Shandi Mitchell - Under This Unbroken Sky

“What happened?” His voice cracks.

Petro breaks for the door. Stefan grabs him by the collar and wrenches him back.

“What did you do?” The boy’s blood drips onto his hands. “What did you do?” The taste of hatred for this child, who has ruined everything, biles in his throat.

“Nothing,” Petro stammers.

“Ivan!” Teodor bellows, the fire turning hot in his veins. Angry that he has lost something again, something that he can’t even identify, something that was good.

Ivan skulks into the room, his chin thrust up, his lower lip pouting. His fist clenches his penny.

“What happened?” Teodor barks.

Ivan searches for the right answer. He searches through a jumble of images: a penny; a peppermint candy he tried to wipe the dirt off that stained his hand red; a crushed gopher’s skull. One eye caved in, where his new boot stomped it. The bruise under his ribs, where his cousin kicked him; the throbbing of his knuckles when he punched Petro in the face; the red, red blood…

“Answer me!” Teodor slams the table with his open hand. Surprised by the loudness of the swat.

“He stole my hat.” He glares at Petro, knowing that it isn’t the right answer, but it’s the only way he can explain everything.

“I did not!” Petro screams back.

They look at Petro, the hat clutched tight to his chest, blazing his guilt.

“This?” Stefan pulls at the ragged wool cap, with its red darned patches and unraveled threads. For a moment, he thinks he can salvage the night, they’ll laugh at the children’s pettiness and pour another drink. “Give it back to him.”

“It’s mine.” Petro clings tighter, protecting it with both arms.

“Give it to him.”

Petro shakes his head. “It’s mine,” he says to the floor.

Stefan wrenches it from his hands, but Petro holds on, his head yanks backward as his father drags him forward and lifts him off the ground. “Let go.” He shakes him.

“It’s mine.” Petro tastes the blood in his mouth, salty and metallic. He closes his eyes and hangs on. The wool hat stretches between his fingers. Stefan slams him toward the ground and Petro’s knees buckle, but still he holds on. His new boots drag little trenches across the dirt floor. His arms stretch in their sockets.

Ivan covers his ears. Teodor is standing. His face twisted and angry. Everyone is screaming. His sisters cower behind the thin blanket shielding their doorway. Sofia and Katya cling to Dania. Their cheeks are wet with tears, their voices screech high and frantic. Ivan looks to his mother. Her mouth wails as she runs toward Stefan. He looks to Petro twisting in the air like his sister’s rag doll. He doesn’t want the hat anymore. He never wanted it back. He only wanted Petro to say he was sorry for being mean. All he wanted was for them to have the same boots so they could be brothers.

Maria grabs Stefan’s arm, but he doesn’t even see her. He sees only the hat and the pitiful defiance of something so weak it doesn’t deserve to live. He yanks viciously back, his elbow slams into Maria’s belly, the hat tears from Petro’s fingers. Stefan lifts it, victorious, high above his head and, as he turns to toss it to Ivan, sees Maria slumped on the floor, gasping for air. Before he can make sense of this image, Teodor is driving him back against the door frame.

He slams into the wood jamb, the door wrenches open, sucking in the bitter cold. A lightning bolt of pain rips up his spine. Teodor’s hand is around his throat. Choking. Stefan’s tongue rolls back, lungs gulping, as the room reels and blackens. He gropes for the knife in his pocket. His fingers curl around the handle and his thumb pries open the blade. He can’t get a proper grip and drives it upward, blade down, through the jumble of arms and elbows. The dull knife drags across the back of Teodor’s hand.

Teodor’s hand recoils. The wound welts red, filling with blood thinned from the alcohol. Stefan rasps for air. The two men stare each other down. Eyes wild. Lips parted, teeth bared. They size each other up for the kill. Stefan nimbly flips the knife around, the blade becoming a natural extension of his hand. His fingers tighten around the handle.

“Come on,” Stefan snarls. “Finish it.”

A shot cracks their eardrums. Wood splinters from the door frame, inches from Stefan’s head. The world goes deaf and all eyes look past the door into the night. In a split second, Myron reloads and aims the .22 at his uncle’s chest.

“Get out of our house.” Myron’s voice is low and steady, so contained it might explode. The gun doesn’t quiver.

“Now,” he says. His lips dry.

Teodor steps back, his mind sober. He sees his wife holding her belly, tears streaking her flushed cheeks. He sees his children’s terrified eyes. Blood drips from his hand onto his boots. At his feet, Petro kneels before the wool cap splayed on the floor. The boy’s eyes are locked on the end of the barrel pointing at his father. Teodor feels the pulsing pain in his hand.

“Get off my property.” He chokes down the white-hot rage. “It’s over between us. Don’t ever come back here.”

Stefan calculates the odds of his knife against Myron’s aim. He wants to drive it into Teodor’s smug, righteous belly and twist it. Make him beg him to slit his throat. Mercy. A technique he honed well in the army. But it would take a step and a thrust to reach Teodor, and his back would be to the boy. He looks at the gun’s sights, fixed on his chest, steady. Myron cocks the firing pin. Stefan pockets the knife, straightens his coat, and slicks back his hair.

“Now I remember why I came by in the first place, Teodor. I wanted to thank you for paying off our land. Not many brothers would do that for their sister.”

Teodor restrains himself. “It’s my land.”

“We’ll have to see what the courts say.” Stefan buttons up his collar. “Thank you for the fine whiskey. You’re a brave man, Teodor. I wouldn’t want to get caught with it. What’s the penalty now? A year in jail? Another year. No worries, I’m sure you have it well hidden.” He looks at Petro, who is still on his knees. “Get up.”

Petro reaches for the wool cap. Stefan steps on it.

“It’s mine,” Petro tries one last time. “I won it, fair and square.”

Stefan looks to Ivan. “Is that true?”

Ivan looks to his new boots. His bare feet are stuck to the insoles. The tongue digs into the top of his foot. A blister chafes his right heel.

“Well,” Stefan considers. “Like father, like son.” He slides his foot off the cap. “Pick up your hat, boy. We’re going home.” Petro pulls the misshapen cap over his ears. Stefan bends over to dust the dirt from his son’s knees and offers some fatherly advice. “Some people don’t know what’s theirs and what isn’t.” He taps him on the behind. “Let’s go.”

Petro scrambles out the door. Stefan straightens his back into his best soldier’s posture and tipsily heads for the door, as if he is the one who has chosen to leave.

Teodor blocks his exit with his arm and leans in close. “If you touch him again, if you hurt any of my family…” he whispers, “I will kill you.” He lowers his arm to let him pass.

Stefan whispers back with a smile: “You’re already dead.” He turns and bows to Maria. “My apologies for my son’s behavior. I’ve brought him up to fight for what’s his.” And with that he leaves.

Myron keeps the gun trained on his uncle’s back until he is swallowed by the night. Only then does the barrel begin to shake uncontrollably.

CURLED UP UNDER THE FEATHER QUILT, THE BOX OF treasures safely back under his bed, Ivan breathes in the green scent of his straw mattress. His boots and long underwear are warming by the fire. His mind is already washing away the night. He plays his father’s song in his head, making up the words he didn’t catch, drowning out the gunshot, the crushed gopher skull, the blood-red candy, the howling voices. He is spinning, his arms crossed, his legs kicking high. He is dancing in a twilight sky. He falls asleep, wondering what time tomorrow Petro will come out to play, not even caring that his heart-shaped rock has disappeared.