May B.
Page 2
just one papered window.
I clutch my pillowcase.
Mr. Oblinger spies us,
waves,
steps inside his home.
Later,
when we’re closer,
I catch the flaming red of Mrs. Oblinger’s dress.
She stands in the doorway for a time,
facing us.
It’s only when we approach
that she shuts herself inside.
14
I stay in the wagon,
watching Pa and Mr. Oblinger
inspect the garden,
point toward empty prairie.
Without hearing,
I know the talk
of plow,
of wheat,
of rain
and promise.
Hand passes to hand,
and Pa tucks money
inside his shirt pocket.
It’s then he motions toward me.
I can’t pretend not to see.
Pa gives my shoulders a gentle squeeze.
“This here’s Mavis.”
“May,” I say.
“Glad to have you with us, May.”
Mr. Oblinger shakes Pa’s hand.
“You sure you don’t want to stay?”
“No, thank you,” Pa says.
“We need provisions from town.
I’ll sleep there tonight.”
Pa pulls me close,
the crisp money crackles
against my cheek.
My first wage.
“Till Christmas,” he says.
“Do your best.”
I nod.
But I know
my best isn’t always good enough.
15
I don’t wait until Pa’s far
before I turn toward the door.
Watching him
would only stretch the distance.
Just a push swings the door open.
The air inside is heavy
with heat,
with darkness,
with something I can’t name.
Mrs. Oblinger turns,
her skirts
swirl,
her eyes
study me like a lesson.
She’s fancy and tall,
but I’ve caught it right away—
she’s hardly older than I.
“This here’s where you’ll sleep.”
She holds out her arm,
like showing me
a spot vast as the prairie.
Not a hint of privacy—
a dingy corner,
muslin pinned across the ceiling
stained brown
from rain that seeps through the sod.
I stand straight.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Mrs. Oblinger slices the air with one finger.
“Use this crate for your belongings.”
She catches my glance at the ceiling,
the sagging cloth already filled with bits of soil.
I drop my chin,
study my shoes.
“You’ll be no wetter than the rest of us,” she says.
16
“Once you unpack,
you can start in on supper.”
I wait for her to turn away,
so I might have one moment to myself.
Mrs. Oblinger doesn’t budge.
From the pillowcase,
I pull Ma’s calico.
My reader tumbles to the floor.
Mrs. Oblinger scoops it up,
opens the cover slowly,
touches the place I’ve written my name.
I rip it from her hands and hold it to my chest.
“What was that for?” she demands.
“It’s mine,” I say.
“Careful, young lady.” She flings the words,
more girl than woman herself.
My apology spills out.
“I won’t let my schoolwork interfere with chores.”
Mrs. Oblinger’s eyes meet mine.
“I was under the impression you
couldn’t read a thing.
Once you unpack,
start in on supper.”
I dump my belongings in a pile,
yank off Ma’s fancy boots,
my toes more comfortable on the hard-packed earth.
My reader and slate I wrap in the pillowcase
and slide them as far under the bed as I can.
17
I roll out biscuits on the table,
then fix the coffee.
From the garden,
Mr. Oblinger brings cabbage.
“I thought this might round out the meal.”
He’s got the kind of patchy beard
that says he’s new
to prairie living.
Though small,
the cupboard holds
sacks
and
tins.
Mr. Oblinger’s been busy,
providing for his bride.
18
I lay the table,
waiting.
The biscuits grow cold.
I stand at the door,
wave to Mr. Oblinger near the dugout barn.
“The missus inside?” he asks.
I shake my head.
He wipes his face with a handkerchief.
“Wonder where she’s gone off to.”
Heading to the creek,
he calls for her.
The empty prairie says nothing.
I pretend to study
cabbage,
beans,
a row of potatoes.
Inside I serve up salt pork,
pour coffee,
and wait.
At last
the two walk in.
“Daydreaming out back.”
Mr. Oblinger’s smile stretches too wide.
Mrs. Oblinger sits,
says nothing.
19
In bed I think through presidents
and work long division in my head.
It is dark
and quiet,
and the heavy air remains.
20
I wake to the gray of early dawn
and stay silent as sleep,
so as not to rouse the Oblingers.
But there’s no need:
I’m not the only one awake.
The sound is muffled,
like a child at her mother’s shoulder.
Just as Hiram can’t hold back laughter during family prayers,
Mrs. Oblinger’s sobs escape the blankets.
Surely Mr. Oblinger hears?
Three of us awake,
two pretending sleep.
21
Mr. Oblinger stirs,
I duck farther under my sheet,
and, once he’s gone,
slip into my work dress.
Relieved to find the water’s low,
I grab the bucket.
Outside I breathe in sunshine,
taking care
not to spend
more time than necessary,
but still walking
slowly enough
to study
sky
and
sweep of land,
postponing
the time when I must enter
that closed-in space.
22
She sits,
her red dress wrinkled,
smoothing tangles from her hair.
I lower the bucket,
straighten,
allowing my shoulders to relax.
“What’s that for?” Her eyes accuse me.
“We were out of water,” I try.
“Not that,” she says.
“Why’d you sigh?”
“I didn’t realize—”
“This work too much for you?”
“No, ma’am.”
Her eyebrows rise.
&nbs
p; “Did you misplace your boots?”
“Mostly I go barefoot,
except for church or snowy days.”
“Truly?” she asks.
There is no need to answer.
She can see for herself.
She returns to brushing.
“What happened to your hair?”
I touch my braid,
unraveling.
“My brother cut it on a dare,” I say.
She turns away while twisting her curls into a bun.
I hear her just the same.
“Stupid girl.”
23
I busy myself at the stove,
put the coffee on,
start in on biscuits,
wonder what Hiram’s doing this morning.
Anytime Ma fried up bacon
and turned away from the stove,
Hiram would make a beeline,
grab a piece from the pan,
drop it with a yelp,
suck on his burned fingers.
One morning he pierced a strip with a fork
and waved it to cool,
flinging globs of slippery grease on Ma’s curtains.
She swatted him with the broom,
shooing him out the door
like an unwelcome badger.
Now Hiram must wait outside until bacon frying’s done.
Ma’s probably rolling dough,
humming.
Maybe Hiram’s grinding coffee
now that I’m not there to help.
He’s already brought the milk pail in.
When Pa gets back,
he’ll share what he heard in town.
I glance up at Mrs. Oblinger,
silent in her rocker,
and turn back to my biscuits,
thankful to be occupied.
24
Mrs. Oblinger stands when her husband enters.
Her hairbrush slips to the ground.
He bends to pick it up
and hands it to her.
“Sorry for the dust.
Once the puncheon floor’s in …”
He signals toward the door.
“Chapman’s got extra wood at his place.
We’ll work on it next week.”
She lifts her face.
What light there is
brightens her eyes.
“Thank you,” she says.
The coffee is bitter,
the biscuits are hard,
the bath water’s cold.
Mrs. Oblinger complains but doesn’t help.
How did she manage before now?
25
It’s curious.
How am I to know
what to do
when no one is about
much of the time?
Am I to track down the missus
or force Mr. Oblinger
to stop his work?
Or do I act like I am
the one
ordering this household?
Like a shadow,
Mrs. Oblinger floats about,
sometimes outside,
sometimes in.
Is she at the creek fetching water?
This is not my home.
I am the stranger
here.
26
Beans cook on the stove,
the beds are neat,
the table laid.
I am alone,
my reader before me.
On days I finished chores early,
Ma would let me work lessons before supper.
I’d curl up in the rocker,
my feet tucked under me,
ignoring Ma’s scolding
to sit like a lady.
Hiram would perch at the end of his bed,
his elbows on his knees,
my reader in his hands:
“The Grandeur of the Sea”
What is there more sublime than the trackless,
restless, unfathomable sea? What is there
grander than the calm, gently-heaving,
silent sea?
With my eyes shut tight,
I’d see the swirling waters,
feel the sea’s smooth coolness.
Hiram went over lessons
until I knew them through.
Only then
would I slip into the barn
and try to read what I’d heard to Bessie
until Ma called me for supper.
Mrs. Oblinger comes through the door,
focusing on me,
not one glance at the work I’ve done.
She opens her mouth as if to speak.
Without a word I close my book;
she turns and walks away.
27
I think on what Mrs. Oblinger said when I first came.
How did she hear about my trouble with reading?
Did Pa tell the Oblingers my schooling’s done,
or did she think a girl my age
who’s not in school
mustn’t be able to learn?
“The girl’s not fit for learning,”
Teacher whispered,
but not quietly enough.
I overheard her
telling the superintendent
during his visit,
“She’ll know answers,
but she don’t read right.”
Not fit,
what Mrs. Oblinger
thinks of me too.
28
“I’ll be leaving early,”
Mr. Oblinger tells us at supper.
“I’ve got plenty to do in town.
Anything you need?”
“Bring letters!” Mrs. Oblinger pleads.
He touches her cheek.
“I’ll see what’s at the post office.”
After supper Mr. Oblinger pulls me aside.
“You might have noticed
my wife’s missing home.
Keep her company tomorrow while I’m away.”
I’d rather muck out a barn
barefoot.
“Yes, sir.”
29
It’s wet when Mr. Oblinger leaves.
Already there are patches
where the muslin ceiling drips.
I have cleared the breakfast table
and washed up.
There is nothing more to keep me busy.
Mrs. Oblinger sits in her rocker,
lights a candle to bring sense to the dark.
I wonder if the same summer storm
keeps Hiram and Pa inside.
I sit down at the table,
start to mend a shirt.
“I was wrong in trying this,”
Mrs. Oblinger says,
“but his letter was so kind.
I didn’t think through prairie living.”
She rocks.
“If my brother hadn’t shown him my photograph,
I wouldn’t be stuck here.”
I fiddle with a button and thread.
She stops the chair.
Her voice is louder:
“I’m not one of those mail-order brides,
if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I lift my eyes from my sewing.
“No, ma’am,” I say.
She rocks again.
“The quiet out here’s the worst part,
thunderous as a storm the way
it hounds you
inside
outside
nighttime
day.”
I shift to miss a leaking patch forming overhead,
hoping she doesn’t expect me to talk.
Because what can I say?
The prairie’s hard on some,
but it’s home to me,
and Mr. Oblinger has tried.
“I hate this place,” she whispers.
Before I think better, I say,
“He’s left a shade tree out front,
he’s plastered the walls,
>
and he’s putting in a proper floor.”
“What’d you say?”
Does she even remember I’m here?
“Mr. Oblinger’s a good man,” I try again.
“He wants to make this home for you.”
She stands over me now.
“You think plaster makes a difference in this place?
Look at this.”
She holds out her mud-caked skirt.
“It’s filthy in here!
The ceiling leaks.
Sometimes snakes get through!”
The cool sod’s where they like to nest.
“They help with mice,” I offer.
She glares.
I want to know how old she is.
(Four years,
maybe five
ahead of me?)
I want her to know
she’ll learn to make a home.
“When it’s wet outside
and our roof leaks,