She told him about her needlework. How she embroidered, how she wove. She showed him what she made: shirts, towels, scarves.
Mike admired it. “Agatha, you’re talented. You’ve got gifted hands.” Agatha brightened at praise.
At night she was gentle and affectionate. She held Mike as if afraid he might disappear. Whispered, “Thank you for being here.”
“I thought I’d spend my whole life alone. Then you came.” Mike kissed her forehead.
“I’m not going anywhere, Agatha. I’m here for good.” Nancy was cheerful, full of life.
She was the only one of the four who didn’t seem afraid of Mike or embarrassed around him. From the first day she called him just Mike. Joked with him. Laughed.
She was the best cook of the bunch. Pies, cabbage soup, porridge, pancakes. Mike would come in from hunting and there’d already be hot food on the table, smelling wonderful.
“Mike, sit down and eat while it’s hot!” Nancy would call. Mike ate and praised it. Nancy glowed.
In the evenings she sang. Her voice was bright and clear. Spiritual verses, folk songs.
Mike listened, smoked his pipe, and relaxed. After a hard day, Nancy’s singing was a salve. At night with Nancy there was warmth and laughter.
She held Mike tight, laughed, even joked in bed. Mike once asked, “Nancy, do you ever get down?” She shook her head.
“What’s the use? You get one life. Better be glad for the good in it. The Lord sent you to us.”
“That’s enough reason to be grateful.” Dora, the youngest, was curious and playful. She was only twenty, still almost a girl.
She asked Mike a million questions. About the city. About the war. About hunting. About the world beyond the woods. Mike answered patiently.
Dora listened with wide eyes and parted lips. “Mike, is it true there are buildings in the city five stories high?” “True, Dora.”
“And cars go by themselves, without horses?” “They do.” “I want to see that someday.”
Mike smiled. “Maybe you will.” At night Dora was shy and embarrassed, but curiosity got the better of her. She asked questions even then.
“Mike, did you really have a wife before? Was she pretty?” Mike sighed.
“Yes. I did. And yes, she was.”
“Are we pretty?” “You are, Dora. All four of you.” Dora nodded, satisfied, and tucked herself against him.
Mike came to understand that four wives meant four worlds. Every four nights he moved from one to the next. With Phoebe he talked about serious things, the future. With Agatha he was gentle and reassuring. With Nancy he laughed. With Dora he answered questions and played along.
All different. All important. He loved each one in a different way. He also worked around the place.
He repaired the cabin, reinforced the roof, chinked the windows. Built a new bathhouse, larger than the old one. Cut firewood and stacked it high for winter. Put a fence around the garden to keep animals out. Bought a good milk cow in town and brought her back to the skete. Now they had milk, butter, cottage cheese.
In the fall of 1958 Mike built a large table in the cabin, long enough for eight people. He figured there’d be children before long, and it was best to plan ahead. Phoebe approved. “That’s the right way to think. Soon, God willing, the whole family will sit here.”
Every evening they ate supper together. Mike at the head of the table, Phoebe on his right as eldest wife, then Agatha, Nancy, Dora. They ate quietly, as was their custom. After supper Phoebe read aloud from the Psalter. Mike listened, getting used to the old Church Slavonic words.
The women worked too: garden, cooking, household chores, and prayer on top of it all. Every day, an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening, they read the Psalter, sang spiritual verses, and made bows. At first Mike didn’t join in. He stood off to the side. But Phoebe told him, “You’re one of us now. You pray with us. Learn.”
Mike learned. Phoebe gave him old printed books and explained the unfamiliar words. The books were heavy, the letters strange, with marks over the words.
Mike read slowly, tracing the lines with his finger like a schoolboy. Phoebe corrected him patiently. “That mark means the word is shortened. You have to know how to read it.” Mike memorized.
Within a month he could read without stumbling. In two months he had several prayers by heart. Phoebe praised him. “You learn fast, Mike. Maybe grace helps.”
Little by little Mike got used to it. After six months he prayed without thinking much about it. He got up in the morning, went to the icons, crossed himself with two fingers in the Old Believer way, bowed, and said the prayers.
It became part of life, like eating, sleeping, hunting. He accepted the faith less with his head than with his heart. He didn’t understand the finer points of theology, but he felt there was something right and clean in that cabin, with those women. They prayed sincerely, lived honestly, worked hard.
They cheated no one, stole nothing, carried no malice. They simply lived as their people had lived for three hundred years—in the woods, in quiet, with God. Mike came to respect that.
He, a former drunk, divorced, angry at the world, found peace there. Deep woods, a cabin, four wives, prayer, work. Simple, but solid.
In the fall of 1958 Phoebe announced she was pregnant. Mike was stunned. A child.
He was going to have a child. At thirty-nine. He’d had none with Gail. She had been infertile.
And now Phoebe was pregnant after two months. The women were delighted. Agatha, Nancy, and Dora hugged Phoebe, kissed her, congratulated her.
Mike sat there, hardly able to believe it. Phoebe came over and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Be glad, Mike. This is God’s blessing. We’re going to have a firstborn.”
Mike stood and hugged her hard. “Thank you, Phoebe. You… you’ve given me something I never thought I’d have.”
“I thought I’d never be a father.” Phoebe stroked his back. “You will be. More than once.”
“All four of us will have children.” And that’s how it went. A month later Agatha was pregnant.
Mike hugged her when she told him. Agatha cried with happiness. “I was afraid God was punishing me for something. But He wasn’t. He gave me a child.”
Mike comforted her. “Punishing you? Agatha, you’re about the best person in this place.”
Then Nancy became pregnant. She announced it cheerfully at supper. “Mike, I’ve got news. I’m expecting too.”
Mike nearly choked on his porridge. Nancy laughed and threw her arms around him. “That makes three!”
Then Dora. She came up shyly and whispered in his ear, “Mike, I think I am too.” Mike hugged her and kissed her forehead.
“Congratulations, Dora. Looks like we’re having four.” By winter 1958, all four of Mike’s wives were pregnant.
Phoebe’s belly was already showing, round and firm. The others were just beginning. Mike looked at them and could hardly believe it.
Four women carrying his children at the same time. It felt like a miracle. He worked without letup.
He got the cabin ready for winter and for births. Chopped mountains of wood so there’d be enough. Put away food.
Dried meat, salted fish, pickled mushrooms, preserved berries. Bought flour in sacks, enough to see them through. Salt by the bag, kerosene by the can for the lamps.
Mike understood the winter would be hard. Four pregnant women, then four births. Births far from any town, no doctors, no hospital.
Only Agatha knew how to help. Her mother had been a midwife. But one woman for four births?
He had to think ahead. He built wide birthing platforms, covered them with soft hides. Stocked clean rags for swaddling, sheets.
Made four cedar cradles, carved and handsome. He rocked the empty cradles and pictured babies lying in them—his children. In the winter of 1958 Mike hardly hunted at all.
He stayed in the cabin, looked after his wives, kept the stove hot so they’d be warm. Cooked meals, hauled water, split wood. The women conserved their strength and worked less…
