Shandi Mitchell - Under This Unbroken Sky

Petro doesn’t understand why his father is grinning like he’s just won a game.

Stefan cuffs him on the ear. “Stop gawking and get some wood.” He saunters back into the house.

Petro grabs a mittful of snow and throws it as hard as he can at the retreating cart.

THEY ONLY STOP TWICE TO KNOCK THE STICKY SNOW from the wheels. Once they get onto the main road, the ride is smooth. They don’t talk, they just let the prairies roll past. They give themselves over to the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and its occasional snort. Myron wiggles his toes every few miles as the cold seeps through the thin leather. He is grateful for the extra sweater. For the first few miles, he steals sidelong glances at his father, hoping to catch a glimpse of what he is thinking or maybe to tell him in a man’s way, I’m here if you want to talk .

But Teodor doesn’t accept the invitation. He stares at the horse’s hooves, his hands loose on the reins, his face frozen in its imperviousness. After a while, Myron looks for magpies, rabbits, and deer instead—any other sign of life. He sees only fence posts.

The low sun bounces off the white fields and both men squint through its blindness. Miles ahead, the grain elevator rises on the horizon, proclaiming the town in bold blue letters: UNITED GRAIN GROWERS—WILLOW CREEK . The road veers right and cozies up to the train track leading straight to the elevator on the edge of town. Their little cart passes through the long shadows of the boxcars. Each one loaded with tons of wheat waiting to be shipped to countries Myron never expects to see.

They arrive half an hour before closing. “Stay with the horse,” Teodor tells Myron.

Inside, the grain elevator smells of wood and dust. Two men sit close to a potbellied stove, playing cards on a crate. One is large; his stomach hangs over his pants. His eyes are close together, sunken in the fleshy folds of his cheeks. The other is thin and hard. His coveralls and hands are black with grease. A home-rolled cigarette hangs from his lip. They don’t look up when the cowbell tinkles Teodor’s arrival. They finish out their play. Full house beats two of a kind.

“Goddamn.” The skinny man pulls another cigarette from behind his ear and tosses it on the table.

The fat man gathers up the cards and shuffles again.

Teodor clears his throat. “I have wheat.”

The fat man looks at the clock. It’s twenty-five to four. “It’s almost closing. Come back tomorrow.” He deals out the cards.

“I have wheat. Today.”

The man checks his hand. Nothing. He looks at the thin man, whose eyes betray the two aces in his hand. The fat man folds his cards and heavily gets up. He looks out the flyspecked window at the paltry load.

“Shit. Why do they even bother?”

“Sell wheat.”

“Yeah, yeah, bring it around the side.” The man waddles away, his knees stiff from carrying the extra weight. He points and speaks louder. “The side door.”

Teodor heads back out. The fat man puffs, “They otta make ’em have to learn English before they let ’em in.”

“They shouldn’t let ’em in,” the thin man counters.

Teodor leads the horse and wagon to the side entrance, up the low plank ramp and into the cavernous belly of the elevator. Myron ducks as the cart rolls through the doorway. The wheels rattle over the iron grid that covers the hopper below. The fat man rolls the heavy door shut behind them. It groans across the rusted rollers.

“Shovel it off and make it quick. I ain’t stayin’ past four.”

Myron jumps off and starts untying the bedsheet knots. The fat man grabs his clipboard. Teodor doesn’t hurry.

“What’s your name? Name.”

“Teodor Mykolayenko.”

“Christ, how do you spell that?” Teodor looks at him blankly. “Spell, do you understand?”

Myron answers, “M-y-k-o-l-a-y-e-n-k-o.”

“What kind of name is that? Communist?”

“Ukrainian,” Myron answers calmly.

“What quarter-section?”

Teodor nods his permission for Myron to continue. “Northwest Section 2, Township 64, Range 6, West of 4 Meridian.” He struggles to free the knot his father tied.

Teodor pulls back the bedsheet and hops up into the back of the cart. He rights a bag and, balancing it on the edge of the cart, cuts the binder twine to open the sack. He proceeds to the next bag.

The fat man goes to his land-claim maps and checks the lot numbers. Myron pulls on the knot with his teeth. It tastes like mildew and sawdust. He tries to pry it apart with his fingernails.

“We gotta problem, bud. I don’t see your name here. Are you sure you gave me the right numbers?”

“It’s my land,” Teodor replies.

“Here it says it’s registered to Anna Sev-Shev-chik.”

“Shevchuk, my sister.”

“You got any documentation, a permission letter, something giving you rights to bring in this grain?” Teodor cuts open another bag. “Does he understand what I’m saying?”

Myron looks to his father.

“My grain,” Teodor answers.

“I can’t take this if it ain’t yours. Get it out of here.” The fat man slams the clipboard shut.

“You buy.” Teodor stands knee-deep in his wheat.

“I told you— no buy. No!”

“You buy.”

The fat man yanks on the door. It rumbles open. “Get him out of here.”

Myron looks to his father. Teodor holds his ground. “You buy.”

The fat man plants his feet and picks up a bat he keeps near the door for emphasis. “You want to argue with me?”

Myron sees his father’s eyes empty and his hand tighten around the knife. He steps between the man and Teodor. “My father didn’t understand what you were asking. We have permission. My uncle said to tell you he gives his permission. He said you’d know him. He said everyone in town knows him. His name is Stefan. Stefan Shevchuk. He’s my uncle, we’re bringing in the wheat from his land. He said you would treat us fair. He said you were a fair man.”

“You’re the guy working Stefan’s land?” The fat man directs the question to Teodor, but Myron answers, “Yes.”

In Ukrainian, Myron pleads with his father: “You have to say yes, Tato. We need to sell it, right? It doesn’t matter what he says.”

Teodor looks at the mound burying his feet. He knows what he has to answer. He bows his head like he’s done a hundred times before to the guards.

In English, he answers, “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say that when you come in?” The fat man sets aside the bat. “We heard he had someone working up there.” He looks at Teodor, his head bowed, the ratty jacket with holes in the elbows, frayed cuffs, and tattered sheepskin collar. He almost feels sorry for the poor bastard. His stomach growls, reminding him he hasn’t eaten since noon. “Offload it.”

The fat man pulls a knife from his hip sheath and with one swipe slices off the stubborn knot. “You ain’t got all day.” Myron bundles up the bedsheet with the missing corner and wonders what his mother will say. He jumps up and joins his father.

With sausage-like fingers, the man sets the weights and counterbalances. From the bowels of the elevator the auger groans and churns, ready to carry the grain to the bins. Dust blooms through the grid. “Empty it!” the fat man shouts over the din. Myron picks up the first bag and prepares to spill its contents. Teodor stops him.

“How much?”

“What?” the fat man hollers.

“How much?” Teodor asks.

“Sixty-three cents.”

“No,” says Teodor. “Ninety-three.”

“What’d he say?” the fat man wheezes.

“He thinks it should be more.”

“Tell him that’s the price.”

Teodor pulls the crumpled newspaper from his pocket. He points to the market column. “Wheat Number One, ninety-three cents.”