Shandi Mitchell - Under This Unbroken Sky

December 6. 1938

INNACURACY ABOUT IMPROVEMENTS

I build a house and I did pay for the work that is done on that farm and I have witness for what I done on Teodor farm.

December 10, 1938

Sirs:

RE: N.E.2-64-6-W, 4th Meridian

Referring to your letter I beg to advise that Mrs. A. Shevchuk obtained homestead entry for above described land. Teodor Mykolayenko, brother of the entrant, claims that he has resided on the land, performed the improvements, and that when Mrs. Shevchuk filed, the understanding existed whereby he was to get the homestead.

The whole matter is being investigated and when a decision is arrived at you will be further advised.

For your information, I may say that all homestead entries are at present under winter protection and although an application to cancel may be accepted, no action would be taken until the first of March next.

ANNA HEARD THE COYOTES AGAIN LAST NIGHT. They were crying for her while she slept. She hasn’t been able to go to them. She can hardly move. She sleeps all the time now. It is easier to sleep than be awake. When she sleeps, she feels nothing. Floats between here and there. She doesn’t have to think about who she is and what she has done. She is separate from her life. Not a mother, not a wife, not a sister—she is something outside of time, waiting to be reborn.

How far back would she have to go to change her life? What if she hadn’t got on the boat that brought her here? What if she hadn’t gone to the dance where she had met Stefan? What if she had kissed the boy with the brown eyes and crooked teeth instead? What if she hadn’t signed the letters? Who would she be now?

Anna’s legs cramp. She rolls onto her back, straightens her legs. The baby turns inside her, its feet push against her insides. She rubs her belly, pushes her fingers along the soft flesh until she finds a hard lump. She presses around the shape. A foot. The baby kicks. She drapes her arm around her belly, pulls the quilt tight across her, wanting to feel constricted.

She dreams of faces looking down on her. Lesya’s worried blue eyes. She dreams of floating in a lake below the surface. She is breathing underwater. Suspended. The water is cool against her forehead, like a damp cloth. She hums.

The baby relaxes and curls up. Anna shifts onto her side, pulls her knees to her belly, her thumb near her mouth. The fragments of melodies vibrate in her throat, spill down her chest, pulse through her uterus. Sometimes she repeats one note—low, low, low, then high, high, high. Her eyelids grow heavy, her breathing slows, and life falls away again.

Asleep, the sounds are muffled and far away. Mysterious and disconnected. She finds herself identifying them. That’s the door opening. That’s fire crackling. A man’s cough. Footsteps. Pots being stirred. Hair being brushed.

What’s that?

“A bird.”

What’s that?

“Wind.”

What’s that?

“My heart.”

She doesn’t know that she says the words out loud. The voice is small, a little girl’s voice. It sounds like Anna’s voice. Sometimes it sounds like it’s inside her head. Sometimes it sounds like it’s whispered in her ear. It’s not really a voice. It’s more like a feeling. A question she’s compelled to answer.

Light flickers through her closed eyelids. “That’s the sun. Cloud. Night. Candles. Fire.” She turns her face away from the light, and blackness seeps in. Sometimes Anna feels as if she is encased in someone else’s skin.

She opens her eyes. “Lesya.” She is flooded with warmth, even love. Safe.

Lesya tips a glass of water to her mother’s cracked lips. “Drink.” Anna’s eyes shut.

Open your eyes. “Petro.” Uncertain. Wary.

“Come closer,” she tells him. “Let me see your eyes.” A stranger. Be careful.

She pushes him away.

The man?

Anna blearily opens her eyes. “Stefan. Your father.” She feels nothing. Not curiosity. Not disappointment. Not apprehension. Nothing. Just exhaustion. Her eyes shut.

Where?

“Home.”

Feeling more questions, she tries to explain. “House, land.”

Land?

“Forever. Empty. Flat. Alone.”

Alone?

“Nobody. Life. Sadness.”

Anna’s pillow is wet beneath her cheek. She is crying. She burrows deeper into the covers and pulls the quilt over her head. A cocoon of warmth. “Sleep,” she tells herself.

Soon?

“No.” Anna doesn’t want to be born yet.

Soon , the voice persists.

“No,” Anna commands.

The voice curls up, small and tight, and Anna floats away again.

At first she thinks the coyotes have come to her in her dream. Their voices circle around her. Their wild cries grow louder, more insistent. Distressed. She rushes toward the sound, not wanting to be left behind. She wakes.

It is dark. She is alone in bed. The blankets stick to her wet skin. Her mouth is dry. She rolls heavily on her side. She strains to hear through the silence of the night. Is that a dog panting? The rustle of paws on snow? Is it pressing its nose against the cracks of the shack? Breathing in? Anna presses her hand against the log wall, feels a cold draft on her palm.

Somewhere up toward the field a coyote calls. Its beautiful, mournful cry wails down the hill. Anna hoists herself up to a sitting position. She wants to see it. Tell it that she hasn’t forgotten. It yelps three short barks that open into a sustained sorrow.

She heaves up onto her feet and wobbles unsteadily. Pain grabs her lower back and spreads across her lower abdomen to her legs and cinches her tight.

Don’t go.

Her heart races. She is flushed with heat. Her thighs tremble. Another contraction seizes her belly, makes her bowels constrict.

Don’t go.

She breathes erratically. The coyote wails again. Anna breaks into a sweat. The baby twists, kicks up under her ribs. Anna clutches her stomach, tries to calm it.

“Coyotes. Friends.”

Adrenaline floods her body. Her muscles tighten. Her heart pounds. Fear crackles under her skin.

“Coyote. Friend.”

Her muscles release. The baby lies still. Anna breathes deep. She straightens her back and soothingly pats her belly. The coyote calls her again. Anna takes a step forward.

Liar.

Pain shears through her body. White light explodes behind her eyes. She fights to hold on to consciousness. The world reels away, and when she can no longer bear it, it subsides.

She is standing in the dark. The ice-cold dirt floor numbing her toes. The weight of her flesh pulling her down. She breathes in her sweat-soaked nightdress. She listens to the silence. It’s gone.

She looks at her belly. The baby is quiet now.

“This one will betray you too,” a voice says. This voice is louder and stronger than the other one. Anna collapses onto the bed and pulls herself tight in the covers. Her breathing slows. Her body goes cold. She draws the quilt over her head, a fragment of a dream slips past her eyes of Stefan in the dark, standing perfectly still, his hands behind his back, his coat on, holding his breath.

STEFAN HAS ALWAYS HATED THE SOUND OF COYOTES. It reminds him how far from civilization they are. He was never meant to be a farmer. He is awake again, sitting at the table, staring at the empty flask. Tremors rip through his body, crawling under his skin, erupting in his hands. He is sweating, he feels nauseous. He came back this time to be a gentleman farmer, hire hands to do the work, get enough money from the fields to get back to town. Instead he’s worse off than before. At least in town, he could always find a drink. There was always someone to talk to about the old country.