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Authors: Linda Biasotto
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his brothers. “Karl, you know he’ll go after you again. Think about the rifle hanging by the door. How many times has he said he was going to shoot us? Go along the bushes. Come up from behind.”
Suddenly, Matthew’s voice. “What you guys doing?” He looked around for his boots.
Karl headed for the ladder. “I’m going to do the old man, get him before he gets me.”
“ No .” Matthew ran after Karl and threw himself at his legs. Karl shook him off.
Viktor ran to the loft doors. Clouds had closed in about the sun, dragging the warmth from the day. Beneath their wide shadows, my grandmother carried the hoe to the garden, a faded babushka tied under her chin.
Matthew started to cry. “No, Karl, don’t hurt Papa.”
It was the only time Viktor shook Matthew. “ Shut up .”
Karl started down the ladder.
Matthew couldn’t pull himself from Viktor, but he called: “Karl, they’ll come in the big car and take you away, again.”
Karl hesitated. Then he climbed back to the loft, dropped the axe and sat in the straw again. “I’m never going back to jail.”
A noise on the ladder. Viktor looked. Felt the floorboards sway, like they were trying to pry themselves loose and run. He smelled Alek’s pee. Because there was my grandfather’s head, truncated above the ladder hole, his narrowed eyes watching. Then he made it the rest of the way, rocking a little on the balls of his feet, not too drunk yet. A clump of black hair stuck out behind one ear where his cap sat crooked. His gaze passed over each boy, one by one.
At last he looked at Viktor again. “Chores done, already?” When he stepped forward, his toe bumped the axe, and he looked at it as though he’d no idea what it was. He looked at Alek. “What’s this doing here?”
Karl bolted to the ladder. When his feet hit the packed dirt below, the mongrel barked. Viktor stood in front of Matthew.
When my grandfather spoke, again, his voice was low enough that Viktor strained to hear it. “What-is-this-axe-doing-up-here?”
Viktor couldn’t answer, couldn’t look my grandfather in the eye.
Grandfather slowly bent over and took the axe. “I’m glad I found it. Now I can kill me something tasty for supper. A nice lamb.” He smiled at Matthew. “I think Sofie.”
“ No!”
Grandfather’s head snapped back. He and Viktor locked eyes. A year clicked by. Until my grandfather grunted. “Get back to work, you sons-of-bitches.” When he turned to the ladder, he took the axe with him.
None of my three uncles moved until Grandfather and his dog left the barn and passed the sheep pen. Then Alek said, “He figured it out, didn’t he? He knows we were going to kill him with that axe. You could see it in his eyes. We’ll be lucky if he don’t shoot us.”
“He won’t. Who’d do the work? You’d better go change your pants.”
After Alek left, Matthew tugged Viktor’s sleeve. “You mad at me?”
“No. You’re a good boy. Get on your boots and help Mama in the garden.”
After Matthew, too, was gone, Viktor still couldn’t move. It wasn’t until he heard the doves, again, heard them call from the woods: Who? Who? that he turned to the loft doors and spread his arms wide. “It’s me. Viktor Banchuk. Wait for me, I’m coming, soon.”
Indistinct Shapes
The Bells of San Martino
Midnight. The last patron lurches from the Silver Bar. Passing through Manna’s town square, he looks up when he hears the first bell of San Martino. The damp May warmth seems to hold each ring before allowing the sounds to roll from church spire to pavement. The man (his name doesn’t matter; it could be Romano or Mario or Gusto) is relieved the rain has stopped; glad to have several lira remaining in his pocket; happy to have spent such a pleasant evening drinking with friends. But now he must relieve himself and the bar door is locked. No matter. He plants his feet in a corner where the church steps rise and unbuttons his fly. The feeling of
Suddenly, Matthew’s voice. “What you guys doing?” He looked around for his boots.
Karl headed for the ladder. “I’m going to do the old man, get him before he gets me.”
“ No .” Matthew ran after Karl and threw himself at his legs. Karl shook him off.
Viktor ran to the loft doors. Clouds had closed in about the sun, dragging the warmth from the day. Beneath their wide shadows, my grandmother carried the hoe to the garden, a faded babushka tied under her chin.
Matthew started to cry. “No, Karl, don’t hurt Papa.”
It was the only time Viktor shook Matthew. “ Shut up .”
Karl started down the ladder.
Matthew couldn’t pull himself from Viktor, but he called: “Karl, they’ll come in the big car and take you away, again.”
Karl hesitated. Then he climbed back to the loft, dropped the axe and sat in the straw again. “I’m never going back to jail.”
A noise on the ladder. Viktor looked. Felt the floorboards sway, like they were trying to pry themselves loose and run. He smelled Alek’s pee. Because there was my grandfather’s head, truncated above the ladder hole, his narrowed eyes watching. Then he made it the rest of the way, rocking a little on the balls of his feet, not too drunk yet. A clump of black hair stuck out behind one ear where his cap sat crooked. His gaze passed over each boy, one by one.
At last he looked at Viktor again. “Chores done, already?” When he stepped forward, his toe bumped the axe, and he looked at it as though he’d no idea what it was. He looked at Alek. “What’s this doing here?”
Karl bolted to the ladder. When his feet hit the packed dirt below, the mongrel barked. Viktor stood in front of Matthew.
When my grandfather spoke, again, his voice was low enough that Viktor strained to hear it. “What-is-this-axe-doing-up-here?”
Viktor couldn’t answer, couldn’t look my grandfather in the eye.
Grandfather slowly bent over and took the axe. “I’m glad I found it. Now I can kill me something tasty for supper. A nice lamb.” He smiled at Matthew. “I think Sofie.”
“ No!”
Grandfather’s head snapped back. He and Viktor locked eyes. A year clicked by. Until my grandfather grunted. “Get back to work, you sons-of-bitches.” When he turned to the ladder, he took the axe with him.
None of my three uncles moved until Grandfather and his dog left the barn and passed the sheep pen. Then Alek said, “He figured it out, didn’t he? He knows we were going to kill him with that axe. You could see it in his eyes. We’ll be lucky if he don’t shoot us.”
“He won’t. Who’d do the work? You’d better go change your pants.”
After Alek left, Matthew tugged Viktor’s sleeve. “You mad at me?”
“No. You’re a good boy. Get on your boots and help Mama in the garden.”
After Matthew, too, was gone, Viktor still couldn’t move. It wasn’t until he heard the doves, again, heard them call from the woods: Who? Who? that he turned to the loft doors and spread his arms wide. “It’s me. Viktor Banchuk. Wait for me, I’m coming, soon.”
Indistinct Shapes
The Bells of San Martino
Midnight. The last patron lurches from the Silver Bar. Passing through Manna’s town square, he looks up when he hears the first bell of San Martino. The damp May warmth seems to hold each ring before allowing the sounds to roll from church spire to pavement. The man (his name doesn’t matter; it could be Romano or Mario or Gusto) is relieved the rain has stopped; glad to have several lira remaining in his pocket; happy to have spent such a pleasant evening drinking with friends. But now he must relieve himself and the bar door is locked. No matter. He plants his feet in a corner where the church steps rise and unbuttons his fly. The feeling of
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