Under This Unbroken Sky (31 page)

What if they’re still mad at him? It was his fault that Tato hit Uncle Stefan and Myron fired the gun, his fault that everybody is fighting. Maybe Mama’s sending him to Petro’s house because that’s where he is going to have to live from now on and that’s why it’s a secret. It’s his punishment for making everyone not allowed to talk. Maybe he can tell them he’s sorry. But then he would have to speak.

Ivan heaves the basket onto the stone wall. He crawls over the rocks and plops down on the other side. He hauls the basket over; it drops heavily to the ground. He is startled to find Petro sitting against the wall. His cousin glances at him, then looks away. Maybe this is part of the secret; Petro has been sent to meet him, but Mama said to put the basket on the stoop. She didn’t say Petro would be waiting for him. Ivan slides the basket over the snow and sits beside his cousin.

He is glad to see that Petro is wearing his socks and mittens and hat. The boys stare out over the field dotted with crows. The bellies of the clouds are a threatening black. Ivan rolls the butterscotch over his tongue, glances at his cousin. He looks tired and sad. Ivan spits the candy into his mitten and offers it to Petro. Petro looks at the glistening, smooth buttery ball in Ivan’s palm and reaches for it. The candy sticks to their mittens and for a moment they are attached, before it pulls away, stuck to Petro’s mittened palm. Petro licks it, then puts it in his mouth. He sucks on it, rolling the sweet candy from cheek to cheek, his tongue smoothing away the woolen fuzz.

Ivan brushes away the snow and loosens a stone. He tosses it toward the crows. One lifts, then settles again. The others ignore the disruption. He finds another pebble. Stands up and takes aim.
The rock skitters over the drifts and ricochets among the flock. The birds flutter upward, a jumble of wings and beaks, then land again. Ivan scratches at the snow and finds a flat, gray stone perfect for skipping. He hands it to Petro.

The boys scour the base of the wall, filling their hands with small rocks. Then, side by side, they fling their mittfuls. The stones hail down, peppering the crows. The birds screech and swirl upward. Some grab at the stones as if they were seed, catching them midair then letting them plummet. They circle between the snow and the clouds.

Ivan notices Petro reach into his pocket. He sees a sparkling glint of metal. A round, large coin…a quarter. Before he can ask him where he got it, Petro hurls the coin skyward.

D
ANIA IS IN CHARGE TODAY. MARIA AND TEODOR have gone to visit the Petrenkos. Old Man Petrenko is turning seventy today, which makes him the oldest man in the area. His son, Josyp, invited the entire congregation to celebrate. Rumor has it that he butchered a pig for the occasion. Maria was afraid they would get caught in the storm, but Teodor assured her it would be night before it reached them; besides, he wouldn’t insult his neighbor by not making an appearance.

The children watched their parents get dressed for the event. Dania pressed her father’s pants and shirt. She gave the black trousers an extra-crisp crease. Myron polished his father’s boots, unable to hide all the cracks and ripples marring the leather. Teodor smeared his hair with pomade and allowed Ivan to do the same to his. Ivan pressed his shiny, wet-looking hair tight against his cheeks, then twirled the ends into cowlicks.

Maria wore her embroidered shirt with the red sash and her long gray woolen skirt. Sofia braided her mother’s hair, then coiled it into two tight buns on either side of her head. Maria said she had never had such perfect braids. Katya buckled her mama’s shoes and pulled her stockings up tight. She took her Mama’s belly in her hands and kissed the baby good-bye. Dania packed the two jars of chokecherry jam and the babka bread that Maria had made for the occasion. Two little dough birds perched on top of the braided loaf seemed about to take flight. Teodor winked and suggested taking some “honey medicine” for Old Man Petrenko, but Maria vetoed the idea. She said they would be home before dinner.

The children watched as their father gave his hand to their mother and guided her onto the flatbed sled he had recently made. It was designed to haul logs, but today it would serve as their sleigh. He gallantly draped a blanket over Maria’s legs and with a snap of the reins, the horse cantered away.

The children sit quietly in the wake of their parents’ happiness. Their absence somehow makes them feel closer. They can smell the soap they scrubbed their hands and faces with, the shoe polish and shaving cream. They notice the half a cigarette Teodor butted and Maria’s apron draped over the chair, as though they were coming back at any moment. A thin dust of flour coats the corner of the table where she rolled the dough. The children don’t feel the urge to test their new freedom, there is no giddy excitement to race outside and explore forbidden boundaries. They feel the need to stay close to home.

It is Katya who asks Sophia to tell them a story. Without much coaxing, she complies. She loves the English stories about poor servant girls, fairy godmothers, sleeping princesses, pumpkin chariots, and happy endings. English stories aren’t about working hard, being good to animals, taking care of one another, and that the lazy get punished. English stories are about riches and gold and being more than you are.

Dania lets them sit on their parents’ bed, close to the fire. Ivan and Katya curl up against the pillows. Katya takes Mama’s side and Ivan Tato’s. Katya eyes the woodstove, but all is calm since she started praying to the fire. She quickly recites the prayer in her head to keep it happy.
Our Father, who art in Fire, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in Fire. Give us our bread our daily bread and forgive us for trespassing.

Myron, who pretends he’s not interested in stories, takes down the gun to oil, even though he cleaned it two nights ago. And Dania, who should fetch water, decides to peel potatoes.

Sofia plays to her audience. Her eyes shine at the exciting parts, her voice drops low for suspense, her hands draw the scene. She walks around the room, transforming herself into the princess, the servant, the wicked stepmother. A spoon becomes a wand. A bowl a helmet. A broom a sword. She enchants them.

A knock on the door breaks the spell. Dania holds a potato in midair, half the peel dangling down. Sofia stands with her hand upraised about to turn a prince into a frog. Ivan and Katya lay still in the bed. They listen. Myron, who is closest to the window, looks out and sees two scarlet tunics. He ducks back down and jams the bolt into the gun. He waves Sofia over to the bed. Another knock.

“Open up,” a gruff voice orders. “Police.”

Dania puts down the potato.

“No,” Myron whispers.

“Open it or we’ll break it down,” the voice commands.

Dania silences Myron with a look. “I’m coming.” She forgets the English words. She wipes her hands on her apron and releases the latch, opens the door a crack. The door fills with red and shining buttons. A man with a walrus mustache braces his hand against the door. The other man, shorter and younger, with sharper eyes, asks, “Where’s your father?”

“They no here. All gone,” Dania stammers, searching for the words.

The man with the walrus mustache cases the room, taking in the children huddled on the bed. They are thin, with the wide, sunken eyes of the malnourished. Their clothes are dingy. The shack smells musty and reeks of garlic and lye. A small boy with greased hair glances to the corner and quickly lowers his eyes. A young girl in a too-short skirt and stained blouse, with a bowl on her head and a spoon in her hand, stands as if in detention.

The mustached officer looks at his partner and deftly unfastens
his holster. He rests his hand on the butt of his revolver. “We need to look around. Step back from the door.”

Dania glances to Myron, who is squatting with the .22 across his lap. The mustached officer kicks open the door as he draws his weapon and swings around the corner.

“Drop it!” he yells, his gun trained on Myron’s chest, his eyes on the .22. Myron doesn’t move.

“It’s just a kid,” the other one calms. “Put it down, if you don’t want to lose it, boy.” Myron hesitates, the .22 hangs loose in his hand. He sees only the end of the police officer’s barrel.

“Now!” barks the mustache man, his finger tight on the trigger.

“Put it down!” Dania orders. Myron lowers his eyes and lays the gun on the floor, careful not to spook the man.

“Get over there.” Mustache man waves his gun toward the bed. Myron moves slowly, not turning his back.

The younger officer checks the chamber. “It’s empty.” He leans the rifle against the wall.

“They back at supper. You come then.” Dania motions them to leave. “No nothing here.”

The walrus officer holsters his gun. He walks to the bed and looks down at the children clinging to one another like a litter of mice. He goes directly to the picture of the Virgin Mary and stands before it. The children think he might be praying. He lifts the edge of the frame and slides it aside, exposing the niche. He reaches in and extracts the half-gallon jug, pulls the cork, and takes a whiff. He stoppers the jug with his fingers and inverts it, touches his fingers to his lips. He nods to the other officer.

“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 woolen 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 gray 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 practicing 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 good-bye.

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.