May B.

by Caroline Rose

  Late-summer birds have picked over

  the berries that remain.

  I grab at what’s left,

  red-black juice staining my fingers,

  eating,

  eating,

  pocketing the dry ones,

  squatting until my knees ache.

  I stand and stretch,

  look behind me,

  recognizing nothing.

  Something rustles,

  and I reach for the broom.

  Like me,

  the animal freezes.

  We stay that way

  until my shoulders throb.

  Then

  a jackrabbit leaps beside me.

  I drop the broom,

  fall back,

  glimpse it dashing zigzag.

  My breath comes short

  and painful.

  “It was a rabbit,” I say,

  but the words mean nothing

  to the weakness creeping up my legs.

  Here’s what’s true:

  Already

  the evening sky is pushing back the daylight.

  Gooseflesh tingles on my arms.

  I don’t know where I am,

  I can’t know where I’m going.

  And suddenly,

  I’m running

  back!

  I’m running—

  my heels slam into the hard-packed earth.

  Running—

  my breath’s jagged.

  Running—

  birds scatter from their grass nests.

  I need those walls around me!

  The pillowcase slaps my back.

  Pain rips through my ankle.

  I tumble to the ground

  and curse the hole I’ve stepped in.

  The sky is almost black when,

  limping,

  I reach the soddy.

  83

  My ankle’s purple.

  Those stupid boots.

  84

  Fetching water today,

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the stream:

  hair hanging in clumps,

  dress ripped at one shoulder.

  I haven’t used the washtub since

  the Oblingers left.

  My eyes study the dirty girl.

  85

  I finger the last few currants

  still in my pocket.

  Maybe I could go back and check for more.

  If I hadn’t been startled,

  if I’d stuck it out a little longer,

  I’d have bulging apron pockets.

  Maybe I’d have reached another soddy.

  That neighbor Mr. Chapman’s gone,

  but if I’d found his place,

  surely he’d have some jerky,

  a tin of soda crackers left behind.

  But now,

  with this ankle,

  I can’t go far.

  And the wolf.

  I shiver,

  remembering how frightened I was

  of just a little rabbit.

  I sit beside the stream

  dipping my fingers in the icy water.

  In summer,

  Pa and Hiram bring in trout,

  speckled bodies writhing

  in their hands.

  I trail my fingers,

  wiggling them like Hiram showed me.

  Nothing happens.

  86

  I run,

  holding my skirts above my knees.

  I holler

  and skip

  and make faces at the outhouse.

  I slam the door,

  take a spoon to the pots and pans.

  I whistle,

  I spit,

  think up as many unladylike things as I can,

  and do them.

  Out in the open.

  For the whole empty world to see.

  87

  A thin sheet of ice crept across

  the water pail last night.

  I take the dipper and push through

  to scoop a drink,

  then stir the fire

  for breakfast.

  The sky

  holds the high white

  of snow.

  It is too early

  for this.

  I am not ready.

  88

  Maybe there won’t be a storm

  after all.

  Autumn is devious.

  Calm afternoons with no hint of breaking

  can turn violent,

  bringing wind,

  ushering in rain

  and even snow.

  Or maybe I haven’t been paying enough attention

  and I’ll get trapped out here

  in

  a

  blizzard.

  On

  my

  own.

  Maybe May B.

  Maybe

  89

  Snow is falling.

  Why did I not prepare

  when the weather first turned?

  I have left

  so many things

  undone.

  Maybe I should check the garden

  for one last potato.

  I should have gathered more chips to burn

  yesterday.

  90

  Wind runs across the prairie,

  swirling snowflakes and brittle grass.

  I push through the icy gale,

  force open the barn door.

  Only one bale of hay is still intact.

  I squat to lift it,

  hardly seeing where I’m going,

  and make it to the soddy more by memory

  than sight.

  My sore ankle complains.

  Back in the barn,

  I kneel in the scattered hay,

  scooping armfuls into my dress,

  and press the hem against my waist.

  Outside again,

  the blinding white whips at my eyes.

  I bend my head for some protection.

  Snow gathers at the soddy door.

  I shove it open with a shoulder,

  dump the hay,

  and turn toward the barn

  again and again,

  until what hasn’t blown away

  is scattered

  across the puncheon floor.

  Once,

  after weeks of rain,

  Pa had Hiram and me

  twist hay

  into bundles for burning.

  Now I sit in almost-darkness,

  binding hay in logs

  that won’t flame out,

  as just a handful would.

  Stepping over

  piles of hay bundles,

  bits of loose grass,

  I reach into the barrel

  for the last apple.

  91

  For a moment I think

  I’ve left the lamp burning,

  but the brightness isn’t

  exactly the same.

  Around me,

  it’s as clear as midday,

  The papered window alight.

  I slip out of bed.

  Bits of hay stick to my feet

  as I pull open the door.

  A thin layer of snow blankets the entrance,

  sparkling in the morning sun.

  If only

  I’d not panicked that day

  I tried to go.

  But with the snow,

  it’s too late to consider again.

  Whether or not I want to be here,

  I am.

  92

  The sun is out.

  Ma’s boots leave

  soft gray marks

  in the melting snow.

  It is too early for

  winter to last.

  I will be ready next time.

  93

  My arm pricks as I lower it into the stream;

  the water’s even colder than before.

  I press my body to the bank,

  trying to cast no shadow,

/>   reaching deeper with my hand.

  Why did I never try for fish with Pa and Hiram?

  Soon I can hardly feel

  my wiggling fingers,

  but I keep moving,

  hoping trout will notice.

  Something flits below the surface,

  curves gracefully,

  slips by.

  I watch for movement farther upstream

  and let my fingers dance

  like moss,

  like water bugs,

  like tadpoles beating tiny tails.

  Then I spy one!

  It’s smooth,

  a ribbon of color

  running

  down its middle.

  My fingers wave;

  it approaches.

  I am close enough to stroke its belly,

  and with one quick jerk,

  I grab that fish and throw it on the bank.

  94

  Three fish—

  My stomach’s full

  for the first time in weeks.

  95

  I’ve thought through arithmetic

  and worked some problems on my slate.

  I’ve recited states

  alphabetically

  and

  in the order of their joining the Union.

  My reading I’ve avoided

  ever since that day

  nothing worked right.

  Lamplight shines on my book,

  its blue cover frayed at the corners,

  the spine a lighter shade

  in the middle

  where my hand grips,

  finger smudges on the back.

  I examine it like it’s the first time

  Ma handed it to me,

  the reader she brought

  all the way to Kansas.

  She didn’t know then,

  I didn’t know,

  the tricks words would play

  on me.

  What if I were to pretend

  the struggles never happened?

  What if I were to open this book,

  go back,

  start

  fresh?

  My fingers feel almost as chilled as they did

  this afternoon

  under the water,

  but didn’t I pull three fish to the surface?

  Didn’t I gut them,

  cook them up,

  and eat my fill?

  Surely

  these words

  can’t be as difficult

  to grasp,

  as slippery to work with.

  I find the page that tripped me weeks ago,

  press along the spine.

  I shut my eyes,

  breathe deeply,

  tell myself nothing will change

  or surprise me

  when I open my eyes.

  No one is listening.

  I have need—

  No.

  I have been informed that a stragner …

  a stranger

  named Goodman …

  Slowly, May,

  don’t go on what you remember.

  The words begin to swim,

  but I hold fast.

  Just one sentence to push through.

  … have been informed that a stranger

  of the name of Goodman has settled near you.

  I press the cover closed with both hands.

  My heart thrums

  as I turn down the lamp,

  slip into bed,

  filled to bursting.

  96

  From the calendar I tear away

  one month,

  then two.

  Is it October

  or November?

  Time was made

  for others,

  not for someone

  all alone.

  97

  The fish rest deeper now.

  I cook beans day after day.

  Sometimes I bake corn bread,

  but the meal’s getting low.

  If I eat just a little,

  there will be food for weeks to come.

  My mind knows this,

  but my fingers shake with every bite,

  and I’ve taken to checking my rations

  over and over,

  licking my finger,

  sweeping it under the cornmeal sack,

  hoping for a few more grains.

  The tin of peaches,

  still tucked behind the sugar,

  I won’t open until I must.

  I pull it down from the shelf,

  hold it in my hand.

  “Peaches,” I read aloud.

  “Fresh picked.”

  My voice sounds funny,

  like that odd instrument

  Mr. Wolcott brought to the literary social last year.

  He pulled and squeezed

  the black thing;

  it opened like a folded piece of cloth.

  Accordion,

  I think he called it.

  “Peaches.

  Fresh picked,” I say again.

  I move my finger under each word:

  “Peaches.

  Fresh picked!”

  98

  Ma would be horrified,

  but Ma’s not here to see

  I’ve slept most of the morning away.

  It would be nice

  to lounge and doze

  as long as I feel like staying abed,

  but it’s more burden than comfort

  because of all the time to remember:

  When Teacher came,

  I hoped she would be

  like Miss Sanders,

  but I should have known

  from the start:

  Teacher

  wasn’t the same.

  “I want to see what each of

  you is capable of,” Teacher announced,

  even before she sat down.

  “Youngest ones first.

  We’ll work our way to the top of the school.”

  With a ruler she pointed to the first row.

  “Stand and recite the alphabet.”

  Jemmy Thompson’s lip

  turned down,

  the way a newborn’s

  does before it starts wailing,

  but he managed to make it through.

  “Older grades.”

  Teacher eyed us in the back.

  Rita Howard had to start over three times,

  her voice too soft

  for Teacher’s liking.

  Teacher scolded Hiram for rushing

  through his piece.

  And then it was my turn.

  I opened to “The Voice of the Wind.”

  With Hiram’s help,

  I’d read it through just the night before.

  Did Teacher sense

  what everyone thought

  as I walked—

  knees like water—

  to the front of the room?

  Their thoughts weren’t audible,

  but I heard them just the same.

  I took a deep breath.

  Maybe this time I could do it.

  Maybe Teacher would never have to know.

  I held my reader in front of me,

  high enough so I wouldn’t have to see

  their faces,

  both elbows squeezed to my sides.

  “I am the when.

  Wind.

  I am wind and I …”

  Rita covered her mouth

  with her prissy little fingers.

  “… I am the wind and I—”

  Teacher rapped the ruler on her desk.

  “Excuse me, child.

  What is your name?”

  Warm tears splashed my feet.

  Something was broken inside.

  My new teacher knew.

  Just like my reading,

  my words were slow to form.

  “May-vis, ma’am.”

  “Well, May-vis,” she said,

  like my name tasted s
our,

  “I think you’re sitting in the wrong part

  of the schoolroom.

  Kindly move to the second row.”

  “Ma’am?”

  I turned my head just a little,

  not wanting to show my tears.

  She was seating me with the little ones?

  “I said”—

  she spoke louder now,

  like I was hard of hearing—

  “move to the front of the room.”

  I glanced at Hiram.

  He shrugged,

  but his eyes hardly met mine.

  I fetched my slate

  and slid in next to Jemmy,

  whose feet didn’t yet meet the floor.

  99

  It’s the noise that wakes me

  in the darkness close as a shroud.

  Wind whips about the soddy;

  I imagine I hear the walls groan.

  Prairie quiet

  is rarely silent.