He prefers to check the snares more frequently so they don’t suffer long. He goes out at dawn and dusk, the most likely time they’ll be feeding. He always carries his father’s .22, a little club made from white ash that he keeps in his back pocket, and his hunting knife. His father made him carry the rifle as a safety measure, in case he ever met coyotes on the hunt for easy food. Last year, Myron saw plenty of tracks but never a coyote. They got half a dozen of his rabbits. Sometimes he’d find the snare, sometimes he wouldn’t. There’d be tufts of fur, spatters of blood, some entrails, but nothing else. Just tracks leading away.
His dog used to come with him. He could smell rabbits a hundred feet away. He’d tense up and point one leg, his whole body shaking with anticipation. Myron would crouch down low and scope the horizon. He’d see only white snow. He’d look harder where the dog was fixated and finally see a black nose and eyes, and then the shape of the rabbit would separate clearly from its white camouflage. Myron would give the signal and the dog would chase it down, until the rabbit veered in the wrong direction and the dog would snap its neck. He’d carry it back and lay it gently at Myron’s feet. He was a good dog. Then the coyotes got him.
Myron dusts the snow with his mitten, obliterating his tracks. He wishes that when the rabbits got caught, they would sit still and wait for him to come. But they always fought. Twisting and kicking, wrapping the wire tighter. He’s found them with their paws cut off; or with their bellies cinched so tight he’s had to cut them open to get his fingers around the wire. One was almost decapitated. The wire caught around its throat.
He doesn’t understand why they just don’t give up. Realize that there’s no escape. Sit peacefully and he’ll come by shortly. He’ll speak gently and make them feel that everything’s going to be okay. Then with one quick rap on the back of the head, hold them until their feet stop twitching. But it’s never like that.
He hears them crying before he reaches them. A sickening squeal that shivers through his bones. He finds them throttling their bodies, flailing and twisting. Their eyes bulging with fear, bubbles of blood dripping from their noses. They look him straight in the eye as he holds them down: You did this to me. He cracks their heads until their eyes empty. Sometimes it takes three or four blows, because his own eyes are closed. If he was rich and didn’t care how much a bullet cost, he’d shoot them, one shot behind the ears. Then he wouldn’t have to see their eyes.
Myron sits on the stone wall. The world darkens grey with the approach of night. It is so quiet, he can hear the silence. It has a sound this quiet. A low, hollow pulse. Empty, yet all-embracing. Snowflakes flutter down, coating him white. He pops the lemon drop in his mouth and holds it on his tongue. Tart and sweet, it dissolves.
IT IS DARK by six o’clock. Ivan and Katya have been given permission to stay outside but aren’t allowed past the third spruce tree with the crooked top, about twenty feet from the house. They stand on twin boulders. Ivan’s rock is slightly higher and rounder. At the top of their lungs they singsong Myron, Myron, pausing only to hear if he is answering. They call high and sweet. Myron.
It was a game they started last winter, when Myron was only twelve and the .22 was still too large for his hands. Maria started the chant one night, when he didn’t come home at the expected time. It was February. There was three feet of snow. It had been bitterly cold for weeks. Rabbits were scarce. All that week, the coyotes had been close. Howling through the nights. In the morning, their tracks passed by Anna’s. The snow was stained yellow where they had marked the corners of the house and shack.
That night, the children were already in bed, fully clothed. The stove was burning, but there was no warmth. The lamp had been blown out to conserve kerosene, but the shack was bright from the full moon stealing through the cracks. Maria was sitting beside the door, wrapped in a blanket, bundled in her coat and boots, listening for Myron when she heard the coyotes. One near, one far. A short, yelping howl answered by a long, plaintive wail. I’m here, they moaned.
She waited breathlessly for the crack of the .22, and when it didn’t come she stepped out into the night. Her heart pounding in her chest, her ears straining to hear, she willed her eldest son to come home. The night was frozen. The horse and cow, safe inside the barn, were quiet. Her little boy’s tracks led into the darkness.
Myron? she quietly called, as if she could make him emerge from the night’s veil. He would appear dressed in his father’s wool pants rolled up at the hems and wearing his father’s leather jacket that had been left behind for safekeeping. The shoulders too wide, the cuffs hanging past his mittened hands. The .22 slung over his shoulder. A little boy pretending to be a man.
The coyote wailed again, closer this time. With all her maternal senses electrified, her entire being strained to feel her child; to feel any sense of him being ripped from her heart.
Myron. Maria called as if he was on the other side of the barn and late for dinner. In the distance, a second coyote answered, and to the east, a third. Rage filled her belly. He’s mine, she screamed inside.
Myron! she hollered, reaching for him across the field, not caring who she woke. Myron! She screamed until her throat hurt. His name stretched into a long howl. Myron! Her call filled the night.
The children shuffled outside. Scared at first by the night, by the cold, and their mother’s cry. Myron! They peered into the dark, afraid to see what was on the other side, knowing that it could be one of them out there alone. Ivan was the first to join in, followed by Katya and then the others. Their voices swelled, a repeating chorus—spilling over one another: Myron … Myron … Myron …
He appeared like a ghost with two rabbits in hand. He scowled at them, embarrassed. Grumbled about them waking the dead. Kicked the snow off his boots and went inside to skin the rabbits. That was the first time they called him home.
Myron … Katya sings. Myron … Ivan bellows. Myron walks out of the night. He is taller now and stronger. His father’s pants no longer need to be hitched up. In his own tightly fitting wool coat he could be mistaken for a young man. The gun sits comfortably in the crutch of his arm. Ivan and Katya run to greet him.
“Did you hear us?” Katya grabs his hand.
“Hear what?” Myron gruffs.
Katya falls for it every time. “We were calling.”
“Was that you?” Myron feigns astonishment.
“Did you see a coyote?” Ivan jostles his sister.
“I think I did.” He casually slings the .22 over his shoulder.
Their eyes widen. “Really? What’d it do?”
Myron crouches down to share a secret. “It was as big as you, walked right up to me, looked me in the eyes. It had yellow eyes and teeth as long as your fingers. It spoke to me.” He waits for them to lean in close and hunger for the words.
“What did it say?” Ivan can barely speak.
“It said”—Myron pauses between each word, stretching out the delicious terror—“I … want …” He looks over his shoulder. “Did you hear that?” He stares into the night. The children huddle closer.
Ivan whispers, “What did it say?” His mitten rubs the gun’s stock.
“It said”—Myron bares his teeth—“I want to eat you!” He grabs their bellies. Roaring, he chases them screaming all the way to the house.
IT HAS BEEN SIX DAYS since Anna has been to the coyote. It has been six days since Stefan returned. She pushes through the fresh snow, her belly weighing her down. She pants from the exertion. The morning is just turning grey. She had to sneak out while it was still dark.
Up ahead, she can see the twisted poplars against the tamarack. Beside her, the burned trees are dotted with puffs of soft snow that drop sporadically in clumps. Their charred limbs and trunks, rimed with frost, remind her of bones, vertebrae standing upright.
Inside the bush, it is darker. She sees tracks circling the hollow. One smaller than the other set. She is pleased that there is more than one. She sees where the snow has been trampled and
the curved indent where one has slept or rested. Not ten feet away, she sees the coyote. She wants to wave, she has missed it so much. Its fur is getting thicker.
She holds up her hand, as if to say, It’s me. The coyote sniffs the air, backs away, its lips curling. Anna hesitates, then steps forward, keeping her eyes low, knowing that she is moving too fast. She opens her cloak. It’s me. She reaches in and pulls out a handkerchief. I’ve brought you something special. She kneels. Opens the package; inside is a chunk of beef. She sets it on the snow. Moves four feet away and waits.
The animal paces uncertainly back and forth. Anna is disappointed that it doesn’t seem to remember her. She can’t start all over again. She’s brought real meat this time. It’s her. Nothing has changed, except Stefan is back.
The coyote moves closer. Ducking its head. Sniffing the air. It’s meat that you smell. But the animal seems to be catching the air in its nostrils, inhaling her. It approaches the meat. It’s me. She inhales deeply, breathes in crisp air, musky earth. She focuses her smell. Smells wood stove, musty clothes, sweat, garlic, morning breath, and something else. She breathes in again—sour, pungent, nicotine, whisky—him.
She holds her breath. The coyote is four feet away. Its nose reaching toward her. She offers her hand: It’s still me. But now, even she can only smell the stench of him.
The coyote lunges in a sharp, explosive bark. It snaps up the meat and runs.
ANNA BURSTS through the door. Lesya drops the log she is about to put in the wood stove. Petro, still in bed, ducks under the covers. Stefan roars awake: “Shut the goddamn door.”
Anna rushes around the room, picking up Stefan’s things, his cup, his coat, his boots; she piles them on their bed. “You have to go,” she says.
“What the hell are you yapping about?”
Anna gathers up a jar of raspberry preserves, the new soap, the bacon, a pot, his razor, and drops it on the table. “You can’t stay here.” She ignores the baby’s kicks.
Stefan sits up in bed, still in his undershirt and trousers. He watches her. She grabs the tin on the shelf. Empties it on the table and fans out the coins.
“Look.” She counts. “Fifty-eight cents. You take it.”
Stefan walks to the table and looks at the coins.
“It’s yours.” Anna is relieved.
“You want me to go?” Stefan stands straighter.
“Yes.”
Stefan smiles at Lesya and Petro as if he’s heard a joke. “Your mama wants me to go. Isn’t that the silliest thing?” Petro smiles back at his tato because he doesn’t know what else to do.
“You don’t want me to go, do you?” Petro shakes his head, unsure if they are playing. Lesya hides behind her hair.
“They don’t want me to go.” He holds up his hands and shrugs. “But you want me to go?” Anna considers telling him about the coyote, but he would shoot it like he did the other one. He would never understand that it is her only friend.
“Yes.”
Stefan punches Anna under the ribs. He doesn’t leave marks on the face. She falls to the ground on her hands and knees.
“This is my house! MY HOUSE! And you want me to go? Get up!”
He kicks her in the ass.
“I go away, I work hard, and you and your brother think you can take what’s mine behind my back. You want to go? Get out.” He kicks her toward the door. “Go on.” She stops, her belly cramping. “Get out!” He grabs her by the hair and drags her to the door, shoves her into the snow. “You have nothing, you own nothing, you’re not worth as much as the cow. And you want me to go?”
Anna can’t answer. The baby kicks against her ribs.
“I can’t hear you!” He wrenches her head back and rubs a handful of snow in her face. She chokes on its frozen pain.
“Do you want me to go?” he screams in her face. The snow melts on her cheeks. Her stomach churns.
“No …” If he stays, he will do what she can’t.
“What did you say?”
She can taste blood on her lips. “Yes,” not wanting him to stop.
He shoves her face in the snow.
DANIA AND SOFIA WASH the supper dishes. The taste of sausage and fried potatoes is still on their tongues. A fire roars in the stove, draping everyone in its warmth. Since Maria put the soiled blanket on the north wall, the heat hibernates in the front room. Two oil lamps cast an orange light that from outside looks welcoming and safe and inside makes everyone younger and happier.
Katya sits on Teodor’s lap; he bounces her high and sideways, a bucking bronco. He grips the back of her dress and makes her dip and bow. She is giddy with hiccups.
“My turn,” Ivan insists.
Teodor slows to a trotting horse. “This old horse is tired.”
“That’s enough, give your father a rest.” Maria slips off the final stitches of Ivan’s new mittens. “Come try these on.” Ivan tucks his hands into their perfect fit.
“And you”—she points her needles at her husband—“it’s almost their bedtime.”
“Uh-oh, Mama Bear is growling,” Teodor goads. “Don’t want to get big bad Mama Bear riled up.” He whinnies and rears his leg; Katya tips off, and he lowers her gently to the ground.
“Stop your foolishness, old man,” Maria warns.
Myron, grinning despite his seriousness, looks up from oiling the bolt of the .22. He remembers this game from when he was little.
“Who are you calling foolish, old woman?” He pours another shot of homebrew from the quart jug. “Would you like a little sip to warm you up, missus?”
Maria shoots a chastising look toward the children. Teodor dismisses her. “Ahhh, a little medicine will do you good. Besides, we’re celebrating. You can’t say no to a little taste of honey.” He pours a splash of whisky in a tin cup.
“I like honey.” Ivan wants to celebrate too.
“No, no, this is wheat honey,” Teodor warns. “It’s only for mamas and tatos on very special occasions.” He winks at Maria. “Like tonight.”
Ivan ponders what he has missed. “What’s special tonight?”
Maria glares at Teodor. It has been hard enough keeping the crock of fermenting brew a secret from the children. She told them it was cabbage heads souring. And late last night when Teodor distilled it, she was terrified one of them would wake and catch him.
Teodor stands, glass high in hand. “Tonight we have this place, we have one another, we have everything that matters.” He parades around the room. “Tonight we drink to …” He searches for the right blessing. “Tonight we drink to tomorrow.” He offers Maria the cup.
“You are a foolish man.”
“So kiss me and keep me quiet.”
Maria swats him away.
“One kiss.” Teodor leans in close. His eyes dance in the candlelight, shining with freedom and 180 proof.
In the glow of the lamps, he is that young, fearless man with an idealist’s swagger and a heart full of righteous dreams. He is that man who held their firstborn child before the midwife had swaddled her in a blanket and laughed back tears. He is that man who chased her through the wildflower fields and always let her reach the apple tree first. She kisses him.
The children giggle and cover their eyes. Dania wishes that when she finds a young man, he will kiss her like that.
Myron flushes, remembering how Irene had looked up at him behind the church last Sunday, her eyes brown and nervous. The warmth of her breath. Her lips red and chapped from the cold. How they angled their heads to dodge their noses. How their teeth clanked together and his lips brushed her chin. He pushes the cold rifle hard against his lap.
Sofia pretends not to care, thinking it common to show such affections in public. A real lady would never allow a man to be so forthright. Yet each night after the others have fallen asleep, she practises kissing the back of her hand so she will be ready when her time comes to impress a young English man.
Teodor holds up his cup. “Tomorrow.”
Maria r
aises her cup and drinks. She gags. The whisky sears her throat, races through her veins, and pickles her toes.
Teodor roars with delight. “It’s good, no?”
She nods, her eyes bulging. The baby rolls slowly in her belly.
“Come.” Teodor motions for the children to gather round. “We need a song. Clap your hands.” He sets the rhythm. “Everybody.” One by one the children join in. The driving beat grows stronger until the whisky on the table trembles with their enthusiasm.
“This is a song about where we come from.” He prances inside the circle his children have formed around him. He looks each one in the eye. “A song about a strong people, a proud people, a song you must never forget.”
He spins around, wobbling only slightly. His boot slaps out time. He places his hands on his hips and sings. Low and flat.
“Now the chorus …” He shouts the words in advance so the children can join in. He downs his cup of spirits. Their clapping drives harder.
“This is the part where the tsambaly and fiddle dare each other.” He commands his orchestra to drum: “Faster. Let the horses gallop.” He hums the part of the instruments, high and low, weaving in and out, until the music is throbbing in each one’s chest. “Can you hear them?”
The children listen and they can hear the instruments in their blood reaching back hundreds of years, calling up the songs of their past.
He pulls Maria up. “Dance with me.”
“The baby …” Maria protests. He kisses her belly. “The baby is already dancing.” She allows herself to be led. Myron pushes back the table.
“This part goes like this.” And he claps with vigour in 2/4 time, one-two-one-two, as he dances with Maria. At the end of each refrain he shouts a jubilant “Hey!” He puts his hands on his hips and leaps. Landing on his heels, he twirls and in one continuous movement squats. Kicking out his feet, he claps his hands behind his back. “Hey Hey Hey!” He manages three before he crashes to the floor. The house stomps and cheers.
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