House erected by my husband and Mykolayenko. The logs being cut by Mr. Mykolayenko who was hired by my husband.
Four additional acres broke by my husband with his own plow.
I hereby state that at no time did I instruct or ask Mr. Mykolayenko to do any particular work or improvements—any work or improvements done by him were of his own free will.
A. Shevchuk
Witnessed by Stefan Shevchuk
GOVERNMENT OF THE PROVINCE OF ALBERTA
FROM: F. W. NELSON
CHIEF TIMBER INSPECTOR
TO: J. HALL, ESQ.
DEPUTY MINISTER
RE: N.E.2-64-6-W, 4TH MERIDIAN
November 30, 1938
Complying with your request, I inspected the above land and interviewed the entrant and Mykolayenko who is in residence on the land.
I have attached affidavits from both parties concerned. It will be noted that the information contained in these affidavits is very contradictory.
I also interviewed several neighbors (Petrenko/Olynik) concerning the representations made by both parties. The impression held by the neighbors is that an understanding had existed between Mrs. Shevchuk and her brother, Teodor, that he was to get the homestead. I found nobody, however, who was willing to take an affidavit regarding this and none of them would say that they ever heard Mrs. Shevchuk allude to any such agreement. Their impressions on the matter were apparently received from statements made by Mykolayenko and words dropped by Stefan Shevchuk who is Mrs. Shevchuk’s husband.
While I feel that some such agreement probably existed, both she and her husband denied knowledge of such agreement.
I might add that the neighbors whom I interviewed all expressed the opinion that both parties were crooked.
While in my opinion there has undoubtedly been sufficient land brought under cultivation, as well as other improvements made to earn patent, it would appear under Section 17 of the Provincial Lands Act the entry is liable to cancellation and neither party should hold claim.
December 6. 1938
INNACURACY ABOUT IMPROVEMENTS
I build a house and I did pay for the work that is done on that farm and I have witness for what I done on Teodor farm.
Your truly
A. Shevchuk
December 10, 1938
Sirs:
RE: N.E.2-64-6-W, 4th Meridian
Referring to your letter I beg to advise that Mrs. A. Shevchuk obtained homestead entry for above described land. Teodor Mykolayenko, brother of the entrant, claims that he has resided on the land, performed the improvements, and that when Mrs. Shevchuk filed, the understanding existed whereby he was to get the homestead.
The whole matter is being investigated and when a decision is arrived at you will be further advised.
For your information, I may say that all homestead entries are at present under winter protection and although an application to cancel may be accepted, no action would be taken until the first of March next.
Yours very truly
D. H. Burns
Director of Land
2
ANNA HEARD THE COYOTES AGAIN LAST NIGHT. They were crying for her while she slept. She hasn’t been able to go to them. She can hardly move. She sleeps all the time now. It is easier to sleep than be awake. When she sleeps, she feels nothing. Floats between here and there. She doesn’t have to think about who she is and what she has done. She is separate from her life. Not a mother, not a wife, not a sister—she is something outside of time, waiting to be reborn.
How far back would she have to go to change her life? What if she hadn’t got on the boat that brought her here? What if she hadn’t gone to the dance where she had met Stefan? What if she had kissed the boy with the brown eyes and crooked teeth instead? What if she hadn’t signed the letters? Who would she be now?
Anna’s legs cramp. She rolls onto her back, straightens her legs. The baby turns inside her, its feet push against her insides. She rubs her belly, pushes her fingers along the soft flesh until she finds a hard lump. She presses around the shape. A foot. The baby kicks. She drapes her arm around her belly, pulls the quilt tight across her, wanting to feel constricted.
She dreams of faces looking down on her. Lesya’s worried blue eyes. She dreams of floating in a lake below the surface. She is breathing underwater. Suspended. The water is cool against her forehead, like a damp cloth. She hums.
The baby relaxes and curls up. Anna shifts onto her side, pulls her knees to her belly, her thumb near her mouth. The fragments of melodies vibrate in her throat, spill down her chest, pulse through her uterus. Sometimes she repeats one note—low, low, low, then high, high, high. Her eyelids grow heavy, her breathing slows, and life falls away again.
Asleep, the sounds are muffled and far away. Mysterious and disconnected. She finds herself identifying them. That’s the door opening. That’s fire crackling. A man’s cough. Footsteps. Pots being stirred. Hair being brushed.
What’s that?
“A bird.”
What’s that?
“Wind.”
What’s that?
“My heart.”
She doesn’t know that she says the words out loud. The voice is small, a little girl’s voice. It sounds like Anna’s voice. Sometimes it sounds like it’s inside her head. Sometimes it sounds like it’s whispered in her ear. It’s not really a voice. It’s more like a feeling. A question she’s compelled to answer.
Light flickers through her closed eyelids. “That’s the sun. Cloud. Night. Candles. Fire.” She turns her face away from the light, and blackness seeps in. Sometimes Anna feels as if she is encased in someone else’s skin.
She opens her eyes. “Lesya.” She is flooded with warmth, even love. Safe.
Lesya tips a glass of water to her mother’s cracked lips. “Drink.” Anna’s eyes shut.
Open your eyes. “Petro.” Uncertain. Wary.
“Come closer,” she tells him. “Let me see your eyes.” A stranger. Be careful.
She pushes him away.
The man?
Anna blearily opens her eyes. “Stefan. Your father.” She feels nothing. Not curiosity. Not disappointment. Not apprehension. Nothing. Just exhaustion. Her eyes shut.
Where?
“Home.”
Feeling more questions, she tries to explain. “House, land.”
Land?
“Forever. Empty. Flat. Alone.”
Alone?
“Nobody. Life. Sadness.”
Anna’s pillow is wet beneath her cheek. She is crying. She burrows deeper into the covers and pulls the quilt over her head. A cocoon of warmth. “Sleep,” she tells herself.
Soon?
“No.” Anna doesn’t want to be born yet.
Soon, the voice persists.
“No,” Anna commands.
The voice curls up, small and tight, and Anna floats away again.
At first she thinks the coyotes have come to her in her dream. Their voices circle around her. Their wild cries grow louder, more insistent. Distressed. She rushes toward the sound, not wanting to be left behind. She wakes.
It is dark. She is alone in bed. The blankets stick to her wet skin. Her mouth is dry. She rolls heavily on her side. She strains to hear through the silence of the night. Is that a dog panting? The rustle of paws on snow? Is it pressing its nose against the cracks of the shack? Breathing in? Anna presses her hand against the log wall, feels a cold draft on her palm.
Somewhere up toward the field a coyote calls. Its beautiful, mournful cry wails down the hill. Anna hoists herself up to a sitting position. She wants to see it. Tell it that she hasn’t forgotten. It yelps three short barks that open into a sustained sorrow.
She heaves up onto her feet and wobbles unsteadily. Pain grabs her lower back and spreads across her lower abdomen to her legs and cinches her tight.
Don’t go.
Her heart races. She is flushed with heat. Her thighs tremble. Another contraction seizes her belly, make
s her bowels constrict.
Don’t go.
She breathes erratically. The coyote wails again. Anna breaks into a sweat. The baby twists, kicks up under her ribs. Anna clutches her stomach, tries to calm it.
“Coyotes. Friends.”
Adrenaline floods her body. Her muscles tighten. Her heart pounds. Fear crackles under her skin.
“Coyote. Friend.”
Her muscles release. The baby lies still. Anna breathes deep. She straightens her back and soothingly pats her belly. The coyote calls her again. Anna takes a step forward.
Liar.
Pain shears through her body. White light explodes behind her eyes. She fights to hold on to consciousness. The world reels away, and when she can no longer bear it, it subsides.
She is standing in the dark. The ice-cold dirt floor numbing her toes. The weight of her flesh pulling her down. She breathes in her sweat-soaked nightdress. She listens to the silence. It’s gone.
She looks at her belly. The baby is quiet now.
“This one will betray you too,” a voice says. This voice is louder and stronger than the other one. Anna collapses onto the bed and pulls herself tight in the covers. Her breathing slows. Her body goes cold. She draws the quilt over her head, a fragment of a dream slips past her eyes of Stefan in the dark, standing perfectly still, his hands behind his back, his coat on, holding his breath.
STEFAN HAS ALWAYS HATED THE SOUND OF COYOTES. It reminds him how far from civilization they are. He was never meant to be a farmer. He is awake again, sitting at the table, staring at the empty flask. Tremors rip through his body, crawling under his skin, erupting in his hands. He is sweating, he feels nauseous. He came back this time to be a gentleman farmer, hire hands to do the work, get enough money from the fields to get back to town. Instead he’s worse off than before. At least in town, he could always find a drink. There was always someone to talk to about the old country.
If he had a good night at cards, he could get a bed, a bath, and a woman. The girls knew him by name; they teased him and called him The Tsar. And he liked that. Even if he couldn’t afford the full night, he could often scrape enough together for fifteen minutes. Enough to release the ache between his legs. He looks at the lump of Anna in the bed. He hasn’t touched her in weeks. How could that be the woman he married? Her breasts fold into her belly. She lies there like a sack. Even the whores pretend. His groin tingles awake. He places both hands on the table and presses down hard.
It’s all Teodor’s fault. He thought he would be off the land by now. He would sell the homestead for two hundred dollars. A steal for the right buyer. There’s at least five hundred dollars of improvements and then there’s the fields. Two hundred dollars would give him a new life. New clothes. A house in town. Access to the poker tables and the girls. His groin tilts upward, brushes against his trousers. He’s sick of the letters. It should have been so easy. One letter and have him removed. He didn’t count on Teodor fighting back. He can’t keep all the stories straight, and now the government bastards don’t believe that he did the work. He knows a bad hand when he sees one. He thought if he put everything in, the others would fold. But they’ve called his bluff. If somehow they give him the land, he won’t be able to sell it. They’ll be watching him. They’ll want another six acres next year. He didn’t start this to become a farmer.
The coyotes are wailing tonight. He wonders how much a pelt would bring. But being out there alone in the night with them quashes that idea. He could sell the horse and wagon and the tack. Maybe he could get fifty dollars. That’s a good idea. First thing tomorrow he’ll talk to Petrenko or maybe he should go directly to town. Town would be better: then he could ride instead of walk. His hand rubs his groin. His hips yearn upward. He puts his hand back on the table. He could go outside and relieve himself. Stand in the snow like an animal, but even an animal doesn’t have to relieve itself. He looks to Anna. He deflates.
How has it all gone so wrong? He sits at the table with his back to Lesya and Petro asleep in their bed. He doesn’t want to look at his daughter. She reminds him that he is old. She reminds him of the girls back home, with their long, shiny hair. Hair that doesn’t feel like a woman’s. He surges awake and presses his knees together. The way she looks at him through her hair. The attention she gives him. Serving him his meals. Heating his water for the bath. Putting her hand in the washtub to make sure it’s not too hot. How she never talks. He’s not a bad man. It’s this place that is driving him crazy. Imprisoned in these four walls. Unable to move. Unable to breathe. Unable to be a man.
A coyote yelps madly, closer now. He should check on the children. Make sure they’re covered up. Like a good father. Make sure the coyotes aren’t disturbing them in their sleep. He is an officer, a man of discipline. A man in control. He’s not a bad man. He’s a father. He’s a good father. Good fathers check on their children.
LESYA HEARS THE COYOTE FIRST. LATELY, SHE DOESN’T really sleep. Even with her eyes closed, she is always conscious of her mother’s needs and her father’s movements. Tonight, her eyes opened at the coyote’s first faint note.
She has named them. That’s Kozma. He lives in the north. She imagines Kozma to be a big, grizzled male, protective and sullen like her uncle Teodor.
Luka should answer next. She smiles at the sound of his faint, high whine. Luka is younger, maybe a son of Kozma. He always stays south of the wall. His territory is east. His bark doesn’t have Kozma’s strength or authority. She imagines he’s smaller and slinks, whereas Kozma lopes.
They come through at the same time every night. There are three of them. Every night, they call out to one another. Lesya counts between their calls. One thousand one—one thousand two—they answer like thunder.
At first, she was afraid when the coyotes returned. Afraid that they would breach the coop and slaughter her hens. She booby-trapped the perimeter with sharpened sticks that she skewered into the snow. She strung tin cans to the willow fence so she could hear any sudden, unusual movement. For added protection, she barricaded the henhouse door with a log pole that she can barely lift. The coyotes have never bothered her chickens.
Lesya listens for Yvonne. She named the third coyote after one of the Quints. Everybody in town talks about them. Five baby girls born at once. Each one the same. Coming from one egg. Each one perfect. They live in a glass house, where nurses take care of their every need. She imagines that their beds are little nests and that they have wings, but they can’t quite fly. That’s why people need to take care of them and keep them safe. She can’t imagine a happier life.
Lesya doesn’t really know whether the coyote is a female. But she didn’t want Kozma to be lonely. She wanted him to have someone, even if they couldn’t be together. Yvonne has a lonelier cry; it starts low, rises high, and holds. Yvonne comes from the west, toward the lake. But tonight she isn’t answering. She hasn’t answered in weeks.
Kozma still calls her, but now he doesn’t wait for her answer. His yelps and bays spill over each other like alarms. Frantic. His howls bleed east and then west and back again, like he is running back and forth along the stone wall. Lesya looks over to Petro, but he is sound asleep.
Answer him, she thinks. Don’t leave him all alone. She worries that Yvonne might be gone. Maybe she starved, maybe someone shot her, or maybe she just moved on. A flicker of anger responds to Kozma’s hysteria: Then let her go. Get on with your life. She’s not coming back. Immediately, she regrets belittling Kozma’s grief. She’s the one who wanted them to be in love. Poor Kozma.
She is so focused on listening to the coyotes that she doesn’t hear her father get up from the table. He is almost beside them when Lesya feels his presence. She shuts her eyes tight and quells her breathing. I’m asleep, she pretends. Her arms are pressed tight to her chest, her legs crossed.
This is the fourth time he’s watched her sleep. She wishes she was closer to the wall. She could have been two inches farther. Petro is on his side, his back to her. Her elbo
w nearly touches him. She can feel his heat. It reassures her that something is between her and her father.
She doesn’t know why she feels afraid when he looks at her. She knows that somehow he is dangerous, and when he is too close, she can hardly breathe. Her heart beats as fast as the baby sparrow’s she held in her hands last summer. She held it as gently as she could. But its chest kept heaving and its heart pounded on her fingertips. Uncle Teodor said it fell from the nest and that its mother wouldn’t take it back now that it had been touched. He was telling her how to take care of it when its head dropped down and its heart stopped. Teodor said it died of fright. Her tato makes her feel as though she’s that baby bird and she’s fallen out of the nest. And he’s a cat watching, waiting…
He’s moving. Usually he stands still, then leaves after a few minutes. She hears the door open and shut. Hears his footsteps come back. He’s still again. She wants to open her eyes. She takes a deep-sleep breath. He feels closer.
Then she feels it. Lightly on her hip. A light fluttering. There it is again. His fingers on the blanket, barely touching. He’s reaching over Petro. She feels the goose bumps rise on her leg. His fingers travel down her leg, tracing her outline. They slide slowly across, inch toward her inner thigh. They stop. Pull back. She can sense his hand hovering over her body.
She wishes that he had never come back. That Teodor and Maria were right next door. That her cousins were calling her to come out and play. That it is summer and she is working in the garden, the taste of a sun-warmed pea in her mouth, Happiness perched on her foot, bobbing its head for a song, and she is completely unafraid. She hears his breathing, deep and shaky.
She stretches in her sleep, groans, and rolls over on her belly, wrapping herself tighter in the blanket. Her eyes clenched tight, her face to the wall. She forces herself to breathe, as if she is in a deep sleep. She thinks of Happiness, the smell of the chicken coop, the warmth of the straw. She puts herself back inside a hard white shell. Happiness is smothering her with her warmth. Her muffled heart echoes through the shell. It thumps, I’ll protect you.
Under This Unbroken Sky Page 24