Shandi Mitchell - Under This Unbroken Sky

One lamp flickers on the table, illuminating the solemn faces staring at their untouched plates. The potatoes cool, the ham congeals.

“Eat,” Maria commands.

Another year. That’s what Mama said. Tato has to go away for another year.

The children force in a spoonful; it wads tasteless in their mouths. Katya spits her potatoes back out. Sofia sniffles inconsolably.

“That’s enough,” Maria reprimands her. “Wipe your nose.” Sofia drags her sleeve across her face.

Myron forces another forkful into his mouth; he chews on the stringy meat unable to swallow. Ivan can’t take his eyes off the Virgin. Her bleeding heart, her downcast eyes. Liar.

Teodor and Maria arrived home, their cheeks flush, their eyes laughing, brushing snow from each other’s hair. As soon as Maria saw her children’s faces, she knew something terrible had happened, felt it crush against her chest. Her eyes searched them out one by one, making sure they were all alive, fingers and toes attached. Nothing in the house seemed out of place. Yet everything was wrong. Dania sent the children outside.

Sitting on the stoop, the snow sticking to their eyelashes, grabbing at their hair and shoulders, the children sat as still and black as the crows in the field. They heard their father’s voice roar, heard words they are never supposed to say, heard their mother’s panicked voice trying to soothe, the mumble of reason, shouts tearing throats, “Goddamned bitch, goddamned bitch…”

And their mama: “You don’t know it was her.”

“She’s the only one who knew it was there! She saw it when I built it!” The words slurred in spit. Ripping through the walls.

The door swung open and they scattered to avoid their father’s feet as he stormed to the barn. He is still there.

Myron was sent to fetch him for dinner. He found his father pacing back and forth from stall to stall, counting the steps. The horse was backed into a corner, spooked by Teodor’s intensity.

“Tato?” Myron dared, his voice small. “Dinner is ready.” Teodor didn’t falter. He walked five paces and turned, his mind locked in its own cage.

“Tato,” Myron demanded, surprised by the anger in his voice. Teodor stopped, turned to him with eyes blazing. “Are you coming back?”

He meant to say, Are you coming in?

Teodor looked at his eldest son, his arms and legs too long for his growing body. The pants hiked above his boots, his woolen coat strangling his shoulders. He saw the clenched jaw and frightened eyes. A man’s eyes in a child’s body. He saw the boy’s chest rising and falling, his nostrils flaring, struggling to appear calm. He tried to imagine him completely grown. He would stand taller than him. Maybe his thick brown hair will gray prematurely, just on the sides. He will be long and lean. He will always walk with that loose gait of a man who feels every step of the earth beneath his feet. He will always prefer to be alone. He will always be a farmer. Dirt is his blood.

He looked to the horse, its ears back, its eyes wide, and when he reached for its nose, it thrust its head back, not trusting his touch. He looked up at the roof, to the logs’ hewn marks, each one his mark. He heard the wind buffeting the walls and it pleased him that the walls were strong. He held his hand out to the horse again, his fingers open, an invitation. The horse eyed him suspiciously, smelled his hand. The same man. The animal rested its chin in his palm. Teodor brushed the long mane from its eyes. Nodded, as if answering the animal’s question.

“You have to make sure to get him new shoes in the spring. Don’t let the mud build up in his hooves.” He picked up the horse brush.

“I’ll be in soon,” he told his son. “I have to get ready.” Myron left him brushing the horse in long, slow sweeps as he whispered in its ear.

The family turns to the sound of Teodor’s footsteps on the stoop, casually stomping off the snow. He enters, takes off his coat, and drapes it over the rifle propped against the wall. He sits down at the table, as though it is any other night. Maria hurries to retrieve his plate warming on the stove. He fills his spoon with steaming potatoes and takes a bite.

“Pass the butter,” he asks Sofia, her eyes red and swollen. “Eat.” He proceeds to clean his plate. The family, one by one, takes a bite.

At bedtime, each child insists on a hug. He holds them longer and tighter. He tells Ivan to listen to his mother and learn from his brother. He tells him to look for a tree down at the dump that has the face of a fox hidden inside. He tells Katya that her dreams won’t hurt her and when she’s scared she should remember the snakes and how she drove them away. He tells Sofia to keep telling her stories and practicing her English. He tells her that he thinks her curled ringlets are very pretty and that she shouldn’t be afraid to show people who she really is. He tells Dania not to be afraid to dance and to hold her head high. He assures her that she will be a very good mother and that she shouldn’t be afraid to leave. He shakes Myron’s hand. He tells him: “You’ll know what you have to do.” He waves a farmer’s good-bye.

After the lamp has been blown out and the children are sleeping restlessly, he and Maria lie in bed. He rubs her belly, breathes in her hair. She tells him: “We’ll be here, we’ll be waiting. We’ll be all right.”

When she can no longer convince herself, she proposes that they run, pack up what they can carry and leave now. Go south, where it’s warmer and the land is flat and thick with rich, fertile soil. No stones. Or go east—leave this place, don’t look back. The wind whistles over the house. They are trapped. Trapped in this godforsaken wasteland.

She swallows the bile in her throat, quells the urge to scream, to pound him with her fists, to blame him for tearing their family apart again. She doesn’t want this to be what she remembers tonight. He’ll only be gone a year. One year. That’s nothing in the scheme of their whole lives. She holds him tight, memorizing his smell, the contour of his body, the size of his hands, the sound of his heartbeat.

Teodor stares out the window at the world lost in a blizzard, swallowing them alive.

PAPA…

Teodor is awake. “Shhh…” He motions his son to be quiet, Mama is asleep.

“I have to pee.” Ivan rubs the sleep from his eyes. The house creaks from the force of the storm outside. Teodor slips from Maria’s hold. He is still fully dressed.

He helps Ivan into his boots, doesn’t bother to lace them. The half-asleep child rests his head on Teodor’s shoulder. He helps Ivan into his coat.

“Where are you going?” Maria calls.

“I have to pee,” Ivan answers grumpily, not wanting to be awake.

“Go back to sleep,” Teodor gently assures his wife. She looks at him uncertainly, not knowing why she is nervous. Teodor attempts a smile. “We’ll be right back.” He takes Ivan’s hand. He doesn’t bother putting on his coat.

The snow is driving sideways. Ivan presses against his father’s leg. They round the corner of the house and are lashed by the wind. They duck back behind the shelter of the building. “How about here?” Teodor suggests.

Ivan hoists his nightshirt. Snowflakes tickle his ankles. Modestly, he turns his back to his father. He pees lazily. A hot, steady stream. Teodor looks the other way, into the white, driving fury. The trees bend and sway, groan under the crush of snow. The wind howls.

“I’m finished,” Ivan yawns. Teodor rubs his head. “Back to bed.”

He opens the door and takes off Ivan’s boots, hangs up his coat. Ivan shuffles back to his room. “Ivan…” Teodor calls after him. But Ivan doesn’t hear.

Teodor stands at the doorway, waits until he hears the creak of his son crawling back into bed. The house is dark, but with his eyes shut he can see every child, every log, the blanket on the wall, the washbasin, shelves laden with preserves… Maria. They are safe here. He picks his jacket up from the floor.