Shandi Mitchell - Under This Unbroken Sky

“She’s not here,” Sofia reminds her, and Katya lifts her dress higher. Petro stands barefoot at the edge of Bug Lake, shyly gripping his shirt in his hands, acutely aware of Sofia staring at his thin, underdeveloped body. Ivan resurfaces, hooting and hollering, shaking his long hair from his eyes. “Come on in, don’t be a chickenshit!”

“Watch your tongue!” Sofia says with her hands on her hips, the self-appointed adult while the others are in town. Ivan ignores her and floats on his back.

“Chickenshit, chickenshit, chickenshit…”

The cool water embraces him as the burning sun evaporates the droplets on his belly. He tilts his head back, submersing his ears, enamored by the deep bass sound of his voice echoing in his head. He stretches out the words, altering the pitch. “Chic-ken-shit…”

Bug Lake is not much more than a watering hole skirting the west property line. By the end of August, it dries into a slimy green mire that’s maybe four feet deep. The children can walk across it, if they keep their chins up. But at this time of year, it’s deep enough to swim to the bottom and almost run out of air before getting back up. At dawn and dusk, perch and pike jump, creating the illusion of raindrops hitting the water’s surface.

“You don’t have to go in,” Sofia dismisses Petro as she looks for a nice place in the shade, free of bugs and pokey roots. She has brought her mother’s good woolen blanket that’s kept tucked away in the blanket chest for safekeeping. It has never been used in Sofia’s memory and she is certain her mother won’t notice it has been borrowed. Besides, she’ll have it back in with the camphor balls before Maria returns home. She also has a thin Hudson Bay blanket to string in the branches for shade, her version of an umbrella she saw in a magazine that Ruth brought to school.

The black-and-white photograph showed a group of men and women dressed in white stretched out on a blanket, with a picnic basket, eating strawberries and drinking from tall glass goblets. It was titled “Picnic in the Park.” The women, with their upswept hair, giggled at the camera. The young men, dashing in straw hats, lay on their bellies, looking up at the girls. One had his mouth open as a girl held a fat strawberry above him with a white-gloved hand. Sofia arranges herself on the good blanket, with her knees tucked coyly under her, like the girl in the photograph, and sets out a bowl of wild raspberries she has picked along the way. Their vibrant red contrasts beautifully with the blanket’s muted blue, ivory, and salmon floral design, the green grass, and Sofia’s yellow smock.

“Chickenshit!” Ivan bellows louder.

“Shut your trap or we’re going home!” She snipes at Petro: “Are you going in or not?” Irritated that his skinny shadow is falling on her blanket.

Petro wants to go in, but he doesn’t want to take his pants off.

“Look away,” he says.

“I’ve seen a bare ass before.” She raises her voice to make sure Ivan hears: “I saw his chicken ass last week running from the outhouse. Saw his little dangly too, bobbing up and down, like a hen peckin’ seed.”

Ivan splays his arms low to create a tidal wave and drives it at Sofia. The wave peters out before reaching shore.

Sofia laughs. “Sookie baby.”

“Cow.” Ivan fills his mouth with water. He squirts it at her in a long, high arch that almost reaches her toes.

“Don’t get Mama’s blanket wet!”

“You’re scaring the fish,” Katya whines, trying to calm the rippling water.

Ivan fills his mouth again and aims for the blanket.

“Don’t… I’m warning you, don’t do it.”

Ivan spits the water high, a perfect stream cascades toward the blanket. Sofia steps in front of it, blocking the potential disaster. Water blooms across her chest, turning the fabric transparent, illuminating her small buds.

“I can see your teats,” crows Ivan. Petro can’t help but look. Sofia whips off her smock and Ivan is surprised to see soft blond down on her crotch.

“I’m going to drown you.” Sofia races into the water after him, not caring about her recently curled hair. Water wheels wildly around her as she chases him down. Ivan swims for his life, screaming for help.

Petro slips off his pants and runs in to save his cousin. From behind, his tiny butt is stark white against the deep brown of his back and shoulders. As he hops past Katya, shouting, “I’m coming!” he forgets the long, thin black-and-purple bruises slashed across his backside, betraying the previous night’s punishment.

If he was asked what he did wrong, he couldn’t explain. She didn’t say. He probably should have waited for Lesya, who was still in the outhouse, but the scarecrow kept watching him. He ran to the house, checking over his shoulder to make sure it hadn’t followed him. Once inside, he headed straight to bed. Maybe his mistake was stealing a glance at his mother.

She was in her nightgown, sitting at the table with her back to the door. She had a willow switch in one hand. Her other hand clutched her belly. Her gown was hiked up to her waist. Her face was flush from exertion, her eyes red as if she’d been crying. As he passed by her, he saw whip marks on her upper thighs and belly. It was her stillness that scared him. “Mama?” he said.

She looked at him, like he had called her a dirty name. She wrenched her gown down, bolted from the chair, grabbed him by the arm, and pulled down his pants. He was so shocked, he forgot to cry. With each strike, she hissed, “You didn’t see anything! You didn’t see anything! You didn’t see anything!”

Petro tried to cover his bum with his hand. “I didn’t see anything, Mama. I didn’t see. I didn’t…”

Maybe it was his small hand against his bony bum, or the welts already appearing, or his pleading voice, but it was more likely the baby kicking that made Anna drop the switch. It kicked hard, sending a shock of pain against her spine. It kicked again. Anna dropped to her knees.

That’s when Lesya came in. She pulled Petro’s pants up over his quivering legs and tucked him in bed. Then she picked up the willow stick and threw it out the door. She crawled in next to her brother and pulled the burlap curtain shut. She held him tight, whispering lullabies, to block out the sound of Anna rocking back and forth on the floor.

Exhausted by the pursuit, and cooled by the water, the hunt turns into a race before collapsing into a water fight. The boys gang up on Sofia, slapping the water, drenching her in wave after wave. When she gets too close, they lie on their backs and kick with their feet, spraying her with water, until she dives and yanks them under by their ankles. A tangle of arms and legs twists and wrenches away and breaks for the surface. One by one, the three heads bob up, gasping for air.

“Truce, truce, truce…” They float on their backs, panting, catching their breath. The water sparkles and dances around their naked bodies. They no longer notice breasts or penises or pubic hair; they are once again children floating in the sun.

Near shore, Katya squats low to the water and pees. Yellow pools hot between her ankles. The back of her dress trails behind her, sopping up water. She wiggles her toes. “Here fishy, fishies.”

MR. HARDY EXAMINES THE VEGETABLES AT THE BACK entrance of his store, Hardy’s General Shop & Meat Market. Dania and Lesya flank Maria; all three stand with their heads lowered as the shopkeeper goes from basket to basket, examining the wares. Occasionally, he extracts a tomato or cucumber and brings it up close to his nose, squints through his smudged glasses, and sniffs the produce. He squeezes the firm fruit, frowns, and discards it back in the basket. Once the inspection is complete, he stands with his back to them, rubbing his glasses on his apron, as he calculates his profit in his head.