Under This Unbroken Sky (27 page)

With everyone asleep, he quietly gets out of bed. He slips his boots on, pulls his jacket over his nightshirt. If his father wakes, he’ll tell him he’s going to the outhouse. He inches toward the door. He looks up at the rifle hanging above the door frame, considers taking it, but doubts that he can retrieve it without his mother hearing. Sofia is snoring, masking his movements. He lifts the latch and slowly opens the door just wide enough to squeeze through.

Outside, the night feels dense, like a storm is coming. The crescent moon is filtered by a gauze of clouds. Thankfully, it is silent. The coyotes are gone. The cold seeps through his long underwear. It nips his ears. His lungs constrict. He tucks his hands in his coat pockets wishing he had brought his mittens. He hurries around the side of the house, up to the outhouse, checking over his shoulder to make sure no one has noticed his absence. He searches the darkness, but there are no wild dogs in sight. He veers off the trodden path and heads behind the outhouse. The deep snow fills his boots and numbs his shins.

He scrambles uphill to the spruce tree with the two tops. Beneath it, a large boulder peeks through the snow. He stomps a path around it, excavating it from the drift, and heaves aside the stone. Embedded in the snow is the foot. Hiding it had not absolved him of his crime. He had stolen from the wild. Myron extracts the paw. It leaves behind a perfect print.

He looks toward the woods crowning the lake. He’s never gone there at night. It’s about half a mile. He can turn back, forget about this piece of flesh. Let it rot into the ground come the spring. But he knows he can’t. He took it. He has to return it. He has to make things right.

He heads toward the trees, running at first to keep warm, but the icy air cuts into his throat and his nostrils plug. He slows to a fast walk, checking behind him every few minutes to make sure he can still see the house. The tops of the trees sway. Gusts of snow spray over the drifts. The wind is from the north. Myron quickens his pace.

He can see the stark branches now, their gnarled limbs clatter in the breeze. He’s entering the muskeg. He slows and comes to a stop twenty feet from the edge of the woods. He can see the frozen lake that could be mistaken for a field. Clouds of snow surge across its ridges, sweeping clear patches of glassy ice. The lake moans, protesting the weight bearing down on it.

The ice on the paw’s foreleg melts in Myron’s grip.
Keep going
, he tells himself. He steps onto the crusted layer of glittering ice crystals. Each foot breaks through, grabs at his ankles, scrapes against his shins. He tries to walk quieter, lighter. But he can hear the rustle of his coat. They can hear him. They can smell him. His heart chokes in his throat. He remembers every story he’s ever heard of boys disappearing in the woods. Tales of caution to keep him close to home when he was little. The frozen boy, the drowned
boy, the lost boy, the boy who was turned into a tree, the boy eaten by wolves…

If the coyote is still alive, it will be in these woods; that’s where its tracks headed. It might be inside a hollow trunk or in a burrow in the ground, nursing its wound. Animals instinctively retreat to someplace small and enclosed when they are injured. It holds them tight. It hides them. His father has seen animals with deep scars, missing ears and tails, twisted broken limbs, gouged eyes, and somehow they survived. Somehow they healed.

If it isn’t alive, then its spirit is still trapped here. Myron is only a few feet away from the tangled stand of spruce and poplar. He could fling the paw into the dense underbrush and run, but it wouldn’t be enough. It has to know that it was him, nobody else, that should be punished.

It is darker here beside the trees. The snow has drifted lee-side of the trunks. An owl hoots indignantly that a trespasser is approaching. To his right, a branch snaps. The owl goes silent. The wind whistles softly through the branches. Myron holds the paw up to the wilderness. An offering.

He bows his head and lowers his eyes to show his submission. He takes a step forward and then another, expecting the woods to explode any moment in a frenzy of teeth and claws. He climbs up the drift, and when he can no longer free his legs, he crawls. He drops his head lower. He pushes through the snow on his knees
. Forgive me. Forgive me.

He reaches the crest and behind it sees a small windswept hollow, a carved ellipse haloing the trunks of two intertwined poplars. Katya calls them the loving trees. Myron reaches into the wilds and lays the paw at the base of the trees.

He holds his trembling hand out to the night and braces himself for his sacrifice. A hand for a hand.

A gust of wind wails through the woods, shaking loose a torrent of snow that pelts his hair, the back of his neck and shoulders. His legs cramp. His arm grows tired and sags. His wrist numbs. His fingers ache from the cold.

The wind subsides. The trees murmur softly.
Go
, they say.
Go.

Myron retreats on hands and knees.

TWO MILES SOUTH, STEFAN RUNS AS THOUGH A PACK OF wild dogs are tearing at his heels. He claws his way over drifts. Icy snow cuts his hands. Snow clogs his boot tops. His cheeks and fingers freeze.

He runs from the money jangling in his pocket, he runs from the empty flask slapping against his ribs, he runs from the hardness between his legs.

He runs knowing it is the only good thing he has ever done.

T
CH-TCH-TCH,” TEODOR CALLS THE HORSE. IT DIDN’T greet him at the fence and now, inside the barn, he doesn’t hear its welcoming snort. The wind whips through the rafters. Teodor wipes a drip from his nose. A shiver runs up his back, even his old leather coat can’t keep out the north wind’s chill this morning. The only creatures braving the wind are the crows. He noticed them at the edge of the woods. He’s always hated their jubilant caws celebrating death. He checks the cow. Its teats are full and its stall hasn’t been mucked out yet. Teodor proceeds cautiously. The horse lifts its head over the stall and nods a salute.

“What are you doing, old man?” Teodor asks. “Is everything all right?” He rounds the corner of the stall. “Why are you tied up?”

The horse whinnies. Teodor glances at the water and feed bucket. Both are full.

“Did someone give you breakfast already?” He pats its rump. A puff of dust plumes upward. “You need a brushing.” He rubs his hand along its belly and up its neck. “Move over, give me some room.” He thumps under its ribs. The horse leans in tighter against him. “Move.” Teodor leans against the horse. It presses him against the boards.

Teodor sidles up to its head. “What’s this new game?” The horse blocks him with its nose. It turns its head, so one large eye is looking right at him. “Enough of this.” He slaps the horse’s withers. It flinches but doesn’t budge. He reaches over its back and presses against its side, in an attempt to trick it to lean the other way. The horse pushes harder against him.

“You’re going to move.” The horse tries to rub its head against
Teodor’s chest. “No.” He wraps a piece of binder twine around the horse’s nose. The horse rears its head trying to free itself of the constraint. Teodor knows it hates being led this way. “Move.” He tugs the horse’s head sideways. It pulls back. “Goddamn it.” Teodor steps toward the other side of the stall for better leverage. Lesya stands up from her crouched hiding position.

“What the hell are you doing there?” Teodor sputters, angry with himself for not listening to his animal. “Why didn’t you say something? Get out from there!”

Lesya meekly obeys. She steps out of the stall but doesn’t run away. She stares at her feet, her face masked by her hair.

“Are you trying to get stepped on?” Teodor releases the makeshift halter, rubs the horse’s nose, smooths its hurt feelings. He looks at his niece. He hasn’t seen her in months. Each other’s presence affirmed only through the exchange of baskets of eggs and loaves of bread. She looks thinner. Her hair matted; her clothes in need of washing. He realizes that she has been waiting for him and immediately regrets yelling.

Teodor gives the horse the top of a smuggled carrot and pats its side. He walks out of the stall and stops a few feet from Lesya. He crouches low, brings himself to her size. He looks at the straw scattered at her feet, sticking to her stockings.

“Tell me,” Teodor asks as quiet as he can.

Lesya swallows. She speaks so softly Teodor barely hears. “Tato’s gone.”

He glances up at her hidden face, he can see a bruise on her cheek.

Teodor empties his voice of rage. “Did he do that?”

Lesya shakes her head no. She whispers, “Petro’s gone too.”

PETRO PULLS HIS COLLAR UP HIGHER AROUND HIS NECK. The constant north wind buffets him from behind, blasting him
with ice-sharp snow scoured from the fields. He can stand the steady wind; it’s the high gusts that threaten to knock him down. He hears them coming, a low rumble like a train far off in the distance. He stops as another gust whips around him and disappears in a cyclone of snow. His eyes water. He tries to blink away the endless white on white.

He pushes forward, following the dim recesses of his father’s tracks. The footprints have become vague in the last hour, the crisp edges erased by the blowing snow. Drifts cut across his path, eradicating the trail for brief sections. Once he veered too far right and missed the track. Panicked, he retraced his steps, knowing his father couldn’t just disappear. He ran in circles, crisscrossing and backtracking, almost ready to give up hope when he stumbled upon the trail, stretching toward the south, in a straight, unerring line. He looked back at his own erratic track, a wild careening scribble, and knew his father would be displeased by his untidiness. He stepped into his father’s boot print and vowed not to miss another step.

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.

“He has to get out of these clothes.” He pulls off the boy’s wet pants. “Get his coat.” Lesya fumbles with the buttons. Her brother’s face is gray. Teodor sits him up, and Petro falls forward like a rag doll. He peels off the boy’s coat and shirt, exposing his nephew’s scrawny chest and arms. Lesya throws a blanket around her
brother’s shoulders, embarrassed by his frailty. Embarrassed that he made her flinch. His coldness seeps through her dress.

Teodor tries to pull off his mittens, but Petro’s fingers curl, refusing to let go. Teodor slips two hot stones into each mittened palm, the hands loosen and wrap around the soothing round shape. He swaddles Petro in another blanket and gently lays him down.

Lesya piles him with quilts. Teodor pushes on the boy’s cheeks. Blood colors the white flesh.

“He’s going to be fine,” he reassures Lesya, who for the first time is looking him directly in the eyes. Her eyes are gray, blue, ancient. She searches for the truth. She tucks the covers in tighter, then limps to the stove and throws in another log.

Exhaustion and the cold overwhelm Teodor. His muscles ache and his toes throb. He smells the musty claustrophobia of this house’s despair. He turns to his sister. She is sitting back at the table, facing the door, not looking toward her child.

Her matted hair sticks out on one side, pinned askew. The buttons on her blouse strain at her breasts. Her belly distends over her lap. He notices that she has rouged her cheeks and pinned a dried flower to her collar. Her hands and feet are swollen. Her toe pokes through a hole in her stocking.

How could this be his sister? His sister was fearless. She danced with her head held high, commanding everyone to look at her. He remembers a parade of boys tripping over themselves just to catch a smile. She could outrun them all. One by one they would pull back and admire her from afar—a wild horse they never wanted tamed.

Anna looks at him with broken eyes. “He’s coming back.”

Teodor looks away, unable to bear her need. “Take care of your boy.” He turns to Lesya. “Come by the house tomorrow, tell your aunt what you’ll need.”

“He’s coming back,” Anna insists.