May B. (16 page)

      I search through Mrs. Oblinger’s sewing box.

      In front of her tiny looking glass,

      I run my fingers through my hair,

      then grip a handful

      and cut.

      The scissors snap

      as sheaves fall loose upon the floor.

      Samson didn’t get to choose

      what Delilah did,

      tricking him into the haircut that sapped his strength.

      I didn’t ask

      to read like a child,

      quit school,

      come here,

      starve.

      One last snip,

      and the last strands

      drop.

      My hair is short.

      Jagged.

      I

      
made it this way,

      not someone else.

      I

      chose

      to hack it off.

      This is of my own doing.

      I grasp handfuls of hair,

      Shove it

      into the stove,

      watch it

      curl,

      shrivel,

      and burn.

      It is time to figure out

      how to care for myself,

      not by waiting

      or trying to forget I’ve been left here.

      Living now,

      not later on when Pa comes.

      Not last year in my memory.

      I bang ice from the hay logs.

      The few buffalo chips must stay as they are,

      too fragile to pound on the floor.

      My hands move like wet leather

      dried out in the sun.

      I’ve taken to using my coat as another blanket;

      my mittens I wear all the time;

      I haven’t removed Ma’s boots for days.

      Mr. Oblinger has clothing

      stored beneath their bed,

      and there’s Mrs. Oblinger’s trunk.

      I’m not ready to root through

      their underdrawers.

      I will make do with what I have.

      I study the soddy.

      
I’ve neglected to wash Mrs. Oblinger’s pots.

      Footprints cover the floor.

      The bed’s disheveled.

      I straighten the cupboards

      and find that can of peaches.

      I place the tinned peaches on the table,

      shake out the quilts,

      folding them over the back of the rocker,

      and sweep up the mess of dirt

      on the floor.

      With the broom I push snow into Mrs. Oblinger’s pots,

      to use later for washing.

      The pail I fill also

      and place near the stove.

      I continue sweeping,

      but can’t push from my mind

      stories I’ve heard:

      people caught off guard in a blizzard

      who wander,

      looking for shelter,

      lost for days

      just yards from home.

      The freezing starts in hands and feet,

      then comes a sleep

      with no waking.

      I don’t know what it is that reminds me

      of the sourdough starter

      still in the jar on the bed.

      Surely it’s frozen.

      If I’d left it at the back of the stove,

      the dough would still be

      warm enough to work with.

      I scoop up the jar.

      The cold bites through my mittens,

      but I must warm it myself.

      The stove top would be too sudden.

      I drag the rocker to the fire and sit,

      climb into the quilts again,

      and place the starter jar in my pillowcase,

      doubling up the fabric.

      Ma must be singing

      “Old Dan Tucker” or “Home, Sweet Home”

      right about now

      as she boils potatoes.

      Hiram’s tooling leather,

      maybe joining in the song:

      Pa’s found a way out to the barn,

      or if not,

      he’s working toward a way.

      I imagine Ma and her broom

      behind me

      keeping time with the rocker.

      I roll the starter jar

      in my lap

      the same way I scrub at laundry

      on the washboard.

      Back and forth,

      my back hunched,

      a tight pinch in my shoulders.

      Sometimes Miss Sanders asked me to read

      just to her.

      The words would come more easily

      without a full room watching.

      Other times it would be just as difficult

      as any other day.

      She never lost patience

      or said,

      “We’ve been over this story again and again;

      why can’t you read it now?”

      She’d say,

      “Maybe tomorrow

      the words will come right.”

      Or,

      “Slower, May,

      no need to rush. Take your time.

      Let the words form

      
before you speak them.”

      Sometimes we would read together,

      and those times my words were almost right,

      her voice leading,

      though still in step with mine.

      I felt the rhythm of the words.

      I heard the sounds needed to make them.

      They didn’t stick together or jumble on the page.

      The starter is softer now.

      I add it to the flour and roll out biscuits.

      The calendar is tattered,

      its corners curled and browned

      from dirty hands

      and moist prairie air.

      I check to see where time might be,

      though I stopped marking days

      long ago.

      For every month I’m sure I’ve spent at the Oblingers’,

      I subtract a week,

      so as not to raise my hopes too high.

      If Pa knew,

      he’d be here,

      faster than any train,

      any buffalo stampede from the early prairie days,

      faster than Hiram at school races,

      to take me home.

      I remove the pots from the stove,

      letting the water cool just a bit,

      then scrub at the crusted film left behind.

      Mess slops on the floor;

      wet patches bloom on the bodice of my dress.

      I have no place to throw this filth,

      no water to rinse clean.

      For the first time since the blizzard morning,

      I pull open the door,

      dreading to see things left as they were before.

      A shiny layer of ice on the solid wall of snow

      reminds me of the water I threw.

      With the broom handle,

      I stab and pick

      until I’ve made

      a deeper hole.

      I pour in the wash water.

      The space stretches just a little.

      I fill the pots with the snow I’ve scattered

      and put them on the stove.