May B. (4 page)

      I lay the table,

      waiting.

      The biscuits grow cold.

      I stand at the door,

      wave to Mr. Oblinger near the dugout barn.

      “The missus inside?” he asks.

      I shake my head.

      He wipes his face with a handkerchief.

      “Wonder where she’s gone off to.”

      Heading to the creek,

      he calls for her.

      The empty prairie says nothing.

      I pretend to study

      cabbage,

      beans,

      a row of potatoes.

      Inside I serve up salt pork,

      pour coffee,

      and wait.

      At last

      the two walk in.

      “Daydreaming out back.”

      
Mr. Oblinger’s smile stretches too wide.

      Mrs. Oblinger sits,

      says nothing.

      In bed I think through presidents

      and work long division in my head.

      It is dark

      and quiet,

      and the heavy air remains.

      I wake to the gray of early dawn

      and stay silent as sleep,

      so as not to rouse the Oblingers.

      But there’s no need:

      I’m not the only one awake.

      The sound is muffled,

      like a child at her mother’s shoulder.

      Just as Hiram can’t hold back laughter during family prayers,

      Mrs. Oblinger’s sobs escape the blankets.

      Surely Mr. Oblinger hears?

      Three of us awake,

      two pretending sleep.

      Mr. Oblinger stirs,

      I duck farther under my sheet,

      and, once he’s gone,

      slip into my work dress.

      Relieved to find the water’s low,

      I grab the bucket.

      Outside I breathe in sunshine,

      taking care

      not to spend

      more time than necessary,

      but still walking

      slowly enough

      to study

      sky

      and

      sweep of land,

      postponing

      the time when I must enter

      that closed-in space.

      She sits,

      her red dress wrinkled,

      smoothing tangles from her hair.

      I lower the bucket,

      straighten,

      allowing my shoulders to relax.

      “What’s that for?” Her eyes accuse me.

      “We were out of water,” I try.

      “Not that,” she says.

      “Why’d you sigh?”

      “I didn’t realize—”

      “This work too much for you?”

      “No, ma’am.”

      Her eyebrows rise.

      “Did you misplace your boots?”

      “Mostly I go barefoot,

      except for church or snowy days.”

      “Truly?” she asks.

      There is no need to answer.

      She can see for herself.

      She returns to brushing.

      
“What happened to your hair?”

      I touch my braid,

      unraveling.

      “My brother cut it on a dare,” I say.

      She turns away while twisting her curls into a bun.

      I hear her just the same.

      “Stupid girl.”

      I busy myself at the stove,

      put the coffee on,

      start in on biscuits,

      wonder what Hiram’s doing this morning.

      Anytime Ma fried up bacon

      and turned away from the stove,

      Hiram would make a beeline,

      grab a piece from the pan,

      drop it with a yelp,

      suck on his burned fingers.

      One morning he pierced a strip with a fork

      and waved it to cool,

      flinging globs of slippery grease on Ma’s curtains.

      She swatted him with the broom,

      shooing him out the door

      like an unwelcome badger.

      Now Hiram must wait outside until bacon frying’s done.

      Ma’s probably rolling dough,

      humming.

      Maybe Hiram’s grinding coffee

      
now that I’m not there to help.

      He’s already brought the milk pail in.

      When Pa gets back,

      he’ll share what he heard in town.

      I glance up at Mrs. Oblinger,

      silent in her rocker,

      and turn back to my biscuits,

      thankful to be occupied.

      Mrs. Oblinger stands when her husband enters.

      Her hairbrush slips to the ground.

      He bends to pick it up

      and hands it to her.

      “Sorry for the dust.

      Once the puncheon floor’s in …”

      He signals toward the door.

      “Chapman’s got extra wood at his place.

      We’ll work on it next week.”

      She lifts her face.

      What light there is

      brightens her eyes.

      “Thank you,” she says.

      The coffee is bitter,

      the biscuits are hard,

      the bath water’s cold.

      Mrs. Oblinger complains but doesn’t help.

      How did she manage before now?

      It’s curious.

      How am I to know

      what to do

      when no one is about

      much of the time?

      Am I to track down the missus

      or force Mr. Oblinger

      to stop his work?

      Or do I act like I am

      the one

      ordering this household?

      Like a shadow,

      Mrs. Oblinger floats about,

      sometimes outside,

      sometimes in.

      Is she at the creek fetching water?

      This is not my home.

      I am the stranger

      here.