Shandi Mitchell - Under This Unbroken Sky

Ivan ponders what he has missed. “What’s special tonight?”

Maria glares at Teodor. It has been hard enough keeping the crock of fermenting brew a secret from the children. She told them it was cabbage heads souring. And late last night when Teodor distilled it, she was terrified one of them would wake and catch him.

Teodor stands, glass high in hand. “Tonight we have this place, we have one another, we have everything that matters.” He parades around the room. “Tonight we drink to…” He searches for the right blessing. “Tonight we drink to tomorrow.” He offers Maria the cup.

“You are a foolish man.”

“So kiss me and keep me quiet.”

Maria swats him away.

“One kiss.” Teodor leans in close. His eyes dance in the candlelight, shining with freedom and 180 proof.

In the glow of the lamps, he is that young, fearless man with an idealist’s swagger and a heart full of righteous dreams. He is that man who held their firstborn child before the midwife had swaddled her in a blanket and laughed back tears. He is that man who chased her through the wildflower fields and always let her reach the apple tree first. She kisses him.

The children giggle and cover their eyes. Dania wishes that when she finds a young man, he will kiss her like that.

Myron flushes, remembering how Irene had looked up at him behind the church last Sunday, her eyes brown and nervous. The warmth of her breath. Her lips red and chapped from the cold. How they angled their heads to dodge their noses. How their teeth clanked together and his lips brushed her chin. He pushes the cold rifle hard against his lap.

Sofia pretends not to care, thinking it common to show such affections in public. A real lady would never allow a man to be so forthright. Yet each night after the others have fallen asleep, she practices kissing the back of her hand so she will be ready when her time comes to impress a young, English man.

Teodor holds up his cup. “Tomorrow.”

Maria raises her cup and drinks. She gags. The whiskey sears her throat, races through her veins, and pickles her toes.

Teodor roars with delight. “It’s good, no?”

She nods, her eyes bulging. The baby rolls slowly in her belly.

“Come.” Teodor motions for the children to gather round. “We need a song. Clap your hands.” He sets the rhythm. “Everybody.” One by one the children join in. The driving beat grows stronger until the whiskey on the table trembles with their enthusiasm.

“This is a song about where we come from.” He prances inside the circle his children have formed around him. He looks each one in the eye. “A song about a strong people, a proud people, a song you must never forget.”

He spins around, wobbling only slightly. His boot slaps out time. He places his hands on his hips and sings. Low and flat.

“Now the chorus…” He shouts the words in advance, so the children can join in. He downs his cup of spirits. Their clapping drives harder.

“This is the part where the tsambaly and fiddle dare each other.” He commands his orchestra to drum: “Faster. Let the horses gallop.” He hums the part of the instruments, high and low, weaving in and out, until the music is throbbing in each of their chests. “Can you hear them?”

The children listen and they can hear the instruments in their blood reaching back hundreds of years, calling up the songs of their past.

He pulls Maria up. “Dance with me.”

“The baby…” Maria protests. He kisses her belly. “The baby is already dancing.” She allows herself to be led. Myron pushes back the table.

“This part goes like this.” And he claps with vigor in duple time, one-two–one-two, as he dances with Maria. At the end of each refrain he shouts a jubilant “Hey!” He puts his hands on his hips and leaps. Landing on his heels, he twirls and in one continuous movement squats. Kicking out his feet, he claps his hands behind his back. “Hey hey hey,” he yells. He manages three before he crashes to the floor. The house stomps and cheers.

“I’m too old,” he pants. “Myron, show them how.”

The family cheers and applauds. Myron steps back, embarrassed by the attention. “Come on,” Teodor goads. “Are you a boy or a man?” Myron steps into the center of the circle. He enters tall, with his shoulders back. Teodor bellows the tune. The children’s voices swell. Myron twists through the air—a whirling dervish, he drops to the ground. Balancing on his heels, he kicks high. His arms crossed over his chest, elbows thrust out, defying gravity. He pivots onto one hand and swings his legs around and under him, until he is a spinning top.

“Watch, Ivan, watch how it’s done.” Teodor counts the rotations: “One-two-three-four-five-six…” When Teodor was just a little older than his elder son, he once did seventeen gyrations in a row, to impress a young Maria. Myron’s heel drags across the floor, he wobbles off balance.

“Ten!” Teodor shouts, triumphant. Myron jumps away, dizzy with adrenaline, disappointed that he still hasn’t beat his father’s record. Teodor bows to the women and waves them in. “Your turn, my ladies.”

Maria takes Dania and Sofia by the hand and leads them to the center. They form a ring that pulses open and closed. They let go of one another’s hands and spin, their skirts flailing wide. Maria’s bun comes loose and her hair spills around her face. Their hands high above their heads, their feet tap-tapping the dirt floor. They lift their faces to the imagined sun and bow to the mythical wheat. Their hands weave through the air like butterflies, calling the men forth. Teodor enters the circle and spins Maria into his arms. They two-step, skimming past clapping hands. Their feet magically land in syncopated pace. Maria looks at Teodor’s face and marvels at the joy.

They don’t hear the knock on the door. They don’t hear Stefan call Teodor’s name. It is Myron who hears the first out-of-rhythm beat. He stops clapping and listens above the din. He turns toward the door, unsure. Sofia, who is closest to the door, stomping and singing unabashedly, feels the discordant note next. She steps away from the door. Maria, her cheeks flushed, the weight of the baby slowing her down, sees Myron stiffen, suddenly alert. She stops mid-step. Teodor crashes into the table, laughing like a mad fool. It is then he hears the pounding on the door. They all hear it.

Maria looks to Teodor, who slides the jug behind his back.

“Teodor?” Stefan’s voice intrudes.

The children look to their father. Huffing for breath, he staggers for his footing.

“Goddamn it,” he snarls and the man from a moment ago is lost. This man leans crookedly, his jaw clenched—his eyes sharpened to approaching danger.

“Sit,” Maria orders him. Surprised by the authority in her voice and the swaying of the floor, he complies, but only on the edge of the chair. Maria tucks her hair up, straightens her blouse, and opens the door.

Stefan stands in the knee-deep snow, his hands thrust in his pockets, his collar pulled high. His face is red from the walk, his eyes water. Behind him, Petro stands in his father’s footprints. His shoulders are hunched, the cold cuts through his thin jacket. She notices he is wearing Ivan’s hat and mittens. A flush of guilt assails her for having punished her son for giving to someone less fortunate. She glances down at Petro’s feet and is relieved to see he is wearing the new boots.

“Is everything all right?” She feels the familiar tightening of her heart. “Is Anna all right?”

“She’s fine.” Stefan avoids her eyes. In his mind’s plan, it was always Teodor who answered the door.

“What are you doing here?” Maria bars the entrance, aware that she should be inviting them in. She rubs her belly, trying to calm the churning baby.