Under This Unbroken Sky

by Shandi Mitchell

  Katya’s other job is helping to crack the eggs for her mama’s cakes. Once, a bloody clump plopped out, mingled with the yellow yolk. It looked like a minnow curled up on itself. Maria scooped it out and threw it away. Later, Katya fished it out of the slop bucket and buried it under a wild rose bush with a small chunk of the doughy ball of Christ. She recited Our Father twice for good measure and covered the spot with a pebble.

  WHEN DANIA TAKES TO BED COMPLAINING OF A BELLYACHE, no fever, just aches deep inside, Maria touches her swollen belly and pushes down. Does it hurt? Dania moans no. Maria recommends sleep and prescribes a drink of three raw yolks to be swallowed in one gulp. The children snuggle into bed around Dania, trying their best not to jostle her.

  It scares them that their big sister is sick. Dania is never sick. She’s the one who takes care of them. Katya tells her a story about angels and cows and is just introducing Lesya’s hen as one of the characters when Dania hushes her. Ivan snuggles against her like he does every night, but knows not to play cold feet tonight. Sofia lies still and imagines the worst. Last winter, three of her classmates were sick and never returned to school.

  IVAN WAKES IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT WITH THE bedsheets soaked beneath him. He kicks off the covers and reaches between his legs and finds his nightgown soaked. He hasn’t wet the bed in months, not since his tato came home. In tears, he shakes Dania awake. She immediately feels the wetness.

  “Shhh, everything’s gonna be all right. I’ll get a cloth and some water. Don’t wake the others.” She slips out of bed. Ivan fights to stifle his sobs as he holds the gown away from his skin and pulls his knees up tight to his chest.

  As Dania moves quietly to the washbasin, she feels the wetness of her own gown between her legs and along her backside. She feels it running down the insides of her thighs. She lights a match and sees blood on her hands. Ivan screams and doesn’t stop. The house bolts awake. Dania stands frozen, holding the match, looking down at her gown stained red between her legs as Ivan kicks and fights to escape the tangle of his own bloody nightgown.

  Teodor helps scrub Ivan clean, the others change the bedclothes. Maria takes the kerosene lamp and goes with Dania to the outhouse to show her how to use the rags. Teodor stammers an explanation about girls becoming women and eggs and monthly cycles and cows and horses and dogs and chickens before sputtering to a stop. Katya and Sofia listen wide-eyed and Myron tries not to hear. When Dania returns, they all pretend to be asleep and leave her extra room. Ivan hugs the edge of the bed, even though the covers lift up and the cool air chills his legs.

  Maria stays behind to use the outhouse. As she pees, she ponders her eldest daughter’s rite of passage and suddenly feels old. She remembers her first period. She was fourteen and at church. She thought God was punishing her for thinking impure thoughts about the handsome young boy standing at the back of the church. She didn’t know his name then or that she would marry him two years later. Her mother and the other village women gathered around her and walked her past the congregation, past him as he held the door open.

  Maria tears off a piece of newspaper and wipes. She checks the paper, looking for blood, and wipes between her legs again. The liquid is clear and yellow-tinged. She checks her breasts; the nipples are hard and large. Her abdomen is swollen. It’s been three weeks since her period was due.

  She knew the moment he came inside her. She knew. She almost heard it whisper its name. Teodor thought the tears in her eyes were because it had been so long, or that he hadn’t satisfied her, or that he had hurt her. She couldn’t explain the feeling that at that moment something had entered her and opened up, filling her with a love so intense she could hardly bear it.

  She returns to bed with a final look at her children. A fleeting thought enters her head, Where will this one sleep? She pushes it away. Teodor holds up the quilt for her to slip back in. He puts his arm around her and she nestles against his chest. They lay in the dark, listening to each other’s breathing, smooth and regular. The bed smells of straw and sun and wind. Maria takes Teodor’s hand and lays it on her belly. His hand is hot and he rubs her belly in small circles. She stops his hand and presses it against her roundness. She looks into his eyes and sees the question. She nods and he pulls her close, buries his head in her neck, and breathes her in. “Yes,” he whispers. “Tak,” she replies.

  He burrows under the covers and kisses her belly. She suppresses a giggle and joins him under the covers. “Shhhh,” she cautions. He pushes her nightgown up and kisses her belly again. He traces his finger around her belly button; inside is their baby. He presses his cheek to her stomach, a fleeting thought enters his head, Where will this one sleep? But it is pushed away by Maria’s fingers running through his hair. He pulls himself over her and kisses her ever so gently. His penis hardens between her legs and she opens. The children fall asleep to their gentle rocking.

  THE NEXT MORNING, MARIA TAKES A BASKET OF EGGS next door. Anna answers, she looks healthy and robust. Her color is flush and her skin glows. Her hair is growing out fast and is almost to her shoulders. It shines in the sun. Maria congratulates herself for knowing that a diet of eggs would help restore her sister-in-law’s balance.

  “I have good news.” Maria beams. “I’m pregnant.”

  Anna’s upper lip twitches and her eyes crack for just a flash, as if the sun has momentarily blinded her, but she blinks it away. She puts on a smile.

  “I’m happy for you.” She takes the basket and shuts the door.

  TEODOR WADES THROUGH THE FIELD OF HIP-DEEP, swaying wheat. He inhales its sweet, musty smell baking in the sun. Buzzing grasshoppers erupt in his wake. His hands, palm down, brush the tops of the full, ripe heads. Their spiky crowns tickle his fingers. He spins slowly around, taking in the golden field framed by the firebreak of black earth, set in an endless emerald green. A breeze ripples through the grain, creating an illusion of a herd of golden beasts stampeding all around him. Its beauty makes his chest hurt.

  He selects a single perfect stalk and plucks it from the earth. He feels the fullness of its head, admires the perfectly symmetrical kernels, and snaps it from the stalk. He rolls the head between his palms, rubbing its warmth into his skin. The grain crackles and snaps. He cups his hands, loosening his fingers, and gently blows. The chaff scatters to the wind. He opens his hands, revealing a life map of calluses and scars, etched by deep lines stained with dirt. A dozen pale seeds, almost translucent, shine.

  He tucks them into his shirt pocket and looks over his riches. This year will be a good harvest. This year will be the year that he dreams again. He looks across the shimmering grain, undulating against the prairie sky, up to his nearly completed house perched on the hill. He feels the blood coursing through his body, tingling from his toes to his fingertips, the oxygen filling his lungs, his heart pumping against his chest, against the seeds—and he knows he will survive.

  He wends his way back through the field, stepping softly, not wanting to crush a single stalk.

  5

  DON’T FORGET TO CHECK THE CHICKEN FENCE,” Ivan cautions.

  “I won’t.” Petro is offended by the lack of confidence.

  “I’ll come by every morning to clean the poop,” Katya promises Lesya as she carries out a bundle of blankets.

  “I know.” Lesya stands taller since Maria entrusted her with the sole care of the chickens. It doesn’t bother her if she has to water, feed, and clean up after them by herself; they are now hers to love.

  “And I’ll have to still come for the eggs and to help pick tomatoes.” Katya struggles to make her contributions invaluable, though she has to hand off her load to Lesya because she can’t reach over the side of the cart.

  “I’ll meet you at the stone wall every day,” Lesya reassures her and sets the blankets on top of the quilts.

  Myron struggles through the door with a bedroll and flops it on the overstuffed cart. Teodor rearranges the dismantled stove to the front of the load to make extra room. The children mar
ch back and forth between the shack and the cart, loading the last of the supplies, utensils, household goods, and preserves. Maria and Dania scrub the log walls. Sofia sweeps the dirt floor. Behind the blanket chest she finds a wad of hardened dough and swats it out the door. A black cat pounces and bats it under the shack. When Katya sees Myron hauling out the blanket chest, she charges into the house.

  “Where’s Christ?” she shrieks. Through her inconsolable sobs, Katya blubbers in half Ukrainian, half English, about starving and a Christ ball and hiding the body and none left for them, which doesn’t quell Maria’s confusion at all. Sometimes she worries Katya will never outgrow her imagination.

  Dania notices the black cat swiping its paw under the shack, its tail twitching, and shoos it away to see a roundish ball, which she fishes out with a stick. Gingerly, she picks up the yellow-tinged glob smeared with dirt. “Is this it?”

  Katya scoops it to her heart and Maria, who has had enough, swats her with the broom: “Back to work.”

  The cart is fully loaded by noon. Maria takes one last look at the room and is struck by its darkness. Even empty, it’s too small for a granary. She almost forgot how low the rafters were. How cold the nights. How many times she wanted to run screaming from its confines. Maria gives thanks and shuts the door. She props a fieldstone at the foot to keep it closed.

  Teodor scoops up the yellow tomcat and tosses it on the pile. The cat disappears under the blankets. The children stand alongside with their bundles in hand, waiting for the order to move out. Maria knocks on Anna’s door. Lesya makes circles in the dirt with her foot and tells herself over and over not to cry. Maria knocks again. Anna slowly opens the door.

  “We’re going now.”

  The two women look at the ground rather than each other.

  Teodor urges them on. “For God’s sakes, woman, we’re just goin’ to the next quarter, we’ll see them every day. Besides, you have the garden here,” refusing to make this a good-bye.

  Maria ignores him. “Send Petro if you need anything.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Anna insists.

  “I’ll never be able to thank you.” And before Anna can retreat, Maria puts her arms around her and hugs her. She feels Anna’s body stiffen as she tries to pull back, her arms still at her sides. Belly pressed to belly, Maria feels the roundness and firmness. She feels the engorged breasts, the soft baby fat padding her arms, the long loose dress covering her from neck to toe. She looks at her face and sees the plumpness, the glow of her skin, and her eyes pleading Maria not to say anything.

  Anna throws her arms around her and pulls her close, suffocating her with fear. She whispers, “Please, don’t.”

  “Maria, we still have to unload.” Teodor shifts, embarrassed by the women’s display of affection.

  “Please,” Anna’s fingers dig into Maria’s arms, her forehead bows against her shoulder. “I’m not going to have it.”

  Maria pulls back, fighting the urge to throw up. “I’m coming.” She refuses Teodor’s hand to help her into the cart. “Go.”

  Teodor leads the horse. “We’ll see you tomorrow.” The cart rolls forward, the children fall in line behind it. A cloud of dust trails after them.

  “Bye,” Ivan shouts.

  “Bye,” Katya chimes.

  “Bye.” Petro waves.

  Maria looks back at Anna framed in the doorway. Maria raises her hand, but Anna disappears in the dust.

  “Bye!” Petro hollers, though he can no longer see them. “Bye!”

  The white cloud plumes upward, drifting across the skyline. “Bye!”

  Lesya says, “They can’t hear you.” She heads to the sanctuary of her chicken coop.

  Petro watches the cloud spilling across the field. The day is perfectly quiet. Not a breath of air. Petro’s heart quickens. Then his feet begin to run. They run as fast as they can through the dust, over gopher holes, jumping cow patties. They fly across the prairie grass, through foxtails and burrs…

  Late that night, Teodor brings Petro home, curled up asleep on the floor of the cart.

  THE CHILDREN CLIMB THE HILL IN SILENCE, AWED BY the size of the house and the glass window reflecting the sun. They enter with the same reverence reserved for church and stand huddled in the doorway as Maria unpacks the food and Teodor assembles the woodstove.

  “Put your things in your rooms,” Maria directs, but the children don’t respond, unable to grasp the idea of rooms. Dania takes the lead.

  “Sofia, Katya…” and shepherds them to the back of the log house through a door opening into a room nearly as big as their previous shack. Lined up against the wall are three small crates, roughly the same size, stamped DR. GIBSON’S LINIMENTS, GREAT WEST IMPLEMENT CO., and ROBSON’S SOAP. All have carved pine tops.

  Dania runs her fingers over the letters of her name, entwined with wild roses. Katya places her ball of dough in the back left-hand corner of her box, then closes the butterfly lid and sits on its wings. Sofia’s chest is adorned with a fawn. She imagines it lined with scented paper overflowing with beautiful dresses. Her three smocks, two sweaters, two blouses, Sunday skirt, and two pairs of leotards snugly fill the box.

  Ivan follows Myron through the adjacent doorway. A new bed frame, long enough to hold Myron’s lankiness, fills the room.

  “I get the side closest to the door,” Myron declares as he runs his hand over the rail of coat pegs that span the length of his wall. On the other wall, Ivan hangs his coat on a peg mounted at exactly his height. “This side’s mine.”

  They go to bed early, feigning sleepiness so they can lie in their beds and feel the new space. Without Ivan in the bed, the three girls can lie on their backs and not touch one another. In the boys’ room, Myron can stretch his legs long. Out of habit, Ivan curls against Myron’s back and is promptly kicked over to his own side. He spreads his arms and legs wide, amazed that all this is his.

  Teodor and Maria’s bed is in the living and kitchen area, nestled against the back wall, with the foot of the bed facing the woodstove and the head tucked against the boys’ wall. Teodor sleeps against the wall, so Maria can have a clear view of the stars.

  LESYA HALF WAKES BEFORE DAWN WITH A CRAMP IN HER foot and Petro’s legs sprawled over hers. She tries to pull her foot out, but it is deadened to her will. She grabs the shin and drags it out. She wiggles her toes and winces as the blood surges back in.

  An ache in her arm rouses her again. Sleepily, she rolls over but is blocked. She looks over her shoulder and Anna is pressed against her, fast asleep with her arm draped heavily over hers, cutting off the circulation. Lesya lays her head back down. She wills herself to sleep, but the tingling in her arm won’t relent.

  She feels Anna’s warm, rhythmic breath on her neck, the rise and fall of her chest. She examines her mother’s hand hanging loosely over her shoulder, across her chest. Her fingers are long and tapered, tanned a deep brown, the knuckles chapped. There is black dirt under her nails. On the thumb and index finger, alongside the nail, small ragged strips of skin have been chewed away, a nervous habit since childhood. Lesya brings her fingers close to their tips but doesn’t quite touch.

  The sun is poking through the chinks in the wall when Anna stirs. Lesya shuts her eyes. Ever so carefully, Anna extracts herself from the bed. Even after she is gone, Lesya doesn’t move. She holds on to the warmth of Anna’s impression against her body until her arm, throbbing for blood, falls limply across her stomach, demanding to be resuscitated.

  TEODOR SLIPS QUIETLY OUT OF BED, CAREFUL NOT TO disturb Maria. His eyes half-shut, he stretches in front of the window, a recent morning ritual. The last few weeks in his new house, he has found sleep again. Deep, undisturbed, dreamless nights. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and yawns. A smile crosses his lips as he savors the sun’s warmth. He opens his eyes to the glory of his field. Not bothering to put a shirt on, he steps outside and smells acrid smoke. His stomach knots. To the north, he can see a yellow haze. He licks his finger and checks the direction of
the wind.

  By noon a thick, gray plume clings to the skyline. The wind is still true from the north. He knows there are farms in that direction and miles of tinder-dry bush. He looks nervously to his field and walks down to check the firebreak. He pulls the weeds that have sprouted up over the summer and examines the perimeter for any dried roots or branches and drags them farther to the side. Off in the distance, Teodor notices a low trail of dust. He watches until he can make out two horses, an Appaloosa and a palomino. The speckled gray Appaloosa is saddled. They stampede to the south.

  At three o’clock, the wind shifts and blows from the northwest. Teodor orders every bucket, pot, washbasin, barrel, and kettle filled with water. The children form a brigade from the recently dug well to the cart, shuffling up full buckets to Myron, who empties them into barrels tethered in the back of the cart before passing them back down the line.

  Teodor and Myron drive the wagon to the east firebreak and with difficulty offload the heavy barrels twenty feet apart along the field’s edge. They return for another load. Along with four more bulging barrels, they cram the wagon with wet burlap, soaked blankets, shovels, and rakes. Teodor tells Maria to pack supplies, just in case. After they unload, he gives Myron the reins and tells him to get Anna and the children.

  He guesses the fire is maybe fifty miles away now, though the prairies play tricks and a storm cloud that appears on the other side of the world can suddenly be on top of you. If the wind stays in this direction, it should pass them by. It’ll come close, but should run east and drive below them to the south or better yet burn itself out.

  Anna’s property and the barn are set well back, and a slough on the east side should divert the fire. His house should be safe on the hill, unless the windbreak of spruce that wends up the north side catches; he orders the children to douse the cabin with water. There’s nothing to protect the field though, except twenty feet of dirt. He should have made it forty. At least there’s the lake on the west side to keep them safe.