Shandi Mitchell - Under This Unbroken Sky

“Did you hear us?” Katya grabs his hand.

“Hear what?” Myron gruffs.

Katya falls for it every time. “We were calling.”

“Was that you?” Myron feigns astonishment.

“Did you see a coyote?” Ivan jostles his sister.

“I think I did.” He casually slings the .22 over his shoulder.

Their eyes widen. “Really? What’d it do?”

Myron crouches down to share a secret. “It was as big as you, it walked right up to me, looked me in the eyes. It had yellow eyes and teeth as long as your fingers. It spoke to me.” He waits for them to lean in close and hunger for the words.

“What did it say?” Ivan can barely speak.

“It said”—Myron pauses between each word, stretching out the delicious terror—“I… want…” He looks over his shoulder. “Did you hear that?” He stares into the night. The children huddle closer.

Ivan whispers, “What did it say?” His mitten rubs the gun’s stock.

“It said,” Myron bares his teeth, “I want to eat you!” He grabs their bellies. Roaring, he chases them screaming all the way to the house.

IT HAS BEEN SIX DAYS SINCE ANNA HAS BEEN TO THE coyote. It has been six days since Stefan returned. She pushes through the fresh snow, her belly weighing her down. She pants from the exertion. The morning is just turning gray. She had to sneak out while it was still dark.

Up ahead, she can see the twisted poplars against the tamarack. Beside her, the burned trees are dotted with puffs of soft snow that drop sporadically in clumps. Their charred limbs and trunks, rimed with frost, remind her of bones, vertebrae standing upright.

Inside the bush, it is darker. She sees tracks circling the hollow. One smaller than the other set. She is pleased that there is more than one. She sees where the snow has been trampled and the curved indent where one has slept or rested. Not ten feet away, she sees the coyote. She wants to wave, she has missed it so much. Its fur is getting thicker.

She holds up her hand, as if to say, It’s me . The coyote sniffs the air, backs away, its lips curling. Anna hesitates, then steps forward, keeping her eyes low, knowing that she is moving too fast. She opens her cloak. It’s me. She reaches in and pulls out a handkerchief. I’ve brought you something special. She kneels. Opens the package; inside is a chunk of beef. She sets it on the snow. Moves four feet away and waits.

The animal paces uncertainly back and forth. Anna is disappointed that it doesn’t seem to remember her. She can’t start all over again. She’s brought real meat this time. It’s her. Nothing has changed, except Stefan is back.

The coyote moves closer. Ducking its head. Sniffing the air. It’s meat that you smell. But the animal seems to be catching the air in its nostrils, inhaling her. It approaches the meat. It’s me. She inhales deeply, breathes in crisp air, musky earth. She focuses on her smell. Smells woodstove, musty clothes, sweat, garlic, morning breath, and something else. She breathes in again—sour, pungent, nicotine, whiskey—him.

She holds her breath. The coyote is four feet away. Its nose reaching toward her. She offers her hand: It’s still me . But now, even she can only smell the stench of him.

The coyote lunges in a sharp, explosive bark. It snaps up the meat and runs.

ANNA BURSTS THROUGH THE DOOR. LESYA DROPS THE log she is about to put in the woodstove. Petro, still in bed, ducks under the covers. Stefan roars awake: “Shut the goddamn door.”

Anna rushes around the room, picking up Stefan’s things, his cup, his coat, his boots; she piles them on their bed. “You have to go,” she says.

“What the hell are you yapping about?”

Anna gathers up a jar of raspberry preserves, the new soap, the bacon, a pot, his razor, and drops it on the table. “You can’t stay here.” She ignores the baby’s kicks.

Stefan sits up in bed, still in his undershirt and trousers. He watches her. She grabs the tin on the shelf. Empties it on the table and fans out the coins.

“Look.” She counts. “Fifty-eight cents. You take it.”

Stefan walks to the table and looks at the coins.

“It’s yours.” Anna is relieved.

“You want me to go?” Stefan stands straighter.

“Yes.”

Stefan smiles at Lesya and Petro, as if he’s heard a joke. “Your mama wants me to go. Isn’t that the silliest thing?” Petro smiles back at his tato, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“You don’t want me to go, do you?” Petro shakes his head, unsure if they are playing. Lesya hides behind her hair.

“They don’t want me to go.” He holds up his hands and shrugs. “But you want me to go?” Anna considers telling him about the coyote, but he would shoot it like he did the other one. He would never understand that it is her only friend.

“Yes.”

Stefan punches Anna under the ribs. He doesn’t leave marks on the face. She falls to the ground on her hands and knees.

“This is my house! MY HOUSE! And you want me to go? Get up!”

He kicks her in the ass.

“I go away, I work hard, and you and your brother think you can take what’s mine behind my back. You want to go? Get out.” He kicks her toward the door. “Go on.” She stops, her belly cramping. “Get out!” He grabs her by the hair and drags her to the door, shoves her into the snow. “You have nothing, you own nothing, you’re not worth as much as the cow. And you want me to go?”

Anna can’t answer. The baby kicks against her ribs.

“I can’t hear you!” He wrenches her head back and rubs a handful of snow in her face. She chokes on its frozen pain.

“Do you want me to go?” he screams in her face. The snow melts on her cheeks. Her stomach churns.

“No…” If he stays, he will do what she can’t.

“What did you say?”

She can taste blood on her lips. “Yes,” not wanting him to stop.

He shoves her face in the snow.

DANIA AND SOFIA WASH THE SUPPER DISHES. THE TASTE of sausage and fried potatoes is still on their tongues. A fire roars in the stove, draping everyone in its warmth. Since Maria put the soiled blanket on the north wall, the heat hibernates in the front room. Two oil lamps cast an orange light that from outside looks welcoming and safe and inside makes everyone younger and happier.

Katya sits on Teodor’s lap, he bounces her high and sideways, a bucking bronco. He grips the back of her dress and makes her dip and bow. She is giddy with hiccups.

“My turn,” Ivan insists.

Teodor slows to a trotting horse. “This old horse is tired.”

“That’s enough, give your father a rest.” Maria slips off the final stitches of Ivan’s new mittens. “Come try these on.” Ivan tucks his hands into their perfect fit.

“And you”—she points her needles at her husband—“it’s almost their bedtime.”

“Uh-oh, Mama Bear is growling,” Teodor goads. “Don’t want to get big bad Mama Bear riled up.” He whinnies and rears his leg; Katya tips off, and he lowers her gently to the ground.

“Stop your foolishness, old man,” Maria warns.

Myron, grinning despite his seriousness, looks up from oiling the bolt of the .22. He remembers this game from when he was little.

“Who are you calling foolish, old woman?” He pours another shot of homebrew from the quart jug. “Would you like a little sip to warm you up, missus?”

Maria shoots a chastising look toward the children. Teodor dismisses her. “Ahhh, a little medicine will do you good. Besides, we’re celebrating. You can’t say no to a little taste of honey.” He pours a splash of whiskey in a tin cup.

“I like honey.” Ivan wants to celebrate too.

“No, no, this is wheat honey,” Teodor warns. “It’s only for Mamas and Tatos on very special occasions.” He winks at Maria. “Like tonight.”