Under This Unbroken Sky (12 page)

Mama doesn’t know the fire is coming back for her.

This hot is different. This hot wraps around her from head to toe like a cat’s purr.
Sleep.
This hot isn’t angry. This hot is day…

LESYA SPENDS THE MORNING SALVAGING BOARDS AND crates for a new chicken coop. She borrows from the barn, scavenges behind the house, and then heads to the dump. There she finds an old board peppered with almost straight nails and a crate with a faded, crinkled picture of a smiling lady holding a bar of soap. She is missing the top of her head and one eye, where the label has torn away.

Lesya sits in the shade of the birch trees. Their leaves are dusty and muted but otherwise unperturbed by last night’s event. She looks down across the fields. A bird’s-eye view. She can see the new house on the hill, its timbers green and one window blinking in the sun, calling to her own dull gray house below. She can see the stone wall separating the worlds. A child’s line scratched in the dirt. She can just make out her uncle and her cousins, mere specks bobbing after him. Like a hen with her chicks. She smiles, forgetting that she is mad at them for not letting her come along.

From her perch she sees what remains of the field. It is no longer straight and rectangular. Ordered. Its edges are ragged and frayed, shaped like a hard-boiled egg that someone has taken a bite out of with the shell still on. Cracked and broken. She looks to the black gashes that split open the prairies north to south, widening and narrowing, blooming outward, as far as she can see. A snake that slithered around hills and trees, jumped gullies, dodged right then left before spotting its prey.

She spies a perfect magpie’s tail feather, long and glistening
black with a white tip, and picks it up. The spine is translucent and hollow. She runs her finger down its edge. It softly parts to her touch. She lifts her long skirt, too heavy in this sweltering heat, exposing her pallid leg and twisted foot, hanging limp.

“You did good,” she tells it. “You did your very best.”

She runs the feather down the blood-dried scrape extending below her knee, down her shin to her bruised and swollen ankle. Three times she asks the feather to carry away the pain. The third time she releases the feather to the day’s hot breath. It tumbles lifeless to her feet. She works the kink from her aching foot, gathers up her spoils, and heads home.

IN ANNA’S HOUSE, NOT A BREATH OF AIR STIRS.

“You’ll feel better once you’re cleaned up,” Maria coaxes. “Lift your arms.”

Anna protectively grips the filthy fabric of her dress. Maria suppresses the urge to slap her, there are so many other things she should be doing: helping Teodor in the field, preparing lunch, mending her children’s ravaged clothes, or any other number of tasks. She shouldn’t be babysitting a grown woman. Once she gets her cleaned up, she’ll prepare her sister-in-law a poppy-seed tonic to calm her nerves. It’s time this stopped.

“It’s only me here. You don’t have to hide.”

Anna looks into her eyes, questioning whether to trust her. Maria hopes her face is empty, nonjudgmental. “Let me help you.”

Anna loosens her hold and obediently raises her arms. Maria pulls the dress over her head. The cloth reeks of smoke and the sour smell of mildew. The fabric is damp; Anna refused to take it off last night. She also refused Myron’s bed and instead sat up all night staring out the window.

“I don’t think it can be saved.” Maria examines the tattered
hem, mud stains, and scorch marks. “Maybe this piece, I’ll take it home with me.” Even with the door open, there is no breeze. Only suffocating heat.

“This too.” Maria stands behind her and unknots the grimy string clenching the corset. The soiled fabric strains at the eyelets. The crisscrossed string burrows into the soft folds of Anna’s flesh where the material should meet, and bulges around her spine. She loosens the string and the corset springs free. She pulls it open, uncasing the body, revealing bruises and welts where the wire ribs have branded her caged flesh. She pries it away, gently now, skin peels away, heat blisters weep around her nipples.

“What have you done?”

Maria touches her distended belly, feels for the head. Her fingers expertly push past the fat and muscle, lift under the ribs…and the baby kicks.

“It’s still alive.”

Tears break through Anna’s heart and flood her eyes, searing her cheeks. She chokes on her own spit, drowns in her own gulping wail. The tears fall on her belly and splash on her hands—she cries because she didn’t know she still could.

THE NEW CHICKEN COOP IS A JIGSAW OF PLANKS AND boards of varying lengths. Nothing is straight or square. When Lesya kneels inside, her head brushes the bottom of the lopsided roof. She has used the crate with the lady’s face to make the roosts. She hasn’t figured out how to fasten the door yet, so a palette proclaiming
NO
-
SAG
-
GATE
leans against the opening. She has scattered fresh hay on the ground, plumped up the nests, filled a tin with water. Now she sits in the back, quietly clucking.

“Tch-tch-tch, here Happiness, tch-tch-tch…”

The other two surviving hens have already wandered in and
claimed their spots, leaving the smiling chin and hand holding soap as the last vacant roost. Lesya sprinkles water on their backs to keep them cool. None of them have laid yet today. She can hear her mother’s wailing. Lesya focuses on the sound of the hen’s soft cooings, grateful that her aunt is visiting.

“Tch-tch-tch.” She tosses out another handful of feed as bait. The two sitting hens cluck their indignation. Lesya pours a small mound in front of each of them. No sign of her hen. Lesya sings her name. Happiness peeks in. She keeps on singing, making up the words as she goes, exhorting her to come in and lay her egg, everything is fine, look at the pretty house I made you…the chorus is comprised only of her name,
Happiness, Happiness…

The hen hops onto Lesya’s bad foot, gingerly resting on its own lame claw.

“That’s a good girl. Are you hungry?”

The bird frantically pecks the seed, scattering more than it takes in. Lesya lifts it onto its roost. The hen squawks and flails its wings, kicks to jump off. Its twisted foot claws her hand. The other birds squawk an anxious chorus.

Lesya sets Happiness back on the ground. Immediately calm, it jumps back on her foot. The hen cocks its head looking at her through one eye and then the other.

“Maybe later.” Lesya lies down and forms a circle with her arms. Happiness nestles into the human nest.

RUNRUNFASTASTHEWIND
, THE WORDS BLUR IN IVAN’S head. His legs are no longer connected to his body, his hands fill magically with wheat that flies from his hands to theirs. A hot gust wraps around his ankles and breathes into his face. The loose grain lifts and swirls between his fingers. One playful stalk skitters up, tickles his arm, and twirls around his ear. He brushes
it away and turns to see if the others have noticed the dancing wheat. But their eyes are fixed on the earth, their minds fixed on their thirst.

Ivan turns his face into the breeze. Coming over the hill, looming behind their new house, a black crest swells skyward. Rolling and widening, the top ballooning, it arches forward. A pheasant breaks from under the stone wall in a whir of feathers. Two ducks, flying low,
honk honk honk
and pass directly overhead. He can see the white of their bellies and orange feet tucked up tight.

“The clouds are upside down.”

Dania gives a sigh of relief as the sun disappears and the temperature drops a welcome degree. But there are no clouds. A blast of hot air billows her skirt. She looks over her shoulder and sees a mountain of dust obliterating the sky. It avalanches down the fire’s path, growing as it feeds on the exposed dirt and ash, sucking the hot air into itself. She has never seen a dust storm before.

“Get down!” Her shriek wakens the others to the swell of dirt storming toward them. She races to cover the water bucket with the blanket.

“Lie flat! Cover your heads,” Teodor yells.

Sofia and Petro drop to their bellies and bury their heads in their arms, creating a cocoon of air. Their noses are inches from the ground. They smell worms.

Dust sprinkles Ivan like a fine shower. It stings his eyes. Dirt peppers his cheeks, sprays into his mouth, the earth rears in front of him and he is inside black.

Myron slams him to the ground.

MARIA LAYS A DAMP CLOTH ON ANNA’S FOREHEAD. SHE has rubbed her belly with honey and butter. Stroked her hair until she fell asleep. She has prayed every prayer she knows. Now she sits
beside her, watching her breathe, as unguarded as a child, wondering what she should tell Teodor. She looks up to the sound of ducks passing close overhead, honking their alarm. She wonders what’s chasing them.

She hears a soft sprinkling and is relieved that the rain has come to smother the heat, wash away the smoke and ash. She forgets the sun is still shining. The room darkens and the sound grows sharper, more insistent. She doesn’t smell the sweet release of a summer shower. A plume of black earth sprays through the open door. She looks out as a wall of dust hits the barn.

KATYA CAN’T BREATHE, AND IT FEELS LIKE ANTS ARE BITING her all over.
Wake up
, her head screams.
Wake up!
She tries to open her eyes, but a gust of heat blasts her face, grabs at her hair. Her skin is burning. She stands, trying to cover her bare chest and bum. She feels flames all around her, licking at her legs. She wants to tell God she’s sorry. She didn’t mean to kill his only son. But he is roaring in her ears. She prays the first prayer that enters her head:
Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray Thee Lord my soul to keep; glad and well may I awake. This I ask for Jesus’ sake
. The heat swirls around her, the fire scorching her skin. Her body trembles as she dares to shout the words
. I pray Thee Lord my soul to keep; this I ask for Jesus’ sake! This I ask for Jesus’ sake!

The Lord picks her up and she is flying through the air.

DUST GUSHES THROUGH THE CHICKEN COOP, WHIPPING the straw into the air. Happiness pushes under Lesya’s skirt. Lesya gropes for the other hens. Her fingers brush the warmth of a fresh egg. She grabs one bird by the foot, the other by the neck, and shoves them under her hem. She pulls her blouse up over her head. They sit tented, breathing one another’s air. Lesya softly sings:
Ev
erything will be okay. Everything will be okay
. Dirt rattles against the boards; she doesn’t hear Maria calling her name.

MARIA SLAMS THE DOOR SHUT. SHE GASPS FOR AIR, HER nose clogged, she coughs and spits up dirt. In her arms, Katya is quiet. She sets her on her feet, wipes the dirt from her eyes. Her thin, naked body is a mess of red splotches already turning purple.

Katya stands still, listening carefully, wondering if she has been taken to heaven or hell. “Katya.” The voice is soft. She opens her eyes. God looks like Mama.

The earth hammers against the doors and walls. It spills under the door frame. It sprays through the log chinks, showering Anna, who doesn’t stir, in fine black dust.

IVAN, HIS HEAD TENTED UNDER HIS ARMS, HIS BELLY pressed to the stubble, peeks up once. He plugs his nose, breathes into his hand, and squints through the driving dust blasting his face. He’s never been inside a cloud before. He peers through the blinding sheets and sees a ghost in a white shirt and black pants. The wind whips at his sleeves and pant legs. The blackness swirls around him. His feet planted, scythe in hand, eyes closed. His face turned upward. His tato’s face. A look he’s never seen before. A look that scares him. Ivan lowers his head and breathes.

And then it’s gone. The sun is back. The heat blazes. The stooks are still standing, anchored in drifts of dirt. The loose wheat that hasn’t blown away gleams like golden threads poking through a shroud of black earth. The children rise from their dusty graves, their mouths thick with the taste of being buried alive, as sparrows drop from the sky, their beaks crammed with dirt.

THE WILLOW CREEK WEEKLY

Willow Creek, Alberta, Canada, Saturday, September 8, 1938

FIRE DESTROYS 90 HECTARES

5 FARMS LOST, 7 PEOPLE DIE

(By Joffre M. Dechene)

The farm home of Mr. and Mrs. Philip Normand, forty miles north and west of Willow Creek, burned this Thursday morning.

The fire started while Mr. and Mrs. Normand were milking. Noticing the smoke, Mr. Normand rushed into the burning building to get the two children, who had left the house and were sitting in the automobile. Mr. Normand, who did not know this and who looked for them until convinced they were safe, suffered severe burns about the face, arms, and hands. He received treatment at the General Hospital, but tragically later died. The fire spread quickly to nearby bush and fields and was driven south by unusually high winds. Exceptionally dry weather is partially blamed for the fast-moving fire. Smoke could be seen as far away as Vermilion. The town of Willow Creek escaped tragedy, likely due to the railroad tracks that diverted the fire south.

John Chubey was not so lucky. Despite his neighbor, Albert Limoges, warning him to pack up and leave as quickly as possible, Mr. Chubey and his family stayed to fight the fire. Three children, aged six to twelve; Mr. Chubey; his wife, Mrs. Margaret Chubey; and her brother Gunther Mann all perished when they became trapped near the barn, possibly trying to save the horses. The horses, an Appaloosa and a palomino, were found sixty miles south, near St. Paul, on Friday.

T
HE FIRST SNOW FALLS OCTOBER 12, WHILE EVERYONE is sleeping.

Teodor sees it when he wakes up at four to throw another log on the fire. Large wet flakes drifting softly down, blanketing the gray-brown remnants of fall. He steps outside for a smoke. At least he got the field up in time.

He was expecting the six acres would average thirty bushels an acre, giving him one hundred and eighty bushels. After the fire, he harvested seventy-eight. Hold back fifteen bushels for seed crop and four for flour, that leaves fifty-nine. At ninety-three cents for grade one, that’s $54.87. If the prices hold. On the safe side, it’s eighty cents. That’s $47.20. Less ten dollars for Anna to pay the homestead fee, that’s $37.20. Less feed, nails, and hardware for a new barn, barbed wire. He’ll have to build a granary next summer, he can’t expect to store the wheat at his sister’s again. He was hoping to get a pig or another horse, but that’ll have to wait. He’ll have to buy a side of beef to get through the winter. He could use another shovel, a couple of barrels, the harness can’t wait, he needs to get the horse shod, the children need winter boots, none of their coats are warm enough for a bad winter, there’s the baby coming…and Anna’s baby. He has to calculate the upkeep for her place, their food, and her children don’t have proper boots either.

He takes a deep inhale of the smoke until the heater burns his fingers. He flicks the butt into the snow.

And tobacco…he exhales.

AFTER HIS FATHER’S MEASURED BOOT PRINTS HEADING across the field to Anna’s to check on the animals and Myron’s shoeprints crisscrossing back and forth to the woodpile, Ivan’s feet are the next to run through the new fallen snow. He zigzags back and forth, kicking up curves, sliding on his toes until his heels catch, and he barrels forward spraying black earth on white. He finds an alder switch and drags it behind him, drawing looping circles and squiggly bits. Then he closes his eyes and takes two steps forward, listening to the scratch of the stick against the fresh, new snow. He takes two more steps.

MARIA LOOKS OUT HER WINDOW AT THE THIN WHITENESS blanketing the prairies. It flattens the hills, gullies, wagon ruts, and furrows into smoothness, swallows up the shadows and illuminates the smallness of their lives. She shivers, even though the fire is roaring. Perhaps it’s the draft from the window. She watches Teodor, black against the white, disappear just the other side of the stone wall. She knows it is an optical illusion, that he’s in the dip, but her heart tightens.

This is just a dusting, she scolds herself, this isn’t even winter. A moment later, he reappears. She chastises herself for her silliness. Soon she won’t be able to see him at all. He’ll turn right at the round boulder and come up on the paddock from behind trying to surprise the horse, but it will be waiting for him. It always knows when he’s coming. Teodor would be disappointed if it didn’t. He’ll feed it and brush it. Talk to it.

Maria often saw him running his hand down its mane, across its neck. Its head nuzzled into his chest. His mouth close to its ear. Telling it what? All his secrets? Everything he can’t say to her? Using up all the words, so by the time he gets home, he is silent
again, shoulders stooped into himself. He pretends—smiling, joking with the children, listening to their stories, talking but saying nothing. The fire burned a part of him away. He will heal. Come the spring, once the scorched field yields life again, he’ll forget what was lost and see what he has.

She looks up at the black smear of smoke suspended off in the distance. Anna’s keeping the woodstove burning. That’s a good sign. She hasn’t hurt herself since the summer. She’s not hiding the pregnancy anymore; granted, that would be difficult at seven and a half months. All Maria told Teodor was that his sister was pregnant. That was enough. He wanted to go to town to find that good-for-nothing son of a bitch Stefan and beat some responsibility into him. Maria pleaded with him not to go, but it was Anna who told him she didn’t want Stefan back. Things were better now.

Maria feels the baby turn in her belly, a flutter of butterflies. She rubs her belly reassuringly
. It’s okay, little boy, it’s only snow.
He must be close to four months now. He’ll be a March baby.

She knows it’s a boy: he came to her in her dreams. She asked him:
Are you all right?
He said, Yes, I’m fine. She asked him if there was anything wrong with him. He said no. She asked,
Are you sure?
He said, Yes. I have a birthmark. She told him:
That’s what will make you special.
And right then she knew everything would be fine.

Teodor reappears. He walks straight, never veering, his trail cutting the prairies in half. In a few hours, she’ll walk the same path to take lunch to Anna. Since the dust storm, it’s been a daily trek. She tells Teodor that his sister needs company, that it’s hard for a woman to be alone when she’s expecting. She doesn’t really mind going, though lately she’s been feeling the strain of carrying an extra ten pounds. Her lower back aches and by nightfall she can barely keep her eyes open. But it’s a chance to walk with her
thoughts, check in on her sister-in-law and the children, milk the cow, and still get home in time to make supper. It’s a way to make sure nothing happens.

Every trip is the same. First Anna eats. She eats and eats and eats. Maria doesn’t eat with her. She keeps count of how many eggs, how many potatoes, how many jars of preserves, how much bread, how much milk…and calculates the impact on their winter stores. Sometimes she intervenes and covers a jar of dill pickles or pickled eggs—and puts it on the shelf, suggesting that maybe she should save some for tomorrow. But when Maria returns the next day, the jars are empty and more have been opened.

After she’s finished eating, Anna allows Maria to examine her belly and tells her of any physical complaints. Maria prepares a tonic. This one for back pain, this one for constipation, this one for nightmares. She rubs honey and butter onto her stretch marks, massaging the baby. At this point, Anna always looks away. Once Maria has finished the exam, she wipes down the table, cleans the dishes, throws a log on the fire, and sits in the chair closest to the stove. Once enough silence has passed, Anna tells her stories.

She talks about her life before she came here. Stories that Maria has heard hundreds of times. Stories about childhood, stories about boys, stolen kisses, and dances. Maria listens patiently, never interrupting. If Anna’s having a bad day, Maria prompts her—tell me about the time you rode the white horse; danced in the field; found a gold coin…Anna’s eyes come alive and the stories start again.

Maria’s eyes follow Teodor to the round boulder.
Anna's baby will be here soon and then we can get on with life. I should dig up the last of the carrots and beets before the snow buries them. Ivan’s socks need darning. He looks so small…

And then Teodor’s gone, leaving only white.

Ivan marches past the window, eyes closed, dragging a stick behind him.

KATYA LIES ON HER BACK IN THE SNOW. IT MAKES HER legs and neck tingle. She feels it melting through her coat, her skirt, even her leotards. She knows Mama will be mad and her boots probably won’t dry until tomorrow. But she doesn’t care. Her mouth is full of its coldness, dissolving on her tongue.

She is safe for another day. She has started a new doughy ball of Christ, a mix of the body from church and pyrohy dough that she takes when Mama’s not looking. The fire is kept inside the stove now. It is small and can’t get out. She’s not sure which one is more powerful. Every morning she opens the door and feeds it a small taste of Christ.

It has burned her only twice.

WHEN IVAN OPENS HIS EYES, HE IS ALMOST AT THE STONE wall. He is surprised how far he has got. Behind him, a staggering path carved in the snow winds its way back to the house. He steps to the side and leaves two perfect footprints. He puts his feet together heel to heel and waddles. He hops on one foot, then the other. He takes big steps and small. He admires his handiwork. He takes a run and hops to a clean, fresh patch.

But the snow here isn’t untouched. It is flecked with tracks. They skitter beside the rock wall, then cross over here, stop, then hop over there, a widening circle, then back toward the wall. Farther and farther apart, and then short and close together. Ivan follows the trail, dragging his fingers over the scorched, cracked rocks where the wall pressed up against the fire. Ivan looks up ahead to see how far the tracks go. A mottled brown rabbit sits perfectly still against the white snow.
You can’t see me. I’m invisible.

Ivan stands perfectly still too.
I see you.

He remembers the rabbits Myron brought home last winter. How they tasted in Mama’s stew. How happy they made her. He blinks. The rabbit twitches its nose. Ivan leaps and the rabbit bursts away, zigzagging through the powder, its feet bounding side to side, it disappears in a cloud of snow. Ivan comes to a panting stop.
Stupid rabbit.

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 gray 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 woodstove.

“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 hard-boiled 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.