“Shouldn't it be called ‘no moon’?” she had argued. “Why call it ‘new moon’ when there is no moon?”
“Everyone calls it ‘new moon.’ I can't explain it.”
Keeping her eyes on the Milky Way, Mary turned her head ever so slightly to one side, allowing her cheek to caress the cool prairie grass. The fescue was over a foot tall on this part of the farm, making for excellent hiding. She guessed the time was past 9:00—putting her way overdue for bedtime. She imagined Elaine arguing with her parents.
“Why do I have to go to bed? Mary's not in bed. Why should I have to go when she doesn't have to?”
This would precipitate enough frustration for her mother to step out of the house and call from the stoop.
Mary? Mary—where are you?
But the farm was too big for her mother to conduct a search, so she would send out the boys. And if the boys found her, they would be very angry that they had to be troubled with searching for their little sister. There would be retribution, of course. Vernon might cut her hair off at night when she was asleep. Clarence might sell her next pail of milk and claim Mary had spilled it. Michael might try to shoo her horse and get it to run away.
Or they might just take a switch to her calves.
Mary knew she ought to be concerned about the consequences of rule breaking, and the fraternal retribution that so often followed, but the vastness of the stars and the eternal space beyond them were so large, so massive, so watchable. How could a person not be mesmerized by the spectacular moonless Milky Way opera as it danced and sang across the unbounded dark, a work of nature so immense and mind-numbing she could not draw her eyes away even for a moment? Was getting to bed by 8:00 really all that important when compared to watching a universe with a billion billion suns? Why couldn't everyone else be as impressed by it as she?
Then Mary heard it; a far-away forlorn call that coasted softly across the tops of the grass, moving wavelike in its harmonious assonance. The sound-absorbing quality of the prairie muffled the sound slightly, but it still managed to penetrate. Mary held her breath, less she miss it. Yes—there it was again.
Mother was calling.
“Maarryy!”
Mary waited still and quiet, hiding from responsibility as much as from a family she suspected no longer loved her—if they ever did. She listened some more, but all was quiet. Realizing her mother had given up, Mary exhaled and resumed breathing.
Then another sound—this time of movement. It was subtle enough to include nothing more than the mere rustle of half a dozen strands of grass, but that was enough. Mary looked to one side and saw Missy arrive to nuzzle her bare leg. The fur tickled against her white skin, and she smiled. The feline stepped over the right leg and nuzzled Mary's left calf—then returned to the right calf, as if unable to make up its mind which leg was more preferable. Within the quiet of the new-moon North Dakota night, the cat's purr was as clear and distinct as her father's 1932 John Deere on a windless harvest morning.
“I know you're missing your babies,” she said, scratching the burr-covered feline's ears with her fingers. “You're probably wondering what happened to them, aren't you?”
With each stroke of her nails, the cat's purring increased in volume and enthusiasm. When Mary pulled her hand away, the cat pushed its head into her palm, not wanting the moment to pass without exploiting every potential caress.
“Mother called us. What do you think we should do?”
When she felt several quick, pounding footsteps thundering through the ground, she knew the boys had been released. Leaning in nose to nose with Missy, Mary held an index finger to her mouth.
“Sh.”
Mary awoke.
She was chilly, and the cold had acted like an alarm clock. Still lying on her back, the first thing she noticed was that the clear skies of the previous evening had been replaced by a thick layer of clouds. Obviously her brothers had not found her, and so she had ended up sleeping the entire night in the field. Mary turned onto her stomach and raised her head just high enough to see the farmhouse. The truck was gone, meaning her father was probably in town on an errand. She could hear the “chick-chick” sound her mother clucked whenever she was feeding the chickens. Star was tied up at his post. The only person she could see was Elaine, sitting patiently on the front step, waiting for Mary to take her to school.
Mary stood up, brushed the loose grass from her dress, and ran toward the farmhouse.
“Mary—would you please put the chalk and erasers away?
“Yes, Mrs. Bowman.”
Mary dutifully completed the errand, then stepped outside. Elaine was waiting.
Another school day had come and gone; time was moving so fast. With third grade almost behind her, Mary dreamed of the warm summer to come—a summer which seemed so far away under the canopy of blue-gray thunder clouds. From the top of the steps of Ray's schoolhouse she could see the Jurgensen farm several miles away. Its two-story farmhouse was highlighted by a few streaks of sunlight bursting through and settling to earth, surrounding the dwelling like a halo. As Mary watched, some dark, mystical force—angry that sunlight had punctured through its gloomy barrier—slowly closed ranks and choked off the light.
She turned away. Stepping to the ground, Mary grabbed Star's saddle belt and gave it a sharp tug to make sure it had not developed any slack. Elaine appeared at her side.
“I'm hungry.”
“Mom will have something for us.” Mary decided the belt was not tight enough and cinched it to the next loop. Star gave her a muffled nicker.
A woman approached them. Mary recognized her as the mother of one of the fourth graders, Bjoern Gudmund. Mrs. Gudmund wore a wide smile and carried in her hands a black-and-silver device about the size and shape of a Duckbill F-30 carburetor. It was a device Mary had heard about, but had never seen.
A camera.
“Hello, Mary. Congratulations.”
“For what.”
“Graduating from third grade, of course.”
“It's still two weeks away.”
“And Elaine—congratulations to you, too. I hear both of you have received very high marks in your class.
“Mary helps me.”
“I'll bet she does.” Mrs. Gudmund held out the camera for them to see. “Would you two young ladies like to have your picture taken?”
This offer made Mary's lungs suddenly inhale sharply, as if she had just overheard some naughty whisper on the playground. The Sherman family had neither individual nor family photographs, and she could not remember either of her parents ever proposing such a possibility. At a family gathering one weekend, a cousin from her father's side had suggested the Shermans sit for a family portrait. To this proposal Mary's mother had become angry and dismissed the suggestion with a curt, “I do not abide photography.” Dorothy Sherman refused to allow any members of her family to be photographed for any reason, though she never gave an explanation for her position. It was a well-understood rule in their family: no photographs. Still, Mary quietly hoped to one day preserve her image with this marvelous invention. She was fascinated by the fact that someone could press a button and immediately replicate the image of whatever the camera was pointed at. The stern image of her mother's face appeared in her mind, and she decided to turn down Mrs. Gudmund's offer.
Before she could do so, however, Elaine nodded her head and moved forward. Ever cautious about angering their parents—especially where her little sister was concerned—Mary grabbed Elaine by the collar and pulled her back. She looked hard at Mrs. Gudmund.
“Mother does not abide photography.”
“Your mother…?” Mrs. Gudmund was uncertain what to say. “Do you mean your mother does not like to have pictures taken of her beautiful daughters?”
Mary said nothing.
“Have you ever had your picture taken? Ever? In your whole life?”
“No. Mother does not abide it.”
“Your mother does not abide it,” Mrs. Gudmund repe
ated. “Well, child. I'm not sure what to say to that.”
Mrs. Gudmund considered the camera in her hands for several moments. She then turned and watched the other students as they headed off down the highway or across open fields toward homes far away.
“Mary, all I can tell you is that there is no harm in having one's picture taken. It doesn't hurt, and for your whole life you will have a record of what you looked like at this moment in time. A photograph is a whimsical token and remembrance, a historical record, a recollection of something that can never be revisited: the past. You will never again be the age you are, or look exactly the way you look now. A photograph is magical; it allows us to jump back through time whenever we please. Someday when you're older, you'll be able to show the picture to your friends, to your children, to your grandchildren. You will say, ‘This is what my sister and I looked like in the year of our Lord 1930. We were sisters, we were friends, and this is where we went to school when we were your age.’ Then people will look at the photograph and smile and say, ‘My goodness, you were so cute, so beautiful.’ Wouldn't you like to have something like that?”
Mary's expressionless face loosened up, and she almost smiled. “Yes.”
Elaine looked up at her big sister. “What will mother say?”
“We won't tell her.”
Mrs. Gudmund pointed to a place near the front door on which was painted the name of their school.
“Why don't both of you stand right there.”
Mary and Elaine took their places where instructed and stood close together—their arms limp at their sides. Mrs. Gudmund stepped in front of them and readied her camera.
“What are you doing?” Mary asked.
“Not quite ready. Hold on.”
Mrs. Gudmund lifted the camera, aiming it at the two young girls.
“How does it work?”
“You need to look happier,” instructed Mrs. Gudmund. “Don't look so glum.”
“How does the camera make the picture?” Mary felt she needed to know the secret of the device. A mystery was nothing more than a question waiting for an answer, and Mary began to feel that solving that mystery would be better than the photograph.
“Put your arms around each other and smile. And stand very still.”
Mary put her arm around Elaine's shoulder. “How does the camera make the picture?” she repeated.
“I don't know, Mary. It has something to do with chemistry. Now hold very, very still. Don't even breathe.”
Mary heard a soft click, and then Mrs. Gudmund looked up from the camera and smiled.
“That's it. When I get the picture developed I'll make sure you get a copy.”
“Thank you,” said Elaine.
“Thank you,” said Mary.
The girls stood there watching as Mrs. Gudmund got into a pale yellow Ford and drove away. Then they mounted Star and headed back to the Sherman farm where a summer's load of chores awaited.
“What is chemistry?”
“Well that's an interesting question,” said Mrs. Bowman. “What brought that on?”
“Mrs. Gudmund said cameras take pictures using something called chemistry. What is it?”
Her teacher was about to answer, then thought better of it. Instead she would give her inquisitive student a challenge. She took a small piece of paper and wrote on it the word chemistry, then handed it to Mary.
“You know where the dictionary is, young lady. You'll be a fourth grader soon; look it up.”
Mary hefted the bulky volume to her desk and opened it to the C section. In a few moments she found the word.
“Read it out loud,” said her teacher.
“Chemistry. The science of the composition and properties of elements and compounds.” Mary looked up, as if expecting a clarification. “I don't understand.”
Her teacher removed her glasses and considered the best reply.
“Your father has a truck—correct?”
Mary nodded.
“Every time your father drives his truck he is using chemistry. The gasoline in the tank mixes in the carburetor with air pulled in from outside the engine. A spark plug then ignites the mixture. That whole procedure of mixing two compounds, and then burning them, is a small part of chemistry. Understand?”
Mary nodded. “What's a spark plug?”
The teacher smiled, returned her glasses to her nose.
“I'm going to get a couple of items from the pantry. While I'm doing that, you can look up the meaning of spark plug.”
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 the
m 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.
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