May B. (2 page)

      I stop when home is nothing more

      than a mound on the windswept plain.

      Like a prairie hen I settle down

      until I can’t be seen,

      breathing comfort from grass and soil.

      I listen for silence,

      but there’s no room for it.

      My mind’s too full.

      Ma and Pa want me to leave

      and live with strangers.

      Around my finger

      I twist a blade of grass.

      It’s what I’ve always wanted,

      to contribute,

      but not this way.

      If I leave,

      schooling is as good as finished.

      Come Christmas I’ll be home

      but even farther

      behind.

      In three more years

      I’ll be old enough.

      In three more years

      
maybe

      I’ll be able to teach.

      I grab a fistful of shorn hair.

      I
am
no better than Samson

      once that Delilah cut his hair,

      once his strength was gone.

      Powerless.

      Defeated.

      Mavis Elizabeth Betterly

      May Betts

      May B.

      Somehow Hiram spots me.

      “What’re you hiding for?” he asks.

      I stand up and punch him on the arm,

      for cutting my hair,

      for being a boy,

      for reading strong,

      easy as you please.

      I punch him again.

      Hiram rubs his shoulder,

      then hooks his arm through mine.

      “Ma asked me to fetch you.

      Suppertime.”

      Our soddy’s dark and smells like the prairie

      with its freshness stolen away.

      Ma’s laid the table;

      Pa’s boots are near the door.

      I tuck my hair behind my ears

      and sit down with Hiram.

      “Ma told you?” Pa asks

      straight after grace.

      “Better pack tonight.”

      I nod,

      stare down at the chicken fixings

      (no everyday salt pork tonight).

      Ma’s even set out tinned peaches.

      “The homestead’s fifteen miles west of here,” Pa says.

      “The bride’s not settled,

      got here after Oblinger built his soddy.”

      Pa looks at me.

      “She’s missing home.”

      Won’t I miss home?

      Ma touches my hand.

      
“It’s just till Christmas, May.”

      I push away,

      my peaches left untouched.

      Once the table’s cleared and Hiram’s out with Pa,

      Ma opens her hope chest.

      She unfolds her finest pillowcase

      and slips my Sunday dress inside.

      She adds her old calico,

      worn a yellow-brown,

      and a chemise

      made by her own ma.

      “You’ll need some shoes.”

      Ma pulls out boots I rarely see,

      dainty and ladylike.

      I’m to leave Hiram’s old pair for her.

      Three dresses,

      counting my work dress.

      Ma’s chemise,

      along with my own.

      Two sets of stockings.

      Two pairs of bloomers.

      Two aprons.

      My coat.

      Woolen mittens.

      New shoes.

      
I pull the crate from under my bed,

      taking my reader and my slate.

      Ma sighs. “Ain’t no way you’ll keep up

      with the rest.”

      “I know,” I say.

      I catch what’s not said:

      it’s foolishness to keep pretending.

      What sort of teacher can’t read out lessons?

      
Maybe May B. can

      
Maybe May B. can’t

      I remember when we first came

      what Pa used to say.

      “Hiram and you are as young as Kansas.

      As fresh to life

      as the Prairie State.”

      Those traveling weeks we watched the sky

      from the wagon

      or walking beside it,

      hoping to be the first to spy

      the distant place where

      the ground and air connect.

      This became our game,

      Hiram’s and mine,

      and once on our land,

      farther west than ever before,

      we stood

      on the gentle rise

      where the coneflowers and wild mustard bloom.

      Wind cutting my eyes,

      I searched for

      that place where land touches sky.

      While Pa fetches the wagon in the early-morning black,

      Hiram pulls me around back.

      He doesn’t need to tell me

      we’re going to the gentle rise

      where wildflowers grow.

      Hiram and I stand high

      as the countryside allows.

      Behind us,

      there’s the smallest hint of sun.

      “Remember, May Betts,

      it’s just beyond.”

      Hiram points into the darkness,

      like I might forget.

      We haven’t seen it yet,

      but we know it’s there.

      Pa’s taking me farther west,

      toward sunset and rain,

      farther from town than Hiram’s ever been.

      I hold out my hand.

      “If I see it first,

      
you owe me your Christmas candy.

      If you see it, I’ll give you mine.”

      Hiram’s fingers squeeze my hand. “Agreed.”

      “How do I know you’ll be honest?” I say.

      He squints at me.

      “I wouldn’t lie.

      That takes the fun out of winning.”

      Hiram’s better at races,

      always grabs the extra biscuit.

      Ma’s first spring baby,

      he beat me to living

      by one short year.

      And now,

      for once,

      I’ll be ahead.

      “Maybe I’ll see it first,” I say.

      Hiram tags me

      fast,

      then starts to run home.

      “Or maybe not!” he tosses back.

      Our mare pulls,

      the wagon sways,

      the grass ripples.

      Only I am holding back.

      Pa’s hunched over the reins.

      I wonder when he’ll speak his piece.

      Since last night’s supper he’s been

      silent.

      I find myself inside the rhythm

      of hoof

      and wheel

      and join this going forward,

      but I am behind, still.