Shandi Mitchell - Under This Unbroken Sky

Petro knew something was wrong the moment he opened his eyes this morning. His father’s flask wasn’t on the table, his coat wasn’t on the hook, his boots weren’t under the stove, and Lesya hadn’t got up to light the fire. He had jumped out of bed, not caring that his stone heart fell to the ground. He yanked his boots on over his new socks and ran outside, not stopping to grab his coat.

The moment he swung open the door, he was blinded by a blast of wind. He ran toward the outhouse, but could see the door swinging wildly open and shut. He raced to the barn, the wind whipping at his nightshirt, and swung open the heavy door. The horse and cow looked up at him suspiciously. He stood in the yard, looking up at the house on the hill, his skin prickling from the cold. He spun around, searching for any sign, any clue, and then he saw the remains of footprints leading toward the road.

Petro burst through the door and screamed at his mother, who was maddeningly still asleep. “Where is he?” When she poked her head from under the covers, disoriented by the morning light and the screaming boy, he shook her. He dug his icy fingers into her flesh, wanting to hurt her. “Where is he?”

She answered, “Who?”

He roared as loud as he could: “Tato, where is he?”

Lesya got out of bed and slammed the door shut. She was walking away from him when she said, “He’s gone.”

Mama sat up then. Lesya dragged her foot across the floor to the woodstove. Petro hated the sound of it scraping through the dirt.

She said, “He left last night. He took our money and your ring, Mama. He didn’t get your brush and mirror. He didn’t find them.” Then she poked at the cold ash, like it was any other day.

Mama shook her head, shaking away the words. “When’s he coming back?” she whimpered.

Lesya stood as tall as she could and said, “Get some wood, Petro.” Like she was the one in charge.

His mother rambled on that he was coming back, that he wouldn’t leave them, that he said he wouldn’t leave. Then she came upon the idea that he had just gone for supplies. She tried to convince Petro that’s where his father was. She ordered Lesya to make their father some breakfast. Something nice, because he’d be cold when he got home. She smoothed her hair and straightened her ratty nightgown to make herself more presentable. She wanted to make eggs and bacon. She told Petro to go to his aunt’s to get more bacon. That’s what she told him, even though she knew going there wasn’t allowed.

His sister kept preparing the fire. She balled up a piece of brown paper and tossed it in the stove, then shoved in some twigs and struck a match. She crouched down and held the flame to the paper. It smoked, then flared. She closed the stove door and let the draft fan the flames. She said, “He’s not coming back.”

As she turned to get up, that’s when Petro hit her. “Don’t you ever say that,” he snarled. The sound of his voice surprised him. He sounded like his father: not the pitch or tone, but the coldness, the disgust, the hatred… And the sound of his fist connecting with Lesya’s cheek was sharp and hard, unlike the softness of flesh on flesh. The shock of contact was painless and strangely exhilarating.

He felt himself filling the room, every corner, every chink, he felt himself growing large. He felt his strength in the fear and confusion in his sister’s eyes. He felt it as she pulled back, averting her eyes and growing small. Hitting her made him feel like a man. They didn’t try to stop him when he walked out the door.

Petro pulls his lopsided hat farther down over his ears, scrunches his fingers inside the ill-fitting mittens, and braces for another gust of wind. His father wouldn’t leave him, not after he’s worked so hard to prove that he’s a good son. He’s strong. He’s obedient. His tato loves him. It’s them Tato hates. A fat, lazy sow and a crippled mouse.

He’ll find his father and tell him that he understands why he had to leave. That he wants to leave too. He’ll work hard and make lots of money so they can buy the white house. Or they can hop the train and go somewhere else, to the city or all the way back to Ukraïna. He doesn’t care where they live so long as they’re together.

The rush of snow abates. The prints are mere impressions now. He looks up and the whiteness spills forever. There are no landmarks, no trees, no sun, only snow funneling over drifts, reshaping the dunes. Tato wouldn’t just leave him.

But Petro remembers being left before. Many times. He remembers standing at the edge of the road, waiting for Tato to come back. He remembers waking up in the middle of the night and finding him gone. He remembers never being told good-bye. He outruns those memories, his boots obliterating the remains of his father’s trail.

He runs, not looking up, focused only on the fading depressions in the snow. He runs until the prairies are swept clean and there are no more footprints to follow. Panting, his legs knocking, his body shivering uncontrollably, Petro scours the horizon. He doesn’t feel like a man anymore, he doesn’t feel strong or powerful, he feels small. Like he’s seven years old.

He looks back and sees a shape lumbering toward him. A coyote? Too large. A man? His father? His father coming to get him. Petro almost cries with relief. How did his father get behind him? Maybe Petro got turned around and he’s been walking in the wrong direction. He laughs at his own stupidity. He closes his eyes to the wind’s onslaught. He is a boy made of ice. Snow blasts his face. The wind is from the north. His mind slowly churns through the facts: he is facing north. He didn’t get turned around. Someone is following him. He opens his eyes.

The shape is white on the bottom and brown on top. It moves with a thrusting roll. It’s an animal. A horse. A man. Teodor.

Petro turns and runs, letting the wind carry him. He leaps over the drifts. “Tato!” he cries, hoping his father will hear him and save him. “Tato!” He looks over his shoulder and Teodor is not far behind. The horse is bearing down on him, its nostrils wide, snorting steam, head high, ears back—it charges through the snow. Petro trips. He crawls his way back up and stumbles through a waist-deep drift.

Teodor reins in the horse and drops back to a slow walk. He follows the boy, keeping ten feet back. He lets Petro walk.

In his mind, Petro is running. He’s running faster than a horse. He’s running to his father, who he can see on the horizon waiting for him. Petro has stopped shivering. He’s not even cold. He is warm and nothing hurts inside him. He is inside the whiteness.

Teodor wraps Petro in a blanket and lifts him from the snow. He is surprised by how light the boy is and how far he walked before lying down. Cradling him, he hoists himself up on the horse, tucks Petro into his body, and pulls the blanket over his head.

White to black.

ANNA SITS AT THE TABLE. SHE HAS PINNED UP HER UNBRUSHED hair and squeezed into an ill-fitting blouse. She has swept the floor and made the bed. The table is set for four. A stew simmers on the stove. She is facing the doorway. She has been holding this domestic pose for more than an hour. When the door opens, she stands and puts on her practiced, most welcoming smile. A fury of wind rips into the room. Her mask crumbles at the sight of her brother. Petro hangs limp in his arms.

“Get more blankets and warm up some rocks,” he directs Lesya, who already has stones warming in the oven. She scrambles to retrieve them, burning her fingers as she wraps them in a scorched linen cloth.

Teodor lays Petro on the bed and unlaces his boots. He rubs his toes. “Put them here.” His voice is calm and guiding. Lesya tucks the warming rocks under the covers at her brother’s feet.