May B. (18 page)

      There are three left.

      I need a plan.

      I hold my bundled hands

      against the stove door,

      taking every last bit of heat

      before I leave the rocker.

      My feet are small enough

      to wear three sets of stockings,

      even if one boot doesn’t button properly

      over the ankle I twisted months ago.

      I pocket the last two biscuits.

      They will need to last me.

      Pa’s coming,

      but I don’t know when.

      I shove the broom handle up

      into the icy hole beyond the door

      again

      and again

      until my shoulders burn.

      Nothing changes.

      Maybe if I took a spoon,

      put it in the stove,

      wrapped the handle in a bit of cloth,

      I could

      slowly

      dig

      my

      way

      out.

      That wolf is somewhere out there.

      I burn myself through cloth and stockings.

      The spoon’s heat is drawn almost instantly

      once it touches snow.

      
What melts drips down my sleeves.

      I return to the stove,

      heat the spoon,

      scrape,

      scrape,

      scrape,

      until I’ve formed a hole deep enough

      to try the broom handle again.

      And though I thrust the handle with all I have left,

      the snow ceiling still doesn’t budge.

      Maybe it is senseless digging out.

      I am fifteen miles from home,

      a distance a body could cover in one day

      if nourished

      and warm

      and familiar with the way.

      I might as well set out for the Pacific;

      it’s so big,

      I reckon it would be easier to find.

      My cropped hair falls across my face.

      Senseless or not,

      I will do what I have to,

      what is right,

      this moment,

      for me.

      How long do I heat the spoon,

      pick at the snow,

      swing the broom handle?

      I’m shouting

      like the wall will listen,

      “Stupid blizzard. Danged ice!”

      My hands blister beneath their layers.

      The hole is big as my head.

      How deep is this snow?

      I’ve been so careful

      not to waste the candles,

      but that time is over now.

      There are two left,

      almost stubs.

      I light one,

      hold it in the snow hole.

      Water drips

      and the candle sputters out.

      I light the second one and set it on the table,

      then touch them wick to wick.

      Every time the flame goes out,

      I light my candle

      and hold it to the snow again.

      It is hard to tell what is sun,

      what is candle,

      what is pure hope.

      The sound of the broomstick

      against the snow

      is less like a drum.

      This is the soft thump

      of kneading bread.

      
I swing the handle

      faster and harder

      with a power that has waited until now.

      Suddenly

      the broom handle sticks,

      and I must yank it loose.

      Snow tumbles down,

      blessing me like

      a downpour on parched fields.

      The sky is blue!

      I slip into my coat,

      pack my pillowcase,

      then straighten the soddy before I go.

      If Mr. Oblinger does return someday,

      I want him to find things in their proper places:

      the bench tucked under the table,

      the rocker angled properly.

      There is nothing I can do with the dirty bean pot

      except fill it with fresh snow.

      I leave one quilt folded

      over the back of the rocker.

      The other will offer some protection outside.

      I cling to the lower lip of the hole with one hand

      and dig the toe of my boot into the snow wall,

      heaving the quilt,

      then the pillowcase

      up and out,

      and last of all,

      the broom.

      
The sun is low in the east,

      the sky is clear;

      I begin.

      I walk toward the morning sun,

      glancing over my shoulder at the mound of snow

      that is the soddy.

      Soon,

      it is impossible to say what is house

      and what is prairie.

      There’s no creek to guide me.

      Nothing is familiar,

      but I push forward still.

      Ma’s dainty boots don’t make walking easy,

      but I am grateful for their cover.

      Ice slips into the place I left unbuttoned,

      and I tug one sock

      and try to fasten a few buttons more.

      There.

      Just to my right,

      paw prints in the snow.