May B. (10 page)

      Some days I sit at the creek,

      the sun on my back,

      collecting pill bugs

      from under rocks.

      They curl into a ball at the slightest touch,

      then,

      waiting,

      unfold themselves to continue their journey,

      this time on my wrist,

      my thumb,

      the frayed cuff of my dress.

      I hold them,

      watch them rush,

      wonder

      what sort of task could hurry

      such a creature along.

      I lie in the sunshine,

      thankful

      for the freshness of the grass,

      the babbling company of the stream.

      Some days I sit in the rocker,

      the quilt about me though it’s hot outside.

      I shun the sunlight,

      groan to think of the water I must fetch,

      the steps I’ll have to take,

      the work that’s needed

      just to exist.

      Wouldn’t it be better

      to

      forget

      to

      care?

      Wouldn’t it be easier

      to stay in the hazy place where dreams come,

      to simply fade away?

      I crouch under the table,

      listening

      to the rain

      drip on the supper dishes I left out

      in my rush

      to stay dry.

      My thoughts drift back to Teacher.

      I can’t let them happen

      here,

      under the table,

      where there’s no task to keep me busy.

      The bedding is wet.

      I try to find a way to sleep

      that allows for comfort,

      but I can’t.

      My memories catch up with me.

      I wonder what Teacher had to say

      when I didn’t return to school?

      
“The girl’s finally got some sense,

      
staying home.”

      Maybe I was only smart before Teacher came.

      
It’s because you won’t try
.

      Teacher,

      I’ve tried more than you will ever know,

      out in the barn,

      with my book,

      and my voice

      shaking.

      The words on paper

      don’t match the sounds I make.

      I have to memorize

      to even try to read aloud.

      So

      if you think I can’t read,

      Teacher,

      then maybe you’re right.

      Coffee,

      a half sack of dried beans,

      flour, sugar, and cornmeal.

      The sugar’s not good for much

      when eating simple things.

      But the flour—

      with my bit of sourdough starter—

      keeps providing for biscuits

      like I used to bake

      with Ma.

      The last of the meat ran out long ago.

      A tin of peaches

      is all that is left

      of Mrs. Oblinger’s fine things.

      I’ve told myself I must hold out longer

      before I touch them.

      They’re stashed,

      like a promise,

      behind the rest.

      I pull the door open,

      stand with my hands on my hips,

      and yell into the morning:

      “Guess what, Mrs. Oblinger?

      I don’t think you’re too bright

      yourself!”

      What does it matter if she can’t hear me?

      If it was long ago

      she called me stupid?

      “Hope you enjoyed your ride

      on that lovely prairie day!”

      I lift my dusty skirts,

      sashay like someone fancy,

      curtsy to the cabbage,

      think on the missus and her eastern ways:

      good riddance.

      I have almost eaten

      to the bottom of the apple barrel.

      When the world is black,

      I’m most alone,

      the silence thick around me.

      I pray for wind,

      for rain,

      for the meadowlark

      to break

      the constant pound of quiet.

      What is that?

      What is at the door?

      A rasping sound,

      a muffled breath,

      a whine

      outside.

      Then, nothing.

      My pulse surges through my fingertips

      as I crack open the door.

      Scratches line the heavy wood,

      yellow threads cut deeply in the boards.