May B.
Page 3
Ma and I crawl under the table
and wait for the storm to pass.”
She glares again,
but slowly lowers herself to the dry earth.
I settle next to her.
30
Under the table
we sit,
arms wrapped around our knees,
while water puddles on the bench.
It’s possible for a soddy roof to collapse.
I stick my head out.
More soil has gathered in fabric folds,
but the ceiling looks like it will hold.
“Getting hungry?” I ask.
Mrs. Oblinger nods.
I fetch a pot with last night’s beans
and hand her a spoon.
We eat in silence,
listening for the wagon and a change in the rain.
31
The even rhythm of the rain lessens.
I pull open the door and step outside.
It’s good to feel the open space.
At the creek
the water rushes
where before it was calm.
32
The missus won’t talk to me.
I’m the one who fed her,
thought to bring the quilt
to the only dry spot.
She lies under the table
with her boots on.
I take the linens
and hang them on the line.
Ma’s got
her quilts drying.
Hiram’s out
to milk the cow.
Pa’s turning soil,
grateful for the rainfall.
I’m miles away.
33
Thank goodness Mr. Oblinger
built this house on a slope.
There is no water at the door.
With it open,
a bit of air
might help to dry the muddy floor
before night comes.
I sleep in the rocker,
the driest spot
besides the makeshift bed,
where Mrs. Oblinger rests.
The coffee’s on;
still she doesn’t stir.
The creek runs smoothly now.
He should be home soon.
34
I hear the wagon
and head outside.
It’s best if Mr. Oblinger sees me first.
He swings down from the seat.
“How’d you fare?”
“The missus is tired,” I say,
unsure of how to explain
why she’s not yet left her place
under the table.
35
She’s up now,
sitting at the table.
He’s given her the coffee,
thick from waiting on the stove.
She holds a letter,
stares at it for a time,
folds it,
stands,
pushes past the doorway
into sun and open prairie.
36
Was it real,
that talk we had
the rainy day Mr. Oblinger was in town?
She rarely speaks,
and if she does it’s to criticize.
Does she think I like it here?
She’s not the only one
missing family,
wishing for familiar voices.
She chose this place.
Can’t Mr. Oblinger see
the slow pulling away,
the distance
growing
in this tiny space?
When she sits around back,
I imagine she’s counting the miles
between here and home.
37
Mr. Oblinger and Mr. Chapman
split logs,
lay planks.
I bring out the pail and dipper
and offer them a drink.
Mr. Chapman nods his thanks.
His beard’s fuller than Mr. Oblinger’s,
but his clothes nonetheless look like town.
Seems like all the folks west of home are new.
Even so,
Pa would approve of their labors.
“Many hands make light work,” he’d say.
They labor until the furniture is restored to its rightful place.
There is only the entryway to complete.
The men shake hands.
“Much obliged,” Mr. Oblinger says.
Mr. Chapman shrugs.
“It’s what neighbors do.
I’d appreciate if you could check in on my place
once or twice.
I’m going east for a visit,
may not be back before the first snow.”
38
A fine breeze stirs,
the sunflowers nod,
the day she chooses to go riding.
Usually she stays close,
like a tethered calf.
“Pack some biscuits, will you, May?
I want to see all that I can.
The prairie’s so beautiful today.”
She’s never spoken that way before.
“Tell my husband I’ll be a while.
Don’t count on me for dinner.”
When Mr. Oblinger hears,
he smiles.
“It’s good to see her happy.
Maybe I’ll be done with this floor
before she’s back.”
39
I stop Mr. Oblinger as he works
to remind him to eat.
My day’s quiet;
I mend
and iron.
I work numbers
and look at a passage in my reader,
the one Hiram helped me with,
about the vastness of the ocean,
the limitlessness of the sea.
His voice in my head helps me when I stumble.
I’ve never seen water spread
straight to the horizon;
these endless grasslands
are sea enough for me.
This soddy’s like an island
far from any shoreline.
My home is out there
somewhere.
To me,
a world away.
40
Maybe because the day is different,
it takes me time to notice
the note
left on the bedside crate,
where she always kept her Bible.
Mr. Oblinger,
You’ve been so kind,
but I can’t stay.
I’m taking the train
back to Ohio.
Please understand.
Louise
I whisper the words,
go through the letter several times,
and I understand.
Mrs. Oblinger’s gone.
The biscuits.
She planned to make this look like a simple ride,
but she prepared ahead of time.
Mr. Oblinger works;
the floor is almost done,
for her.
I hand him the message.
“The missus left this.”
He walks outside to read in the light.
I pull farther back in.
This is his business,
not mine.
41
I busy my hands with sweeping
the almost-finished floor.
“I need to get to town,” he says.
“She probably don’t remember the way.”
He reaches for his hat
and in his haste
almost trips over the scattered wood.
“Don’t worry about supper,”
he says.
“I could be gone some time.”
He hitches the other horse to the wagon,
lays his rifle across his knees,
and drives,
fast as lightning sparks fire,
quick as flames consume the prair
ie.
42
Even at home,
if Pa and Ma drive into town,
I’ve got Hiram for company.
And there’s Bessie in the barn and the laying hens.
Here,
there is no cow yet,
no chickens roosting.
I watch the wagon
until I see nothing on the open plain.
For the first time ever,
I am alone.
Fear flashes inside me.
Pa never left Hiram and me without protection.
All around me there is nothing
but the prairie and the sky.
“Silly girl,” I tell myself.
“There’s no reason to worry.”
But it takes a time for my heart to slow.
I stretch out on the grass;
sweet sunshine warms my face.
I stay like this all afternoon.
My chores can wait.
43
I wake
to evening shadow,
confused.
The wagon is still gone.
Inside I pick an apple from the barrel,
light a candle,
work numbers on my slate.
44
When I sit up,
my slate falls to the floor.
The candle’s burned out.
Morning light filters through the papered window.
The other bed is empty.
The missus must have made it far
if they stayed in town overnight.
I have to fetch the water,
gather fuel for the stove.
Some string beans might be ready to pick.
They’ll need a good meal
when they return.
45
I weed the garden
and watch toward town.
Nothing moves against the horizon.
For a time I sit on my heels,
the soddy at my back,
the open prairie before me,
waiting.
There is still no sign of the Oblingers
by the time I’ve reached the last garden row.
I stand and wipe the dirt
from the front of my dress.
Surely
they’ll be back
for supper.
46
The beans have cooked so long
they are like lumpy corn mush.
I sit in the rocker
with the door open wide.
Maybe something has happened to them.
I dread the blackness
growing stronger outside.
47
In bed
I hear
the sounds
I miss
when
others
sleep nearby.
The breeze
rattles
at the papered window
and pushes
at the door.
Burrowed
in the quilt,
I hug my knees,
try
not
to listen.
I know there’s
something
moving
near the stove.
A mouse,
not
a footstep,
I tell myself.
I would have heard
the wagon
and the welcome sound
of voices.
Gooseflesh ripples
up my arms.
I squeeze my knees tighter.
When
will morning
come?
48
Maybe Mrs. Oblinger
lost her way,
and her husband never found her.
He could be riding from home to home,
asking after her.
Maybe she rode past town.
Maybe the horse broke its leg.
What if Mr. Oblinger is tired of her?
He might have let her take the train,
and now he’s in town,
biding his time.
If Pa knew Mr. Oblinger
had up and left,
he’d rush over to get me,
and when he saw the Oblingers,
he’d give them a tongue-lashing,
for sure.
But Pa
doesn’t know,
and I
don’t know
what has happened.
What will happen.
Whether I should be
mad,
or scared,
or whether I should prepare a meal:
their welcome supper.
49
On the fourth day,
I stand at the stove
and, with my finger on the calendar,
trace the days of August.
I’ve known it since last night:
it’s been too long to expect them
to return.
Something’s happened.
My legs fold under me
as I try
to catch
my breath
between sobs.
50
Why would Mr. Oblinger
leave me alone?
Why would that woman
run away?
Why must I be stuck
twice
where I don’t want to be,
with no way to tell
Pa, Ma, Hiram,
with
no one
to care for me?
51
I push open the door
and run,
and run,
and run,
and run,
until the soddy’s a tiny speck.
And around me,
the grass reaches in every direction.
There is nothing here to mark my place,
nothing to show me where I am.
No trees.
No stones.
No wagon ruts this way.
Just emptiness.
This isn’t home,
where I know the land.
I turn back,
running,
until my surroundings are familiar,
the soddy’s larger on the horizon.
I must stay close,
so as to not lose my way.
52
When the sun is low
and my tears have dried,
I stir from my spot in the grass.
I open the door to the Oblingers’ home.
The sudden dark,
cool space
is quiet,
empty,
and strange.
Pa doesn’t know they won’t return.
The nearest neighbor is gone.
I’m here till Christmas.
Part Two
53
So many times I’ve wished for just a minute
to linger
before beginning chores,
or wished I could skip
the washing up after supper—
Now I can do what I want.
No one’s going to tell me
to gather fuel
or start the biscuits.
There’s no need to cook.
I’ve got a barrel of apples,
a bit of corn bread left
from yesterday.
I can light the lamp.
No one can tell me I’m being wasteful,
using the light just for schoolwork,
or that it’s time for bed.
I can do what I want.
My reader and slate
don’t need to be hidden away.
I can keep them out with me.
With an apple in hand,
I open my reader:
I have been infromed—
I have been informed that stranger the name Goodman …
The letters aren’t working.
… have been informed that a stranger name
Goodman …
&n
bsp; I can’t place the words where they belong.
… the name of Goodman has settled near you
hope you find in agreeable …
I squeeze my eyes shut,
try to focus.
… hope you find him in agreeable …
Do it again, May.
… find him an … find in him
an-a greeble …
My fingernails dig into the cover
… ana greeable …
I fling my reader;
it smacks the wall.
Why can’t I do this?