Spoiler
Eduard did not answer. His father walked back and forth across the yard beyond the window above the sink, pushing a rusted lawn mower in front of him. He ate last, bathed last, slept last. His body could not rest as long as the fields and machinery still begged for his aid. He hit the ground running every morning, if his feet had ever left the ground at all.
“You eat these sandwiches at your house, too,” Hedvika stated.
Her older brother nodded.
“Does Mary bring you her cheese?”
“No.”
“Do you have dairy cows?”
“No.”
“Then how do you eat these sandwiches in the city?”
“They’re not the same sandwiches.”
Hedvika opened her mouth to let another question out, but was interrupted by a clanging of pots. Mary placed her knife on the counter and huffed. She turned around.
“Heddy, sweetie,” she said with a honeyed voice. Eduard frowned at the petname. “Why don’t you go finish your sandwich on the davenport, okay? I need to speak with Eddie.”
Eduard kept his eyes glued to Mary as their little sister begrudgingly picked up her sandwich and tottered out of the room. A plume of stale air left the cushions as she collapsed onto them.
“Jesus Christ, Eddie. Can you not just talk to the kid normally?” Mary spat once she heard that Hedvika had settled.
“What are you talking about?” He cried, holding his empty hands up in defense.
“Would it kill you to answer her with more than one or two words? To have a smile on your face, however false, when you talk to her? She’s your eight-year-old sister, not an interrogator.”
“I talk to her like I talk to any child I encounter.”
Mary scoffed.
“You can barely hold a conversation with our sister,” she said.
“You call her by our mother’s name.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, that’s what’s on her birth certificate.”
“‘Heddy’ isn’t.”
Mary stood almost as tall as Eduard, but she looked deflated leaning against the counter, both hands propping her body up. She wore the same dress as the day before, just in a new pink stripe pattern. The two siblings seldom discussed hobbies, but when he walked out the front door six months ago, she had been pouring over a book of patterns and fabrics.
“Heddy is her own person. She’s not mom.”
“She’s the spitting image of her.”
“Eduard, Heddy and mom’s lives overlapped for half an hour, if that. She only knows our mother through a handful of pictures and whatever stories she can get out of dad.”
Eduard returned to the table, taking a swig of his glass of lukewarm milk. A few specks of butterfat floated to the surface and swam around the white liquid.
“Does she ask about mom?”
“Would you be curious about a woman you barely knew existed?” Mary said. She turned back to the counter and, slowly, resumed her cutting the potatoes that were strewn in front of her. “I mean, I tell her stories. But I was only six, and would you want to remind a child that they’ll never know their mother?”
“I suppose not.”
She held up her hand gripping the knife and let her wrist dangle. Eduard did remember this; how, on a rare occurrence, her shoulders would rise and fall before she capitulated to his argument.
“She does look exactly like mom, from what I remember.”
“It is eerie.”
“Down to the hair color.”
Eduard stood from his chair and walked up to his sister’s side. He picked up the other duller cutting knife and wiped it on his shirt before beginning to cut an onion.
“Eddie, I need to talk to you about something, and I don’t want you to resent me for it.”
He grunted and quickened his chopping.
“Mrs. Kaplan said that I’m going to be valedictorian at Wilber this year.”
Eduard racked his brain for the word’s definition.
“First in my class,” Mary said softly, facing her brother.
“I know what it means. Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” she said. She gathered the potato slices and peels and began dropping them into a copper pot. “I have received ‘A’s in all of my classes—above a ninety-five percent in each one. I am president of the student council, the choir, and the dance committee, and I achieve all of that on top of working on this farm and taking care of Heddy.”
“Congratulations.”
“After graduation in the spring, I want to go to the University of Nebraska, in Lincoln. I want to get a degree in English or history or something along those lines.”
Eduard chuckled to himself. “Are they hiring at the English factory?”
Mary thwacked him on the shoulder.
“I want to be a teacher. A professor. An author, even!”
“You don’t need to go to college to be a teacher.”
She stopped what she was doing and crossed her arms. Her hair was the same chestnut color as their father’s once was and hid her profile behind its thick waves.
“You do if you don’t want to stay here.”
“Oh, give me a—”
“Eddie! I know Mrs. Kaplan has written to you on multiple occasions. I know that she has explained everything.”
It was Eduard’s turn to drop his knife onto the counter.
“See, that’s what I don’t understand, Mary.” He tapped his head. “Why would your teacher write to me and not my own sister? Why haven’t you spoken to me about this until now?”
“Because you don’t listen to me! I tell you what I want, and you dismiss it. I tell you to do your laundry, you leave it for me. I tell you to speak to Hedvika normally, you change the topic.” She pointed at the front door with a firm finger that only moved to emphasize her final three words. “I tell you that I don’t want you to leave the farm, and you walk out that damn door anyways!”
Silence perforated the room as the two siblings stared at each other. Mary began tapping her foot lightly against the withering floor boards, an unintentional habit that she could never manage to break. Eduard’s eyes darted away first.
“Mary, farm girls from middle-of-nowhere Nebraska don’t just go to college,” he said, his eyes trained on the vegetables beneath him. “They have no use for it.”
“They have no use for boarding houses with Russian families and jobs at slaughterhouses, either.”
“You eat these sandwiches at your house, too,” Hedvika stated.
Her older brother nodded.
“Does Mary bring you her cheese?”
“No.”
“Do you have dairy cows?”
“No.”
“Then how do you eat these sandwiches in the city?”
“They’re not the same sandwiches.”
Hedvika opened her mouth to let another question out, but was interrupted by a clanging of pots. Mary placed her knife on the counter and huffed. She turned around.
“Heddy, sweetie,” she said with a honeyed voice. Eduard frowned at the petname. “Why don’t you go finish your sandwich on the davenport, okay? I need to speak with Eddie.”
Eduard kept his eyes glued to Mary as their little sister begrudgingly picked up her sandwich and tottered out of the room. A plume of stale air left the cushions as she collapsed onto them.
“Jesus Christ, Eddie. Can you not just talk to the kid normally?” Mary spat once she heard that Hedvika had settled.
“What are you talking about?” He cried, holding his empty hands up in defense.
“Would it kill you to answer her with more than one or two words? To have a smile on your face, however false, when you talk to her? She’s your eight-year-old sister, not an interrogator.”
“I talk to her like I talk to any child I encounter.”
Mary scoffed.
“You can barely hold a conversation with our sister,” she said.
“You call her by our mother’s name.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, that’s what’s on her birth certificate.”
“‘Heddy’ isn’t.”
Mary stood almost as tall as Eduard, but she looked deflated leaning against the counter, both hands propping her body up. She wore the same dress as the day before, just in a new pink stripe pattern. The two siblings seldom discussed hobbies, but when he walked out the front door six months ago, she had been pouring over a book of patterns and fabrics.
“Heddy is her own person. She’s not mom.”
“She’s the spitting image of her.”
“Eduard, Heddy and mom’s lives overlapped for half an hour, if that. She only knows our mother through a handful of pictures and whatever stories she can get out of dad.”
Eduard returned to the table, taking a swig of his glass of lukewarm milk. A few specks of butterfat floated to the surface and swam around the white liquid.
“Does she ask about mom?”
“Would you be curious about a woman you barely knew existed?” Mary said. She turned back to the counter and, slowly, resumed her cutting the potatoes that were strewn in front of her. “I mean, I tell her stories. But I was only six, and would you want to remind a child that they’ll never know their mother?”
“I suppose not.”
She held up her hand gripping the knife and let her wrist dangle. Eduard did remember this; how, on a rare occurrence, her shoulders would rise and fall before she capitulated to his argument.
“She does look exactly like mom, from what I remember.”
“It is eerie.”
“Down to the hair color.”
Eduard stood from his chair and walked up to his sister’s side. He picked up the other duller cutting knife and wiped it on his shirt before beginning to cut an onion.
“Eddie, I need to talk to you about something, and I don’t want you to resent me for it.”
He grunted and quickened his chopping.
“Mrs. Kaplan said that I’m going to be valedictorian at Wilber this year.”
Eduard racked his brain for the word’s definition.
“First in my class,” Mary said softly, facing her brother.
“I know what it means. Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” she said. She gathered the potato slices and peels and began dropping them into a copper pot. “I have received ‘A’s in all of my classes—above a ninety-five percent in each one. I am president of the student council, the choir, and the dance committee, and I achieve all of that on top of working on this farm and taking care of Heddy.”
“Congratulations.”
“After graduation in the spring, I want to go to the University of Nebraska, in Lincoln. I want to get a degree in English or history or something along those lines.”
Eduard chuckled to himself. “Are they hiring at the English factory?”
Mary thwacked him on the shoulder.
“I want to be a teacher. A professor. An author, even!”
“You don’t need to go to college to be a teacher.”
She stopped what she was doing and crossed her arms. Her hair was the same chestnut color as their father’s once was and hid her profile behind its thick waves.
“You do if you don’t want to stay here.”
“Oh, give me a—”
“Eddie! I know Mrs. Kaplan has written to you on multiple occasions. I know that she has explained everything.”
It was Eduard’s turn to drop his knife onto the counter.
“See, that’s what I don’t understand, Mary.” He tapped his head. “Why would your teacher write to me and not my own sister? Why haven’t you spoken to me about this until now?”
“Because you don’t listen to me! I tell you what I want, and you dismiss it. I tell you to do your laundry, you leave it for me. I tell you to speak to Hedvika normally, you change the topic.” She pointed at the front door with a firm finger that only moved to emphasize her final three words. “I tell you that I don’t want you to leave the farm, and you walk out that damn door anyways!”
Silence perforated the room as the two siblings stared at each other. Mary began tapping her foot lightly against the withering floor boards, an unintentional habit that she could never manage to break. Eduard’s eyes darted away first.
“Mary, farm girls from middle-of-nowhere Nebraska don’t just go to college,” he said, his eyes trained on the vegetables beneath him. “They have no use for it.”
“They have no use for boarding houses with Russian families and jobs at slaughterhouses, either.”