Shandi Mitchell - Under This Unbroken Sky

Stefan had a plan when he stormed out of the house, yanking the boy with him. He was going to show his son how a man deals with a thief. He had already shown him how to deal with a sobbing woman pleading with him not to go. A woman who cared more about offending her brother than the fact that he had stolen money from her own family’s mouths. He was going to show his boy why men feared and respected him in the old country.

But he lost most of his anger before they reached the stone wall, his energy depleted from pushing his way through the deep snow. His leg was throbbing. He couldn’t feel his cheeks and his head was pounding again. He would have turned back if he was alone, but the boy was shadowing him. The last half-mile, all uphill, took the rest of his will. He concentrated only on making it to the light shining through the window. He never looked back at the boy tripping behind him, unable to match his stride but refusing to fall behind. Determined to prove to his father that he was a man.

When Maria opened the door and the heat and smell of food embraced Stefan, he could have cried with relief. When he looked beyond her shoulder and saw on the table a tin cup and a jug of whiskey, his entire being shouted hallelujah.

Stefan clears his throat and tries to sound calm. “It was such a beautiful night, the boy and I were out walking and we saw the light and thought we’d come up and look at the place.” Maria doesn’t budge. “Then when we heard you singing, I thought, Well everybody’s awake. I should say hello.” He straightens his back to appear more like a nobleman out surveying his estate.

Maria looks to Teodor, who shakes his head no. She looks at Petro, his head hanging low and his lower lip trembling, which she mistakes for the cold, but in truth is the confusion of a child who no longer knows why they are here.

“Come in and get warmed up.” She opens the door and a blast of icy air makes the lamps flicker.

“Thank you.” Stefan removes his cap, kicks the snow from his boots, and nudges Petro to do the same.

“Have a seat.” Maria glares at Teodor to be on his best behavior. “Go warm yourself by the stove, Petro.”

“I’m not cold,” he chatters and holds fast by the door.

“Don’t argue with your aunt,” Stefan warns. Petro clomps to the woodstove, leaving a trail of already melting snow. Ivan grins widely, happy to see the new boots on his cousin’s feet, finally knowing what others see when they look at his own new boots. Ivan pulls his boots from under the stove and plops down on his bum to slip them on. He hopes that Petro is admiring them as much as he admires his.

“Teodor,” Stefan acknowledges cordially and settles into the chair across from him. His eyes slide down to the half-full cup. “You’ve built a fine place.”

Teodor watches him like a dog watches a stray that has wandered into his yard. He sizes him up, confused by the wagging tail.

“It’s bigger inside than it looks.” His eyes scan the shelves of preserves, the neatly ordered supplies, the full stack of wood, the socks strung over the stove, Maria and Teodor’s bed nestled beneath a down quilt. He thinly smiles and says the words he knows they want to hear. “It feels like home.”

“Are you hungry?” Maria asks. “We still have some sausage and potatoes.”

“No, no…” Stefan demurs. “Don’t go to any bother. It’s more the cold that’s got in my bones.” He eyes the jug and rubs his hands together to warm them, hoping Teodor will take the hint. “I heard the singing halfway up the hill. I remember that song, haven’t heard it in years. Anna used to dance to it. She was like watching fire, the way she moved…”

Teodor knows he should be on guard, but his full belly, the whiskey glowing in his veins, and the crackling fire lull his senses. He rolls a cigarette, spilling half the tobacco on the table. He licks the paper and rolls it loose. He doesn’t know why he is grinning.

“I see you brewed up a batch.” Stefan plays it casual.

“Josyp Petrenko gave it to Tato for helping him,” Ivan corrects. Teodor’s laughing eyes give away the white lie.

“Is that right?” Stefan picks up the jug and breathes in. He swallows back the urge to tip it to his lips. “How is it?” He sets the jug back down.

“Warm and smooth like a good piss,” Teodor slurs the last word and he hears himself laughing, inviting in the camaraderie of another man. A free man, in his own home, sharing his good fortune. He knows now what he is feeling. He is feeling safe.

“Maria, get us another cup.”

“No, no,” Stefan feigns disinterest. “I know how hard it is to come by.” His mouth can barely shape the lie, his body flushes hot. His mouth salivates.

“I insist,” Teodor responds magnanimously. “One shot.”

“Girls, get ready for bed.” Maria stiffens, but Teodor ignores her protest.

“I’m not tired,” Katya argues. Her mother’s sharp look silences her.

Dania takes Katya’s hand and leads her to the bedroom. “Come on, I’ll tell you a bedtime story.”

“Good night, Tato.” Katya wraps her arms around her father’s neck and kisses him on the lips. He smells funny, sour and bitter. Her lips burn from touching his.

Sofia follows suit. “’Night.” She pecks him on the cheek. He throws his arms around her and bundles her on his knee, giving her a whisker rub.

“Good night, grumpy-dump.” He swats her behind and she is delighted, even as she pouts and straightens her skirt.

“’Night, Tato.” He looks up at his eldest daughter.

“Good night, Dania.” He speaks to her as an adult, which makes her proud. She leads her sisters to the room, eager to escape Stefan’s burning eyes.

“They’re getting big, aren’t they? How old is Dania now?”

“Fourteen.” Teodor pours a splash of liquor into Stefan’s cup. Dania pulls the blanket modestly across the door frame.

“’Night.” Stefan nods, mesmerized by her long blond hair and piercing blue eyes. “She looks like you, Maria. A beauty.”

Myron pushes back his chair and stands too abruptly, the .22 in his hand. He slams the bolt in. “I’m going to check the snares.” He is out the door before he has pulled on his jacket.

“Why don’t you boys go play in your room,” Maria suggests. “Keep it quiet, though.” Ivan, who is struggling to tie his laces, unable to remember if the rabbit goes into the hole or around the tree, gladly gives up. Tripping over his bootlaces, he leads the way.

“Why don’t you take off your hat and mitts, Petro, you’ll get too hot. I’ll hang them up, then they’ll be warm for you later.” Maria holds out her hand.

Petro protectively grabs his hat. “I want to keep them.” He hurriedly follows Ivan into his room.

Teodor lifts his cup. “Daî Bozhe.”

Stefan takes hold of the mug, as though shaking hands with an old friend. His trembling fingers steady themselves against the tin.

“God give you health,” Stefan concurs and raises his cup. He breathes in the earthy, bittersweet fragrance. He kisses his lips to the cup and drinks. The amber fire spreads through his body. A warm, golden light bathes his brain and numbs the pain. He is filled with pure liquid joy. His shoulders relax. He leans back in the chair, his eyes soft. “It’s good whiskey, Teodor. Fine whiskey.”

He holds up his cup for more. The men smile at each other, willing, in this moment, to pretend to be friends. Teodor fills his cup. Stefan helps himself to tobacco and unbuttons the top button of his too-tight collar to let the golden liquid pass more freely. Maria warily watches, fighting the irrational urge to gather up her family and run.

IVAN AND PETRO SIT ON THE BED, DANGLING THEIR FEET over the edge. Ivan tries to hold his feet in the same position as his cousin’s. Toes slightly pointed inward. He pretends he has four legs. He lifts his left foot up, hoping Petro’s leg will do the same. It doesn’t. He swings his right foot, coaxing Petro’s to follow. Nothing. Their feet hang lifeless.