Above Us Only Sky

by Michele Young-Stone

  Later that summer, when I was still on break from university, the Old Man took me to Coney Island. Apparently, he sometimes went there alone. I think he people-watched, but I don’t really know. We drank cherry Cokes with real cherries and noshed hot dogs and popcorn. There was ketchup and butter in the Old Man’s beard. It was comical and endearing, so I didn’t tell him. We rode the Ferris wheel. On the way up, I nudged him in the side. “There’s a deadbeat operating this ride.” I smiled and touched his tennis shoe with my boot heel.

  The Old Man rattled the metal bar latched over our laps. “I’m afraid, Prudence.” He was being funny. “What do we do?”

  I don’t think the Old Man was afraid, not in the hospital, not at the very end.

  I suspect that he was ready. His stories play in my head like an epic film with a great score. He’s studying at university and playing violin with his father. He’s courting a beautiful German girl at the beer garden. There’s music and a parade. He’s riding his bicycle across a field. The sun’s setting. He’s anxious, but hopeful that one day this war will come to an end. He’s on a ship bound for the United States. He has a beautiful son. He teaches the boy about Lithuania, about home. He works hard. He loves hard. He treasures his father’s pocket watch. You know his story.

  There was a short Mass inside the church. Now, there is a gaping hole in the dirt. The backhoe that dug the grave is within sight. Earlier, it rained for the flowers. On the hillside, forsythia and gardenias bloom. The sun came out for the Old Man. It’s June fifteenth, nearly summer in Bay Ridge.

  Daina and Stasys arrived yesterday for the funeral.

  Today, Daina wears a white cardigan dragging the ground, stained green by summer grass. An orange scarf holds back her white hair. Her wings are unfettered, but like the rest of her body, they have shrunk and are barely noticeable. She could be any other eighty-year-old woman. Stasys wears a blue suit. Last night, he was dressed all in black. He and Daina nodded off on the sofa while neighbors and friends of the Old Man came to the house, carrying casserole dishes that Oma refused to serve. I don’t know why she wouldn’t put them out, but no one asked because no one wanted to upset her. They remained covered on the kitchen counter. I heard Veronica whisper that Oma won’t be long for this world without the Old Man.

  Right now, there’s no food to think about, just a big gaping hole, a grave. Oma holds a handkerchief to her eyes. Occasionally, she sobs. There was no eulogy. The Old Man left specific instructions. Daina looks up at the sky, blue and fresh after the rain. When I grow up, I want to be like her. The only problem is that I am grown up. I’m wearing an A-line silk jacket, the same blue as Stasys’s suit, over capri pants. The jacket is a floral print. It has pockets and silver buttons down the front. My hair is loose and the back of my neck is sweating. There are thirty people at the gravesite. I know because I’ve counted them. We match the summer grass and sky. No one is dressed in black. It’s strange, but good. I am waiting for a sign. I think that if the Old Man is in a magical place, he’ll send me a sign that he is all right. Stop it with the worry, Prudence, he’ll say. Lukas Blasczkiewicz believed in miracles. So did the Old Man.

  So do I. I try. I did. I do. I used to. I do. I think I do.

  Daina pulls an embroidered handkerchief from her pocket and opens it to show me a pile of dirt. I understand what it is. We couldn’t take the Old Man’s body to Lithuania, so she’s brought Lithuania to him. I wonder if she’ll let me throw a bit of the dirt into his grave. I think it will help me to do something, to actively say good-bye. Then I hear a plastic rustling. Stasys has been carrying a grocery bag, which I thought was strange, but he speaks very little English, so I left it alone. He reaches inside the grocery bag and starts handing plastic Ziploc bags of dirt to everyone around the gravesite. It’s too funny: Lithuanian soil in plastic bags. Yellow and blue zipped together make green. The priest says, “We commit the body of Frederick Vilkas, husband to Ingeburg Rosemarie Kischel Vilkas, brother to Daina Vilkas Valetkiene, father to Frederick Peter Vilkas, and grandfather to Prudence Eleanor Vilkas, to the peace of the grave.”

  Stasys hands the priest a plastic bag of dirt. It’s lovely to see thirty people at a funeral opening Ziploc bags. The priest is opening his. I’m opening mine. This is pretty good. Basically, it’s the kind of sign I would expect from the Old Man. Staring down at the simple pine box the Old Man picked out, we toss our dirt on the coffin. “From dust you came, to dust you shall return. Jesus Christ is the resurrection and the life.” The priest smiles at us before making the sign of the cross. No one is crying now. In fact, it’s hard not to laugh. The Old Man would’ve liked this. He really would’ve liked this. Stasys walks around collecting the Ziploc bags, smoothing them, piling them back in his grocery bag. Of course, he’ll reuse them. We Lithuanians are not wasteful. The priest says, “Lord God, our Father in heaven, Lord God, the Son and Savior of the world, Lord God, the Holy Spirit, have mercy on us. At the moment of death, and on the last day, save us, merciful and gracious Lord God.”

  The sun is up and the sky is blue. The watch in my pocket ticktocks. The Lithuanian soil has been tossed. “We thank you for what you have given us through Frederick Vilkas. When the time has come, let us depart in peace, and see you face-to-face, for you are the God of our Salvation.”

  “Amen.”

  This place of death smells like birth, like honeysuckles and hyacinth. On the hillside, jonquils are in bloom. I hug Oma first. She has slipped her handkerchief under her bra strap. In German, she thanks Stasys for the dirt. It meant so much to everyone. There was no one, not even the priest, who didn’t know where the dirt was from and what it meant, how much the Old Man would’ve appreciated it. Oma reaches for my head to have me bend down. She kisses my hairline and says, “I love you.” I think Veronica is wrong. I don’t think my Oma will die right away. The Old Man teased that she couldn’t get along without him, not after so many years together. Oma will prove him wrong.

  The Old Man was a grumpy old man, a charming curmudgeon who didn’t waste one hour of his long life. He enjoyed his cigars and his cheap Black Label beer. He reunited his family and returned to his homeland. He made peace with the world. Dying is part of the adventure.

  I realize today that it doesn’t matter how many people in your life die because it doesn’t make being without them any easier. This is what the Old Man would tell me, and as usual, he’d be right.

  Daina and I hold hands. We’re two little birds, grounded for now, walking along a grassy path, passing older graves, the good kind with statues and discolored stone, with angels and dogs and dates faded by the elements. Daina says, “We talked on the phone all the time. He was proud of you. He loved you very much.”

  I would like never to let go of her hand. As we pass a statue of the Virgin Mary, I see a man up ahead with curly hair down to his shoulders. The watch ticktocks in my pocket. I can practically feel time passing in my bones, especially in my knees, which seem wobbly today, like I could fall over any second. I can’t imagine how Daina must feel. The Old Man told me that pocket watches used to be a status symbol. They were expensive, complicated machines, each part—wheels, springs, and pinions—­handmade. Not like today. Our watch has its own key. It’s not the original, but a key that the Old Man had specially made to keep the watch ticking, to keep our family moving.

  The curly-haired man wears a loose-fitting yellow oxford and faded jeans. He’s just standing there. Oma is telling Freddie that there are things at the house, things that were his father’s, things he’ll want. Freddie doesn’t want anything. Robins peck the ground for worms. It’s a good day. The ground is moist. The worms are easy to find. Up ahead, the curly-haired man crosses his arms. He’s just standing there. As we get closer, he turns and trots to a green four-door in the parking lot. I know that the man is not Wheaton, but there’s the possibility of Wheaton. There’s no reason to think that I won’t see him again—one day.

 
; I am ready to go home now, hungry for the coast of North Carolina. Before I left, pelicans were perched on my dock, their pouches like double chins. Translucent green frogs clung to the sliding glass door, their hearts visible beneath moist skin. It’s a miraculous thing to see. My home is my solace. I know that Daina and Stasys feel the same way about Palanga. Oma and I have made plans: next year, we’re going back to Germany and then to Lithuania to see Stasys, Daina, and Audra. Probably Veronica and Freddie will want to go. Probably the Old Man will be with us in spirit.

  30

  Prudence

  At night, the moon is bigger than it has any right to be. Over the phone, Daina and I compare notes. We think the Old Man is inflating it for our sake. We think he’s shooting stars across the sky. I dream of him in the dense pine forests of Lithuania, taming bears and slaying beasts out of reach in this life. His loony-gooney mother is perched on his shoulder, coming and going, her face to the wind.

  It’s July 2005, a month since the Old Man’s funeral. There’s a full moon tonight reflected off the water. The sky is a silky magenta, like skies I remember from my youth. I’m sorting through the Old Man’s record collection. Oma asked me to look through the records for what I might like. Right now, I’m listening to a violin recording, a sonata written by Johann Sebastian Bach. So far, I really like it, but I wish I knew more about classical music. I move my hand like a maestro, how I remember the Old Man gliding his cigar through the air.

  The man who resembled Wheaton at the Old Man’s funeral is standing at my screened door, blotting out the light.

  I’m barefoot in jeans and a cruddy T-shirt.

  Over the sonata, I can’t hear him, but I see him. He’s wearing a white oxford and jeans. He’s appeared out of nowhere. What’s he doing here? His curls are familiar, as are his eyes, like sappy pines. He’s smiling, his head tilted to the right, his knuckle on the wooden doorframe. I turn down the record player.

  Wheaton Jones is standing on my front porch. There’s a confidence in his stance that’s unfamiliar, but there’s no mistaking him. Not now. Even though we’re staring at each other, he knocks. I rub my hands down the front of my jeans and walk to let him in. I feel light-headed and strange. As I draw closer to the door, I stop. For all I know, Wheaton Jones is dead and buried. How would I know otherwise? He disappeared on me.

  I’m moving in slow motion. He’s on one side of the screen and I’m on the other. The wind clacks the latched door between us.

  Slipping my hands into my pockets, I wait for him to say something. I rock heel to toe.

  Instead of speaking, he reaches for something in his back pocket. It’s a yellow pocket edition, some kind of book. He licks one finger and turns from one page to another. He’s fumbling, but then he stops and presses a page to the screen. “It’s a picture of your scars,” he says.

  I move in closer to get a good look. I haven’t seen the book, the picture . . . I always thought there’d be wings. Wheaton shows me the cover. Sparnas, Wings, L. Blasczkiewicz. I have no words.

  He says, “I’m sorry about the Old Man.”

  I point to the record player on the counter. The thick black album is still turning but the music is barely discernible. Gertrude, my resident egret, flies past. I always thought there’d be wings. I don’t know what to say, what to do.

  He says, “I see them in the photograph—the wings.” His eyes are the same as I remember.

  “Where did you get the book? Where have you been?” I’m angry. “You disappeared.” Confused.

  He says, “It’s a very long story. I want to tell you.”

  “You ran away.”

  “I want to tell you. I need to explain.”

  I’m nervous, sweating, tucking my hair behind my ears. I don’t know that I want to hear what he has to say. I don’t know that I can listen. I rub my left big toe across the top of my right foot. “Were you at the Old Man’s funeral?”

  “I was there,” he says.

  “You didn’t say anything.”

  “I was scared.”

  “What if I don’t want to hear what you have to say?”

  “I would understand.”

  “Five syllables.”

  He presses his right palm to the screen. In his left hand is the book of photographs. I match my left palm to his right. Behind him, I can see the moonlight trailing like liquid silver across the water. I lean into the screen. Wheaton’s candy curls look and smell how I remember, and I want to dip my fingers there, keep them there, still them there, stop counting years since I’ve last seen him. Stop missing him. What did the Old Man ask me? What number of years will make you happy, Prudence? I slip one finger beneath the latch.

  “Hope” is the thing with feathers—

  That perches in the soul—

  And sings the tune without the words—

  And never stops—at all—

  And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—

  And sore must be the storm—

  That could abash the little Bird

  That kept so many warm—

  I’ve heard it in the chillest land—

  And on the strangest Sea—

  Yet—never—in Extremity,

  It asked a crumb—of me.

  —EMILY DICKINSON

  Sources—

  Of Inspiration and Otherwise

  We all know how babies are born, but not so much novels. I started this book with one image in my head: a teenage girl climbing onto a bus with cardboard and faux-feather wings in her arms. I imagined her awkwardness looking for a place to sit. I wrote fifty pages. I knew that she was born with wings, but I knew little else. Then slowly, as she (Prudence) came to fruition, so did the Old Man, her Lithuanian grandfather.

  I wasn’t sure what I was doing or where the story was going, but once I trusted the characters to speak, the story began to unfold. Eventually, I understood how this novel was born.

  When I was pregnant with my son in November of 2004, Valys Zilius, a Lithuanian-born professor of linguistics and Russian languages and literature, passed away. I had known him as an adolescent and I admired him very much. I would listen to his stories of Lithuanian exile and eventual refuge in the United States. He was a man unable to “go home.”

  Then, in January of 2005, when I was seven months pregnant, my surrogate grandmother Ingeburg Rosemarie Kischel McGarrity (Mac, as I knew her) left this world. She was born in Berlin, Germany, and lived there as a nursing student during World War II. For most of her life, she too was a refugee in the United States. She was my mother’s best friend, and I very much looked forward to her being a great-­grandmother to my soon-to-be-born son. Her death came as a terrible shock.

  Just as my son was about to enter this world, a beloved exiled generation was leaving it. And then, as a new mother, I was afraid for my child, haunted by the realities of war and oppression. At the same time, I started rescuing injured birds. Not on purpose or anything. They just kept finding me. I remember driving one across town to a special veterinarian, telling it to “hold on,” and even though it died right there beside me, I couldn’t believe it. I carried the fledging into the vet and needed confirmation. I bawled. All of the sudden, my character Prudence was an ornithologist. What else would she be? She was a girl born with wings.

  In November 1989, with the fall of the Berlin Wall, Mac was able to return and visit her former home, her family, and friends in what had been East Germany. In the early 1990s, Valys was able to return to Klaipeda, Lithuania, a city ravaged by Soviet industrialization. His former home, as he told me, was one dull high-rise apartment building after another to house as many workers as possible. Mac and Valys were seeing their homelands after five decades. I wondered, “Can anyone go ‘home’ again?”

  “What does ‘home’ actually mean?” Mac and Valys planted a seed in me to tell this story. This is a fictitious imagined s
tory, but a story inspired by many things, including family, nature, history, and the human longing—with or without wings—to find Home.

  Other sources include Lithuania in Retrospect and Prospect by Jonas Šliupas; The Soviet Story, a film by Edvins Snore; Ukrainian Minstrels by Natalie Kononenko; Odyssey of Hope by Joseph Kazickas with Valdas Bartasevicius; DPs, Europe’s Displaced Persons, 1941–1951 by Mark Wyman; Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, DK Eyewitness Travel, 2011; “Lithuanians by the Laptev Sea: The Siberian Memoirs of Dalia Grinkevičiūtė,” translated by Laima Sruoginytė, from Litanus: Lithuanian Quarterly Journal of Arts and Sciences 36, no. 4.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my family: Christopher Robin, Danny Stone, Peter Young, Rosemary Young, and Desiree Davis. I am especially indebted to my husband and son, without whom I couldn’t do what I do. Because of your love and support, I know that I can always come home.

  For a myriad of wonderments, including sources of research and much-needed emotional support, thank you to Sara Jo and Charles Arthur, James Zilius, Kim Lavach, Alisa Esposito Lucash, Amy Simmons Larson, Loretta Sanders, Vicki S. Bray, Gemma Driver, Dr. Carl, and Susan O. A special thank-you to Rebecca Joines Schinsky, who read three versions of this novel. I am deeply grateful and indebted. Thank you to my editor, Sarah Knight, for believing in me and for taking me with her. Thank you to Michelle Brower, the most wonderful, cupcake-loving, fiercest agent out there.

  Thank you to the city of Richmond, Virginia, for supporting my first novel, The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors, with such fervor and warmth. Thank you to the Outer Banks of North Carolina for being kind and welcoming and small and beautiful. And to the birds, to all of them, the chickadees perched outside my door, the ospreys flying overhead, and the egrets wading in the marsh. I love it here.