May B. (8 page)

      Maybe Mrs. Oblinger

      lost her way,

      and her husband never found her.

      He could be riding from home to home,

      asking after her.

      Maybe she rode past town.

      Maybe the horse broke its leg.

      What if Mr. Oblinger is tired of her?

      He might have let her take the train,

      and now he’s in town,

      biding his time.

      If Pa knew Mr. Oblinger

      had up and left,

      he’d rush over to get me,

      and when he saw the Oblingers,

      he’d give them a tongue-lashing,

      for sure.

      But Pa

      doesn’t know,

      and I

      don’t know

      what has happened.

      
What will happen.

      Whether I should be

      mad,

      or scared,

      or whether I should prepare a meal:

      their welcome supper.

      On the fourth day,

      I stand at the stove

      and, with my finger on the calendar,

      trace the days of August.

      I’ve known it since last night:

      it’s been too long to expect them

      to return.

      Something’s happened.

      My legs fold under me

      as I try

      to catch

      my breath

      between sobs.

      Why would Mr. Oblinger

      leave me alone?

      Why would that woman

      run away?

      Why must I be stuck

      twice

      where I don’t want to be,

      with no way to tell

      Pa, Ma, Hiram,

      with

      no one

      to care for me?

      I push open the door

      and run,

      and run,

      and run,

      and run,

      until the soddy’s a tiny speck.

      And around me,

      the grass reaches in every direction.

      There is nothing here to mark my place,

      nothing to show me where I am.

      No trees.

      No stones.

      No wagon ruts this way.

      Just emptiness.

      This isn’t home,

      where I know the land.

      I turn back,

      running,

      until my surroundings are familiar,

      the soddy’s larger on the horizon.

      I must stay close,

      so as to not lose my way.

      When the sun is low

      and my tears have dried,

      I stir from my spot in the grass.

      I open the door to the Oblingers’ home.

      The sudden dark,

      cool space

      is quiet,

      empty,

      and strange.

      Pa doesn’t know they won’t return.

      The nearest neighbor is gone.

      I’m here till Christmas.

      So many times I’ve wished for just a minute

      to linger

      before beginning chores,

      or wished I could skip

      the washing up after supper—

      Now I can do what I want.

      No one’s going to tell me

      to gather fuel

      or start the biscuits.

      There’s no need to cook.

      I’ve got a barrel of apples,

      a bit of corn bread left

      from yesterday.

      I can light the lamp.

      No one can tell me I’m being wasteful,

      using the light just for schoolwork,

      or that it’s time for bed.

      I can do what I want.

      My reader and slate

      don’t need to be hidden away.

      I can keep them out with me.

      
With an apple in hand,

      I open my reader:

      The letters aren’t working.

      I can’t place the words where they belong.

      I squeeze my eyes shut,

      try to focus.

      Do it again, May.

      My fingernails dig into the cover

      I fling my reader;

      it smacks the wall.

      Why can’t I do this?

      What is

      wrong

      with me?

      I can speak,

      and hear,

      and see,

      and understand when someone reads to me.

      I follow lessons at school,

      and Ma’s directions in the kitchen.

      I know what words mean.

      So why can’t I do this?

      
I

      must

      be

      stupid.

      It is morning.

      There is no water,

      no fuel.

      It was foolish to waste time last night.

      A sack of buffalo chips

      next to the stove,

      water from the stream,

      coffee in the pot;

      I cannot

      let

      myself

      think.

      Just do chores, May.

      Keep moving,

      go pick some corn.

      Maybe I could try to finish the floor

      Mr. Oblinger left undone.

      There are only a few boards missing.