“It’s ready,” she tells Teodor, who is repairing the axe.
IVAN HOLDS Teodor’s hand as he tries to match his father’s stride through the snow. His leather boots squeak. He looks back at their tracks. Big and small, marching side by side, we were here, we were here, we were here. He stumbles and scuffs his toe. He wears a pair of Myron’s oversized mitts. Mama has promised to start knitting him a new pair tonight with the grey wool, and he’s asked for a red stripe.
He breathes into his scarf and it condenses wet against his throat. Overhead, dark clouds hang low and heavy. Tato says it’s going to snow. He can’t wait to show Petro his new boots; they’ll have matching pairs. He wonders whose will be faster.
Tato carries the basket. The axe handle sticks out from under the linen handkerchief that Mama used to cover the presents. Teodor lets go of Ivan’s hand and shifts the weight to his other arm. He pulls his glove off with his teeth and reaches into his pant pocket. Reassured, he puts the glove back on. Ivan races around him and takes his other hand.
They sneak up on the horse first. Its head is cocked and ears pricked when they round the corner. It neighs and tosses its head, like a good joke. Teodor reaches in his coat pocket and brings out a palm full of sugar. He winks. “Don’t tell your mother.” The horse licks appreciatively.
They cut through the barn and Teodor is pleased to see that the cow has been milked. He unties the sack and pours a handful of oats into the feed bucket. Ivan fetches an extra armload of hay and stacks it where it can be easily reached. The cow chews on it like it’s nothing special.
On the way to the house, Teodor assesses the snow-covered pile of wood and makes a note to split a week’s supply before he leaves. He can’t let his sister freeze.
He bangs on the door. He hears Stefan’s muffled voice. The door opens slowly. Petro pokes his head out.
“I got new boots,” Ivan beams and sticks out his foot as proof. “And so do you.”
But Petro doesn’t respond, doesn’t even seem to care. Ivan notices that Petro is wearing his mittens indoors.
“Where’s your mama?” Teodor asks the boy. His sweater has unravelled at the bottom; the front is soiled. He has no socks on in his ragged boots. And he’s not at school.
“In bed.”
Teodor scowls—it’s almost noon. “Tell her to get up.”
Petro shuts the door. The sound of voices, a man’s grumbling, followed by heavy footsteps. The door swings open. Stefan looks grey and shaky. Teodor looks past him for Lesya. He finds her at the stove, trying to restart the fire. The house is freezing.
“I’m here to see Anna.”
Stefan squints into the bright light as if it’s burning his eyes. He heads to the table. “Shut the door.” Teodor follows him in.
Stefan pushes aside the tin cup and the empty flask tipped on its side. He ignores the dirty dishes and empty jars. “Anna, get up, your brother’s here.” Teodor glances to the mound of covers that shift and groan. A layer of ice has formed in the pail of water.
Stefan sits down heavily. “My head’s killing me. It’s been throbbing since yesterday. Need something for my nerves. Do you have that fire going yet?”
Lesya nervously squeaks, “No.”
“What’s taking so long?” He rubs his forehead, his own voice jarring the pain. “She let it go out.”
“I was milking the cow,” Lesya protests feebly.
“I don’t give a goddamn, it’s freezing in here.”
Teodor watches Stefan’s shaking hands sift through the remnants of cigarette butts. “Do you have a smoke?”
Teodor’s first reaction is to say no, but Stefan’s eyes are desperate. He retrieves his one hand-rolled from his pocket. Stefan lights it from the oil lamp. He breathes in deep.
“Thank Christ.” His body relaxes into the nicotine. “I’m going crazy cooped up in here.”
“It’s going!” Lesya blows on the crackling fire.
“Get some wood,” Stefan orders, and Petro, who is standing behind him in the shadows, flinches, startled that his father can see him through the back of his head.
Petro reaches for the axe, but Teodor stops him. “He’s too small.”
“No, I’m not!” Petro stands as tall as he can.
“Mind your manners,” Stefan snaps. Petro lowers his head. “You think you’re strong enough to chop the wood? You think your uncle is wrong?”
“Yes,” Petro answers, staring at the holes in the toes of his boots.
“Pick up the axe, hold it over your head. Higher.” Stefan leans back in his chair and blows a smoke ring. “Hold it there. Show us how strong you are.”
The axe wobbles for balance. Petro spreads his legs farther to brace himself. The axe pulls him to the right. He straightens, his arms tremble, his face flushes pink.
“Look at those arms, there’s no meat on them at all. Do they look like a man’s arms?”
Petro sways backward. The axe tilts and Teodor grabs the handle before its weight pulls him over. Petro drops his tingling arms, his ears flush with shame.
“Your uncle’s right. You’re not strong enough.”
Teodor sets the axe on the table. “You get some branches. Your father will split the wood later. He’s strong.” Stefan glares at Teodor as if he’s just been trumped.
“I’ll help,” Ivan offers, eager to escape the danger he senses but can’t identify.
“I don’t need any help.” Petro storms past.
Ivan wishes Petro would put on his shiny new boots and then he’d be happy too. But Petro slams the door in his face and he has to run to catch up. His new boots squeak with every step.
“Maria sent some things over.” Teodor sets the basket on the table and speaks to Lesya: “There’s something for you in there.”
“Don’t be shy, take a look.” Stefan waves her forward.
Lesya lifts the linen cloth covering the basket, sees Dania’s stockings neatly folded, with a lovely new soap perched on top. Stefan’s eyes brighten.
“Is that sausage?” He sniffs. “Mmm … smell the garlic. And beef. You’re cooking that tonight. No more eggs and stale bread.”
“Maria thought you might want to salt it.”
“And ruin a good cut of meat? Tonight we eat like kings. Anna, come see this, get up.” Anna grunts and heaves herself up. Her hair is dishevelled. As she swings her legs over the bed, Teodor sees a purple bruise across her shin. Anna modestly pulls her hem down and looks to see if Teodor noticed. He has. “I ran into the table last night,” she murmurs.
“She’s up all night pacing. Bumping into things. Drive a man right out the door. Stoke that fire, girl, we need the oven hot.”
Lesya, who wants to touch the winter underwear and feel its softness against her skin, limps back to the stove.
Anna swings her bloated belly off the bed and gingerly puts weight on her leg. It was her fault he threw the log. He didn’t mean to hit her. He just wanted her to stop rattling the dishes so loudly. When he gets his headaches, he can’t take the noise. She knows that. She knows the pounding in his head only goes away with a shot of whisky. He felt terrible afterward. She calmed him with a warm towel on his forehead and promised to be quieter from now on. She pads across the icy floor in bare feet. “Make yourself look presentable, woman, we have company.”
She brushes the hair from her eyes, which are outlined with dark circles, and investigates the basket of goodies.
“Is that jam?” She helps herself to the strawberry preserve. “Can you open it?” She hands it to Stefan, whose spirits have lifted with the prospect of food. He twists the lid firmly and it pops off. He hands it back like he’s a champion.
“What time is it?” she asks, absently dipping her finger in the sugary concoction.
“Time for lunch.” Stefan pats his belly. “Looks like you made a killing, Teodor.” He fishes for a dollar figure as he rifles through the basket. “Candy! Any lemon drops?”
Teodor can’t help but notice his sister�
��s size. “Maria might come by tomorrow, she wants to see how you’re doing.”
“Tell her I’m fine.” Teodor searches Anna’s eyes for the truth, but a smile is pasted on her face.
“Stefan, I need to talk to Anna alone. I’m hoping you’ll understand.” He lowers his eyes to avoid a confrontation.
“There’s nothing you can say to her you can’t say to me.”
“I know that. It’s between us. Brother and sister. I know it’s your house—I’m just asking for a few words.”
Stefan, confident that Anna will report back everything to him and not wanting to spoil the moment of gracious host or jeopardize his newfound riches, acquiesces. “I’ll step outside. A gesture of my goodwill.” He pushes back the chair. “I don’t want any bad feelings between us, Teodor.”
“Neither do I.”
Stefan nods regally, one gentleman to another, and stands to leave.
Anna panics as the familiar sense of him leaving rears in her stomach. “Whatever you say to me, you say to him. He’s my husband.”
“It’s okay.” Stefan pats her on the behind. “I’ll go see how the boy’s doing. Maybe split some wood.” He takes the axe. “You wouldn’t have another cigarette?”
“No.”
Stefan hides his disappointment poorly.
“Can you send Ivan back in?”
Stefan suppresses a pang of servitude. “Of course.” He smiles graciously. “Ivan, your father wants you.” He leans on the door frame and smiles thinly. “Back home, I would think you were planning a rebellion.”
Teodor doesn’t blink. “I’m just talking to my sister.”
Ivan rushes in with twigs in hand. His cheeks glow; he smells of cold and snow and spruce. Stefan nods his best officer’s nod and shuts the door.
“Petro and I are having a contest, to see who can get the most wood fastest.” Ivan wipes his nose with his mittens. He has to get back or he’s going to lose again and he likes his hat.
“Come here,” Teodor orders abruptly. “You too,” he addresses Lesya. They gather around the table. “You two are witnesses.” Ivan doesn’t know what the word means but hopes it means he can leave soon.
“I want to settle between us.” Teodor retrieves the ten dollars from his pocket.
“You don’t have to do that now.”
“Yes, I do.” He unfolds each bill and lays it flat on the table. “I’m paying for the land tomorrow.” He counts it out. “Ten dollars. The full amount.”
Anna touches the flimsy paper. “It’s not due until the spring.”
“I need to pay now. I need us to settle.”
“Stefan should be here.” She’s worried that he’ll walk in and see the money. Last time there was money in the house, two dollars she had hidden in the flour tin, he took it and didn’t come home for three weeks.
“He’s got nothing to do with it. You took the claim out for me.”
Ivan shuffles through the bills. He’s never seen paper money before.
“Pay attention,” his father warns. The adults keep talking above his head. He can see the bag of candy from here. He thinks his favourite will be the white ones with the red stripes, like an apple.
“I need it in writing, that you received ten dollars from me to purchase this land. It’s my land, Anna.”
“I know it is.” She looks hard at her baby brother and wonders when he became so old.
He sets a pencil nub on the table and smoothes out a piece of brown wrapping paper saved from the sausage. “Write it, so everybody knows.”
Anna picks up the pencil.
“Watch this,” he orders Ivan and Lesya. Anna scrawls the words in a cryptic, flowery script: Teodor Mykolayenko has payed me ten dollars for the land. She signs her name. Teodor picks up the paper.
“What does it say?” he asks Anna.
“It says it’s your land.”
He nods. He looks to Lesya. He knows she is listening.
“Did you hear that?” he asks Ivan.
“Yes, Tato.”
“What did she say?”
“She said it’s your land.”
“Why?”
“It’s on the paper.”
“Why?”
Ivan hesitates. It feels like a test, but he doesn’t know what will happen if he gets the answer wrong.
“Why?” Teodor asks gruffly.
“Because of the money.”
“So tell me why it’s my land.”
“Because you gave her money and the paper says so.” He looks to his father, hoping he’s done good.
“That’s right.”
Ivan grins. Teodor slaps him hard across the face. “Don’t ever forget this.”
ON THE WAY HOME, Ivan doesn’t hold his father’s hand. He lags ten feet behind. The sting of his handprint still on his cheek … he tries to forget about the land, the money, and the paper … but he can’t.
He wishes there was never any land. He wishes his father never came back. He wishes he still had his hat, so his ears wouldn’t be freezing right now. He wishes he hadn’t got the answer right.
STEFAN LAUGHS when Anna tells him what she had to sign. He tells her that doesn’t mean a thing, the land is registered in her name and that’s all that will ever matter. He basks in the aroma of the roast and wishes he had a glass of whisky to wash it down, and a big cigar. Anna fights waves of nausea from the smell of the cooking meat. When she tells him he didn’t give her the money, that he paid the office himself, Stefan hurls the tin cup across the room.
THE NEXT DAY, it snows large, fluffy flakes. Their heavy wetness quilts the land a foot deep. To the children’s delight, Maria has kept them home. It is the perfect snow for making snowballs and snowmen. Katya and Ivan throw themselves into its softness, chase each other through the drifts. They let themselves fall backward to be caught by the earth. They stick their tongues out. The flurry of flakes misses their mouths, hits their cheeks, and clings to their eyelashes. They spread their arms and legs wide and fly. They roll away, leaving a chain of snow angels strung across the field. The snow falls so thick and straight, with not a breath of wind, that it curtains the prairies and they can’t see fifty feet ahead.
Teodor went to town early this morning, despite Maria’s protestations that he could lose his way. The snow would obliterate his prints, landmarks would be hidden, the road would be covered … he told her he would be back soon. He slipped his hand in his pocket to check again that the money was still there, and left.
Maria knits compulsively. She has finished one mitten and is already adding the red band to its mate. He should have been back by now. Another couple of hours and it will be dark, and no sign of the snow letting up. What if he’s not home by dinner? Is she supposed to wait until dark? If she waits until dark, how will they find him then?
Her anger mounts. She knits faster. She’ll have to go to Stefan. How is she supposed to wade through this snow four months pregnant? What if she falls? She could send Myron, but then she’s left waiting and wondering. They’ll need a search party. They’ll probably go to Josyp Petrenko’s and get his dog, try to retrace Teodor’s steps, so long as he hasn’t wandered too far off trail or went too far east and crossed one of the ponds. If he broke through the ice …
She drops a stitch. He doesn’t think about the consequences of his actions. What would happen to her and the children if he … she stops herself from thinking the word, afraid that she will conjure the reality.
He could have waited until next week to pay. He could have waited until the spring. He could have waited until next season, after the next crop. They could have used that money this year. Sometimes, she wants to scream at him: Think of us! Forget your pride, forget being right. Being right sent you to jail. Being right forced us to leave everything we knew. Being right brought us here. Being right sends you out in the middle of a snow storm and gets you lost and we find your body next spring in a gully or under a spruce tree curled up like you went to sleep!
She gasps
, terrified that she might have just conjured a curse. She spits over her left shoulder three times. She clutches her cross and gets down on her knees. She prays with all her might that Teodor is a good man, a good husband, a good father, and that she’s the one who should be punished for her sinful thoughts. She prays to the Blessed Virgin to keep her family safe; she opens her heart so that God can see how much love she has inside her and not to listen to her momentary weakness. She prays to bring him home safe.
She stays on her knees, even though the baby in her belly digs against her ribs and presses against her bladder. She stays on her knees when Dania kneels beside her and prays that her mama will tell her what’s wrong. She stays on her knees when Sofia pulls on Lesya’s hand-me-down long underwear, with the bulging worn-out ankle, dons her winter coat with the burlap patches, and clomps outside in her cracked boots to sit in the snow, refusing to pray. She stays on her knees as a pot full of snow turns to water and boils on the stove. She is still on her knees when she hears Katya and Ivan screeching with delight and Teodor’s laugh as he hammers them with snowballs.
MYRON TRAMPLES a path through the snow alongside the stone wall. The trail reaches all the way back to the lake. This is the best snow for trapping. When there’s just a dusting, the rabbits wander all over—willy-nilly. They’re almost impossible to catch; you can’t predict their route. But when it’s deep like this, they tend to follow the easiest route.
Myron sharpens the end of a willow branch and drives it into the snow. Rabbits love to eat willows. He pulls off his mittens and untangles the coiled wire. The cold metal sears into his warm palms. He straightens the wire, loops it once, threads it through a washer, then ties the end to a poplar stump. He bends the snare so that the noose is camouflaged among the willow twigs, adjusts the height until it skims the snow, then pulls it tight so the loop is six inches across. Wide enough for the rabbit to enter, but narrow enough to catch its haunches. He could rig a spring pole that yanks the animal up and strangles it. Some swear that method’s quicker and the meat doesn’t taste as strong, because the rabbit struggles less. Fear has a taste. But he’s never seen a difference in the killing method. Nothing makes dying easier.
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