Shandi Mitchell - Under This Unbroken Sky

Up on the hill, Ivan waves as he barrels out of the house, only to be called back by Maria. Her voice reaches Petro, soft and chastising. She adjusts his cousin’s coat or maybe wraps a scarf around his neck. It’s too far away to see. They are close together and Petro pretends that he is watching himself with his mama. She is tucking in his sweater, brushing the hair out of his eyes, worrying if he will be warm enough and did he have enough for breakfast. She smells of the woodstove, fried eggs, and warm bread. She is laughing. She sends him on his way, thinking, My, he’s getting big .

Petro sits on the wall; his bum sinks into the pillow of snow. He wiggles his toes. They feel clunky and wooden. He burrows his nose into the collar of his thin jacket. He exhales. The hot air swirls against his chest and warms his cheeks. His ears are cold. He forgot his hat… and his mittens.

When he woke up, the fire was out. The walls of the house were coated in sparkling frost. He poked his head out from under the covers and saw his breath. Lesya was at the stove, lighting the kindling. It was just beginning to crackle. She was wearing her coat, but her bare legs shivered beneath her nightdress. Mama and Tato were still in bed, lost under a pile of quilts and blankets. His father’s snore gurgled and then hiccupped; Petro couldn’t help but laugh. Lesya glared at him. Get some wood .

On the table were four empty jars of jam. The bread and butter had been left out. The bread was hard. The butter frozen. His father’s flask sat open next to a tin cup that was a quarter full of golden liquid. Petro’s nose crinkled at its sour smell. He ran his finger around the cup’s edge and hesitantly licked. It burned his tongue and lips. He tried to spit it out. Lesya cuffed him on the back of the head and told him never to touch it again. She hissed at him again when he left the door open too long on his way out.

He stood before the woodpile, uncertain what to do next. Teodor hadn’t come by last night to split the wood. He had watched his uncle swing the ax, up and over, striking the heart with a solid whack driving a crack that splintered down the middle into two perfect halves. Surely he could do it.

He brushed away the snow and selected a squat, fat length of poplar. He strained to lift it, but it barely budged. Using his feet, he pried it from the pile and rolled it to the chopping block. Teodor had left the ax embedded in the wood. He grabbed the handle and yanked back, surprised when it didn’t move. He grasped it with both hands and finally pried it loose. Grunting, he heaved the firewood up on end onto the block.

He picked up the ax, not expecting it to be so heavy, and swung. It bounced off the side. He swung again. Thwack , it sunk an inch off-center. He pulled it out and swung again and again. He was hot in his coat, and with each swing the ax became heavier. Panting, he whacked at the log, not taking aim, his anger rising. Bark chipped off the edges. Dents gouged the wood. Twice he missed altogether. See how weak you are , the wood taunted. Petro swung with all his might, and crashed down sideways. The impact ricocheted up the handle, shuddered through his hands, and the ax head splintered from the handle.

He hurled it across the yard and headed to the bush to gather broken branches. When he returned with an armful of sticks, the fire was almost out again. Stefan was up, growling about the cold and that breakfast wasn’t ready. Lesya shoved the kindling in the stove and snarled that the sticks were green. Stefan barked and sent him out for another armload. Anna stayed curled up warm under the covers.

Breakfast was better. The boiled eggs and oatmeal with the last of the strawberry jam lifted everyone’s spirits. Lesya limped back and forth, filling the plates. Anna had dressed in her loosest-fitting smock, the one that best masked her girth. She had brushed her shoulder-length hair and pinned it back to softly frame her face. She laughed and conversed about the weather and made sure Lesya topped up Stefan’s cup of coffee. After his third egg, Stefan emptied his tin cup, sat back in his chair, and rubbed his belly. He spoke brusquely to Petro only once, when he told him to sit up straight and keep his elbows off the table, only farmers sit like that.

Ivan reaches the edge of the field. Petro watches him hop through the furrows, kicking up snow. Maybe he shouldn’t tell him about the apple. Maybe he should save it for another day. Eat it all by himself. One bite a day. Keep it his secret. Maybe if he shares it, it will lose some of its magic. What if it’s sour? What if it’s rotten inside? What if Ivan wants to bet him and he loses like he always loses. Would Ivan share it with him? Would he have even told him? Or would he have wolfed it down in front of him, taunting him, keeping it just out of reach? It’s his apple. It doesn’t belong to anyone else. He doesn’t have to share.

Huffing and panting, Ivan plows into the stone wall. His cheeks are red, his eyes shining. A brown scarf is wrapped around his neck, hoary with frost just below his mouth. He wears oversized mittens and on his feet are two pairs of socks.

“You wanna go to the dump?” he blurts, ready to run again.

Petro extracts the apple from his pocket. He holds it in the palm of his hand. It is red and shiny, perfect in this white world. He sets it gingerly on the snow capping the stone wall. Ivan’s mouth drops open. Petro sits straighter, taking in this newfound awe and respect. For the first time he feels that he is older and he has won.

“Do you want some?”

Ivan nods, unable to speak. His tongue licks his lips.

“We need to clear a spot,” Petro declares ceremoniously. “There.” He points.

Tight against the stone wall, Ivan scoops out a snow bed. On his knees, he pushes the snow away in a widening circle.

“Bigger,” Petro commands as he holds the apple to his heart, no longer able to feel his chilled fingers.

Ivan stomps the white down, flat and smooth. Petro enters the circle. The boys squat down. Petro sets the apple reverentially in the center.

“My tato got it for me. He went far, far away and picked it from a tree. He carried it across the ocean, through the woods. People tried to steal it from him, but he fought them off so he could bring it home to me.”

They breathe little white clouds.

He wasn’t planning to say it, but he did. “Whatcha got to trade?”

Ivan looked at him, searching his mind’s pockets. A rock shaped like a heart. A shard from a busted crock. A gopher’s skull. A twig that looks like a snake. Nothing on him. Nothing good enough. Petro reads the disappointment in his eyes.

“Your mittens look warm,” he says.

Ivan’s hands curl into their woolen warmth. They were Myron’s. They’ve been darned a hundred times and bear the scars of blue, gray, and brown wool stitches. A loose red thread hangs from the thumb where he snagged it on a branch. At night, Maria hangs these mittens on the back of the chair beside the stove. Ivan’s favorite moment of the day is slipping his hands into their warmth. Good morning , they say.

“Deal.” He yanks them off and hands them over. Petro pulls them over his numb fingers and is instantly immersed in their heat. His fingers throb, the tips burn icily. He picks up the apple, two-pawed, and takes the first bite.

The cold juice sprays his tongue, trickles down his throat. He closes his eyes and chews. He memorizes the first crunch, that cold sweet, the pulp softening to a mash, floating across his tongue. He swallows and opens his eyes. Ivan is memorizing the rapture on his face, the wetness of his lips, the radiance in his eyes. He is remembering the look of profound goodness. Petro holds out the apple, Ivan reaches.