Shandi Mitchell - Under This Unbroken Sky

“Good.” He has already filled the six half-decent burlap bags he could find. He hoists them up on the cart.

“Pile them down the sides, keep three for the back. And spread the blanket out.” He grabs the shovel and digs into the loose seed. “Goddamned mice,” he says with every heave.

Myron wrestles the bags into place, keeping his back turned to the constant shower of seed. A few grains trickle down his collar. He props up the last bag and hops down to join his father. He waits at the door, timing the rhythm of the shovel’s swing like a skipping game; seeing the opening, he slips inside as the shovel blade whishes past his head.

The dust is thick. Teodor wipes the sweat from his brow and removes his leather jacket. He’s had this jacket since he was eighteen. It’s lined with sheepskin. It holds the heat and keeps out the wind. This jacket has kept him alive in many worlds. The supple leather has burnished into a deep brown. It has shaped itself to his skin. It is his skin now. He folds it neatly and sets it in the corner. He picks up the shovel again.

“Goddamned mice.”

He digs in and throws the seed toward the narrow doorway. His shovel clangs into Myron’s. Seed ricochets off the walls. Myron takes a step back and Teodor swings again. Myron watches, waits for the moment, digs as his father throws. Soon, they are alternating shovel loads. Myron, panting, struggles to keep pace. Once, he falters and the shovels slam together again. Sweat trickles into Myron’s eyes. He wishes he had taken off his coat too.

The grain flies through the air, sprays across the cart floor. It fills the grooves and cracks. The thick golden layer builds higher, mounding upward. Myron jumps onboard and spreads it level under a constant hail of seed, grateful for the break. They don’t stop for lunch. His stomach growls as he fights his way back through the torrent of seed and resumes shoveling. Goddamned mice.

Their shovels scrape the floor. Teodor glances up at the sun. It must be almost two o’clock. They have to get going if they’re going to get there before closing. He checks the remaining pile. They’ll keep loading for another fifteen minutes. The rest they’ll keep for seed. He’ll need to buy more bags today. He can’t leave the seed loose in the granary, there’ll be nothing left come the spring. Goddamned mice.

Maybe he should build crates and put the bags inside. It’d be safer. Tar them with pine sap or line them with tin. But he’s seen the bastards chew through wood and tin. And if there’s not enough ventilation, the grain will get moldy. He should get some poison, but then the cats… maybe he should lock the cats inside for a few weeks.

“That’s enough.” He leans on his shovel. “Let’s tarp it.”

They are fastening the last corner of the bedsheet when Stefan steps out of the house. He hasn’t bothered to put on a coat. Petro follows close behind, also coatless, but wearing a pair of oversized mittens.

“Taking it to town?” Stefan inquires.

Teodor doesn’t bother to answer. “Loop it twice around that rail.”

“It’s a good load.” Stefan pats the horse’s withers. It flinches and kicks. He sidesteps out of the way.

Teodor grabs the calico around its pudgy midriff and tosses it inside the shack and shuts the door. “Are you done back there?”

“Almost.” Myron struggles to stretch the sheet to hitch the knot. Petro scoops up a mittful of clean snow and absently licks it as he watches Myron work.

Myron glances over his shoulder. “Where’d you get my mittens?”

“Ivan give ’em to me.” He drops the snow and hides his hands behind his back.

Teodor makes a round, checking the cart’s wheels and harnesses. Stefan follows him like a supervisor, his arms looped behind his back, nodding as if he knows what he’s looking at.

“What’s wheat goin’ for these days? I hear the markets been all over the place.” He tries to sound knowledgeable. “They say the farther east you go, the fields are dust. The grain’s so poor, the yield’s three bushels and they can’t get fifteen cents for it. We’re the lucky ones.”

Teodor throws his leather jacket back on, his body retreats from the cold skin. “C’mon, Myron, let’s go.”

Stefan rubs the horse’s nose too hard. It tries to bite him. He grabs the bridle and yanks it down, hard. “Remember whose barn you’re staying in.”

Teodor takes the rein, catching the strain of the bridle. “He doesn’t like his nose touched.”

Stefan releases his hold. “We all have our weaknesses.” He eyes the grain. “How much d’you think we’ll get?”

Teodor checks the tie-down in the front corner. He snaps too brusquely at Myron, “You’ve got too much at this end, pull it back.” He unties the knot and readjusts the sheet.

Stefan sidles up close to Teodor, he slips his fingers into the seed. “Maybe I should come with you. I’m a pretty good negotiator.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Stefan measures the weight of the seed in his hand. “Maybe I should come and protect my investment.”

Teodor glares at him. “What investment?”

Stefan glances at the grain and shrugs. “My land, my granary, my wheat.”

Teodor answers in measured words. “I did the work.” He feels the back of his neck flush hot, feels his body tighten. Eyes to the ground. Eyes to the ground.

“I know, I know.” Stefan feigns sympathy. “But the claims office only looks at the papers.” He brushes the seed from his hands. “If I remember, you can’t own land…” He chooses his words carefully. “…After that incident.”

Myron looks up from his task and sees his father’s cheek twitch. Teodor knots the sheet and pulls it tight. “Anna and I made an arrangement.”

“Did you?” Stefan smiles cordially, but his eyes glint. “Have you paid her yet? You don’t want to get to town and be mistaken for a thief.”

Teodor grips the side of the cart. His back to Stefan. It is a stance he knows. Hands on the wall. Feet planted. Ten swipes of the belt. His stomach constricts.

“I’m not a thief.”

Stefan leans in close. “That’s not what the papers said.” His lips curl, baring his teeth into a smile.

Teodor grabs him by the collar. If he twists the fabric it will tighten like a noose.

The smile is still on Stefan’s face. His eyes are mocking. “Think about what you’re doing, Teodor.”

Petro, who is rolling a snowball on the ground, rounds the cart. He stops, startled by the closeness of his father and uncle.

Teodor speaks low and hard. “You’re not in the old country now, Stefan. You don’t have an army backing you up here. You’re nobody here.”

Stefan leans into Teodor’s grip. “I’m the nobody who married your sister. So I’m the nobody who owns this land.” He almost growls the words. “What’s that make you, Teodor? My farmhand?”

Teodor’s grip tightens.

“What are you going to do?” Stefan challenges. “Kill his father?”

Teodor looks to the small boy with the oversized mittens. His skinny arms, covered in goose bumps, shiver. Teodor releases Stefan with a sharp push.

“You’ll get your goddamned money.”

“I know I will.” Stefan adjusts his collar. “Family looks after family.”

“You want to help your family?” Teodor snarls. “Split the wood, fix the ax, milk the cow, put clothes on your children’s backs!” Petro runs to his father’s side.

Teodor grabs the leads. “Get on the shaft and weigh down the load.” Myron immediately obeys. Teodor slaps the horse’s flank too hard. The cart lurches ahead. Teodor keeps pace beside it.

Stefan hollers after them: “If anybody asks you where you got the grain, Myron, you tell them your uncle gave you permission to bring it in. Say my name—everybody knows me in town.” Myron looks back at Stefan. “Never take the first offer, boy.”