Under This Unbroken Sky

by Shandi Mitchell

  “I’m too old,” he pants. “Myron, show them how.”

  The family cheers and applauds. Myron steps back, embarrassed by the attention. “Come on,” Teodor goads. “Are you a boy or a man?” Myron steps into the center of the circle. He enters tall, with his shoulders back. Teodor bellows the tune. The children’s voices swell. Myron twists through the air—a whirling dervish, he drops to the ground. Balancing on his heels, he kicks high. His arms crossed over his chest, elbows thrust out, defying gravity. He pivots onto one hand and swings his legs around and under him, until he is a spinning top.

  “Watch, Ivan, watch how it’s done.” Teodor counts the rotations: “One-two-three-four-five-six…” When Teodor was just a little older than his elder son, he once did seventeen gyrations in a row, to impress a young Maria. Myron’s heel drags across the floor, he wobbles off balance.

  “Ten!” Teodor shouts, triumphant. Myron jumps away, dizzy with adrenaline, disappointed that he still hasn’t beat his father’s record. Teodor bows to the women and waves them in. “Your turn, my ladies.”

  Maria takes Dania and Sofia by the hand and leads them to the center. They form a ring that pulses open and closed. They let go of one another’s hands and spin, their skirts flailing wide. Maria’s bun comes loose and her hair spills around her face. Their hands high above their heads, their feet tap-tapping the dirt floor. They lift their faces to the imagined sun and bow to the mythical wheat. Their hands weave through the air like butterflies, calling the men forth. Teodor enters the circle and spins Maria into his arms. They two-step, skimming past clapping hands. Their feet magically land in syncopated pace. Maria looks at Teodor’s face and marvels at the joy.

  They don’t hear the knock on the door. They don’t hear Stefan call Teodor’s name. It is Myron who hears the first out-of-rhythm beat. He stops clapping and listens above the din. He turns toward the door, unsure. Sofia, who is closest to the door, stomping and singing unabashedly, feels the discordant note next. She steps away from the door. Maria, her cheeks flushed, the weight of the baby slowing her down, sees Myron stiffen, suddenly alert. She stops mid-step. Teodor crashes into the table, laughing like a mad fool. It is then he hears the pounding on the door. They all hear it.

  Maria looks to Teodor, who slides the jug behind his back.

  “Teodor?” Stefan’s voice intrudes.

  The children look to their father. Huffing for breath, he staggers for his footing.

  “Goddamn it,” he snarls and the man from a moment ago is lost. This man leans crookedly, his jaw clenched—his eyes sharpened to approaching danger.

  “Sit,” Maria orders him. Surprised by the authority in her voice and the swaying of the floor, he complies, but only on the edge of the chair. Maria tucks her hair up, straightens her blouse, and opens the door.

  Stefan stands in the knee-deep snow, his hands thrust in his pockets, his collar pulled high. His face is red from the walk, his eyes water. Behind him, Petro stands in his father’s footprints. His shoulders are hunched, the cold cuts through his thin jacket. She notices he is wearing Ivan’s hat and mittens. A flush of guilt assails her for having punished her son for giving to someone less fortunate. She glances down at Petro’s feet and is relieved to see he is wearing the new boots.

  “Is everything all right?” She feels the familiar tightening of her heart. “Is Anna all right?”

  “She’s fine.” Stefan avoids her eyes. In his mind’s plan, it was always Teodor who answered the door.

  “What are you doing here?” Maria bars the entrance, aware that she should be inviting them in. She rubs her belly, trying to calm the churning baby.

  Stefan had a plan when he stormed out of the house, yanking the boy with him. He was going to show his son how a man deals with a thief. He had already shown him how to deal with a sobbing woman pleading with him not to go. A woman who cared more about offending her brother than the fact that he had stolen money from her own family’s mouths. He was going to show his boy why men feared and respected him in the old country.

  But he lost most of his anger before they reached the stone wall, his energy depleted from pushing his way through the deep snow. His leg was throbbing. He couldn’t feel his cheeks and his head was pounding again. He would have turned back if he was alone, but the boy was shadowing him. The last half-mile, all uphill, took the rest of his will. He concentrated only on making it to the light shining through the window. He never looked back at the boy tripping behind him, unable to match his stride but refusing to fall behind. Determined to prove to his father that he was a man.

  When Maria opened the door and the heat and smell of food embraced Stefan, he could have cried with relief. When he looked beyond her shoulder and saw on the table a tin cup and a jug of whiskey, his entire being shouted hallelujah.

  Stefan clears his throat and tries to sound calm. “It was such a beautiful night, the boy and I were out walking and we saw the light and thought we’d come up and look at the place.” Maria doesn’t budge. “Then when we heard you singing, I thought, Well everybody’s awake. I should say hello.” He straightens his back to appear more like a nobleman out surveying his estate.

  Maria looks to Teodor, who shakes his head no. She looks at Petro, his head hanging low and his lower lip trembling, which she mistakes for the cold, but in truth is the confusion of a child who no longer knows why they are here.

  “Come in and get warmed up.” She opens the door and a blast of icy air makes the lamps flicker.

  “Thank you.” Stefan removes his cap, kicks the snow from his boots, and nudges Petro to do the same.

  “Have a seat.” Maria glares at Teodor to be on his best behavior. “Go warm yourself by the stove, Petro.”

  “I’m not cold,” he chatters and holds fast by the door.

  “Don’t argue with your aunt,” Stefan warns. Petro clomps to the woodstove, leaving a trail of already melting snow. Ivan grins widely, happy to see the new boots on his cousin’s feet, finally knowing what others see when they look at his own new boots. Ivan pulls his boots from under the stove and plops down on his bum to slip them on. He hopes that Petro is admiring them as much as he admires his.

  “Teodor,” Stefan acknowledges cordially and settles into the chair across from him. His eyes slide down to the half-full cup. “You’ve built a fine place.”

  Teodor watches him like a dog watches a stray that has wandered into his yard. He sizes him up, confused by the wagging tail.

  “It’s bigger inside than it looks.” His eyes scan the shelves of preserves, the neatly ordered supplies, the full stack of wood, the socks strung over the stove, Maria and Teodor’s bed nestled beneath a down quilt. He thinly smiles and says the words he knows they want to hear. “It feels like home.”

  “Are you hungry?” Maria asks. “We still have some sausage and potatoes.”

  “No, no…” Stefan demurs. “Don’t go to any bother. It’s more the cold that’s got in my bones.” He eyes the jug and rubs his hands together to warm them, hoping Teodor will take the hint. “I heard the singing halfway up the hill. I remember that song, haven’t heard it in years. Anna used to dance to it. She was like watching fire, the way she moved…”

  Teodor knows he should be on guard, but his full belly, the whiskey glowing in his veins, and the crackling fire lull his senses. He rolls a cigarette, spilling half the tobacco on the table. He licks the paper and rolls it loose. He doesn’t know why he is grinning.

  “I see you brewed up a batch.” Stefan plays it casual.

  “Josyp Petrenko gave it to Tato for helping him,” Ivan corrects. Teodor’s laughing eyes give away the white lie.

  “Is that right?” Stefan picks up the jug and breathes in. He swallows back the urge to tip it to his lips. “How is it?” He sets the jug back down.

  “Warm and smooth like a good piss,” Teodor slurs the last word and he hears himself laughing, inviting in the camaraderie of another man. A free man, in his own home, sharing his good fortune. He
knows now what he is feeling. He is feeling safe.

  “Maria, get us another cup.”

  “No, no,” Stefan feigns disinterest. “I know how hard it is to come by.” His mouth can barely shape the lie, his body flushes hot. His mouth salivates.

  “I insist,” Teodor responds magnanimously. “One shot.”

  “Girls, get ready for bed.” Maria stiffens, but Teodor ignores her protest.

  “I’m not tired,” Katya argues. Her mother’s sharp look silences her.

  Dania takes Katya’s hand and leads her to the bedroom. “Come on, I’ll tell you a bedtime story.”

  “Good night, Tato.” Katya wraps her arms around her father’s neck and kisses him on the lips. He smells funny, sour and bitter. Her lips burn from touching his.

  Sofia follows suit. “’Night.” She pecks him on the cheek. He throws his arms around her and bundles her on his knee, giving her a whisker rub.

  “Good night, grumpy-dump.” He swats her behind and she is delighted, even as she pouts and straightens her skirt.

  “’Night, Tato.” He looks up at his eldest daughter.

  “Good night, Dania.” He speaks to her as an adult, which makes her proud. She leads her sisters to the room, eager to escape Stefan’s burning eyes.

  “They’re getting big, aren’t they? How old is Dania now?”

  “Fourteen.” Teodor pours a splash of liquor into Stefan’s cup. Dania pulls the blanket modestly across the door frame.

  “’Night.” Stefan nods, mesmerized by her long blond hair and piercing blue eyes. “She looks like you, Maria. A beauty.”

  Myron pushes back his chair and stands too abruptly, the .22 in his hand. He slams the bolt in. “I’m going to check the snares.” He is out the door before he has pulled on his jacket.

  “Why don’t you boys go play in your room,” Maria suggests. “Keep it quiet, though.” Ivan, who is struggling to tie his laces, unable to remember if the rabbit goes into the hole or around the tree, gladly gives up. Tripping over his bootlaces, he leads the way.

  “Why don’t you take off your hat and mitts, Petro, you’ll get too hot. I’ll hang them up, then they’ll be warm for you later.” Maria holds out her hand.

  Petro protectively grabs his hat. “I want to keep them.” He hurriedly follows Ivan into his room.

  Teodor lifts his cup. “Daî Bozhe.”

  Stefan takes hold of the mug, as though shaking hands with an old friend. His trembling fingers steady themselves against the tin.

  “God give you health,” Stefan concurs and raises his cup. He breathes in the earthy, bittersweet fragrance. He kisses his lips to the cup and drinks. The amber fire spreads through his body. A warm, golden light bathes his brain and numbs the pain. He is filled with pure liquid joy. His shoulders relax. He leans back in the chair, his eyes soft. “It’s good whiskey, Teodor. Fine whiskey.”

  He holds up his cup for more. The men smile at each other, willing, in this moment, to pretend to be friends. Teodor fills his cup. Stefan helps himself to tobacco and unbuttons the top button of his too-tight collar to let the golden liquid pass more freely. Maria warily watches, fighting the irrational urge to gather up her family and run.

  IVAN AND PETRO SIT ON THE BED, DANGLING THEIR FEET over the edge. Ivan tries to hold his feet in the same position as his cousin’s. Toes slightly pointed inward. He pretends he has four legs. He lifts his left foot up, hoping Petro’s leg will do the same. It doesn’t. He swings his right foot, coaxing Petro’s to follow. Nothing. Their feet hang lifeless.

  “What d’you wanna do?” Ivan prods, eager to please. “Wanna see my gopher skull?”

  Petro shrugs, but Ivan has already clambered onto the floor. On his belly, he sidles under the bed and retrieves a dog-eared cardboard box labeled WINCHESTER .22 SINGLE SHOT. He sets it on the bed and ceremoniously flips open the top. The gopher’s skull, gleaming white, crowns the treasures.

  “You can hold it if you want.” He sets it in Petro’s hand. “It’s light, ain’t it?”

  Petro examines the empty eye sockets and gaping mouth. “It’s got more teeth than I thought. They’re sharp.” He runs his finger across an incisor. Then sticks his finger through the gaping eye hole, feeling inside for bits of brain.

  From the next room, a loud burst of men’s laughter, punctuated by fragments of boisterous stories—names of Ukrainian people and places Ivan’s never heard of before—distract the boys. His father is talking loud and fast, tripping over his words, laughing mid-sentence. Stefan speaks even louder, as if making sure that everyone hears him. Ivan wonders why they are hollering at each other when they are sitting so close together. Petro tosses the skull on the bed and rifles through the box.

  “What else you got?”

  He throws aside the blue crockery shard. Ivan doesn’t bother to show him that it’s the exact same blue as the sky just before it gets pitch-black. He shuffles past the twig shaped like a snake that if you hold sideways, you can see a sliver of forked bark curled up like a tongue. Instead, he extracts a silver pocket watch. The cover is dented and twisted, the glass smashed, and one hand is missing. He shakes it to his ear, a tinkle of metal shards.

  “Does it work?”

  “No.” Ivan knows his cousin will be disappointed. “But it’s gotta name on the back. You gotta open it.” He pushes on the clasp. “I found it where we used to live before. See…” He points to the engraving. “F. P. Williams.”

  “It ain’t worth nothing.” Petro tosses it aside. Ivan frowns. He wants to tell him that F. P. Williams is engraved slanted, like someone important. That makes it worth something. Maybe F. P. Williams lost the watch because he had a hole in his pocket, because he didn’t have a mama to sew it up. Or maybe he was robbed and he fought with the robbers and was killed right there with his watch. Or maybe…

  “What’s this?” Petro holds up a gray heart-shaped stone.

  “A lucky rock.” Ivan yawns, his body reminding him that he’s up way past his bedtime.

  “You make it?” Petro runs his fingers over its smooth curves.

  “Found it in the lake.” Ivan wants to lie down and nestle against his pillow, but that would be rude. In the next room, Maria shushes the two men. Their voices drop, then rise again, low and booming.

  Petro sets the rock aside. He finds a peppermint candy and pops it in his mouth. The red-and-white one.

  “I was saving that one,” Ivan protests, suddenly wide awake.

  “You got another one. Besides, I shared my apple.” Petro digs to the bottom of the box and finds a penny. “You got money.”

  Ivan shrugs. He doesn’t care about money. He likes the picture of the leaf, and the coppery color and the date that is the same as the year he was born. 1933. He likes to think it was made just for him.

  “You could buy anything you want,” Petro exclaims.

  “I don’t want to buy anything, I want to keep it.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  “No, it’s not.” Ivan reaches for his penny, but Petro pulls it back.

  “You don’t keep money. You spend money to get other things. That’s how you get rich. You’re such a baby.”

  Ivan snatches for the penny. “Give it back.”

  “Babies shouldn’t have money.” Petro jumps up on the bed, holding the coin high above his head. “Let’s play a game: if you can take it from me, it’s yours. If not, it’s mine. Deal?” He spits in his hand and offers to shake.

  “I’m not playing.” Ivan pushes aside his cousin’s hand. “Give it back.”

  “No.” Petro makes his stand.

  “It’s mine.” Ivan’s heart swells with rage and frustration, confused that his best friend in the whole world is being mean to him. “You can have the other candy.”

  “I don’t want your candy. I’ve got my own.” He spits the peppermint onto the floor. It rolls in the dirt, picking up specks of black, bleeding red and white. “Get your father to give you more money, he’s got lots of it. He took ours.”
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  Ivan slams Petro’s chest with his hands, driving him into the wall. Petro laughs and holds the penny higher. Ivan swipes the wool cap from Petro’s head and growls, “That’s mine too.”

  Before Petro can snatch it back, Ivan throws himself into his soft belly, fists swinging.

  TEODOR WIPES TEARS FROM HIS EYES, ONLY HALF AWARE that Stefan is filling his cup again. He hasn’t laughed in such a long time, his ribs are aching. He almost feels sick.

  “Maria.” He waves to her. “Come sit with me.” He slaps his knee.

  Maria ignores him as she dices the leftover meat and potatoes for a stew. “I have work to do.”

  “She’s a stubborn woman,” Teodor teases. He tries to stand. “Come show Stefan how we were dancing.” He holds out his arms and falls back in his chair. The men laugh uproariously.

  Stefan stands. His body leans too far back to be balanced. He bows sloppily to Maria. “If you’ll excuse me, I must step outside and water a horse.” He winks at Teodor.

  Teodor waves farewell. “Watch out the coyotes don’t bite it off.”

  “It’d take more than one,” Stefan brags. He steps into the crisp night. As the door shuts behind him, Teodor takes another sip and looks lovingly to Maria, who is burning a hole in his heart.

  “What?” His head bobs indignantly.

  “That’s it.” Maria grabs the jug of whiskey. “I want him out of here.”

  “We’re having a good time.” He brings the cup of cheer to his lips.

  Maria stops his hand and takes away the cup.

  “You’re drunk and he should be home with his pregnant wife, not here drinking this poison.”

  She drains the cup back into the jug.

  “What kind of man brings a child out at this time of night? And you…” she spits, “what kind of man keeps pouring it into him. You know what he’s like.”