The young boy watched flakes of paint molt off the doorframe as his father’s feet slipped on the dust-covered floor, and his pregnant mother screamed. Mr. Klement had taken a week between harvests last year to coat every doorway in their home with white lead paint, but they had all begun peeling. The boy crunched a flake between his fingers, letting the miniscule pieces flutter to the ground. Beyond the threshold, his mother gripped her stomach as she lay sprawled across his parents’ bed, her knuckles turning the same powder color as the paint. Mr. Klement 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’s voice, which 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 younger sister’s footsteps fell heavily on the staircase behind him. Brown-tinted water sloshed around in the ceramic pot in Mary’s hands. An intricate pink-carnation pattern looped around its 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. Klement shouted at his only son. 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 DeMunds’ 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 eyelids. His murky eyes darted left and right, left and right, as they searched his son’s face for any sign of confidence.

“When someone opens the door, I want you to tell them that the baby’s coming, your mom ain’t too well, she’s bleeding to death, and you need to use their telephone to call a doctor, okay?”

Eddie nodded again. 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. Klement said, not removing his hands as he 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. Klement flung his son toward the staircase before standing. He resumed his position by his wife’s side as Mary dabbed her mother’s head with a wet rag. Alone in the hallway, the boy’s wool hole-ridden socks remained nailed to the hardwood floors. He had never dialed a telephone before.

“Get your ass out of here, boy!”

Eddie broke into a sprint, his feet barely touching every third step of the ancient staircase. Grandma Schovajsa’s old persian rug slipped beneath him, causing him to stumble out the screen door and trip off the front porch.

He regained his footing and stared out to the miles of dusty farmland. Cattle loitered under the treeline at the far end of the pasture. The new calf mooed as it was licked clean by its mother, a half-ton cow Mrs. Klement had named Shirley. In the distance, their barn broke the fluidity of the horizon, now backlit by the setting sun. No other buildings were in sight; the DeMund’s wood-frame house sat more than a mile down the dirt and pebble road.

The truck’s wooden runners creaked and groaned under Eddie’s weight as he lifted himself onto the bench seat. A field mouse scurried out from underneath him. His eyes—usually five feet from the ground—struggled to see over the dashboard and out the windshield. Eddie turned the coil switch as he had watched Mr. Klement do a thousand times before. To start the truck, he needed to push down on the starting switch, which was mounted to the floor, beyond the reach of his foot. He slid down the bench until he rested on the small of his 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.

The boy mimicked his father as well as his young memory could allow: down went the pedal farthest from the steering column, towards him went the gear stick to his right. The thin wooden-spoke wheels rolled as if they were turtles waking from a deep nap; the countryside almost stayed still beyond the windows. Eddie maneuvered the old beast onto Schovajsa Road, named after his mother’s invariable Czech family. The truck’s chassis jolted with each stone in the truck’s path, lurching Eddie around behind the wheel.

Eddie cautiously changed into second gear as the truck propelled pebbles behind it. The DeMunds were their nearest—and only—neighbors. For six decades, Albert and Irene DeMund 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 Main Street.

Five agonizing minutes later, the truck arrived next to the DeMunds’ rusting mailbox. Eddie flung the door open, dashing to the house without turning off the car.

“Help! Help!” He screamed as he ran up the path, waving his arms above his head. Through the windows, the curtain glowed with soft orange candle light, untouched by any shadows.

Pain shot up his legs as his socked feet fell 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 until he found himself on the DeMund’s doorstep. He pounded on the door with his knuckles, then the balls of his fists.

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 gotta use your phone!”

The boy barely had time to catch his breath before Mrs. DeMund 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 held the only medical degree in a 20 mile radius.

“Doctor?” “It’s Irene DeMund.” “Yes, I’m fine. Heddy Klement needs you as soon as possible.”
As Mrs. DeMund gave the doctor directions to the Klements’ house, Eddie stood frozen in their entryway. Mr. Klement had helped build the DeMunds’ home, and Mrs. Klement, not yet a mother, had labored alongside her husband for days. A testament to their town’s community, the DeMunds allowed the 12 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 which, unlike the others, were not suffocated by a thick rug.

Mr. DeMund emerged from their bedroom and approached Eddie. He patted the boy’s disheveled hair with his calloused hands.

“Whatcha doing here so late, son?” He asked. He peaked around the corner to greet Eddie’s parents only to find his wife setting down their telephone.

Before Eddie could repeat his father’s message, Mrs. DeMund came out of the living room and whispered instructions into her husband’s ear.

“I’ll drive us all back—”

“Albert, he can’t see her like this again.”

Mrs. DeMund took Eddie’s hands in hers. “You stay here with Al, okay? Your mother will be just alright. The doctor’s on his way—he just needs to check up on things.”

Eddie nodded in response. Mrs. DeMund’s eyes lacked their usual glow. He watched as she kissed his forehead then disappeared out the front door. The Chevy’s engine sputtered to a start, but was replaced by the sound of cicadas and rustling cornstalks as she drove further down the road.

The tiny room fell silent. Mr. DeMund had changed out of his work clothes, now donning worn brown slacks and a fresh cotton shirt. His big toe protruded from his left sock, while his other foot was still protected by a leather boot.

“Why don’t we go into the kitchen and eat?” Mr. DeMund asked as he acclimated to the task his wife had assigned him. Had he opened the door for Eddie, he would have driven all three of them back to the Klements’ house. In the years that followed, Eddie would wish that that would have been the case.

The old man continued. “Have you eaten yet, son?”

“No, sir. The baby started coming while mama was cooking,” Eddie explained. “It’s coming early.”

“What was she making?”

“Meatloaf and griddle cakes.”

Mr. DeMund chuckled despite himself. “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 blended into one, polite noise.

Mr. DeMund turned and began walking to the kitchen. Eddie followed. Their kitchen impressed him, even at his young age—cupboards covered in enamel tile, a farmhouse sink, and a yellow range stove filled the room. Mrs. DeMund had covered walls with the same floral pattern that she had painted on Mrs. Klement’s pot, but in her signature yellow. Eddie counted the carnations around the molding as Mr. DeMund surveyed the cupboards. His hands shook imperceptibly.

Eddie watched as the old man crafted his sandwich, taking care to align the cheese and butter in the middle of the sliced bread. He presented the creation to the boy on a porcelain plate 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. The 17-year-old behind the counter, a malnourished farm boy by the name of Glenn, had a tendency of sneaking a handful 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. DeMund 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. Mementos of a life well-lived surrounded them: 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.

Mrs. Klement had taught her son to never ask questions about money. People either had money or didn’t; there was no use in making them articulate which category they fell into. So, Eddie finished his sandwich in silence. He ate at a snail’s pace as he waited for the sound of their truck and Mrs. DeMund with good news. Instead, the cicadas’ shrill song filled the night with an antagonizing hum.

Eddie cleaned his dishes himself. At ten, he was already tall enough to reach over their gaping sink without being lifted. His mother sometimes teased him for this fact of life, calling him her “obr,” or giant.

“Why don’t we call it a night?” Mr. DeMund said, more as a command rather than a question. “I’m sure there will be news in the morning. You’ll 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 farm families in the area had just two children, but no other farming families had his 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 passed the transom window 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 door within seconds. In the faint moonlight, he saw Dr. Andersson squint at the address on the mailbox, shake his head, and continue down the road.

Eddie 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-side door. He could see Mr. DeMund on his front porch over his shoulder.

“I need to see my mom,” Eddie cried over the door. “I need to hold her hand.”

Dr. Andersson opened the door from the inside. Eddie mumbled a thank you as he slid in. He had seen Dr. Andersson once, in the general store in front of the taffy jar.

The five minute journey felt like 20 as the boy 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. Andersson said as they passed a lone deer.

Eddie could not remember his mother ever meeting the doctor.

The Klements’ white-wood house appeared over the horizon like Goliath coming to defeat David. At the first sight of it, Eddie sprang from his seat and leaped from the moving car. 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 rug was slightly askew, wilted flowers graced the table in the hall, and his wooden train was parked around the corner. In Eddie’s lifetime, he could not remember their home being as clean and well-decorated as the DeMunds’, 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. At the top of the stairs, the ceramic pot was discarded on the bench where he had first learned to read.

A plume of dust lifted off the landing as Eddie turned towards the northern end of the hall. The creak of two doors opening simultaneously split his attention as Mrs. DeMund exited the nursery and Mr. Andersson walked into the home. Eddie examined the woman who his family had placed their faith in. The color had gone from her face hours ago, but she had not started crying, not yet. Her hands were wet, and deep red and brown stains muddled her dress.

“Oh, Eduard…”

It was all she could say. Even when the doctor asked her for Mrs. Klement, 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 his father and Mr. Andersson talk 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. DeMund motioned to the nursery. “In there. A girl.”

“Healthy?”

“Fit as a fiddle. Mary is with her now.”

Mr. Andersson nodded. He turned to the nursery, peering into the room at Eddie’s last piece of his mother. Though the boy did not move, he knew that his mother was not there.

Dr. Andersson eyed Mrs. DeMund, whose shoulders had deflated. Her boots lay discarded in the corner, and her stockings made no noise against the floor when she tapped her foot. Eddie noticed that her calves were speckled with bruises and sunspots.

With a huff, the old lady knelt down on both knees. Dust clung to her skirt.

“Eddie,” she began. Her mouth hung open as she searched for words. “Your mother loves you very much.”

“I know that, ma’am.”

“When I got here, Mrs. Heddy”—she always called her Mrs. Heddy when talking to Eddie and Mary—“was already asleep. There was no waking her up.”

“Asleep?”

“Your mother went home to be with God, Eduard,” the doctor’s voice floated past the boy’s ears.

A sob escaped from Mrs. DeMund’s wrinkled throat, and she enveloped Eddie in her arms. He struggled to breath against her chest. Between his grandparents and former pets, he knew what death was. He could count the number of times he had cried on one hand. He wished that he could add another finger to the count, but the tears refused to flow.

Mrs. DeMund escorted Eddie to 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 that she had sewn out of old feed sacks last spring. Mr. Klement smoked 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 pastures after the year’s first rainfall. Her hand was already frigid, but Eddie latched onto it for  half an hour nonetheless. His father cried softly in the corner. At some point, Mr. Andersson tried to draw the widower from the room to swaddle his new daughter and approach the idea of calling the undertaker; Mr. Klement stayed.

It was nearly two in the morning when Eddie slipped under the quilt in the DeMunds’ spare bedroom. The ancient armoire and rocking chair cast distorted shadows onto the ceiling that changed with the breeze. Mary was asleep beside him, her face still stained with tears. Mr. DeMund slept in the other bedroom, while his wife stood guard in the Klements’ 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 wife.

 —

Lucia Zschoche is a contributing writer for the Nassau Weekly.