Ruby's Slippers (10 page)

“I don’t think that place exists,” I say.

We go back into the store where row after row of clothes racks are crowded into a small space. It’s a sea of cottons and polyesters, linens and sequins. Everything is organized according to color, making a rainbow throughout the store.

“I’ll be right there!” a woman calls from somewhere toward the back of the store.

“This is not your ordinary resale shop,” Sophia whispers. “The women who empty out their closets and donate already have their pot of gold. I mean, they live in Carmel! So these aren’t your everyday, run-of-the-mill clothes.” She holds up the shimmery sleeve of a pale yellow blouse. “Designers. Custom-made. Quality.”

This is probably not the store for me then. I take a step back, thinking it might be best to just keep my mismatched
clothes for now. Many of the clothes look like ball gowns and prom dresses. Maybe they’re red-carpet designs. Definitely not my style. If I have a style.

“I’m not very good at shopping.”

“Oh, I’ll help.” Sophia gives me a quick once-over. “You’ve got a great figure. It’ll be fun shopping for you.” She pats her backside. “You don’t have any major flaws that need hiding.”

“I’m really not the fancy type.” I reach toward a sequined dress the color of lemon drops but don’t touch.

“Simple is pretty too. And you are that.” She flaps a pant leg at me. “This pair of khakis probably cost a hundred.”

“Dollars?”

“Well, not pesos! The lady that bought these retail probably only wore them once. And now they’re affordable.”

A row of emerald-green dresses parts, and a diminutive woman with a pair of purple glasses lying crooked across her nose steps through. At first I thought she was bending down, but now I realize she’s just bent and would barely surpass Maybelle in height. “Hello there! I’m Violet.” Her face creases into a wide, beaming smile. She tugs off her glasses and they dangle from a chain around her neck. “How can I help you?”

It takes only a few minutes for the saleslady and Sophia to round up some pants and tops for me to try on, pulling from every shade of this rainbow room. Thankfully there’s not a sequin or prom dress in the bundle. The striped curtain covering the dressing room doesn’t quite meet both sides of the doorway as I pull on a pair of khakis and a plain blue button-down. There’s no mirror in the tiny room, so I have to step outside the cubicle to solicit Sophia’s and Violet’s approval.

“What do you think?”

“Perfect.” Sophia grins. “You look fabulous! And look what I found.” She shoves a leather jacket at me. Fringe dangles from the arms and across the shoulders. It’s not anything I would have picked because it’s not practical, but I like the buttery softness. “Try this on with those jeans.”

It fits. But Sophia won’t let me look at the price tag. She unpins the safety pin hooked to the lining and hands it to Violet. “She needs this. We’re on our way to San Francisco, and it can get cold at night.”

“We won’t be there long. A raincoat might be more practical for Seattle.”

“We’ll look at those too.”

Back in the dressing room, I start to unbutton the blue shirt but only make it as far as the second button before I lean against the wall, suddenly exhausted. I stare at the four walls. The paint is old and scarred. Hanging on the metal hook is a sleeveless, peach-colored blouse. Plain and simple, that’s me. Definitely not something Abby would wear to meet our father. What about me? Will a leather jacket bolster my courage? Make me look special? Should I try to dress up? I don’t want to pretend to be something I’m not.

This evening we’ll arrive in San Francisco. The map to my uncle’s home is in the car with Otto. My insides rumble with uncertainty. Will he know who I am? Will he even care? Is he sophisticated? An urbanite? Will he think I’m just a country bumpkin? I touch my now-long hair that I’ve pulled back into a ponytail. I should have had it cut at the facility.

“Hey,” Sophia calls from the other side of the woefully inadequate curtain, “you okay in there?”

“Sure,” I manage, my throat tense. Hurriedly I change into the next outfit then step out.

“Oh, yes!” The saleslady claps her hands. “Perfect fit. You could be a model.”

I stare at her, wondering what her commission is on sales.

“Are you okay?” Sophia asks, following me into the dressing room.

“Sure.”

“You don’t look okay.”

“I’m getting tired. Long day.”

She watches me carefully.

I focus on hanging up the first blouse and pants I tried on. Unsure which of my many anxieties to share, I start with the one that burbles to the top of the list. “What if this man, my uncle, doesn’t know who I am? What if—”

“Why, then you’ll tell him. Besides how would he not know who you are?”

“What if my father never told his sister about us? What if they didn’t want to know us? What if they—”

“Too many ‘what ifs’! Here, try this on for size. What if your aunt and uncle wanted to know you all these years? What if they’ve missed being a part of your life? What if your uncle hugs you and weeps with joy?”

“That’s too optimistic. Too unrealistic.” The room feels as if it’s shrinking. Sweat pops out on my forehead.

“Why? What’s wrong with optimism? My daddy says to believe. Not ‘hope for the best, plan for the worst.’”

“That’s the farmer’s mentality in Kansas—hope for rain, prepare for drought.” It’s logical, rational, reasonable. “Maybe your father is used to getting what he wants.”

“Believe!” Sophia glides out of the dressing room, straightening the curtain behind her.

I lean against the dressing room wall. Bits of stray thread and lost buttons lie on the carpet at my feet.
Believe
.

I’ve never thought of myself as a pessimist. I always considered myself a plain, ordinary realist. Abby was the optimist, and her hopes had often been crushed. Only a few months ago, she stood in front of a mirror telling me how hard it was to get a job in Hollywood. Her pot of gold at the end of the rainbow had left her feeling empty and unwanted.

It always seemed foolish to me to open myself up to disappointment. I wanted to be strong like Momma. Not vulnerable like Abby. But was that simply pride? Was Momma too proud to risk being hurt? Is Abby the brave one?

It was Abby who every holiday asked, “Will Daddy come home?” Later she tempered the question to, “Do you think Daddy will call?” Then finally, “Does Daddy think about us?” Her optimism seemed foolish and reckless.

But now it makes my heartbeat quicken. He
did
think of me! After all, he came to visit while I was in the coma. Hope pushes to the surface, like a tiny seedling desperate for sunlight.

A scratching on the curtain reminds me that I need to get moving. I change into the next outfit that Sophia and Violet have selected for me. The jeans are a bit baggy.

“Those can’t be a size six,” Violet
tsks
. She puts on her reading glasses and checks the inside label, pulling the material away from my skin. “Oh, I know who brought those in. I better not say! I bet she changed the label to make us think she wears a smaller size!” She swivels around and hollers, “Marla! Marla!”

A teen with a tattoo that covers one exposed shoulder appears from the back. She’s chewing something and swallows quickly. “Yeah?”

“Will you find another pair like this? Make sure it’s a size six.” Off Marla voyages into the sea of colors. “A new blouse came in the store the other day,” Violet says more to herself than us. “Now where did I put that?”

“So what do you think?” Sophia asks when we’re alone.

“Believing hurts.”

She smiles. “If you have faith the size of a tiny seed, anything is possible, farmer girl. Why limit yourself? Why limit life?” She leans close enough for me to smell her face powder. “Why limit God?”

Is that what I’ve been doing? Limiting God?

After we pick out several matching slacks and shirts, we check out. This time, I insist on using the money from the sale of livestock. But Sophia insists on buying me the leather jacket. “Just because.” We thank Violet for all of her help and head toward the door. It’s time to get back on the road.

“If we hurry,” Sophia says, brushing past Marla who is rehanging some of the clothes I tried on, “we can be in San Francisco by dinner.”

“Hey!” Marla points at Sophia’s bag. “What are you doing there?”

The heel of a ruby slipper is hooked around the strap.

“Are you stealing those shoes?”

No,” I say, smiling to alleviate her suspicions. “These are my shoes. Sophia was carrying them for me.” But this girl looks like she’s seen it all. And she’s not believing us. Violet hurries over, her eyes large behind her glasses.

“What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

“They were trying to steal those shoes.”

“No, really.” I pull a shoe out of Sophia’s purse. “It’s mine.”

Violet snorts. “Said you weren’t the fancy type.” Sophia meets my worried gaze. Violet takes the ruby-red slipper from my hands. She turns it over, studying the label inside. I hold my breath, wondering if we can make a quick escape. If Violet realizes these shoes are
the
ruby slippers,
then she could accuse us of stealing them and claim them for herself.

“Not a designer,” she huffs.

Marla shrugs and wanders off without an apology.

“I’d remember a pair of shoes like that if I had any in my store.” Violet hands the shoe back to me.

Shoving the shoe back into Sophia’s cavernous purse as far into the bottom as I can push it, we make a quick exit.

* * *

THE STEEP HILLS that make up the city of San Francisco frighten me. I am, after all, accustomed to the flat plains of Kansas. Sensing my fear, Otto burrows under my arm. My pulse raises each time the Jeep noses down a hill. The drive is daunting and exhilarating. It feels like I’m going to fall right out of the windshield and over the front bumper. I try to hold back a gasp and clutch the dashboard as we crest another rise. My foot stamps on the floorboard as if there’s a brake pedal on the passenger side. Suddenly I can relate to all those parents of students I taught over the years. They often complained of teen drivers and feeling out of control. I always tried to empathize but couldn’t until this moment.

“Look over there,” Sophia points. “Do you see that white pointy building? It’s the Sentinel. Next to it is the TransAmerica building.” But before I can turn to catch a glimpse, she’s already pointing out some other sight.

She weaves around the city, giving me tiny glimpses of this diverse area. We pass Spanish missions and gaudy tattoo parlors. Chinatown is alive with colors that make me dizzy. What amazes me is how much greenery is wedged into tiny spaces. If there’s an empty space or even a crack in the sidewalk, plants sprout and bloom. The variety of foliage surprises
me, too, as I spot trees of all kinds including palms. Hydrangeas and chrysanthemums bloom in an assortment of dazzling colors. Each time we reach the top of a hill, the views are spectacular, revealing glimpses of the calm bay, an array of boats, and more sights to be explored.

“Just not enough time,” Sophia grumbles.

We pass yellow cable cars and bicyclists who pedal effortlessly uphill. I feel as if I’ve entered a foreign country or landed on a strange planet, some fantasy place I never dreamed of.

Sophia brakes, rolling down her window, and a gust of air blows into the Jeep. She catches the attention of two men who are holding hands. One walks up to the Jeep. A diamond earring glitters in his earlobe. He has a bright, welcoming smile. She asks for assistance, and he politely points us in the right direction.

After several dizzying turns, she pulls to a stop at the crest of a hill. “Can you make out that street sign?”

I squint but shriek as the Jeep rolls backward. Half turning in my seat, I brace a hand against the back of Sophia’s and stare in horror as we roll back down the sharp incline.

“It’s okay. It’s okay!” She readjusts the gearshift, brakes, then pulls the emergency brake. We come to a jarring halt midway to the bottom.

“Want me to get out and push?” It’s not the real reason I want to eject myself.

“We’re fine.” She restarts the Jeep. “Did you read the name of that cross street?”

“Coventry, I think.” A thick ball of uncertainty wedges in my throat. The steep hills and the tall houses loom around me, making me feel claustrophobic, as if I’m shrinking by the minute and everything around me is growing in enormity, including my fears.

“How come you’re never afraid?” Abby’s words haunt me.

Maybe because I always stayed in my comfort zone.

“We’re almost there.” Sophia pulls me back to the present and the panicky feeling of falling. The wind buffets the Jeep’s plastic windows. When she gets the vehicle moving in the right direction, she doesn’t pause or hesitate but gives it a burst of gas to get us over the top. The light is still red as she turns the corner, causing a burly fellow in a delivery truck to honk at us.

“Didn’t want to take a chance of stalling out again,” she explains.

Panting, Otto looks at me, and I realize I’ve been squeezing him.

A few minutes later, we locate a parking place along the curb. Sophia backs the Jeep into the space with more skill than a professional driver. “Right there,” she says. “Your uncle’s house is right there.”

It’s a pale-blue three-story sandwiched between a yellow and pink model. Looking back the way we came, the streets resemble giant oceanic waves whose undulations mirror my insides at the moment.

Sophia touches my hand. “Come on. I’ll be right beside you.”

Doubts pound against my thoughts and jumble my emotions. What if my uncle doesn’t know where my father is? But what if he doesn’t even know about me? Or worse, doesn’t care?

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Sophia vocalizes my fears. She opens the driver’s door and steps out on the sidewalk as if there is no other option. But there is. We could leave. We could turn around and head back to Santa Barbara. My new comfort zone.

No, I have to do this.

When we stand on the front stoop, she reaches over and clasps my hand. “Believe.”

I draw a rough breath and try to imagine what my uncle-by-marriage might be like. Tall or short? Kind? With a sharp edge?

“If you don’t ring the bell,” Sophia says, “we’ll have to stand here all night until someone comes out for the morning paper.”

But all I can do is stare at the frosted-glass door.

Sophia rings the bell for me. I can hear it echo through the hallways inside the house. A garbage truck rumbles past behind us. Footsteps on concrete draw my attention to a jogger. Then a car horn blares down the street. Otto barks a retort.

“No one’s home.” I turn back to Sophia, tug on her arm. “Maybe we should—”

“What are you going to do? You need this man to help you find your father.”

She’s right. But it doesn’t make it any easier to wait, to wonder, to worry. What if he doesn’t have the answers I need?

Sophia puts an arm around my shoulders and leans toward the etched glass. It’s then a tall, shadowy figure moves slowly toward the door, as if walking down a long hallway. The lock jiggles, and the door creaks open.

An elderly gentleman, erect and handsome in spite of the years etched in his face, gives us a quizzical look. His silver hair is well kept and clipped short. He’s dressed in a starched gray shirt and suit pants. Belt and tie are in place, as if he’s ready to go to the office or just arrived home. “Can I help you?”

Sophia looks expectantly toward me, but words fail to emerge.

“We were hoping you might know of someone named …” She waits for me to fill in the name of my father, but his name sticks in my throat.

Hesitantly, I speak up. “Tim Turney?”

“Well, you sure do know how to brighten up a gloomy day,” he says, glancing beyond us at the clouds floating in from the ocean. “What can I do for you two ladies?”

His expression is open, expectant, as if we might be there with the Publisher’s Clearing House prize. Do I jump right in? The hopefulness in his gaze stops me. “I’m Dottie Meyers.”

I study his face and search for recognition in his misty gray eyes. There seems to be a glimmer of something. Maybe it’s just my imagination, my own hope reflecting off him. I watch for any hesitation, recoil, or disappointment.

“My father and mother are Duncan and—”

“Ruby. Of course.” He studies me just as thoroughly, then gives a slight nod as if answering a silent question to himself. “I’m sorry. You’ve stunned me.” He jerks to the right, freezes, turns back to us. “I, uh … oh my!”

“Maybe you should sit down,” Sophia suggests, reaching toward him.

“Yes.” His knees dip, but Sophia boosts him upward.

“Here,” she moves him into his house, “let me help you. Dottie …”

The sound of my name galvanizes me. I take my uncle’s other arm and steer him back into his house. Gleaming hardwoods stretch out before us as we walk down a narrow hallway. My uncle’s footsteps are more of a shuffling, scuffing, halting cadence, his movements jerky and rigid. Black-framed
pictures feature younger versions of Tim and Elizabeth posing in front of famous destination spots—the Eiffel Tower, Westminster Abbey, a Lenin monument, the Sphinx. It’s a gallery of a life well spent.

We pass steep stairs on the right and a kitchen on the left. I catch a quick glimpse of clean black granite counters and a lone white plate holding the crust of a piece of toast. A hint of ginger lingers in the air.

Hearing Otto’s nails clicking against the hardwoods, I ask, “Is it all right for my dog to come in?”

“Of course. What’s the name?”

“Otto. He’s a little spoiled in that he goes everywhere with me.”

“We should all be so spoiled.” He gestures stiffly toward a little sitting room nestled among broad windows, which open to a small courtyard filled with lush foliage and vibrant purple and pink flowers. The decorations in the room are sparse, the colors subdued variations of beige and brown. More pictures cover the walls. In here, the photographs are black-and-whites. They’re close-ups of objects, like a solitary chair, a pile of leaves, an ordinary coffee cup held by a pair of elderly hands. The pictures don’t seem to be about the object as much as the light slanting through the frame.

“Why, yes,” Tim says as we position him in front of a chair. He sinks down onto the cushion but his gaze remains on me. “I see a little of Ruby in you. She had those same dark-brown eyes. Naturally pretty, without all the fluff and fuss.” A wistful smile plays about his tight mouth. “How is she?”

“Momma?” Pretty isn’t the first word that comes to mind when I think of Ruby Meyers. Practical. Capable. Reserved. These words describe me too. Obviously, this man
knows Momma, but he doesn’t seem to know she’s gone. Remembering that his wife died two years ago, I hate breaking the sorrowful news to him as he seems eager for some word. But I notice his smile is congealing. Swallowing my reservations, I say, “Momma passed on last year.”

Only his eyes move as he looks toward Sophia. A muscle near his temple twitches. Moisture builds in the corner of his eyes, turning them the color of warm flannel. “I lost my Elizabeth not long ago.” He rubs his jaw and tugs on his ear lobe. “Been two years now. Two years.” He pulls out a handkerchief and wipes underneath his nose. “That always takes me by surprise.”

I step back, not knowing if I should take a seat or reach out to him.

“Oh, Ruby.” His voice roughens. He stares off toward a window at the sky beyond as if looking back through the years. “And I never knew. Never knew. But you lost your mother.” He reaches forward and clasps my hand. His hands are cool but gentle. “I’m so sorry, dear. So very sorry.” He blinks and looks back at me and Sophia as if seeing us for the first time. “Look at me, not much of a host.” He pushes to his feet, his hands braced on the chair’s arms. “Have a seat. Please. Elizabeth would say I’m the worst sort of host.”

“We showed up completely unannounced.” I make the excuse for our bad manners. When I was a girl, I loved it when someone pulled up the drive unexpected, even though it sent Momma rushing around fussing, making sure the house was straightened. But I enjoyed the sudden surprise, the distraction from the ordinary, the fact that someone was interested in me.

“I’m glad you did stop by. Glad you did. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“I’m fine.” I sit in what looks to be a stiff, upright chair, but the cushions feel worn and settled. I indicate with my palm down that Otto should stay on the floor.

“I’d love some water,” Sophia says.

“Would you like tea?”

“Don’t go to any trouble. Water’s fine.”

He turns and retreats to the kitchen. His steps are hesitant, his motions stiff.

“See!” Sophia says. “He knew you. Isn’t that wonderful?”

He does seem glad to see me. And he seems to have fond memories of Momma. But why did my aunt and uncle never visit or contact us? Why didn’t they write or call?

While we wait for Tim to return, I peruse the bookshelves. All of the books are hardcover, their dust jackets removed. The covers vary from forest green to emerald red. Titles are etched along the spines in silver and gold. Tiny framed photographs dot the shelves. I lean close to view one of a diminished cathedral. It’s deceptively small, reduced in size, but it must hold some significance. I want to know about my family, my aunt and uncle, if they had children, if I have cousins. I want to study a picture of my aunt, search her face for any traces of my father. Then I remember how Tim compared me to my mother, not my father. I feel a cloud of regret that I didn’t search for my aunt long before now.

The questions I want to ask about why they never came to see us turn into pointed questions at myself. Why didn’t I seek them out? Why didn’t I try to find them? Did staying in my comfort zone prevent me from experiencing joyous events beyond my imagination?

“That’s your Aunt Elizabeth,” Tim says behind me as I examine a tiny black-and-white photo of the woman I’ve come to recognize. She had luminous eyes that seemed to
take in every sight. She was thin, almost waiflike, with a wisp of a nose. I reach out to help my uncle as he carries in a tray with three glasses of water. There’s no ice, but the water is cool when I lift it to my lips.

“She was beautiful.” I’m drawn back to the delicate frame on the shelf. “I found a picture of her among Momma’s things. She was with my father.”

“Oh, Duncan. Elizabeth adored her younger brother. Everyone did, I suppose. Everyone.”

My heart starts to pound. I feel Sophia’s gaze heavily upon me. “Did?” I repeat his word. Past tense. “But—”