Shandi Mitchell

by Under This Unbroken Sky (v5)

  “Tell your father he has tonight to get his things in order. We’ll be back in the morning for him.” And with that they are gone.

  The children stare at the Virgin, unsure if they’ve just witnessed a miracle.

  THE SNOW STARTED falling before dusk in large, wet, fluffy flakes. Already the trees and house are frosted in a thick, white coat. The wind has picked up quickly, driving the snow at a sharp, hard angle, slashing the north side of the buildings and trees, quickly erasing the indiscretion of their footprints.

  One lamp flickers on the table, illuminating the solemn faces staring at their untouched plates. The potatoes cool, the ham congeals.

  “Eat,” Maria commands.

  Another year. That’s what Mama said. Tato has to go away for another year.

  The children force in a spoonful; it wads tasteless in their mouths. Katya spits her potatoes back out. Sofia sniffles inconsolably.

  “That’s enough,” Maria reprimands her. “Wipe your nose.” Sofia drags her sleeve across her face.

  Myron forces another forkful into his mouth; he chews on the stringy meat, unable to swallow. Ivan can’t take his eyes off the Virgin. Her bleeding heart, her downcast eyes. Liar.

  Teodor and Maria arrived home, their cheeks flush, their eyes laughing, brushing snow from each other’s hair. As soon as Maria saw her children’s faces, she knew something terrible had happened, felt it crush against her chest. Her eyes searched them out one by one, making sure they were all alive, fingers and toes attached. Nothing in the house seemed out of place. Yet everything was wrong. Dania sent the children outside.

  Sitting on the stoop, the snow sticking to their eyelashes, grabbing at their hair and shoulders, the children sat as still and black as the crows in the field. They heard their father’s voice roar, heard words they are never supposed to say, heard their mother’s panicked voice trying to soothe, the mumble of reason, shouts tearing throats, “Goddamned bitch, goddamned bitch …”

  And their mama: “You don’t know it was her.”

  “She’s the only one who knew it was there! She saw it when I built it!” The words slurred in spit. Ripping through the walls.

  The door swung open and they scattered to avoid their father’s feet as he stormed to the barn. He is still there.

  Myron was sent to fetch him for dinner. He found his father pacing back and forth from stall to stall, counting the steps. The horse was backed into a corner, spooked by Teodor’s intensity.

  “Tato?” Myron dared, his voice small. “Dinner is ready.” Teodor didn’t falter. He walked five paces and turned, his mind locked in its own cage.

  “Tato,” Myron demanded, surprised by the anger in his voice. Teodor stopped, turned to him with eyes blazing. “Are you coming back?”

  He meant to say, Are you coming in?

  Teodor looked at his eldest son, his arms and legs too long for his growing body. The pants hiked above his boots, his woollen coat strangling his shoulders. He saw the clenched jaw and frightened eyes. A man’s eyes in a child’s body. He saw the boy’s chest rising and falling, his nostrils flaring, struggling to appear calm. He tried to imagine him completely grown. He would stand taller than him. Maybe his thick brown hair will grey prematurely, just on the sides. He will be long and lean. He will always walk with that loose gait of a man who feels every step of the earth beneath his feet. He will always prefer to be alone. He will always be a farmer. Dirt is his blood.

  He looked to the horse, its ears back, its eyes wide, and when he reached for its nose, it thrust its head back, not trusting his touch. He looked up at the roof, to the logs’ hewn marks, each one his mark. He heard the wind buffeting the walls and it pleased him that the walls were strong. He held his hand out to the horse again, his fingers open, an invitation. The horse eyed him suspiciously, smelled his hand. The same man. The animal rested its chin in his palm. Teodor brushed the long mane from its eyes. Nodded, as if answering the animal’s question.

  “You have to make sure to get him new shoes in the spring. Don’t let the mud build up in his hooves.” He picked up the horse brush.

  “I’ll be in soon,” he told his son. “I have to get ready.” Myron left him brushing the horse in long, slow sweeps as he whispered in its ear.

  The family turns to the sound of Teodor’s footsteps on the stoop, casually stomping off the snow. He enters, takes off his coat, and drapes it over the rifle propped against the wall. He sits down at the table, as though it is any other night. Maria hurries to retrieve his plate warming on the stove. He fills his spoon with steaming potatoes and takes a bite.

  “Pass the butter,” he asks Sofia, her eyes red and swollen. “Eat.” He proceeds to clean his plate. The family, one by one, takes a bite.

  At bedtime, each child insists on a hug. He holds them longer and tighter. He tells Ivan to listen to his mother and learn from his brother. He tells him to look for a tree down at the dump that has the face of a fox hidden inside. He tells Katya that her dreams won’t hurt her and when she’s scared she should remember the snakes and how she drove them away. He tells Sofia to keep telling her stories and practising her English. He tells her that he thinks her curled ringlets are very pretty and that she shouldn’t be afraid to show people who she really is. He tells Dania not to be afraid to dance and to hold her head high. He assures her that she will be a very good mother and that she shouldn’t be afraid to leave. He shakes Myron’s hand. He tells him: “You’ll know what you have to do.” He waves a farmer’s goodbye.

  After the lamp has been blown out and the children are sleeping restlessly, he and Maria lie in bed. He rubs her belly, breathes in her hair. She tells him: “We’ll be here, we’ll be waiting. We’ll be all right.”

  When she can no longer convince herself, she proposes that they run, pack up what they can carry and leave now. Go south, where it’s warmer and the land is flat and thick with rich, fertile soil. No stones. Or go east—leave this place, don’t look back. The wind whistles over the house. They are trapped. Trapped in this godforsaken wasteland.

  She swallows the bile in her throat, quells the urge to scream, to pound him with her fists, to blame him for tearing their family apart again. She doesn’t want this to be what she remembers tonight. He’ll only be gone a year. One year. That’s nothing in the scheme of their whole lives. She holds him tight, memorizing his smell, the contour of his body, the size of his hands, the sound of his heartbeat.

  Teodor stares out the window at the world lost in a blizzard, swallowing them alive.

  PAPA …

  Teodor is awake. “Shhh …” He motions his son to be quiet, Mama is asleep.

  “I have to pee.” Ivan rubs the sleep from his eyes. The house creaks from the force of the storm outside. Teodor slips from Maria’s hold. He is still fully dressed.

  He helps Ivan into his boots, doesn’t bother to lace them. The half-asleep child rests his head on Teodor’s shoulder. He helps Ivan into his coat.

  “Where are you going?” Maria calls.

  “I have to pee,” Ivan answers grumpily, not wanting to be awake.

  “Go back to sleep,” Teodor gently assures his wife. She looks at him uncertainly, not knowing why she is nervous. Teodor attempts a smile. “We’ll be right back.” He takes Ivan’s hand. He doesn’t bother putting on his coat.

  The snow is driving sideways. Ivan presses against his father’s leg. They round the corner of the house and are lashed by the wind. They duck back behind the shelter of the building. “How about here?” Teodor suggests.

  Ivan hoists his nightshirt. Snowflakes tickle his ankles. Modestly, he turns his back to his father. He pees lazily. A hot, steady stream. Teodor looks the other way, into the white, driving fury. The trees bend and sway, groan under the crush of snow. The wind howls.

  “I’m finished.” Ivan yawns.

  Teodor rubs his head. “Back to bed.”

  He opens the door and takes off Ivan’s boots, hangs up his coat. Ivan shuffles back to his room. �
��Ivan …” Teodor calls after him. But Ivan doesn’t hear.

  Teodor stands at the doorway, waits until he hears the creak of his son crawling back in bed. The house is dark, but with his eyes shut he can see every child, every log, the blanket on the wall, the washbasin, shelves laden with preserves … Maria. They are safe here. He picks his jacket up from the floor.

  “Teodor?” Maria’s voice wavers. She sees him as a shadow across the room.

  “I have to check the horse.” He clutches his coat in front of him. “It’s bad out there.” He slips out the door.

  Maria jumps from the bed and runs to the window. She sees him heading toward the barn, not putting on his jacket. Then the snow devours him and he is lost from her view.

  TEODOR UNWRAPS the .22 from his jacket and puts on his coat. There are two bullets in his pocket. He loads one.

  If you ask them what happened that night, Maria will say her husband said he was going to the barn to check the horse. She waited for him to come back and when he didn’t, she went looking for him. The storm was at its peak, and she could barely open the barn door. When she saw he wasn’t there, she ran back to the house and woke her eldest son. That’s when she realized the .22 wasn’t hanging over the door and that he must have taken it earlier and hidden it in the barn. Ask her if she knew where he was going and what he was going to do, and she will refuse to answer, saying only that he was a good man.

  Myron will say that he was woken by his frantic mother, asking, “Where’s the gun?” He told her it was by the door, leaning against the wall. When she said it wasn’t there and they had to find his father, he knew. He knew where his father was going and what he was going to do. If pressed to answer how he knew, he will reluctantly answer, “My aunt turned him in.”

  Myron will say that he tried to stop him. He ran as hard and fast as he could. But the wind was screaming and the snow was blinding and he couldn’t find the stone wall. Everything was black and white. The snow kept swallowing him, pulling him down. He hollered, Tato! Tato! Tato! But his voice was drowned by the shrieking gale. And then he heard the shot. One shot. He couldn’t tell from what direction. But he knew.

  The girls didn’t wake until first light. The fire had gone out and they were shivering in their bed. The house was quiet. They couldn’t hear their tato stirring his coffee or smell his morning cigarette. They didn’t hear their mama preparing breakfast or smell bread baking in the stove. They found her sitting at the window, staring out at the sorrowing prairies. When they asked her, “What’s wrong?” she told them to get on their knees and pray. Pray for their father. Pray for his soul.

  Katya will say that she tried to pray, but the fire was out. She looked inside the stove and there were only ashes. Cold and grey. She will say the fire took her tato. It was only pretending not to be hungry.

  Ivan didn’t see a gun, he remembered going to pee. The wind tried to take him away. His tato held his hand and told him to go back to bed. He didn’t say anything else.

  Lesya will say she was asleep and there was a crack—like thunder. The window shattered and wind and snow shot into the house. Her mother, who was standing at the window, exhaled, looked down at her chest, and sank to the floor.

  Petro will say he knew his uncle would come and kill them. He said that he’d be back to kill them all. No one will understand him when he says the crows took the quarter and that he can’t take it back. He didn’t mean to see the secret in the wall, but Ivan stole his hat. He didn’t see Teodor, but he heard him crash through the window, a wild dog that tore out his mother’s heart. He will ask over and over when his tato is coming to get him.

  If Anna could tell you, she would say that she couldn’t sleep because of the wailing storm. It sounded like a baby crying. She had the lamp burning because she didn’t want to be alone in the dark. She doesn’t know what made her look outside, maybe the snow hitting the window, like fingers tapping. She rubbed the ice from the pane and through the wind and snow’s frenzied dance she thought she saw her brother.

  He was standing in the storm, looking at her, and it scared her. She thought he was a ghost, a forerunner, and that something terrible had happened. But then she noticed the snow accumulating on his shoulders, on his hair, and drifting over his boots, and she knew that he was real. She lifted her hand to tell him to come in. Come in out of the storm.

  The window cracked and the wind whistled through a perfect round hole in the glass. And she felt warmth spilling over her heart. When she looked down, blood was blossoming on her chest and her lungs were gurgling. And she had to sit down, because it was snowing inside and the wind was carrying her away. And the coyotes were howling.

  Teodor would have said that he saw his sister come to the window. She looked at him and smiled. Smiled as if none of it mattered. He pulled the trigger. He didn’t hear it fire. He didn’t hear the children screaming. He saw red on her white shirt. He saw the question in her eyes. Like she didn’t know why.

  He saw her shudder and crumple.

  WHEN TEODOR STOPS running, he is no longer a man. He has outrun himself. His legs quiver, muscles taut. His chest heaves. He pants wildly. He has followed the tracks of the others like him—into the woods, toward the water, under branches, into the deep smell of spruce, to the place of quiet. Here, the snow is packed down from their sleeping bodies. Smooth hollows. The storm roars around him, but he no longer hears the wind.

  He takes off his leather jacket, his numb hands paw at the zipper, and he sheds the unfamiliar skin stinking of sweat and fear. He stares at the remains of the man and can’t imagine it was ever him. He neatly folds the skin, crossing its arms over its chest. He places the man in the crook of two twisted trees. He removes his boots, clawing at the strings caked with snow and ice; he slips off his heavy feet. The soles are rough, the tops creased and scuffed. He tucks the shoelaces inside and places the feet side by side on top of the man.

  He kneels down. He puts the gun under his chin and looks up.

  He has never seen such

  snow.

  Spring

  1939

  The morning smells mud-green. Barn swallows dart in and out of the rafters. The horse stands patiently hitched to the cart, flicking away flies with its tail. The stove is lashed down. Bed frames dismantled. Blanket boxes, crammed with clothes and linen, are piled atop the inverted table. Chairs and benches are stacked. Two rolled mattresses are slung over the sides. A barrel holds a jumble of pots and dishes and the last few jars of borshch and sauerkraut. Tools, tack, rabbit pelts, and a deer hide are stuffed along the sideboards. The .22 is tucked under the bench.

  Hidden deep within the everyday are their secret stashes. Nestled in a pail crammed with mittens and scarves is Ivan’s WINCHESTER box containing a rabbit skull, a penny, a broken pocket watch, a wasp’s nest, a rock shaped like an egg, and his father’s pocketknife.

  In the bottom of Katya’s blanket box is a pressed wild rose, a carved wren whittled from birch, one lemon candy, and her tato’s tobacco pouch, which holds a partially smoked, hand-rolled cigarette and a burned wooden match.

  Between the pages of Sofia’s English primer are two front-page newspaper clippings. Woman Is Slain. Famed Dog to Assist Mounties in Search for Farmer as Sister Killed. A half-page photo of a grinning German shepherd—“Dale of Cawsalta”—accompanies the story. The second reads: Suicide Following Murder—Dual Tragedy in Land Ownership Dispute. It is offset by a grainy photograph of a window and a moustached officer pointing to a single bullet hole.

  In a coffee can, Dania has packed recipes jotted on brown paper wrapping—one in her father’s hand, for Wheat Wine—a thimble carved from poplar, a half a skein of red wool, one dollar and seven cents she earned laundering hotel bedsheets, and a pair of her father’s socks with the heels worn out. Wrapped in his handkerchief is a small handful of rich black earth.

  Myron doesn’t have a secret stash. His possessions are out in the open. His father’s tools. Sharpened and oiled. The handles worn smo
oth. Each one marked with the initials T. M.

  Between the folds of her linen, Maria has layered in seed packets, the picture of the Blessed Virgin, two wedding bands, a lock of Teodor’s salt-and-pepper hair, and her carved cross. Her mother’s Bible is there too, the pages loose in their binding. The cover page is scrawled with names and dates reaching back a hundred years. The most recent additions are written in Maria’s careful, ornate hand.

  Maria Choma b. 1907 wife of Teodor Mykolayenko b. 1905.

  Children:

  Dania b. June 17, 1924

  Myron b. August 31, 1925

  Sofia b. May 4, 1927

  Katya b. November 26, 1931

  Ivan b. January 19, 1933

  Maxim b. March 14, 1939

  The last entry, written in loose, careless script with a wide pencil stub, reads:

  Teodor Mykolayenko, died December 17, 1938, of the flu

  Of the flu is heavier. The letters have been traced several times to make it true.

  Marking the page is a black and white photograph taken six years ago by a travelling photographer. They are standing in front of a granary on their first farm. They couldn’t afford the ten-cent fee, but Teodor traded three carved birds and two smokes.

  They dressed in their best Canadian clothes and pretended there wasn’t snow on the ground. It was the first time Myron wore a tie. He didn’t tell his father that the knot was too tight. Ivan, still a baby, wouldn’t stop squirming. Sofia cried, because her dress didn’t fit and her hair had been cut short a few months earlier to get rid of the lice.