Shandi Mitchell Read online

  Ivan realizes he is at the far eastern line of the property. He’s never been this far by himself. From here he can see his house and Petro’s. One up and one down. And the ragged grey line of stone capped with white. It looks small from here. He must be close to the dump. He sees his tracks jumbling across the field and is sorry that he ruined the perfect whiteness. To the south, far away, he sees a person approaching. Black against white. He wonders how his father got way down there without leaving any tracks.

  TEODOR SLOWS his step as he rounds the back of the barn. He softens his footfall to deaden the crunch of the snow. He pokes his head around the corner. The horse greets him with a whinny and a headshake. Teodor swears it is laughing at him. He rubs its forelock; the horse presses its nose into his chest. He reaches in his pocket and extracts a carrot. He leans into its ear as the horse nuzzles his palm.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he confesses.

  After strewing fresh hay, breaking the ice in the water bucket, and filling the feed pail, he gives the horse a snow bath. He brushes the dirt from its coat, until the old boy shines. He gives it a pat on the rump and heads to the barn to check the cow.

  He hears Lesya singing. It is a long-ago song about a shepherd having to leave his true love but promising to return home before the first snow falls, Wait for me, wait …

  Milk squirts in the pail. The cow chews its cud, eyes half asleep. Lesya massages its teats like a harp, her cheek resting on the cow’s flank. Her voice resonates high up in the rafters, filling the space with its melody. A black cat sits behind her, tail twitching slowly, its ears pricked skyward. Head slightly tilted, listening.

  The smell of the hay, the warmth of the animals, and that voice—Teodor closes his eyes and listens, feeling as if he has walked into a church. A church for men like him. It makes his heart ache for something lost. Talk to me, this place says to him. Talk to me.

  The singing stops, as does the milking. Teodor opens his eyes. Lesya stares at him. Her cheeks blush and she bows her head.

  “You shouldn’t be afraid to let people hear you.”

  She focuses on the milking—phish, phish, phish.

  Teodor checks the cow. Its coat is thick. The teats a healthy pink. The milk is pure.

  “How are the chickens?”

  “Good.”

  “How are they laying?”

  “Fine.”

  “They’re all laying?”

  Lesya stops milking. “One’s not.”

  Teodor looks down at his niece, her face hidden behind her long hair. Her twisted foot, splayed beside the bucket. She never looks him in the eye, yet he always feels she’s watching him. She’s like a skittish colt he expects would bolt if he held out his hand. She’s not like any of his daughters. Her face never betrays what she’s thinking. Her eyes are always guarded.

  “She’s looking good,” he says and heads for the door. The cat follows, its tail hooked high. Lesya resumes milking.

  Teodor hesitates at the door. “What size shoes do you wear?”

  PETRO ISN’T ALLOWED out today, because he couldn’t find his wool socks. He didn’t tell his mother that he lost his socks on a bet with Ivan. She is knitting him a new pair, but they’re not ready yet. He watches her stitch: purl and knit, purl and knit. There is a cuff and a heel. Tomorrow he should be able to go out. He is kneeling on a chair, looking out the window, waiting for Teodor to come out of the barn so he can wave to him. The soles of his bare feet are toasty facing the wood stove.

  “Come try this,” Anna calls him.

  He goes to her and holds up his foot. She slips the opened-toed sock over his foot. He wobbles on one leg as she nudges it over his heel. Off-balance, he rests his hand on her shoulder. She is surprised by the contact.

  “It’s not too big?”

  The sock slumps down his skinny leg.

  “No, Mama.”

  He can smell her hair. He is looking at her belly. Round and wide. It looks bouncy and soft. Not thinking, he touches it. Realizing what he has done, he quickly pulls back.

  “You can touch it.”

  She slips the sock off his foot. He’s not sure whether this is a test and he’s not supposed to touch.

  “Go ahead.”

  She lays his hand on top of her belly. He feels a thump. His eyes widen.

  “Can I hear it?”

  She nods.

  He rests his ear to the side. He feels the thump on his hand. He crawls up onto her lap and drapes himself over her belly. His ear pressed tight.

  He is so light. His arms so thin. Anna looks down on her son, not sure if she should touch him. It’s so much easier with the coyotes. They ask nothing of her.

  The first time she saw the coyote, she was bringing two hardboiled eggs. She wasn’t paying attention as she approached the twisted poplars. She was looking at the charred trunks to her left, wondering why the hollow had escaped the flames. When she was thirty feet away, she saw it. It jumped back from the treat of pyrohy she had left the night before, ready to flee. She lowered her head, averted her eyes, and crouched down slowly. She sat still, tried to calm her breathing. The coyote finished its meal and ran off.

  Each morning, it has let her approach another foot. She is now only eight feet away. She can hear it sniffing the air. Hear the gnash of its teeth as it gobbles the food. She can steal sideway glances at it. It is the coyote from the fire. The singed hair on its back has grown in short and ragged. Over its left haunch, a patch of scar tissue remains bald. Anna tried to speak to it once, softly, but the coyote bolted and watched her from a distance, abandoning its morning meal. Anna didn’t speak again. She had to start another ten feet back to make amends.

  Petro taps her belly lightly with his fingertips.

  THE CAT RACES ahead of Teodor to the shack that now serves as the granary. Mewing in anticipation, it weaves through his legs. Teodor lifts the latch and opens the door. The cat rushes in.

  Again he is surprised by the smallness and darkness that greets him. He can’t believe they lived here. The grain is piled high; the mound heaps up to the roof and spills into the corners. It is dusted in a light powdery snow, blown in through the cracks. He’ll have to get bags to haul it to the mill. Twenty cents a bag. He sighs. He dips his hand into the wheat. It pours like sand through his fingers. It’s good grain.

  He ponders the quantity and decides he can sacrifice a quarter of a bushel for some homebrew. Just enough for one Mason jar, a little warmth to get him through the winter. It’s dangerous to be caught with moonshine. An automatic one-year sentence. But this is more medicinal than recreational. He’s not going to sell it. He’ll just brew one pot, keep it tucked away. For a free country, they have some strange laws. He dips a pail into the wheat and fills it half full. He pours out a quarter, decides it will be enough. He takes one last look around to make sure everything is safe and steps out.

  “Come on, cat.”

  He sees it lurking in the corner, its back hunched, its tail waving, eyes narrow … its ears scanning the mound.

  “You hear something in there? Do you have a mouse? Get the bastard.”

  The cat’s back end quivers. It crouches low. Front legs tucked tight. It leaps.

  So precise, so focused, Teodor marvels at its beauty. Claws outstretched, calculating the exact distance, speed, and timing. Adjusting its curve, mid-air, its head swings around as if sighting its unseen target, hidden beneath the grain. It dives into the wheat, paws already reaching, even before the head and shoulders plow their way in.

  “Looks like we did good this year.”

  Teodor spins around, dropping the pail, his muscles tense, ready to defend or attack.

  Stefan laughs. “Jumpy these days, aren’t you? It’s been a long time. I heard you were back.” He holds out his hand to shake. “It’s good to see you again, Teodor.”

  Teodor looks hard at his brother-in-law. His rheumy eyes, sagging cheeks, drunkard’s nose. His smile bares tobacco-stained teeth. A wolf’s grin.
He wants to smash him in the face. He kneels down, rights the toppled pail, and scoops the grain back in.

  “The old place looks good. I saw the house up on the hill miles back. Didn’t know what it was at first. Hadn’t heard you were building.”

  The toes of Stefan’s boots curl up from the soles. The shoelaces are missing. If Teodor swung the bucket up now, he would catch him under the jaw, snap his neck in two. In prison, he saw a man die like that for taking a bite of another man’s piece of bread.

  “I read about the fire; it was the talk all over town. It must have come close by here, eh? We’re lucky it missed us.”

  Teodor slowly gets up. Stefan’s hands are in his pockets now. The bottom two buttons on his coat are missing. His collar is stained. His mouth is stretched into a smile, the corners tight and practised.

  “I don’t know if Anna told you, but I’ve been working on a deal. I’ve got my eye on some land—it’s going to be worth a fortune when the railway goes through. I was this close to signing the papers, needed a bit more money … so now it’s on hold until the spring. You almost get there, you know, and it all falls apart.” His eyes narrow. “We’ve been through a lot, haven’t we, Teodor?”

  One jab to the nose, drive the bone up into his brain. Instant. Like the guard did to his cellmate. He was dead with his mouth still open, screaming for water. There wasn’t any surprise or pain in his eyes, just the indignation of a thirsty man who can see the water barrel ten feet away.

  “How long are you staying?”

  Stefan’s eyes harden into an officer’s eyes, a traitor’s eyes, a guard’s eyes. His smile thins. “As long as I want.”

  Teodor picks up the pail. Reminds himself that Petro is just on the other side of the wall and that Lesya could step out any moment. He’s still their father. He’s still their father. He’s still their father …

  “Making a little liquid gold?” Stefan’s mouth involuntarily salivates.

  The cat explodes through the door; a thin pink tail hangs out of its stuffed mouth.

  Teodor shuts the granary door and latches it tight.

  AT FIRST PETRO THINKS he is hearing the baby talking. A low, deep voice. He presses his ear tighter to his mother’s belly. But there are two voices. Men’s voices. One is Teodor’s. He lifts his head. Anna’s hand clenches the knitting needles. Her body is rigid. She stares at the wall. Petro looks to her, but she is no longer aware of his presence. He slides off her lap and goes to the window.

  “Tato!”

  He throws open the door and runs barefoot into the snow.

  “Tato! Tato!”

  He throws himself into Stefan’s arms.

  “Look at you! Look how big you are.” Petro clings to his neck. His nose crinkles at the smell of body odour and sourness. “Tato.” He looks to Teodor and sees that he is sad. Petro thinks he wishes it was him being hugged instead. He holds on tighter to Stefan.

  “Okay, okay. You’re choking me, get down. Get down.” He sets him in the snow, not noticing the boy’s feet turning pink. “I brought you something.”

  He reaches in his pocket and pulls out an apple. One red apple, slightly bruised. Petro takes it, holy, in his hands.

  “Share it with your sister.”

  He looks up to Lesya, who has come out of the barn, the milk pail in her hand.

  “Hi, baby girl.”

  Her hand trembles. The milk sloshes in the pail.

  “Do you have a hug for your tato?”

  She looks to Teodor, who looks at the ground and focuses on its whiteness. She drags her foot toward her father and lets him hug her. He runs his fingers through her hair. “Look how beautiful you are.”

  She hides her face behind her hair.

  “Where’s your mama?”

  Stefan goes to the open door and steps inside. Anna sits in the chair, the knitting needles digging into her left palm. The sock unravelled on the floor. A knife by her side.

  MARIA IS PUTTING on her coat and boots when Teodor returns. He takes off his coat, removes his boots, shakes off the snow, and sets them in front of the stove. He throws a log in the fire, sits down, rolls a cigarette, lights it, and takes a deep puff.

  “Stefan is back.”

  THE MOON HANGS low and swollen over the incandescent, pale blue fields. The night sky is pricked with light. There are so many stars. Maria loses count again. She stretches her aching back and lifts her stiff joints from the chair. The fire crackles reassuringly. Quietly, she makes the rounds. Myron is snoring. He is splayed on his side, his head hidden under the covers. Ivan’s feet dangle over the edge of the bed. She tucks them in. He groans and pokes them back out. Katya is snuggled into Dania. Sofia lies rigid on her back, her hair coiled in rag strips, her mouth gaping, the sheets tucked tight on both sides. Only Teodor tosses and turns.

  She returns to her post at the window. She has been up for hours watching the stars slowly circle overhead. The baby hasn’t let her sleep.

  She has an urge to put on her coat and boots and walk. Just follow the moonlight to wherever it leads. She imagines the crisp sound of the snow underfoot. The chill of the air on her cheeks. The sharp cold sucking at her breath. The sensation of walking in blackness, not knowing what’s behind or ahead …

  She leans close to the window. Her warm breath condenses on the glass. She draws her finger through the moisture. We have to sleep now, baby. It’s time to sleep.

  Lately, even when she closes her eyes and opens them to find that dawn has arrived, she’s certain that she hasn’t slept. She has been suspended between awake and dreaming. But tonight she remembers a dream. Someplace warm and safe. She hears the fire. She sees colour. Transparent red. She floats in a sea of sound. She hears muffled laughter, fragments of song, the deep, low pulse of a man’s voice, the clang of the wood-stove door shutting. She is sucking her thumb. She is inside a poppy flower swaying in the breeze, the light bleeding through its petals, rocking her to sleep. The petals close around her, tight and heavy. She pushes against them, but their weight crushes down, constricting her ribs. She woke up in bed, pinned. She lifted Teodor’s sleeping arm from her belly and got up. That was hours ago.

  She traces the frost in the corners of the windowpane. She wishes she could make some bread or mend Teodor’s pants, but she’s afraid she’ll wake the others. She wants to shake Teodor awake: “I can’t sleep.” Make him sit with her or take her for that walk. She wants to clap her hands and announce, “Breakfast is ready.” Hear the clamour of her children, crawling out of bed, squealing as their bare feet touch the frozen dirt floor. Answer their groggy questions: “No, the sun’s not coming up today. Today we’re going to live at night.” She scratches the frost from the glass; it curls under her nails and melts.

  She wonders if Anna is awake and remembers her nocturnal walks. She looks hopefully across the field, wanting to see her cloaked figure. It used to frighten her when her sister-in-law wandered off into the night. Now she yearns to join her. How could she have not told anyone? Why didn’t she come to her? If she had come earlier, she could have helped. She could have made her parsley tea and a vinegar bath the very next day, before there was a baby. God forgive her, but she would have helped. She would have prayed to the child’s soul and asked it not to come. She would have explained that this mother had two children already and no one to help take care of them. She would have asked for mercy.

  But Anna didn’t tell her, even though they were only separated by a wooden wall. If she had told her, she would have said, “I understand what it feels like to be alone.”

  She would have told her about the night last winter, when she couldn’t sleep. A blizzard had come in and the wind was wailing. Snow was ferreting through the cracks. The children were huddled on the straw mattress, shivering. She had piled every spare piece of clothing on top of them to fend off the bitter cold. Ivan had cried himself to sleep after Maria caught him eating a raw potato he had stolen from their precious stores. She had whipped him with the wooden spoon unti
l it broke.

  She was shoving one of the last sticks of wood into the stove, realizing that she would have to burn one of the chairs next, when she saw herself pulling it back out of the fire, its end flaming. Its warmth scorched her cheeks and hand. She thought, If I set this place on fire, we’ll be warm. It was so simple.

  Then she remembered Teodor’s promise that he would come back for her. That she wouldn’t be alone forever. She thought about what would happen to him if he came back and they were gone. He wouldn’t understand how cold they were. She put the kindling into the stove, fell on her knees, and prayed for forgiveness.

  She would have understood. But now it’s too late. Now there is a baby. Now there can be no forgiveness. She prays for Anna’s mistakes, tries to make Him understand why Anna can’t ask for her own forgiveness. Asks Him to see the loneliness in her soul and guide her back from the wilderness. Make her love this child. Make this child her salvation.

  Her fingers rub the wooden cross around her neck. She looks up to the stars, wanting a sign.

  Maybe Stefan will stay this time.

  Teodor told her not to bother going to Anna’s this afternoon, but she did anyway. He answered the door, crowing like a rooster. His chest puffed out, he welcomed her in like she was a guest. Invited her to sit down and have some lunch; she declined. Lesya was serving him eggs, pyrohy, bread and raspberry jam. He asked for bacon or ham—a proper meal for a man. Lesya told him they didn’t have any. Feigning shock, he announced that now that he was home he would get them a pig. He pulled a flask from his pocket and topped up his coffee. He winked at Petro and told the boy to get more wood. He rubbed his old war injury and told Maria how much it hurt in the cold weather.

  He regaled them with stories from town, the latest gossip of politics and intrigue. He told Petro about a toy train that ran on steam. He told them about the rich people who drove through town in a Model T, wearing goggles and fur coats. He told Maria about a washing machine that ran on electricity and could wash ten bedsheets in one load. He told them about a hip-of-beef dinner at the hotel, which cost five dollars a plate, and a windup piano that played music all by itself. He told Lesya about a dance where the women wore dresses that shone like silver, their hair held up in swirling buns with feathers and tortoiseshell combs.