May B. (5 page)

      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:

      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.

      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.

      “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.”

      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,

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.