After Mary returned from the bookshelf, she noticed Mrs. Bowman had a jar of honey, a bottle of vegetable oil, and a tall glass half filled with water. She called all the students to stand around her desk.
“Watch what happens when I pour some honey into the glass of water.”
Mary, Elaine, and the other students were surprised to see the honey collect at the bottom of the glass rather than mix with the water. There were some “oohs” and “ahs.” One boy asked why the honey all went to the bottom.
“Just wait,” said the teacher. “Now watch this.”
She poured some of the vegetable oil into the glass. Once again the students were amazed; every drop of the oil floated on top of the water. There were now three distinct layers of liquids.
“Why does it do that?” asked one of the students.
“Mary asked me earlier what chemistry is. Much of the subject of chemistry can be boiled down to this simple experiment of buoyancy and density.”
On the last day of school, Mrs. Gudmund was waiting for Mary and Elaine outside the schoolhouse, a wide smile on her face.
“I have it for you.”
“Have what?”
“The photograph!”
From her purse Mrs. Gudmund brought an envelope. It was not sealed.
“Straight from Kodak,” she said, pulling the photograph from the envelope and handing it to Mary.
“This is what I look like? Are you sure this is me?”
“Of course, child. Why would you ask such a thing?”
“I’ve never seen myself before.”
“Well, you’ve certainly seen yourself in a mirror—right?”
Mary shook her head. “We don’t have a mirror.”
Mary held the photo out, but Mrs. Gudmund held up her hands, palms forward.
“No, no—that’s for you, Mary. You keep it.”
“You’re giving this to me?” She was surprised. Except for the state of North Dakota’s equine gift two years before, and Aunt Aida’s long-ago gift of a corn-cob doll, no one had ever given Mary anything.
“Of course. It’s a present. From me to you.”
“Mother does not abide presents.”
Mary climbed onto her horse, and then pulled her sister up. The saddle was big enough for both of them to ride tandem, with Elaine’s arms wrapped tightly around Mary’s body for security. Mary guided Star away from the schoolhouse and headed down the road toward home. Star’s shoeless hoofs quietly clomped along the muddy road, a road that rarely seemed to dry out. Mary held the saddle horn with one hand and firmly grasped a McGuffey Reader with the other. Her innate intelligence had allowed her to skip second grade altogether. She had achieved that advancement by squeezing time—using every available free moment for study, including the ride to and from school.
Mary no longer had to guide Star—he knew the route. From the farm each morning, down the rutted road, past the Dunkirk farm, across the river, up another rutted road, past the Swenson farm, and then a mile to the schoolhouse. In the afternoon, back the same way. After nearly a year of this daily routine, Star was so in tune with the route that Mary could spend much of the time reading. Sometimes on the ride she would read quietly to herself, other times she would read out loud so Elaine could hear. As a result of her passion for books, Mary had become the school’s best reader—surpassing students five or six years her senior.
Today she was reading a story about a boy searching for his lost puppy when suddenly the sky opened up and the sun bathed them in warmth. Mary looked up and noticed they were approaching the river, and she braced herself for the stop. Every time they arrived at the river’s edge, Star came to a halt. This was the one and only place on their journey she had to take over and be the master.
“Why do you always stop here?” she said, allowing her frustration to flow from the tone of her voice.
Mary combined a gentle nudge with her heels with some verbal encouragement. That was all he needed, and Star eased across the shallow creek. As they approached the far bank, Mary noticed the river’s current was unusually mild this afternoon. Once they reached the far side, Mary resumed reading. She squinted as she read, and not just due to her nearsightedness. The newly revealed afternoon sun was reflecting off the white pages, stinging and dilating her eyes. A few moments passed, then a shadow fell across the pages, and the brightness relaxed. She lifted her head and gazed skyward.
Large, thick clouds were passing overhead, moving west to east. These were not rain clouds, however, having more cotton candy than clay. Mary knew what rain clouds looked like, and these were not them. Her teacher had told her how many of North Dakota’s rainstorms were the remnants of mighty Pacific Ocean tempests that had their beginnings off the coast of Alaska. Sometimes these massive storms would hurl themselves into the Dakotas with a vengeance, other times they would peter out—taking the form of giant puffy fists, separated by large, sunny gaps. The clouds today were those kinds of clouds.
“What you see there, boy, is what’s left of some bigger Alaskan storm. It got played out before it reached us, and that’s all that’s left.”
Elaine said nothing. She had gotten used to her sister’s habit of talking more to her horse than to people.
Arriving at the Dunkirk farm, the girls could hear Mr. and Mrs. Dunkirk in the throes of one of their famous arguments. Sometimes those arguments went on for days. When they were finally over, it was common for neither husband nor wife to remember the original issue that had gotten the argument started in the first place.
Elaine patted her sister gently on the shoulder for attention.
“What if mother finds out about the photograph?”
“Are you going to tell her?’
“No.”
“Then how would she find out?”
“Mother always finds out about everything.”
“No she doesn’t.”
“Why do you say that?”
A puddle of water stretched across the road. The mud around it looked deep and viscous—an easy trap for Star to get a hoof stuck in. Mary steered her horse around it.
“If mom found out about everything, the boys would get into a lot more trouble.”
Elaine sat quietly in the saddle for a few moments, pondering her sister’s words.
“Mom and Dad don’t care about what the boys do. They’re all on the same side.”
All was serene for a while—the cool breeze being the only sound. Mary tried to remember the last time Clarence, Vernon, or Michael had been punished for anything. She could not remember a single incidence. On the other hand, it seemed that she and Elaine were punished daily for the smallest infraction. It had been this way for so long she could not remember any other way of life.
“Why is that?” Mary asked.
“They need the boys. They don’t need us.”
“Why?”
“The boys do all the work.”
“We do work.”
“We do the work the boys don’t like to do.”
At that moment the Sherman farmhouse came into view a quarter mile away. A few moments of peace, then the rattling noise of a Chrysler in-line six, combined with the prattle of its flatbed’s wooden stakes, rose to attention. The Sherman truck was in the area and approaching. While Mary scanned ahead, Elaine looked behind them.
“It’s coming,” said Elaine. “Behind us.”
Mary turned to look, but her poor vision betrayed her. She needed glasses desperately, but her parents had refused to spend the money. Neither Michael nor Dorothy Sherman had ever needed eyewear, why should their children? Mary’s teacher had sent them several missives expressing the problem their daughter had with her eyesight, but they would not be moved. As long as Mary could see well enough to milk a cow or clean a creamer, that was good enough.