May B. by Caroline Rose Page B

done with this floor
          before she’s back.”

39

          I stop Mr. Oblinger as he works
          to remind him to eat.
          My day’s quiet;
          I mend
          and iron.
          I work numbers
          and look at a passage in my reader,
          the one Hiram helped me with,
          about the vastness of the ocean,
          the limitlessness of the sea.
          His voice in my head helps me when I stumble.
          I’ve never seen water spread
          straight to the horizon;
          these endless grasslands
          are sea enough for me.
          This soddy’s like an island
          far from any shoreline.
          My home is out there
          somewhere.
          To me,
          a world away.

40

          Maybe because the day is different,
          it takes me time to notice
          the note
          left on the bedside crate,
          where she always kept her Bible.
          
Mr. Oblinger
,
          
You’ve been so kind
,
          
but I can’t stay
.
          
I’m taking the train
          
back to Ohio
.
          
Please understand
.
          
Louise
          I whisper the words,
          go through the letter several times,
          and I understand.
          Mrs. Oblinger’s gone.
          The biscuits.
          She planned to make this look like a simple ride,
          but she prepared ahead of time.
          Mr. Oblinger works;
          the floor is almost done,
          for her.
          I hand him the message.
          “The missus left this.”
          He walks outside to read in the light.
          I pull farther back in.
          This is his business,
          not mine.

41

          I busy my hands with sweeping
          the almost-finished floor.
          “I need to get to town,” he says.
          “She probably don’t remember the way.”
          He reaches for his hat
          and in his haste
          almost trips over the scattered wood.
          “Don’t worry about supper,”
          he says.
          “I could be gone some time.”
          He hitches the other horse to the wagon,
          lays his rifle across his knees,
          and drives,
          fast as lightning sparks fire,
          quick as flames consume the prairie.

42

          Even at home,
          if Pa and Ma drive into town,
          I’ve got Hiram for company.
          And there’s Bessie in the barn and the laying hens.
          Here,
          there is no cow yet,
          no chickens roosting.
          I watch the wagon
          until I see nothing on the open plain.
          For the first time ever,
          I am alone.
          Fear flashes inside me.
          Pa never left Hiram and me without protection.
          All around me there is nothing
          but the prairie and the sky.
          “Silly girl,” I tell myself.
          “There’s no reason to worry.”
          But it takes a time for my heart to slow.
          I stretch out on the grass;
          sweet sunshine warms my face.
          I stay like this all afternoon.
          My chores can wait.

43

          I wake
          to evening shadow,
          confused.
          The wagon is still gone.
          Inside I pick an apple from the barrel,
          light a candle,
          work numbers on my slate.

44

          When I sit up,
          my slate falls to the floor.
          The candle’s burned out.
          Morning light filters through the papered window.
          The other bed is empty.
          The missus must have made it far
          if they stayed in town overnight.
          I have to fetch the