “Out,” she hollered.
Grabbing Oliver by the ear, she led him to the door and pushed him outside. He staggered into the middle of the street and stood, dizzy and dazzled by the suddenly bright light.
Peg threw his hat out after him to the delight of four half-grown boys, who kicked it back and forth and then made a show of accidentally knocking into Oliver. At that, he doubled over and threw up, a display the boys greeted with whistles and catcalls.
Cornelius turned the corner just in time to witness the scene. He hesitated only a moment before stepping forward, retrieving Oliver’s hat, and pulling him up. The boys kept on hooting and clapping, while a
few men gathered to watch the African gather up the crumpled packets of tobacco and cocoa, and stuff them all into Oliver’s pockets.
“Will you look at that?” said one of them. “The nigger comes to the rescue of the Dogtown idiot.”
The boys walked away, slapping one another on the back. The men disappeared inside the tavern. Oliver hung his head, feeling like a whipped dog. Before he knew it, Cornelius was gone, too, and he had to run in order to catch
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the African, who had walked on up Washington Street, his back as straight as a pike. As the houses gave way to weeds and dusty fields Oliver tried to say thank you, but every time he tried, Cornelius hurried his pace.
Oliver’s aching head echoed with Tammy’s sour voice calling him an idiot, a nit, a dolt. Once Polly heard how he’d gotten drunk and stupid in front of the whole town, she would finally see him for what he truly was: a hopeless case and a waste of her time. When he groaned, Cornelius glanced back over his shoulder, but this time Oliver turned away.
The two men slowed as they reached the path leading to Tammy’s house. Oliver reached out to shake Cornelius’s hand; for a moment he thought the African might take it, but he hurried away.
Oliver was relieved to see that Tammy was in the barn, talking to her cows. He tiptoed to the door, threw the provisions on the table, and ran as though he’d been stealing rather than making a delivery.
Back at Polly’s house, he fell into bed, where he lost the rest of the day and the whole night. He woke with a dreadful headache, thinking about Cornelius. As a boy, he had never given the man any more thought than he would a dog. He’d idolized John Stanwood, the worst rotter on Cape Ann. Oliver covered his face with his hands and swore at himself. Why had he walked into that damned pub in the first place?
When he finally got up, the sight of his blackened eye in the looking glass made him glad that Polly was in Gloucester. After a few hours of holding his head in his hands, the notion that he’d lost her began to plague him
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