Ruby's Slippers (2 page)

“It’s been in our family for generations!”

“It’s not about carrying on tradition, Dottie. Momma always wanted to control us. Control me. Probably because she couldn’t control Daddy.” Her features tighten, her skin stretching over her prominent cheekbones.

“Abby, if I could buy you out, I would. But I can’t afford it.” But someday I’ll have enough—scrimp and save enough, squirrel enough away—to buy the farm lock, stock, and clapboard. Then it will be mine.

Silence beats between us, like a bell sounding the end of round one.

Then the hard line of her jaw softens. “Let’s not talk about things we don’t agree on.”

My fragile hopes for this visit shatter and crash around me. “How long can you stay?”

“Don’t worry.” She stretches back again along the length of the bed. Her hair spreads out around her like a glossy pool. “I’m flying out tomorrow. I have to be in L.A. for a show. A
new
show.”

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and ask the perfunctory question her statement demands. “What kind of a show?”

“Stage. I haven’t been on the stage in a while.”

Seems to me she’s on stage performing every minute of her life. But what do I know?

“I’ve been in front of the cameras so much recently.” She combs her manicured nails through her long hair. “An audience will be refreshing. Invigorating!” She rolls to her side, propping her hand against her head. “It’s really a fantastic opportunity, a chance to really stretch my acting skills. At first I was hesitant. It’s a challenging, complicated part. I’ve never played anything like this before. You should come out and see the show.”

“Oh, uh …” I search for an answer, something that won’t commit me to a trip to Los Angeles.

She shrugs a narrow shoulder as if maybe she doesn’t care. But I know the look.
Her
look. She tugs off first one shoe, then the other, and tosses them behind her where they clunk on the wooden floor. “It’s okay. You don’t have to come. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

Why do we always end up hurting each other? It seems to be our cycle of life.

“You know,” she says, “Momma made me go to all of your baseball games.”

“Softball,” I correct.

“Whatever.” She waves her hand, the diamond flashing like a mirrored ball on a dance floor. “I remember that tournament when it snowed. You never had to sit through a recital in a snowstorm.”

No, just loud music and knobby-kneed girls. But this time I keep my thoughts to myself. “I’m sorry, Abby. I’ll try to come to a show. Okay?”

She’s quiet for a long moment while I lose myself in a maze of regrets and if-only’s. If only I could contain my temper. If only I could curb my tongue. If only we could find some common ground between us and not stray into old territory.

“Want me to help unpack?” I ask.

Beneath a curtain of hair, she looks at me. Vulnerability softens her gaze. It’s a little-girl quality that reminds me of when she was small and helpless. “Dottie?” A catch in her voice tugs at me. “Have you ever … ?”

I brace myself for her next question: wanted to get married? wanted to leave the farm? wanted to make a wish and see it come to fruition?

“Have you ever thought of finding our father?”

A jolt pulses through me.

“Might be nice to …”

“What? Have a family reunion?” I hate the bitterness that pushes its way out of me like a wound oozing yellow pus. I thought that gash had healed over long ago with a thick, silvery scar. “He left, Abby,” I say, repeating my mother’s words. It was enough explanation for Momma, and it’s enough for me.

Abby glances down at the bedspread, plucks at a loose thread in the dotted Swiss material, and rolls it between her long, delicate fingers. “Just to see how he is,” she says.

I stare at my stubby hands. Dirt has made them dry and scratchy. My answer is simple, but the complications and contradictions lie deep within me. My gaze drifts toward the window, toward the lonely drive.

“He knows how to find us.”

I am awakened by a low guttural growl. My hands are clenched, my muscles tight, and I feel as if I’ve slept tense and frowning. I blink against the darkness, feeling a wave of panic like a sudden gust of hot air. “What is it, boy?” I reach for the furry lump beside me. Otto’s not in his usual place, curled at my hip. Instead he stands at the edge of the bed, body rigid. In the darkness he is not much more than a dark blob, but I reach out and his short, bristly fur tickles my palm. “You hear something?” My ears strain against the quiet. I shift, and the bedsprings creak beneath me. Sitting upright, I push back the covers. Cool, damp spring air puckers my skin. Slowly my brain shifts around like a Rubik’s Cube, locking pieces of an unfathomable puzzle into place.

Abby. She’s home. In the guest room. “It’s okay.” I breathe deeper and pet Otto, smooth down his fur, while reassuring myself all is well. “Is she still on the phone?”

After Abby changed into ripped jeans (which differ from my torn overalls mainly in that she paid lots of money for the look, and admittedly they are sexier than mine) and a cropped T-shirt that revealed her pierced belly button, we ate tomato soup and a tossed salad. The conversation at dinner revolved around Abby, her life and adventures, and her upcoming wedding. It was like old times, sitting together at the wobbly wooden table in the kitchen. Except soup couldn’t buffer the friction between us as Momma used to.

For a distraction I turned on the television. But this only pushed us further apart and exaggerated the differences in our lives. Every show featured actors she knew or had met, and each demanded a comment or two or three.

“Met him at a party. He’s very short.”

“That guy there. He’s gay.”

“She’s had work done.”

Not having much else to say, we turned in early. Abby called friends on her cell phone, and for a while I tried to read while lying in Momma’s bed. I never intended to take over Momma’s room after she passed on, but I missed her and stayed to feel closer to her. Not even a serial killer running rampant in the pages of a best seller could keep my attention from wandering to the room next door, where Abby chattered and laughed and moved about, opening drawers, shoving them closed.

A sudden clunking noise jars me now, calling forth images the book planted in my mind of nightly intruders, blood splatters, and dead bodies. Otto growls deep in his throat, and my pulse clicks into gear. I check the clock on the
bedside table. It’s a round, old-fashioned clock with glowing green numbers and tiny bells on top that jangle when I bother to set it. The hands point to the two and three. What could Abby be doing this late? Maybe she’s on New York or L.A. time or some other zone that only actors get into.

Now fully awake, I crawl out of bed and set Otto on the floor at my feet. He sticks close as I pad into the hallway. Only the countryside can be this dark, with no city lights throwing off shadows or shades of gray. I push my hand outward to feel my way along doors and walls. I inch toward the guest room, pause, and listen. The door, which was shut earlier when Abby and I retired for the night, is now ajar.

“Abby?” I whisper into the dark.

She doesn’t answer.

Otto brushes against my leg. The wooden floor chills my bare feet. I’m wearing only my button-down flannel pajamas, the drawstring pants loose and baggy, the hem dragging. Feeling vulnerable, I hike the pants up.

A scraping and shuffling noise makes my heart race at a fast clip. I turn around in the hallway, trying to figure out which direction the noise is coming from. The clicking of Otto’s nails on the weathered hardwood floor alerts me to his scouting ahead. At the entrance to the den, I see a wedge of light coming from the cellar door in the floor.

Together Otto and I move into the den. This old farmhouse used to be one room with a kitchen and cellar. The one bath was added in the thirties, then later one bedroom. Our parents added another as their family grew, but it’s still rather small, definitely humble. Reaching down, I pull the wooden handle upward in a strong, swift motion, but it still makes a groaning sound. Light bursts out of the hole in the floor.

Mustiness rises like memories that have long been buried. The cellar is where I placed Momma’s clothes, keepsakes, and whatnots from her bedroom after she died. It’s where we’ve always stored canned goods from the garden, toilet paper and paper towels I buy on sale, and the tax returns I file every year.

The sounds below the floorboards where I’m standing become more distinct. Is Abby down there? If so, why? When we were kids, she used to bribe me to go to the cellar in her place when Momma would ask her to fetch a can of green beans. If it’s not her, then who? Or what? Maybe some critter got in and can’t get out. But a frightened animal didn’t turn on the cellar light.

An uneasy feeling settles over me. I tiptoe to the hat rack beside the back door and grab my umbrella for a weapon. Just in case. Then I ease first one foot then the other down the ladder. The scuffling noises grow louder. Still near the top of the ladder, I bend low toward the railing and peer down into the cellar.

Abby.

I release a pent-up breath and relax my grip on the umbrella. Part of me wants to throw it at her, scare her the way she’s scared me.

Abby bends over a box, digging her hands into the contents. She’s wearing a fancy nightgown, the slinky material hugging her curves. Her usually tidy hair is pulled up in a semblance of a ponytail, but the ends stick out in all directions like broom bristles gone amok.

She straightens, then shoves the box away and grabs another, yanking it off a stack and letting it fall to the concrete floor. Momma taught me to save everything, so there are old canning jars, mailing boxes, clothes I can’t wear anymore,
worn-out towels and linens. “You never know what you might need one day,” she used to say. Some of her boxes I never went through as the pain of losing her was too great to relive with each document or saved letter. And I didn’t want to pry into Momma’s past without her consent. So I simply boxed and stored her things in the cellar.

Abby mumbles something to herself, then jabbers away like she’s ten and playing Barbies again. She speaks so low I can’t make out the words. Pausing, she leans over and looks at a stack of papers. A script? Is she working on lines? Then she arches her neck, clears her throat, and lets out a screeching cackle that makes the hair at the back of my neck stand on end. Otto, who stands behind me at the top of the stairs, starts barking.

Abby lurches sideways and looks up at us. Her hand clutches her chest, as if to still her heart. “Oh, good grief, Dottie! You scared me to death.”

“I scared
you
?” I fist the umbrella against my palm. “What are you doing?”

“I was feeling sentimental. You know. Silly really. So I thought I’d look through some of Momma’s things.” Abby folds up one of Momma’s sweaters. The same one she haphazardly tossed aside a moment ago. She runs her manicured hand down the length of the wool, a red fingernail poking through what appears to be a moth hole near the neckline. “You have all this to help you, Dottie, to feed your memories.”

Feeling bold I step down from the ladder. Behind me Otto shifts from foot to foot, wanting to follow yet hesitant. “You got the piano. Remember? If you want something else, then all you have to do is ask.”

She throws Momma’s sweater at the box and misses. “I had to sell it.”

My breath freezes in my chest. “What? Why?”

“Don’t look at me like I just killed the dog. That piano was horribly out of tune. And so old it couldn’t be fixed.”

“It was Momma’s.”

“It’s late.” She pushes a box out of the way with her big toe, not bothering to clean up the mess she’s made. Yawning, she steps to the foot of the ladder. “I have an early flight.” She stands there, waiting for me to move out of her way.

* * *

DISCOMFITED, I REMAIN awake, curled into the sturdy chair that belonged to my father. Or so Momma told me. She never spoke ill of him, never said she missed him. It was as if their lives were two largely perpendicular lines, highways bisecting each other once or twice, then never crossing again. I’d hoped when she mentioned it was his chair that she might tell me more about their marriage, his leaving, but she’d kept her feelings to herself as she always had.

I cup my hands over the chair’s padded arms, rub my fingers against the rough brown material Momma had used to reupholster it when they first married. Otto nestles beside me with a snort.

“It’s okay.” I slide my hand along his narrow body, unsure if I’m trying to convince him or me. Questions and concerns boil inside my mind, and I stir them around until they’re a froth of uncertainty.

Before the usual teenage arguments over space and control, there had been times of sisterly laughter: giggles on rainy mornings, tickling fingers under the covers when Abby climbed into my bed, afraid after watching a scary movie. I cherish those memories, tuck them around me like a warm quilt on nights when I feel lonely.

“How’d you get so brave?” she once asked me.

I shrugged. I wasn’t brave. I had my own fears. They just didn’t include witches, Godzilla, or Roddy McDowell dressed like an ape. “It’s just make-believe.”

I couldn’t understand her fear and she couldn’t understand mine.

There’s a chill in the air, and I pull a blanket Momma knitted long ago from the basket by the hearth. Under its beige and brown weight, I feel her comforting presence. Her sense of purpose and determination are woven into every stitch.

* * *

I MUST HAVE dozed because I wake with a start, my head bobbing. Blinking, confused, I straighten, feel my muscles stiffen. My neck aches from sleeping scrunched in the chair. Weak morning light sneaks through the slit in the front window curtains. The place Otto occupied is now cold and empty.

“Here, boy.” I snap my fingers for him to come.

There is no answer. Where is he? I push to my feet, feel my joints groan. I pat my leg and call louder, “Come here, boy.”

He doesn’t.

Confused, I shuffle to the kitchen to check the time. It’s early still, but the sun should be offering more light. A peek out the window above the sink reveals distended clouds threatening overhead. We need the rain.

Shouldn’t Abby be heading to the airport?

“Abby?” The door to the guest bedroom is wide open, the bed empty, covers strewn haphazardly. Her suitcase is gone. The bathroom is a flood of damp blue towels on the floor. A heavy weariness settles over my chest and I turn away.

A tiny scratching sound draws me back to the guest room. I stare at the closed closet door. A whimper tugs at me, then a muffled bark. I wrench open the humidity-swollen
door. Otto rushes out, noses my leg, then sniffs around the room. He barks once, then sits and looks at me, his soft brown eyes concerned.

“What were you doing in there?”

I sit down next to him and rub his velvety ears. Panting beside me, his sides heaving, his pink tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, he resembles an old man with graying beard and mustache. I pick him up and cuddle him against my chest.

Daddy never said good-bye either. I simply woke one morning, padded into the kitchen to the smell of bacon frying, and looked toward his empty chair. “Where’s Daddy?”

Momma’s brows pinched together and her eyes welled. “He’s gone.”

I thought she meant he’d gone to work early. But that night when I stared out the front window, watching for his truck, Momma said, “He’s not coming back, Dottie.”

I suspect my sister won’t be back either. At least not for a while.

I push up from the floor, then reach for a forgotten blue towel and begin to fold it. Wishing on haystacks doesn’t accomplish anything.

* * *

THE SKY IS thick and gray this morning, much like my mood. Livid clouds churn and boil, bumping and bulging along the horizon. I go about my chores, feeding the chickens and hogs. Otto scarfs down his food while I pour out Wheaties for myself. I dress in a plain pair of navy slacks that I keep on hand for church committee meetings and add a simple pullover blue-checked top.

The morning chill gives way to the warm, damp blanket
of an impending thundershower, and droplets of moisture fill the air, leaving the windows dotted and the grass wet.

“Don’t worry,” I reassure Otto as he trots behind me from room to bathroom. Over the past couple of years, he’s grown accustomed to my being home most of the time. I retired early to tend to Momma when she needed full-time care. I always assumed I’d go back to teaching, but Principal Buchanan filled my position before Momma died and I was available once more. And frankly, I didn’t miss teaching as much as I thought I would.

Otto’s brown eyes anxiously watch me put on the nicest shoes I own, which tells him when I’m about to leave. “This is important.” I give him one more pat on the head. “I’ll be back soon.”

As I descend the back steps toward my waiting truck, I hear him whimper through the locked door. Guilt makes me hesitate, but a quick glance at the darkening sky pushes me on. Rain is almost a certainty. Maybe worse. I need to hurry so I can be home before the storm hits.

It’s only ten minutes to town, and I pass a dozen small farms with fields cleared for planting. Maize is a small town, even for Kansas. Folks I’ve known all my life come and go into the Food Mart and bank along Main Street. But the town appears deserted this morning. The buildings look like they were up-todate in the 1950s and haven’t been renovated or repaired since. I pull into an open parking space in front of Craig Hanson’s office, turn off the ignition, and step on the emergency brake. A burst of wind tugs the truck’s door from my grasp as I open it. Rain spits a few drops against my face and arms.

Ducking my head, I make a run for it before the cloud overhead lets loose. I jump through a hedge that separates the parking row and the storefront sidewalk. “Attorney at Law” is
etched on the door’s glass window. A “We’re Open” sign lies crookedly against the pane. It flops about as I open and shut the door, having to push hard against the relentless wind.

“Well, look who blew in!” Molly Quinton sits behind her computer terminal. Curly gray hair surrounds her kind face like smoke rings. She broke the habit years ago, but her voice still has a husky quality to it. “How you doing, Dottie?”