May B. (3 page)

      I play a game inside my head,

      counting plum trees that dot a creek bed,

      rabbits that scatter at the sound of wagon wheels,

      clouds that skirt the sky.

      For hours, that is all,

      and grass,

      always grass,

      in different shades and textures

      like the braids in a rag rug.

      Miss Sanders told us that lines never end,

      and numbers go on forever.

      Here,

      in short-grass country,

      I understand infinity.

      We stop just once to eat,

      after the sun has reached its peak.

      I watch a bird balance

      on a blade of grass

      bent low toward earth

      to find a meal.

      All creatures must work for their keep.

      “I know schooling’s what you want,

      but with this spring’s wheat …”

      Pa shrugs.

      “Will Hiram go back?”

      I have to know.

      He’s thirteen now,

      one of the oldest boys

      still learning.

      Pa’s eyes meet mine.

      “No,” he says,

      “I’ll need his help around the place.”

      I shut my eyes,

      catch Hiram’s smile.

      All term he’s complained,

      wanting to be a man and work the farm.

      
“You’re helping out, May,” Pa says.

      I’m helping everyone

      except myself.

      I see the homestead first:

      an awkward lump of earth,

      a lazy curl of smoke above.

      Beyond the soddy,

      a barn carved into a hill.

      Pa doesn’t need to point but does.

      “It’s not as nice as what we’ve got.

      Did most of his work alone.

      Still plenty of time for improvements.”

      Pa cut our strips of sod.

      He and Ma stacked them,

      layer by layer,

      grass side down,

      using only a bit of precious wood to frame

      our windows and door.

      This soddy’s small,

      the earthen walls misshapen,

      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.

      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.

      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.

      “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.

      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.