Shandi Mitchell - Under This Unbroken Sky

She talks about her life before she came here. Stories that Maria has heard hundreds of times. Stories about childhood, stories about boys, stolen kisses, and dances. Maria listens patiently, never interrupting. If Anna’s having a bad day, Maria prompts her—tell me about the time you rode the white horse; danced in the field; found a gold coin… Anna’s eyes come alive and the stories start again.

Maria’s eyes follow Teodor to the round boulder. Anna's baby will be here soon and then we can get on with life. I should dig up the last of the carrots and beets before the snow buries them. Ivan’s socks need darning. He looks so small…

And then Teodor’s gone, leaving only white.

Ivan marches past the window, eyes closed, dragging a stick behind him.

KATYA LIES ON HER BACK IN THE SNOW. IT MAKES HER legs and neck tingle. She feels it melting through her coat, her skirt, even her leotards. She knows Mama will be mad and her boots probably won’t dry until tomorrow. But she doesn’t care. Her mouth is full of its coldness, dissolving on her tongue.

She is safe for another day. She has started a new doughy ball of Christ, a mix of the body from church and pyrohy dough that she takes when Mama’s not looking. The fire is kept inside the stove now. It is small and can’t get out. She’s not sure which one is more powerful. Every morning she opens the door and feeds it a small taste of Christ.

It has burned her only twice.

WHEN IVAN OPENS HIS EYES, HE IS ALMOST AT THE STONE wall. He is surprised how far he has got. Behind him, a staggering path carved in the snow winds its way back to the house. He steps to the side and leaves two perfect footprints. He puts his feet together heel to heel and waddles. He hops on one foot, then the other. He takes big steps and small. He admires his handiwork. He takes a run and hops to a clean, fresh patch.

But the snow here isn’t untouched. It is flecked with tracks. They skitter beside the rock wall, then cross over here, stop, then hop over there, a widening circle, then back toward the wall. Farther and farther apart, and then short and close together. Ivan follows the trail, dragging his fingers over the scorched, cracked rocks where the wall pressed up against the fire. Ivan looks up ahead to see how far the tracks go. A mottled brown rabbit sits perfectly still against the white snow. You can’t see me. I’m invisible.

Ivan stands perfectly still too. I see you.

He remembers the rabbits Myron brought home last winter. How they tasted in Mama’s stew. How happy they made her. He blinks. The rabbit twitches its nose. Ivan leaps and the rabbit bursts away, zigzagging through the powder, its feet bounding side to side, it disappears in a cloud of snow. Ivan comes to a panting stop. Stupid rabbit.

Ivan realizes he is at the far eastern line of the property. He’s never been this far by himself. From here he can see his house and Petro’s. One up and one down. And the ragged gray line of stone capped with white. It looks small from here. He must be close to the dump. He sees his tracks jumbling across the field and is sorry that he ruined the perfect whiteness. To the south, far away, he sees a person approaching. Black against white. He wonders how his father got way down there without leaving any tracks.

TEODOR SLOWS HIS STEP AS HE ROUNDS THE BACK OF THE barn. He softens his footfall, to deaden the crunch of the snow. He pokes his head around the corner. The horse greets him with a whinny and a headshake. Teodor swears it is laughing at him. He rubs its forelock, the horse presses its nose into his chest. He reaches in his pocket and extracts a carrot. He leans into its ear as the horse nuzzles his palm.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he confesses.

After strewing fresh hay, breaking the ice in the water bucket, and filling the feed pail, he gives the horse a snow bath. He brushes the dirt from its coat, until the old boy shines. He gives it a pat on the rump and heads to the barn to check the cow.

He hears Lesya singing. It is a long-ago song about a shepherd having to leave his true love but promising to return home before the first snow falls, Wait for me, wait…

Milk squirts in the pail. The cow chews its cud, eyes half-asleep. Lesya massages its teats like a harp, her cheek resting on the cow’s flank. Her voice resonates high up in the rafters, filling the space with its melody. A black cat sits behind her, tail twitching slowly, its ears pricked skyward. Head slightly tilted, listening.

The smell of the hay, the warmth of the animals, and that voice—Teodor closes his eyes and listens, feeling as if he has walked into a church. A church for men like him. It makes his heart ache for something lost. Talk to me , this place says to him. Talk to me .

The singing stops, as does the milking. Teodor opens his eyes. Lesya stares at him. Her cheeks blush and she bows her head.

“You shouldn’t be afraid to let people hear you.”

She focuses on the milking— phish, phish, phish .

Teodor checks the cow. Its coat is thick. The teats a healthy pink. The milk is pure.

“How are the chickens?”

“Good.”

“How are they laying?”

“Fine.”

“They’re all laying?”

Lesya stops milking. “One’s not.”

Teodor looks down at his niece, her face hidden behind her long hair. Her twisted foot, splayed beside the bucket. She never looks him in the eye, yet he always feels she’s watching him. She’s like a skittish colt he expects would bolt if he held out his hand. She’s not like any of his daughters. Her face never betrays what she’s thinking. Her eyes are always guarded.

“She’s looking good,” he says and heads for the door. The cat follows, its tail hooked high. Lesya resumes milking.

Teodor hesitates at the door. “What size shoes do you wear?”

PETRO ISN’T ALLOWED OUT TODAY, BECAUSE HE couldn’t find his wool socks. He didn’t tell his mother that he lost his socks on a bet with Ivan. She is knitting him a new pair, but they’re not ready yet. He watches her stitch: purl and knit, purl and knit. There is a cuff and a heel. Tomorrow he should be able to go out. He is kneeling on a chair, looking out the window, waiting for Teodor to come out of the barn so he can wave to him. The soles of his bare feet are toasty facing the woodstove.

“Come try this,” Anna calls him.

He goes to her and holds up his foot. She slips the opened-toed sock over his foot. He wobbles on one leg as she nudges it over his heel. Off-balance, he rests his hand on her shoulder. She is surprised by the contact.

“It’s not too big?”

The sock slumps down his skinny leg.

“No, Mama.”

He can smell her hair. He is looking at her belly. Round and wide. It looks bouncy and soft. Not thinking, he touches it. Realizing what he has done, he quickly pulls back.

“You can touch it.”

She slips the sock off his foot. He’s not sure whether this is a test and he’s not supposed to touch.

“Go ahead.”

She lays his hand on top of her belly. He feels a thump. His eyes widen.

“Can I hear it?”

She nods.

He rests his ear to the side. He feels the thump on his hand. He crawls up onto her lap and drapes himself over her belly. His ear pressed tight.

He is so light. His arms so thin. Anna looks down on her son, not sure if she should touch him. It’s so much easier with the coyotes. They ask nothing of her.

The first time she saw the coyote, she was bringing two hard-boiled eggs. She wasn’t paying attention as she approached the twisted poplars. She was looking at the charred trunks to her left, wondering why the hollow had escaped the flames. When she was thirty feet away, she saw it. It jumped back from the treat of pyrohy she had left the night before, ready to flee. She lowered her head, averted her eyes, and crouched down slowly. She sat still, tried to calm her breathing. The coyote finished its meal and ran off.