May B. (12 page)

      Sometimes I see wagon ruts,

      a memory pressed in dried mud.

      If western Kansas had more folks,

      this would be easier.

      There might be a well-worn path by now.

      Grasshoppers whir,

      fly about me.

      I swat at them with the broom.

      My stomach clenches,

      so I shake some crumbled corn bread from the stocking

      straight into my mouth.

      Then up ahead,

      I spot the jagged branches of a currant bush.

      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.

      My ankle’s purple.

      Those stupid boots.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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

      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.