“How long?”
Ivan shrugs. “Maybe when you’re nine and I’m seven.” They ponder that eternity as their tongues search the inside of their mouths for one last taste.
“They should be watered,” Ivan says, like a seasoned farmer.
They look up from the wall that divides their properties. They’re just as far from the well as they are from the lake. They’ll need a bucket. If they go to the well, Lesya will catch them and they’ll have to share their secret. If they go to the lake, by the time they break through the ice and haul it back, they’ll be late for dinner; besides, they’re not allowed at the lake by themselves.
Ivan’s numb fingers fumble to unbutton his pants. “It’ll be hot. Apples like hot.”
Petro removes his newly acquired mittens and unfastens his trousers.
With careful aim they melt away the snow and imagine the seeds already sprouting.
TEODOR NOTICES THAT THE WOOD HASN’T BEEN SPLIT and the cow hasn’t been milked yet. Even the smoke coming from the chimney is weak and thin. He heads to the chicken coop, following his niece’s irregular boot prints, and pulls aside the NO-SAG-GATE palette propped against the entrance. Two squawking hens explode from their roosts. He squints into the darkness and sees Lesya jumping up, brushing straw from her dress. The lame hen flaps its wings, keeping balance on her boot.
“I was just getting the eggs,” she stammers.
Teodor glances at the bed of straw betraying her indentation. It reminds him of an oversized nest. “The cow needs milking.”
Embarrassed, Lesya grabs the two eggs left by the laying hens and rushes past him with a feather stuck in her hair.
Odd child, he thinks. The crippled bird stares at him accusingly. He makes a mental note to build a proper door for the coop. He heads to the shack to check the grain.
From under the house, the skittish black female cat slinks alongside. Two of her grown litter, a calico and a blond, rush ahead to the granary door.
As he passes the chopping block, he glances at the log waiting to be split. Small boot prints circle around. He shakes his head at the poor attempt. A boy doing a man’s job. He looks for the ax and sees the head four feet away. He digs it out of the snow and brushes the blade clean. The handle is severed at the neck.
He considers dragging Stefan’s lazy ass to the woodpile, but the son of a bitch would probably take it out on the boy later. He’s only been home for a day and already the cow isn’t milked, the wood’s not split, and the ax is broken. What’s it going to be like in a week? In a month? In the middle of February? He’s prepared to help his sister and her children, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to feed that poor excuse for a man. He pockets the ax head and adds another seventy-five cents to the things he needs to buy.
He finds the broken handle a few feet from the granary. He shakes the snow from the ragged end. A crack runs down its spine. Maybe if he wraps it with wire he can salvage it. The cats weave excitedly at his feet, mewing insistently. They rub against the door frame, with their backs arched, their tails high and eyes sharp. He boots them aside and unlatches the door.
In that first instant, in the dim light, he thinks the mound of wheat is moving. Then he sees the mice. Dozens of them. Their cheeks stuffed full, their pink tails dragging, their eyes alert—danger, danger. They run from the light. Their nails skitter across the wood, creating an avalanche of seed. They scurry under floorboards, race for corners, burrow into the hill of seed.
The cats spring, talons knifing the air. In the chaos, a small mouse careens blindly for the door. Teodor crushes it with one stomp. He wipes its smeared remains from his heel.
“WE HAVE TO GET THE GRAIN OUT.”
Myron pauses mid-strike with the ax high, a pile of split wood at his feet.
“Now!” Teodor barks. “Get the shovels and whatever bags you can find.”
He doesn’t stop to stomp the snow from his boots as he barges into the house, startling the women in the midst of dinner preparations.
Katya beams. “Look, Tato, I made a pyrih.” She holds up her lopsided creation.
“What’s wrong?” Maria’s heart tightens.
“We need blankets and sheets. We’re taking the grain in.”
“But it’s almost lunch.” She looks up from rolling her fiftieth pyrohy. Her hands are covered in flour; a pot of mashed potatoes and onions steams on the table. Dania, sweating over the stove, hesitates boiling the next batch.
“It’ll be dark before you get back,” but she is already moving toward the chest. “Pack some food for your father.”
Sofia gratefully pulls her hands out of the sticky dough glomming her fingers.
“And for Myron.” Teodor retrieves the newspaper, a hand-me-down from Josyp Petrenko, and searches the pages for last week’s market prices. He tears the column from the page and folds it into his pocket.
“Can I come?” Katya pipes up hopefully.
“No.” Maria slaps flour from her hands. “You have work to do.” She opens the chest and is repulsed by the rank, mildewy smell.
“Anything will do, I just need something to cover it.” He is already impatient to leave. Maria grabs a cotton sheet, gray with age and torn at the hems, and a faded wool blanket.
“Wait.” She hands him an extra sweater and two dry pairs of socks. He grumbles about having too much to carry. “Take them,” she says. The discussion is over.
THE HORSE NEIGHS, TOSSING ITS HEAD UP AND DOWN, as Myron harnesses him to the cart. “Not yet,” Myron soothes.
He has jury-rigged a harness by knotting together braided binder twine to the remains of the leather hitches damaged in the fire. Despite having dried, rubbed, and oiled the tack, the leather has shrunk and hardened. All the hours that he spent caring for it have been lost. He consoles himself that soon they’ll buy a new harness.
“Next time we go to town, you’ll be the finest-dressed horse they’ve ever seen.” Myron rubs its forelock. The horse whinnies appreciatively.
“Myron!”
“Coming!” He grabs the halter and leads the horse out of the barn. The cart shimmies and groans as the wheels plow through the snow.
“Back him up.” Teodor guides them to within inches of the shack’s narrow door.
“Good.” He has already filled the six half-decent burlap bags he could find. He hoists them up on the cart.
“Pile them down the sides, keep three for the back. And spread the blanket out.” He grabs the shovel and digs into the loose seed. “Goddamned mice,” he says with every heave.
Myron wrestles the bags into place, keeping his back turned to the constant shower of seed. A few grains trickle down his collar. He props up the last bag and hops down to join his father. He waits at the door, timing the rhythm of the shovel’s swing like a skipping game; seeing the opening, he slips inside as the shovel blade whishes past his head.
The dust is thick. Teodor wipes the sweat from his brow and removes his leather jacket. He’s had this jacket since he was eighteen. It’s lined with sheepskin. It holds the heat and keeps out the wind. This jacket has kept him alive in many worlds. The supple leather has burnished into a deep brown. It has shaped itself to his skin. It is his skin now. He folds it neatly and sets it in the corner. He picks up the shovel again.
“Goddamned mice.”
He digs in and throws the seed toward the narrow doorway. His shovel clangs into Myron’s. Seed ricochets off the walls. Myron takes a step back and Teodor swings again. Myron watches, waits for the moment, digs as his father throws. Soon, they are alternating shovel loads. Myron, panting, struggles to keep pace. Once, he falters and the shovels slam together again. Sweat trickles into Myron’s eyes. He wishes he had taken off his coat too.
The grain flies through the air, sprays across the cart floor. It fills the grooves and cracks. The thick golden layer builds higher, mounding upward. Myron jumps onboard and spreads it level under a constant hail of seed, grateful for the break. They don’t stop for lunch. His sto
mach growls as he fights his way back through the torrent of seed and resumes shoveling. Goddamned mice.
Their shovels scrape the floor. Teodor glances up at the sun. It must be almost two o’clock. They have to get going if they’re going to get there before closing. He checks the remaining pile. They’ll keep loading for another fifteen minutes. The rest they’ll keep for seed. He’ll need to buy more bags today. He can’t leave the seed loose in the granary, there’ll be nothing left come the spring. Goddamned mice.
Maybe he should build crates and put the bags inside. It’d be safer. Tar them with pine sap or line them with tin. But he’s seen the bastards chew through wood and tin. And if there’s not enough ventilation, the grain will get moldy. He should get some poison, but then the cats… maybe he should lock the cats inside for a few weeks.
“That’s enough.” He leans on his shovel. “Let’s tarp it.”
They are fastening the last corner of the bedsheet when Stefan steps out of the house. He hasn’t bothered to put on a coat. Petro follows close behind, also coatless, but wearing a pair of oversized mittens.
“Taking it to town?” Stefan inquires.
Teodor doesn’t bother to answer. “Loop it twice around that rail.”
“It’s a good load.” Stefan pats the horse’s withers. It flinches and kicks. He sidesteps out of the way.
Teodor grabs the calico around its pudgy midriff and tosses it inside the shack and shuts the door. “Are you done back there?”
“Almost.” Myron struggles to stretch the sheet to hitch the knot. Petro scoops up a mittful of clean snow and absently licks it as he watches Myron work.
Myron glances over his shoulder. “Where’d you get my mittens?”
“Ivan give ’em to me.” He drops the snow and hides his hands behind his back.
Teodor makes a round, checking the cart’s wheels and harnesses. Stefan follows him like a supervisor, his arms looped behind his back, nodding as if he knows what he’s looking at.
“What’s wheat goin’ for these days? I hear the markets been all over the place.” He tries to sound knowledgeable. “They say the farther east you go, the fields are dust. The grain’s so poor, the yield’s three bushels and they can’t get fifteen cents for it. We’re the lucky ones.”
Teodor throws his leather jacket back on, his body retreats from the cold skin. “C’mon, Myron, let’s go.”
Stefan rubs the horse’s nose too hard. It tries to bite him. He grabs the bridle and yanks it down, hard. “Remember whose barn you’re staying in.”
Teodor takes the rein, catching the strain of the bridle. “He doesn’t like his nose touched.”
Stefan releases his hold. “We all have our weaknesses.” He eyes the grain. “How much d’you think we’ll get?”
Teodor checks the tie-down in the front corner. He snaps too brusquely at Myron, “You’ve got too much at this end, pull it back.” He unties the knot and readjusts the sheet.
Stefan sidles up close to Teodor, he slips his fingers into the seed. “Maybe I should come with you. I’m a pretty good negotiator.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Stefan measures the weight of the seed in his hand. “Maybe I should come and protect my investment.”
Teodor glares at him. “What investment?”
Stefan glances at the grain and shrugs. “My land, my granary, my wheat.”
Teodor answers in measured words. “I did the work.” He feels the back of his neck flush hot, feels his body tighten. Eyes to the ground. Eyes to the ground.
“I know, I know.” Stefan feigns sympathy. “But the claims office only looks at the papers.” He brushes the seed from his hands. “If I remember, you can’t own land…” He chooses his words carefully. “…After that incident.”
Myron looks up from his task and sees his father’s cheek twitch. Teodor knots the sheet and pulls it tight. “Anna and I made an arrangement.”
“Did you?” Stefan smiles cordially, but his eyes glint. “Have you paid her yet? You don’t want to get to town and be mistaken for a thief.”
Teodor grips the side of the cart. His back to Stefan. It is a stance he knows. Hands on the wall. Feet planted. Ten swipes of the belt. His stomach constricts.
“I’m not a thief.”
Stefan leans in close. “That’s not what the papers said.” His lips curl, baring his teeth into a smile.
Teodor grabs him by the collar. If he twists the fabric it will tighten like a noose.
The smile is still on Stefan’s face. His eyes are mocking. “Think about what you’re doing, Teodor.”
Petro, who is rolling a snowball on the ground, rounds the cart. He stops, startled by the closeness of his father and uncle.
Teodor speaks low and hard. “You’re not in the old country now, Stefan. You don’t have an army backing you up here. You’re nobody here.”
Stefan leans into Teodor’s grip. “I’m the nobody who married your sister. So I’m the nobody who owns this land.” He almost growls the words. “What’s that make you, Teodor? My farmhand?”
Teodor’s grip tightens.
“What are you going to do?” Stefan challenges. “Kill his father?”
Teodor looks to the small boy with the oversized mittens. His skinny arms, covered in goose bumps, shiver. Teodor releases Stefan with a sharp push.
“You’ll get your goddamned money.”
“I know I will.” Stefan adjusts his collar. “Family looks after family.”
“You want to help your family?” Teodor snarls. “Split the wood, fix the ax, milk the cow, put clothes on your children’s backs!” Petro runs to his father’s side.
Teodor grabs the leads. “Get on the shaft and weigh down the load.” Myron immediately obeys. Teodor slaps the horse’s flank too hard. The cart lurches ahead. Teodor keeps pace beside it.
Stefan hollers after them: “If anybody asks you where you got the grain, Myron, you tell them your uncle gave you permission to bring it in. Say my name—everybody knows me in town.” Myron looks back at Stefan. “Never take the first offer, boy.”
Petro doesn’t understand why his father is grinning like he’s just won a game.
Stefan cuffs him on the ear. “Stop gawking and get some wood.” He saunters back into the house.
Petro grabs a mittful of snow and throws it as hard as he can at the retreating cart.
THEY ONLY STOP TWICE TO KNOCK THE STICKY SNOW from the wheels. Once they get onto the main road, the ride is smooth. They don’t talk, they just let the prairies roll past. They give themselves over to the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and its occasional snort. Myron wiggles his toes every few miles as the cold seeps through the thin leather. He is grateful for the extra sweater. For the first few miles, he steals sidelong glances at his father, hoping to catch a glimpse of what he is thinking or maybe to tell him in a man’s way, I’m here if you want to talk.
But Teodor doesn’t accept the invitation. He stares at the horse’s hooves, his hands loose on the reins, his face frozen in its imperviousness. After a while, Myron looks for magpies, rabbits, and deer instead—any other sign of life. He sees only fence posts.
The low sun bounces off the white fields and both men squint through its blindness. Miles ahead, the grain elevator rises on the horizon, proclaiming the town in bold blue letters: UNITED GRAIN GROWERS—WILLOW CREEK. The road veers right and cozies up to the train track leading straight to the elevator on the edge of town. Their little cart passes through the long shadows of the boxcars. Each one loaded with tons of wheat waiting to be shipped to countries Myron never expects to see.
They arrive half an hour before closing. “Stay with the horse,” Teodor tells Myron.
Inside, the grain elevator smells of wood and dust. Two men sit close to a potbellied stove, playing cards on a crate. One is large; his stomach hangs over his pants. His eyes are close together, sunken in the fleshy folds of his cheeks. The other is thin and hard. His coveralls and hands are black with grease. A ho
me-rolled cigarette hangs from his lip. They don’t look up when the cowbell tinkles Teodor’s arrival. They finish out their play. Full house beats two of a kind.
“Goddamn.” The skinny man pulls another cigarette from behind his ear and tosses it on the table.
The fat man gathers up the cards and shuffles again.
Teodor clears his throat. “I have wheat.”
The fat man looks at the clock. It’s twenty-five to four. “It’s almost closing. Come back tomorrow.” He deals out the cards.
“I have wheat. Today.”
The man checks his hand. Nothing. He looks at the thin man, whose eyes betray the two aces in his hand. The fat man folds his cards and heavily gets up. He looks out the flyspecked window at the paltry load.
“Shit. Why do they even bother?”
“Sell wheat.”
“Yeah, yeah, bring it around the side.” The man waddles away, his knees stiff from carrying the extra weight. He points and speaks louder. “The side door.”
Teodor heads back out. The fat man puffs, “They otta make ’em have to learn English before they let ’em in.”
“They shouldn’t let ’em in,” the thin man counters.
Teodor leads the horse and wagon to the side entrance, up the low plank ramp and into the cavernous belly of the elevator. Myron ducks as the cart rolls through the doorway. The wheels rattle over the iron grid that covers the hopper below. The fat man rolls the heavy door shut behind them. It groans across the rusted rollers.
“Shovel it off and make it quick. I ain’t stayin’ past four.”
Myron jumps off and starts untying the bedsheet knots. The fat man grabs his clipboard. Teodor doesn’t hurry.
“What’s your name? Name.”
“Teodor Mykolayenko.”
“Christ, how do you spell that?” Teodor looks at him blankly. “Spell, do you understand?”
Myron answers, “M-y-k-o-l-a-y-e-n-k-o.”
“What kind of name is that? Communist?”
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