LMS VII: New Unnamed Story

The young boy watched paint chips fall off of the doorframe as his father’s feet slipped on the dust-covered floor and his pregnant mother screamed. Mr. Dostal had taken a week in between harvests last year to coat every doorway in their home with white paint—the one between their bedroom and the landing was the first to go. The boy crunched a flake of lead paint between his fingers, letting the pieces flutter to the ground. Beyond the threshold, his mom was sprawled across his parents’ bed and gripping her stomach, her knuckles turning the same powder color as the paint. Mr. Dostal had told Eddie that she was not going to suffer, that his little sibling would arrive just as easily as he had. Eddie turned away from his mother, who was once more yelling for her husband.
A cow mooed in the distance. Its high-pitched voice lured Eddie to the window. The new calf was his favorite, as it was the first he had ever “helped” his father deliver. He stood on the tips of his toes to try and spot the little animal in the twilight.
His father’s footsteps fell heavily on the staircase behind him. Water, tinted brown by the recent dust storm, sloshed around in the ceramic pot in Mr. Dostal’s hands. It was decorated in an intricate pink-carnation pattern around the rim. Eddie squeezed his eyes shut and shielded them with his hands as his mother’s screaming rattled the windowpanes, shaking dust and spiders from the deepest crevices of the wall.
“Eddie!” Mr. Dostal shouted at his only child. The boy opened his eyes to see his father knelt down in front of him. “Eddie, listen to me. Can you do a grown-up job for me?”
The ten-year old nodded.
“I need you to drive my truck fast to the Wasson’s house, and I need you to knock on the door until someone answers, okay?”
Another nod. Sweat rolled down the man’s face in thick bullets, blending with the tears starting to well on his lower eyelid. His murky eyes darted left and right, left and right, as they searched his son’s face for any tell of confidence.
“When someone opens the door, I want you to tell them that the baby’s coming, your mom ain’t too well, and you need to use their telephone to call a doctor, okay?”
Another nod. His father gritted his teeth before grabbing the boy’s shoulders and shaking him. Eddie’s neck jerked backwards, and pieces of paint fell from his hands.
“God-damn-it, boy,” Mr. Dostal yelled, not removing his hands from Eddie until he had enunciated each word. “Tell me you can do it!”
“I can! I can!” Eddie cried.
“What are you going to tell them?”
“That mama and the baby need a doctor!”
Mr. Dostal flung his son toward the staircase before standing. He had resumed his position by his wife’s side within seconds. In the hallway, the boy’s wool socks remained nailed to the hardwood floors. Dressed in just his light blue pajamas and its holes, he shivered as a breeze came through the open window. He had never dialed a telephone before; rather, he had admired those that other people owned, and one in a silent picture his aunt from St. Louis once took him to.
“Get your ass out of here, boy!”
With his father’s final command, Eddie broke into a sprint, his feet only touching every third step of the ancient staircase. Family pictures passed him by along the wall. Grandma Schovajsa’s old persian rug slipped beneath him, causing him to stumble out the screen door, which slammed shut in his wake.
He was greeted outside by miles of dust-covered farmland. Cattle loitered under the treeline at the far end of the family’s property line. The new calf mooed as it was licked clean by its mother, a half ton cow Eddie’s mother had named Shirley. In the distance, only their barn broke the fluidity of the horizon, now backlit by the setting son. No other buildings were in sight; the Wassons’ wood-frame house was more than a mile down the dirt and pebble road.
Eddie had ridden in his father’s truck since Mr. Dostal first bought it in cash and brought it home from a used car lot in Omaha six years prior. The wooden runners creaked and groaned under the boy’s weight. A field mouse scurried out from under the passenger seat as Eddie flung himself behind the steering wheel. His eyes—usually five feet from the ground—struggled to see over the dashboard and out the windshield. He turned the coil switch as he had seen Mr. Dostal do a thousand times before. To start the truck, he needed to push down on the starting button, which was mounted to the floor, beyond the reach of his foot. He slid down the bench until he sat on his lower back, and his head was level with the dashboard. The engine sputtered to life and began puttering in sync with the rattle of the hood.
Stretching his legs and neck as long as he thought humanly possible, the boy mimicked his father as well as his young memory could allow. Down went the pedal farthest from the steering column, forward, right, and back, went the gear stick to his right. The thin wooden-spoke wheels started to roll as if they were turtles waking from a deep nap; the countryside almost stayed still beyond the windows. Eddie maneuvered the old beast onto what was left of Schovajsa road, named after his mother’s family, an invariable Czech bunch whose men either farmed across the Nebraska plains or worked as butchers. The chassis jolted with each pebble in the truck’s path, lurching Eddie around behind the wheel.
The Dostal boy changed into second, then third, then fourth girl as the truck propelled pebbles behind it like bullets. The Wassens were their nearest, and only, neighbors. For nearly six decades, Albert and Irene Wassen had farmed the same plot of land with a rotation of sons, daughters, and laborers. Eddie had spent uncountable hours in their single-story house that looked out onto where Schovajsa Road turned into the town’s main drag. Although meager on the outside, their house was filled with novel electronics and nic-naks for a growing boy to discover, whether it be a telephone, a months-old radio, or a butter churn that had been ancient when Mrs. Wassen inherited it from her grandmother.

woah what an action-packed first scene! 0.0 you have a great balance of dialogue and description also have fun in France!!

p.s. let me know if you don't want this comment cluttering up the thread, and i can delete it and put it on your wall or something instead!

Five agonizing minutes later, the truck arrived next to the rusting mailbox at the end of the Wasson’s driveway. Eddie flung the door open, dashing to the house without turning off the car.
“Help! Help!” He screamed as he ran up the gravel path. Through the windows, the curtain glowed with soft orange candle light, untouched by any shadows.
Pain shot up his legs as his socked feet became prey to sharp rocks and twigs in the front yard. He had vague recollections of green grass and rain blanketing their land, but he could not imagine it now. Stones pierced his socks like thorns on a rosebush until he found himself on the home’s doorstep. He pounded on the door with his knuckles, then the balls of his hands.
A floorboard creaked and an old woman pulled the door open.
“Edd—”
“The baby’s comin’. Daddy says mama’s bleedin’ to death. And I’ve got to use your phone!”
The boy barely had time to catch his breath before Mrs. Wasson was in the living room, receiver to her ear and mouthpiece in front of her face. She asked the operator to call Dr. Andersson, who had the only medical degree in a twenty mile radius.
“Doctor?” Silence. “It’s Irene Wasson.” Silence. “Yes, I’m fine. Heddy Dostal needs you as soon as possible.”
As Mrs. Wasson gave the doctor directions to the Dostal’s house and explained what she knew, Eddie stood in their entryway. The Wassons had bought their home from a Sears catalogue with money they had saved in an old hatbox for years. Mr. Dostal had helped build it, and Mrs. Dostal, not yet a mother, had labored alongside the men for days. A testament to their town’s community, the Wassons allowed the twelve people who had pitched in to carve their initials on a random plank, which was eventually used for the entryway’s floor. Eddie stared at his mother’s initials now, which, unlike the others, was not suffocated by the thick carpet.
Mr. Wasson emerged from the kitchen and approached the boy. His calloused hands patted Eddie’s disheveled hair.
“Whatcha doing here so late, son?” He asked, his moustache covering his top lip as he spoke. He peaked around the corner to greet Eddie’s parents, only to find his wife setting down their phone.
Before Eddie could repeat what he had told Mrs. Wasson, she came out of the living room and whispered instructions into her husband’s ear. His smile disappeared like the green fields of Eddie’s infancy.
Mrs. Wasson took Eddie’s hands in hers, “You stay here with Albert, okay? Your mother will be just alright, and the doctor’s on his way. He just needs to check up on things.”
Ever the obedient son, Eddie nodded in response. Mrs. Wasson’s eyes were dull, just like when she had explained to Eddie that her grandson would not be around to play any longer. He knew better than to ask when she would be returning, or if he could go with her. He simply watched as she kissed the top of his head, then disappeared out of the front door. The Ford’s engine sputtered to a start, but was slowly replaced by the sound of cicadas and rusting leaves as Mrs. Wasson drove farther away.
The tiny room was silent despite being filled with two people who were practically grandfather and grandson. Mr. Wasson had changed out of his work clothes now, donning worn brown slacks and a fresh cotton shirt. His big toe was sticking out of his left sock, while his other foot was still protected by a leather shoe.
“Why don’t we go into the kitchen and eat?” Mr. Wasson asked as he acclimated to the task his wife had assigned to him. Had he opened the door for Eddie, he would have driven all three of them back to the Dostal’s house. In the years that followed, Eddie would always wish that that had been the case.
The old man continued, “Have you eaten yet, son?”
“No, sir. The baby started coming as mama was cooking,” Eddie explained. “It’s coming early.”
“What was she making?”
“Meatloaf and griddle cakes.”
“Your mother is a good cook. I bet your little sibling just smelled her food on the stove and wanted a piece of it.”
“Yessir,” Eddie said fast enough that the syllables combined into one, polite noise.
Mr. Wasson turned and began walking to the kitchen. Eddie followed. Their kitchen was typical of Sears’ “Homeville” model—cupboards covered in enamel tile, a farmhouse sink, and a yellow range stove. Their home overflowed with pale yellow decorations and motifs. Mrs. Wasson had covered the same floral pattern that she had painted on Mrs. Dostal’s pot around her walls, but in her signature color. Eddie counted the carnations around the molding as Mr. Wasson surveyed the refrigerator and cupboards. His hands shook almost imperceptibly.
“I ain’t as good a chef as your mother,’ Mr. Wasson warned the boy, his back facing him. “But I can make you a nice sandwich.”
“With milk?” Eddie said, as he did every time he ate at the Wasson’s house.
“Couldn’t imagine it any other way.”
Eddie watched as the old man crafted his sandwich, taking care to align the cheese and butter perfectly on the sliced bread. He presented the creation on a plate to the boy with a glass of foaming, lukewarm milk and two pieces of taffy.
“Michael brought them from Omaha the last time he visited,” he said, motioning toward the sticky delicacies. “Said they’re world-famous.”
Eddie had seen the exact candy in the town’s general store several days before. They 17-year old behind the counter, a malnourished young man by the name of Glenn, had a tendency of sneaking one or two from the jar during his shifts.
The two moved to the dining room, where Eddie alternated between bites of sandwich and tepid sips of milk. Mr. Wasson sat opposite of him. His arms were four shades darker than his face, the result of decades out in the corn fields. He leaned his elbows on the table and clasped his hands in front of his beard. Around the room, they were surrounded by mementos of a life well-lived: sepia photographs of their large family on the walls, a bureau displaying seldom-used wedding china, and damask curtains from their second son, George, who had escaped to the East Coast.
“Mr. Wasson?”
“Yes?” He replied without moving his hands.
“Can I ask you a money question?”
Mrs. Dostal had taught her son to never ask money questions. People either had money or didn’t anymore; there was no use in making them articulate which category they fell into.
“Yes, but I may not answer it.”
Eddie finished a swig from his glass before posing his question. Specks of dust floated in the last droplets of milk.
“How do you and Mrs. Wasson have all this stuff? And this house? Our house is two bigger than yours, but it isn’t half as nice.”

Contrary to what Eddie had anticipated, Mr. Wasson responded as soon as the last syllable left the boy’s mouth, no reflection necessary.
“We’ve saved our money over the years,” he explained.
Eddie looked out the darkened window to the fields.
“But you plant the same crops as us.”
“For forty years longer.”
“Oh.”
Mr. Wasson snickered and ruffled the boy’s hair again. Eddie ducked away.
“That’s not actually the reason, son. My grandpa used to be real rich, and we never trusted the banks,” Mr. Wasson admitted. “That’s all.”
The conversation stalled after Mr. Wasson’s unsatisfactory response, and Eddie finished his sandwich in silence. He ate at a snail’s pace as he waited for the sound of their truck and Mrs. Wasson with good news. Instead, the cicadas’ shrill song filled the night with an antagonizing hum.
Although the old man offered to do it, Eddie cleaned his dishes himself. At ten, he was already tall enough to reach over the gaping sink without being lifted. His mother sometimes teased him for this fact of life, calling him her “giant.”
“Why don’t we call it a night?” Mr. Wasson said, more as a command rather than a question. “I’m sure there will be news in the morning. You may want to get a good night’s rest before you start playing with your new sibling.”
Eddie obliged with a sunken heart. He fiddled with his hands, cracking his knuckles and repeatedly clasping them. No other farming families in the area had just one child, but no other farming families had mother’s misfortune. He could picture her all alone in her bed, another year with another empty bassinet.
As they walked to the spare bedroom, a dim light began illuminating the transom above the front door. It grew brighter as the groan of the doctor’s Studebaker traversed the uneven dirt road.
Eddie ran and broke through the front door within seconds.
“Don’t distract him, son.”
Mr. Wasson rested his hand on Eddie’s shoulder as they watched the automobile crawl past. In the faint moonlight, they saw Dr. Anderson squint at the address on the mailbox, shake his head, and resume driving.
“I have to go with him.”
In a moment of remorse, Eddie shook off Mr. Wasson’s calloused hand and sprinted after the car. He shouted for the doctor to stop over the onslaught of noise until his throat burned. Thirty feet down the road, the gleaming car came to a halt. Without hesitation, Eddie hopped onto the running board and gripped the passenger door. He could see Mr. Wasson was still on his front porch over his shoulder.
“I need to see my mom,” he cried over the door. “Take me with you.”
“Are you sure?” Dr. Anderson asked. The boy had met the blond doctor before in the general store, in front of the taffy jar.
“Yes. I need to hold her hand.”
Dr. Anderson opened the passenger door from the inside. Eddie mumbled a thank you as he slid in.
The five minute journey turned to twenty in the boy’s mind as he watched the monotonous scenery pass them by. Corn and insufficient hedgerows melted into one behind his tears, until he could not tell how much distance they had already covered.
“Your mother is a strong woman,” Dr. Anderson said as they passed a lone deer.
“I know.”
The Dostal’s white-wood house appeared over the horizon like Goliath coming to defeat David. At the first sight of it, Eddie flung his door open and began sprinting towards his home. The pain in his feet disappeared as he ran through the only world that he had ever known. A flock of birds circled overhead and disrupted the cloudless sky—Eddie did not waste the time to look up and see that they were crows.
Eddie pushed open their front door, rotting and in need of replacement, with ease. Inside, everything was the same: the matted carpet was slightly askew, wilted flowers graced the table in the hall, and his old toy train was parked around the corner. In Eddie’s lifetime, he could not remember their home being as clean and well-decorated as the Wassons’, even before the dust had taken its toll. But every woodpecker’s hole on the outside of their house was ingrained into his memory, and every creaky floorboard was mapped out in his head.
With one hand on the rail, Eddie crept up the stairs into the suffocating silence. No photographs of family covered the adjacent wall; rather, the striped wallpaper stood bare against the elements, dotted with ornate flowers. At the top of the stairs was a large window and bench seat where he had first learned to read. Two bedrooms and a nursery, void of a resident for nine years, completed the second floor.
A plume of dust lifted off the landing as Eddie turned towards the northern end. The creak of two doors opening split his attention as Mrs. Wasson exited the nursery and Mr. Anderson walked into the home. Eddie analyzed the woman who he had placed his faith in. The color had gone from her face hours ago, but she had not started crying, not yet. Her hands were wet, and her dress was muttered with deep red and brown stairs.
“Oh, Eduard…”
It was all she could say. Even when the doctor came up and asked her for Mrs. Dostal, it was all she said to the boy. She wrapped her arms around him as a shield from something he thought he knew all too well as he listened to the men’s voices in the bedroom.
The doctor returned to the hall within minutes, stuffing his golden pocketwatch back into his jacket. His black bag had not been opened, nor his hands bloodied.
“Is the baby alive?” His voice dripped with doubt.
Mrs. Wasson motioned to the nursery.
“In there. A girl.”
“Healthy?”
“Fit as a fiddle.”
The doctor nodded. He turned his head to the nursery, peering into the room at Eddie’s last piece of his mother. Though the boy did not move, he knew that the baby would resemble his mother completely, from her forehead to her feet.
Dr. Anderson eyed Mrs. Wasson, whose shoulders had already begun to deflate. She tapped her stocking-covered right foot twice,

Eddie noticed that her calves were speckled with bruises and sunspots.
With a groan, the old lady knelt down on both knees; pointless, Eddie thought, because all the dust that would cling to her skirt.
“Eddie,” she began. Her mouth stayed open as she searched for words. “Your mother loves you very much.”
“I know that, Mrs. Wasson.”
“When I got here, Mrs. Heddy”—she always called her Mrs. Heddy when talking to Eddie—“was already asleep. There was no waking her up.”
“Not at all?”
“Your mother went home to be with God, Eduard,” the doctor’s voice floated past the boy’s ears.
A sob escaped from Mrs. Wasson’s wrinkled throat, and she enveloped Eddie in her arms. He struggled to breathe. Between the deaths of his grandparents and former pets, he could count the number of times he had cried on one hand. He wished he could add another finger to the count, but the tears refused to flow.
Mrs. Wasson escorted the boy into his parents’ bedroom once she had mustered the courage. A single oil lamp burned on the table near the far side of the bed, giving the illusion that his mother’s head was glowing. Someone had covered her from the neck down in the blanket she had sewn out of old feed sacks last spring. Mr. Dostal was smoking as he sat on the floor. Three cigarette butts littered the ground around him.
Eddie crept to his mother’s bedside. Their hair was the same deep brown, the same color as the fields after the year’s first rainfall. Her hand was already frigid, but Eddie latched onto it for half an hour as his father cried softly in the corner. At some point, Mrs. Wasson drew the widower from the room to swaddle his new daughter and approach the idea of calling the undertaker.
It was nearly two in the morning when Eddie slipped under the quilt in the Wassons’ spare bedroom. The small bedroom housed a rocking chair, ancient armoire, and several wooden toys from their grandchildren’s visits. Mr. Wasson slept in the other bedroom, while his wife stood guard in the Dostal’s nursery. Eddie had left his home without saying a word to his father who, to his knowledge, was still sitting on the floor, staring at his bedroom’s ceiling and his wife’s corpse.
Chapter 1

Eduard watched as the lone cattle climbed the narrow ramp to the second floor and prayed. A heavy mallet hung limp in his right hand, a few pieces of hair still clinging to its splintered head. He wiped his brow as the cow approached him. Another laborer, forty years Eduard’s senior, closed the restraining gate behind the mooing creature. Its oversized eyes bulged in fear and reflected the incandescent lightbulb behind the young boy.
He gripped the handle with both of his bloody hands. In one unbroken swing, the hammer collided with the center of the animal’s soft head. The cattle fell, stunned and unconscious, onto the killing floor.
“Get him up, boy,” the older man growled as he re-opened the gate. It took four men to hurry each body to the hooks.
For six months, Eduard had been a “knocker.” He had taken a mallet to the cattle’s skulls, a dozen times an hour, ten hours a day, five days a week. In between swings, he helped the other workers tie the limp animals to the ceiling by their hind legs and slit their arteries.
There were some days when he missed the farm. Toiling alongside his father under an unforgiving sun made for comforting memories when the cattles’ fear became too palpable. The killing floor was always filled with piercing silence that was only interrupted by stifled grunts and groans. Unlike during the corn harvest, no breeze cooled the laborers’ backs as they completed the same task over and over again. The putrid air was still around the hunks of meat hanging from the ceiling.
No two cows were the same, yet each one that passed him blended together. He just knew what part of the skull to hit, and that was all he needed to know. Callouses covered his palms. Muscles bulged under his stained undershirt. His shoes, for the first time in his life, were brand-new.
A bell rang as a man lugged the last bovine body to be with the others. Randy was one of the only remaining strikebreakers from 1921 and rarely said a word to his coworkers. Thick red blood rolled down his dark back as he hoisted the carcass over his shoulder.
“See you tomorrow, Ed.”
“I won’t see you until Monday, Stan,” Eduard replied to the aging man. “I’m going home for the weekend.”
Stanley wiped his hands on his jeans. They walked out of the plant into the stockyards, where they joined hoards of other laborers heading towards the streetcars and home.
“Where are you from again?”
“Hundred miles from here.” Eduard gestured in a general western direction. “Near TOWNNAME.”
“I’ve never been.”
“Do you like farming?”
Stan sucked in his teeth, which exaggerated the lines in his face. His skin was completely pale, a testament to the decade he had spent working inside the Armour Meatpacking Plant. He lived down the street from Eduard’s boarding house; it was only because of their shared route that they had become slightly more than acquaintances.
“There’s a reason I’m a butcher.”
“Oh, Stan. You’re barely even a butcher.”
The group of men looked up as the whine of a radial engine split through the chatter. Eduard had gone years without seeing a plane fly overhead; now, camouflaged bombers cut through the sky on a weekly basis as the country prepared men for war.
“You ever thought of flying one of those?” Stan asked as he stared at the flying beast. His nose crinkled at the sight.
“A B-17?”
“Yeah. Well, not specifically.”
Eduard shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Stan asked with more vitriol. Within days of meeting him, Eduard had discovered that this was a sore subject. In truth, it was a subject Eduard thought far too much about.
Yet his response was, still, “I don’t know.”

Hey looseleaf! Great to see your progress on LMS! I just thought I'd leave you a comment on your most recent writing

Gosh, the first bit was really sad. Your descriptions are really effective in conveying the tragedy in a gritty, realistic way. Mr. and Mrs. Wasson come across as supportive in this scene. I really liked how you wrote Eddie's emotions here too. It feels like he's stunned and yet grieving.

I also just noticed the change from 'Eddie' to 'Eduard' between chapters, which seems to mark him growing up. The descriptions of his work as a butcher are brutal and do a good job of contrasting the first scene when we read about his life on the farm.

Good luck with LMS - you got this!

And that was the truth. In his six months in the city, he had seen innumerable blue stars appear in the windows of his neighbors’ homes. Even more concerning were the encroaching gold stars, each symbolizing a soldier who would never again walk through that house’s front door. It was only August.
“If you enlist, you can pick your branch,” Stan explained as they boarded the 24th Street trolley. “Paratroopers get you fifty extra a month.”
“My father needs me on the farm.”
“Then why are you standing here talking to me, Ed?” Stan pshawed. “Give me an actual excuse when you think of one.”
The two coworkers disembarked the streetcar and began walking to their respective homes. Stan was a full foot shorter than the younger man, but so were many people. He had several bumps and moles that rose off his face, making what would have been a decently attractive man simply average.
“You said you were from Wilber?” He asked the farmboy as they turned onto 22nd Street. A child passed by on a bicycle, splitting the duo in half.
“Close by it. We’d drive in once in a while.”
“That that Czechoslovak town?”
“Yessir.”
Stan thwacked Eduard on his swinging arm. The latter winced.
“I’m not old enough for sir quite yet.”
They shook hands in front of Eduard’s winding front steps. The cream colored house was set back several meters from the street on a slight hill, requiring any who entered to traverse the long front yard. Stan hesitated at the foot of the stairs as Eduard began climbing.
“Why don’t you come to dinner tonight, Ed?” Stan said with his hands in his pockets. “Meet the family. Then you can go with my sons to the dance hall, introduce you to society, unless you have been already.”
“I have to start driving first thing in the morning, otherwise I would.”
Stan waved his hand.
“If you’re living here, you have to live like we do. Be at my house tonight by seven. You’ll have enough time for your beauty sleep.”
Eduard nodded. Once the other man turned around, he climbed the nineteen steps to the front porch. He checked the mailbox and, letters in hand, entered the Meyerovich’s house, ignoring the blue star standing prominent in the window.
It was his habit to place Ms. Meyerovich’s mail on the wooden console table in the entryway, under the ever changing rotations of flowers in the glass vase. He would then slip upstairs to his room, unnoticed until dinner, if he chose to dine with them.
“Mr. Dostal!” A familiar Russian accent rang from the living room. His shoulders dropped, and he let his hand off the newel post.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Come, come.”
Eduard stood at attention under the stained doorframe. The furniture was older than him, unchanged since Mr. Meyerovich had succumbed to the Spanish Flu. His portrait analyzed Eduard from across the room.
“How was the meat today?” She asked in an accent as thick as her borscht. Her greying hair was uncombed and fell haphazardly around her head.
“Work was good,” Eduard replied. He never had explained to her what his job entailed in depth. “Boy, am I glad that it’s the weekend.”
“You leave this weekend?”
“Yes—tomorrow and Sunday. I am going home.”
The woman shook her head while muttering to herself in Russian. She pushed herself off the fading armchair.
“Come, come.”
“I show.”
Ms. Meyerovich crossed the room to the ancient radio standing vigil in the corner. On top was a photograph. She picked it up in her trembling hand.
“My daughter.”
“Yes.”
Eduard recognized the woman in the photograph without a second thought. Thirty and still living at home, Galina Meyerovich slept in the room across the hall from Eduard, and took hours getting ready in the bathroom. Eduard struggled to not break the door down and throw her out of the room before work every morning.
Ms. Meyerovich pointed to the man with his arm around her daughter in the photograph. He was shorter than her by several inches and seemed to be suffocating in his oversized suit. Several of his fingers were missing.
“Joseph Shramek. Czechoslovak like you. He propose yesterday.” She shrugged. “She say yes. He work in bank, make money. But not big money.”
“Congratulations.”
Ms. Meyerovich waved her hand dismissively.
“No need. But you need know that they will live here. And have family here.”
Eduard pursed his lips.
“So I need to leave?”
“Yes. No”—She shook her head and mumbled something again—“Not yet. You can stay two month”—-she held up the number with her fingers—-“two.”
Eduard digested his eviction as Ms. Meyerovich wiped grime off the radio with her bony finger. Her nails were freshly painted in a deep red color that matched her sloppily-applied lipstick. He had never met another woman like her before he had stumbled upon her advertisement for a room in the World-Herald. He had checked her address on a map—it was the same neighborhood the Wassons had recommended. Within hours of arriving in Omaha, Eduard had moved into her cramped upstairs bedroom and thrown himself onto the bed.
“Do you know anywhere else I could stay?”
Ms. Meyerovich rolled her eyes and held up her palms, recusing herself from giving an actual response. She let out a heavy sigh.
“No more renting a bedroom every week, okay? You live in city, or you live in farm. You rent apartment or own house, or you own farm, okay?”
“Okay.”
She wiped her grimy hands on her dress and returned to her armchair. Her newest needlepointing project laid abandoned on the floor.
Eduard stared out the window. Blocks upon blocks of craftsmans and family homes stretched beyond the pane, but he could not see past the houses across the street. Cars of all ages began to appear next to the sidewalks as the work week came to a close. His father’s truck rested in front of the Meyerovich’s stairs, waiting for its biweekly journey home. A mourning dove was perched on its right headlight.
“You play baseball tonight?” That Russian voice asked. She had resumed her sewing.
“Pardon?”
She repeated her question.
“Yes, sorry. I won’t be here tonight,” he stuttered. Feigning an intramural baseball practice was quicker than explaining his true schedule for the night.
“Win for us.”
“I always try.”
The Czech set the bundle of mail on top of the radio. He turned to leave, but hesitated when he saw his name scrawled on the top letter in an unfamiliar script. The name on the return address bounced around his mind, searching for where he recognized it.
“This one’s mine,” he said as he picked it up, but the old woman did not look up from her needles and thread.
Eduard climbed the stairs hurriedly. Across from the stairs, Galina’s door was open. She sat on the edge of her deskchair, combing through a catalogue. He winced as he stepped on the floorboard he so ardently tried to avoid. Galina’s head shot up.
“Did mother tell you?”
She already knew the answer to her question—-the walls were as thick as the magazine in her hands, and the floors even thinner.
“Yes, she did. Congratulations.”
“I’m sorry. I told her you could stay.”
It was Eduard’s turn to wave his hand in indifference. “Don’t be. It’s your house.”