Shandi Mitchell - Under This Unbroken Sky

Before he fell asleep, his fingers rubbed the smoothness of its skin, outlining its one soft brown spot. He poked a fingernail into its flesh, and juice squirted onto his finger. It smelled like summer. He licked its sweetness. He touched his tongue to the open wound and suckled its tartness.

His father had given it to him. A special present that he said had grown far away in the mountains and journeyed by train, wrapped in straw. It had been polished and displayed in a window. A ruby jewel destined for him.

He wanted to bite it. Cut into its whiteness. Devour it—seeds and core, suck up every last drop, hide it inside him. But then it would be gone.

Lesya already told him she didn’t want any of it. But if he ate it by himself, there would be nobody to share in its memory. Nobody to remind him what the first bite tasted like or the last. So he has decided that Ivan will be his witness, so when he forgets that the juice was sticky, that a peel got stuck between his teeth, that its soft pulp lingered on his tongue, someone else will remember.

He is dreaming. There is a big smile on his face. He sees an apple as big as a house and he is chewing his way through it bite by bite.

Lesya promised herself that she wouldn’t fall asleep. She sang every song she knew twice in her head. When her eyes fell shut, she lifted the covers and let the cold draft freeze her toes. She imagined monsters under her bed and coyotes circling the house. She ordered herself to stay awake. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands. When her breathing began to match Petro’s even inhale, exhale, she poked him in the ribs. But the bed is warm, and the blanket cocooning her head reminds her of the closeness of the chicken coop.

Through heavy eyes she watches her mother and father at the table, silhouetted by the flickering light of the kerosene lamp. Their voices low. His voice low. A soft murmur, soothing rhythm—low bass caressing… muted light waltzing on the walls. She needs to stay awake. She needs to keep watch.

Last time, it was her fault. She just watched when her mother looked straight at her, her eyes begging for her help. But she was too scared of his grunts and her silence. She was only ten, now she’s almost eleven. This time she won’t be afraid. This time she has a plan. This time she won’t cover her head. She’ll get out of bed, with her good foot first, and walk up behind him. She won’t be afraid. She’ll tell him stop. Stop hurting her.

Her eyes shut again as his voice drones on, like a bedtime story. Warm and safe, drawing her in, making her forget that it isn’t a dream. Stay awake, she tells herself, as the world dims dark. Stay awake, she pleads, as she floats away on a bed of feathers.

Stefan has been talking for hours. Explaining where he has been, what he has been doing. Anna watches him talk. His face indistinct at first. A stranger who doesn’t know it is time to leave. She doesn’t nod or encourage him, just watches, lets the words pour over her. Her fathomless blue eyes look into his. Who is this old man in front of her, with his blotchy skin and yellow teeth? His hair too long and stringy. Thinning on the top. He has been confessing his indiscretions for hours. The other women, the alcohol, the loneliness—his failings as a husband and a father. He looks familiar. Someone she once knew. Why is he telling her these things?

The more she looks at him, empty and nonresponsive, the more Stefan opens his heart needing her to understand. He tells her things he’s never admitted even to himself. He tells her how afraid he is of dying poor and forgotten. He tells her how sickening it is to wait on rich English men as they discuss their next financial scheme while he holds out a pan ashtray to catch their cigar ashes and empty their spittoons.

He tried to talk to the owners about his ideas, but they didn’t want to hear. The customers liked him because he made them feel important. They bought him drinks and let him sit in on card games. He entertained them, catered to them, stroked them. He played whatever role made them feel better about themselves. That’s how he heard about the land for sale and the railway. He just had to bring the players together. Move the money in a slow play, until the big showdown, when he’d be the one holding all the cards. Aces, king high. Then they would bring him drinks and ask his opinion and hope they would be invited to sit beside him.

He tells her: “I’m doing this for us.”

He tells her about the house he saw that he is going to buy for her. A beautiful two-story house, painted white, with eight rooms, a pantry, and an indoor toilet. A bedroom for each of them. At the very top a turret with a single window facing south. And electricity.

He cries when he describes the view from the bedroom looking down on the railway tracks where he can oversee his business. He’ll check his gold pocket watch to confirm the train’s arrivals and departures. He’ll wave to the engineer and count the boxcars filled with commerce, adventure, and riches—his riches. People will tip their hats to him. Offer to light his cigar. Admire and envy him.

He tells her there is a carriage house for a buggy or an automobile. He says the grocery is just around the corner. And the women’s auxiliary holds socials once a month where people dress in their fineries and eat finger cakes on silver plates and drink from fine china. He tells her: “This is what I want for us. This is what I’m working for.” He has tears in his eyes. He actually believes himself.

As he talks about who he is going to become, his back straightens and his eyes light up. His hands stop shaking and command the air with authority and style. He laughs, a young man’s laugh. And for the first time, since Anna was a young girl, she sees Stefan as he was when his eyes were clear blue and his blond hair was cropped close to his ears. When he stood above everyone else. His uniform immaculate, a silk handkerchief tucked cavalierly in his belt. His boots polished black. A proud man. A man with dreams. A man who rode stallions and drank cognac, and wore a sash and a tapered sword slung low on his hip. She sees the man who walked across the dance floor, took her hand, and said, “You’re mine.”

“Forgive me,” he says and bends low and kisses her hand as though she is a lady and he is a gentleman.

Anna yawns, deep and long. “I’m so tired,” she says.

SHE WAKES ONCE THROUGH THE NIGHT. SHE IS HOT and sweaty, tangled in the bedclothes. He is pressed tight against her. His whiskers scratching her shoulder. His hot breath on her neck. His arm draped around her swollen breasts. His leg entwined with hers. She puts her hand in his. A man’s hand. It has been so long since she has been touched. A quiver shudders between her legs.

She takes his finger in her mouth; it tastes of salt and nicotine. He stirs in his sleep. She presses his hand to her breast and squeezes. His groin, already hard and swollen, pushes against her backside.

She has been so lonely. She is thirty-eight years old. Who else will ever touch her? Who else will ever want her? She wants to be desired. She wants to be that girl again who made boys beg.

She wants to be loved.

The ache between her legs surges to her heart. She can forgive him. She can forget.

“Maybe this time…” she wants to pretend.

“Maybe this time…” as he lifts her nightgown.

“Maybe this time…” as the darkness disguises their bloated bodies and decaying faces. He is young and she is beautiful.

“Maybe this time…” as he lifts her nightgown and she lets him enter her from behind.

“Maybe this time…” knowing they haven’t much time. The morning light is coming.

PETRO BALANCES ON THE STONE WALL, WILLING IVAN TO look outside. He stomps his feet to warm his toes. His boots are wet from the trudge through the snow. His new socks, sticky with dampness, are balled around his toes. The left one, which is two sizes too large, has slipped beneath his heel, but he barely feels the cold; in his right pocket, his hand cherishes the perfect roundness of his apple.