Ruby's Slippers (3 page)

“Oh, fine. How are you? Mark’s leg better?”

“He gets the cast off Wednesday.” Molly’s lined forehead compresses like a folded fan. “Something wrong? I’ve been checking the weather.”

“Is Craig available?”

“Course. Go right on in.”

I slip inside Craig’s office. A mini TV on the corner of his desk blares,
“… moving eastward at a fast clip …”

Craig closes a book and slides it into a drawer. His socked feet are propped on the corner of his desk. “What are you doing out in this weather?”

“Taking a leisurely stroll. Can we talk?”

“Have a seat.”

We went through school together. Craig asked me to marry him in first grade and told me his girl troubles in middle school. I fell in love with him during our senior year, but it was a secret affair on my part. He never knew how I felt.

Craig followed in his father’s footsteps to an Ivy League school and got a law degree, whereas I stayed, attended the community college nearby, then Wichita State. He came home with a wife and baby in tow and set up practice in the same office with his daddy who has since gone on to his great reward. I taught his oldest children when they reached eighth grade but retired before his youngest two made it that far.

With an economy of movement, Craig leans over and turns down the volume on the TV but does not turn it off. The meteorologist’s voice becomes a mumble. I catch a glimpse of angry reds moving across the projected map.

“What’s going on?” He studies me with a steady, amused gaze. “Let me guess.”

“Are you clairvoyant all of a sudden?” It’s our usual routine, except I don’t feel like kidding around this morning.

He holds up his hand, closes his eyes as if he’s Carnac the Magnificent answering questions from unopened envelopes. He twitches his mouth from one side to the other then opens one eye to stare at me. “Give me a minute now.”

“You can’t make me smile,” I warn.

“Oh, not trying to do that.” He snaps his fingers. “You’ve seen Abby. Right?”

I sink down onto the chair behind me. “Word travels fast.”

“She blew through town yesterday, turning heads, stirring up gossip. You know the bit.” He lifts his bad leg off the desk, easing it carefully to the floor. He was injured in a car wreck our senior year—a car wreck everyone blamed on Abby. It left him with a decided limp.

“Did she come by to see you?”

“That’s not her style.” He leans back in his chair, his fingers steepled. “So what’s wrong? She say something to upset you?”

“You know, the usual.” I push up from the chair, turn away, and try to tuck my feelings inside my sleeve the way my father used to hide handkerchiefs or coins for his magic tricks.

I study the pictures of Craig’s family framed and perched on the shelves that house row after row of law books. His kids are well behaved, well-adjusted, and all-around good kids. They’re a happy family, gregarious and friendly.

The TV cuts out and static crackles through the room.

“Cable.” He swats the TV with his hand. A few seconds later the weatherman emerges from a gray screen of squiggly lines to talk about wind shear.

I finger a gold-framed photograph. “This a new one?”

“You know Lindsey. Always wanting pictures of the kids and family. I expect we’ll come home from Disneyland with pictures of Mickey and Minnie and all of us in those stupid mouse ears.”

I grin, picturing Craig covering his receding hairline with the black cap, mouse ears sticking out like satellite dishes. “When are you going?”

“Sometime in July. You should come with us.”

“I’m sure Lindsey would love that.”

“She wouldn’t care.”

His words pull the truth out like a dandelion weed, the root dangling, dripping bits of truth. When Abby blows into town, the women of Maize lock their doors and hold tight to their men. But no one fears me. No one sees me as a threat to their marriage. Not in a long, long time. Maybe not ever. Momma would say that’s a reflection of my good character.

“It’d be good for you to travel some,” Craig says, echoing Abby’s words and rankling me. “Get away from here occasionally.”

There was a time when local folks set me up with every Tom, Dick, or Hayseed who came into town for a family visit. I had a ton of first-and-only dates. I can’t say I was very interested or encouraging. Maybe I still had my eye on the driveway … waiting. Or maybe I figured they’d all just walk right out of my life the way my father had. Whatever. It was a relief when my friends quit pestering me with prospective suitors.

“Your farm is safe, Dottie.” Craig interrupts my thoughts, reading my underlining concerns. Of course, this isn’t the first time I’ve come to him needing reassurance on this point.

I draw a slow breath and release it, release the tension I’ve been hoarding the way Momma collected plastic containers. “You can see in that crystal ball of yours?”

“I wrote Ruby’s will. Abby cannot sell the farm out from under you. You both own it, fifty-fifty. And because of the stipulations your mother set forth, you must both consent fully in order to sell. God willing, nothing will happen to—”

“What do you mean, ‘God willing’?”

“Any will can be broken. There’s no fool-proof, iron-clad will.” He taps a folder with his index finger. “But this is as close as anyone could get.”

“You’re a marvel. Or so they say.”

“Indubitably.” He winks.

“Conceited, aren’t you?”

“Confident.”

The TV stutters again, then the talking resumes. It’s a station out of Wichita. The traffic reporter gives the latest on potential street flooding from the approaching thunderstorm. Whatever hits Wichita usually reaches us first.

In a quieter, confidential tone, I say, “She was looking for something. Searching, you know?”

“Aren’t we all?” His smile crinkles into a frown along his forehead. “For money?”

“I don’t think so. Not in the cellar. Drugs?”

“From you?” He laughs. “Did they run out in L.A.?”

“Maybe she thinks I still have Momma’s painkillers.”

He shrugs. “Maybe something else of value.”

“She’s dreaming then.” I give a half laugh. “Momma never had anything of value.”

His gaze is steady and makes me uncomfortable. He presses his thumbs together. “Look, I did hear this bit of gossip. Take it for what it’s worth. Abby was in the bank yesterday trying to get a loan.”

“So that’s it.” I cross my arms over my chest where a deep ache throbs. “She must have been looking for something to sell. She sold the piano. What’s next? Why did Momma write her will the way she did? It just doesn’t make sense.”

“She wanted you to have the farm. She knew you loved it. But she couldn’t leave Abby out in the cold. She always hoped Abby would come home one day. She hoped you two would eventually get along.”

“Me, too.” I look down at my hands, the worn silver key ring wrapped around my pointer finger. “Maybe we’re too much like our parents. Opposites. Momma always said Abby was just like our father.”

“A dreamer with big ideas.”

“Foolish ideas.” I tap my keys against my thigh. “You know, I really have tried. Before Momma died, I called Abby regularly with updates. When she came home for the funeral, I wanted us to reconcile. Even this time I was determined to make it work. But for some reason we always end up acting like we’re ten and twelve again. Bickering. Snapping at each other.”

“Family relationships can be the hardest. But for some reason the good Lord puts these people in our lives when we never would have chosen them as friends. Iron against iron.”

“Sharpening us? So we can kill each other? Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like, how different it might have been if Momma had remarried. Do you ever wonder, what if things had turned out differently?”

“What if I didn’t have this limp? What if I’d chosen another profession? What if I hadn’t joined my father’s
practice?” His shoulders slant at a stiff angle. “My relationship with my father was like yours and Abby’s—I wanted to set a different course.”

“What else would you have done?”

He shrugs awkwardly. “You’ll laugh.”

“Maybe. But then I’ll get you to laugh about it too.”

“Fair enough. I’ve always wanted to write a book.” He laughs before I can. Except I don’t feel like laughing at his admission. “I know. I know. Everybody wants to write a book.”

“Write what? About law?”

“Fiction.”

“You want to be the next John Grisham?”

“More like Tolkien.”

This surprises me, but it also makes sense. I’ve seen his home, with stacks of books in every room. He keeps a novel in his bottom left drawer for when work is slow.

“Well, you still could. What’s stopping you?”

“Paying bills.” He chuckles and rubs his thumbnail along his jaw. “Just an old daydream. Don’t you ever—?” Abruptly, he leans forward, turns the volume knob up on the TV.

“… on the leading edge of the storm and producing tornadic
conditions. This is one big storm brewing, folks.”
The forecaster’s tone is grim.
“A super cell. And we’re starting to see rotation.”

Otto! He’ll be cowering and quivering beneath the bed, his anxious brown eyes alert and watching for me. But before I can leap for the door, the civil defense sirens start to wail.

Molly jerks the office door open, her eyes wide, her features stretched. “It’s a twister! Coming this way!”

“Take cover.” Craig stands, leaning against the desk to gain his balance.

“No.” I move toward the door. “I have to get home.”

The wind whips through Maize. Flags salute. A light pole at the end of the street bobs and weaves like it’s had a night out on the town. Tin cans rattle and roll from an overturned dumpster. A lawn chair clatters down the middle of Main Street, end over end. Rain lashes down, horizontal at times, swelling and cascading in waves. I squint up at the black clouds boiling over. Lightning zips in long, jagged streaks. Thunder follows right on its heels. By the time I’m inside the truck, my clothes are soaked. Water drips from my bangs. The ignition catches quickly and wipers slap at the rain, but it’s a losing battle. Suddenly there’s a hammering sound, like someone is pummeling my truck with a baseball bat. Quarter-sized chunks bounce like Ping-Pong balls off the hood.

The storm is gaining strength. I jerk the gearshift into reverse, back into the street, and push through sheets of rain toward the farm. I can’t see more than ten feet in front of the bumper. The town’s lone traffic light swings precariously overhead and casts an eerie yellow glow against the gloom. Blackened buildings line the way, mere silhouettes. Electricity must be on the fritz. Hail crunches under the tires as I turn at the edge of town onto a one-lane highway that will take me straight to the farm. The wheels skid, making the back end of the truck whip right, then left. I jerk the steering wheel, keeping my foot off the brake, and manage to right the truck.

As quickly as the hail began, it stops. The civil defense sirens still wail, pull my nerves taut. I flip on the radio for news, a voice of reason and calm in the chaos around me. The news is anything but.

“A tornado has been spotted thirty miles west of Wichita.
There’s significant rotation …”

I tighten my hold on the steering wheel, lean forward, push the truck as fast as I dare. I grew up in Tornado Alley. I know what to do. Take shelter. And I will—just as soon as I get to the farm. I have to get the animals secure in the barn. Have to get Otto. He’s all alone. The radio announces the position of the tornado—northwest of my location and moving due east and south. Coming right at us.

I punch the gas pedal and a roar of water sprays from beneath the truck. I worry about the chickens loose in the barnyard, the pigs grunting, butting up against the fence, bumping into each other, huddling together, squealing. And Otto. Is he scratching at the door to get out? Whining? Barking? Cowering?

A black lump in the road startles me. Two eyes. A wide nose. A cow. I stomp the brake and blast the horn. The truck whips around in a circle. I lose sight of the frightened animal
and come to a jerking halt half on, half off the road. The rear bumper tilts down into a ditch.

My breath comes in hard gasps. Where did the cow go? I look out the back window, but she’s disappeared. Wind buffets the truck. I press the gas, but the truck only makes a grinding sound. In the side mirror I can see mud shooting from the back tires. I jerk open the cab door and the wind slams it wide, nearly taking it off its hinges. Rain pelts me in the face. I try to get my bearings, searching for anything recognizable. On the road, a few feet away, a mailbox rolls over, the wind tossing it about like a handkerchief. On its side is painted my family name—Meyers.

Okay. I’m close. I can make it. Even on foot.

Fighting every inch of the way, fists clenched, eyes straining, I trudge through mud that seeps into my shoes and sucks at my two-inch heels. My ankle bobbles and I step on the side of my foot. Wincing, I kick off the shoe, all the while moving toward the house. Even though I can’t see it, it must be there. Rain plasters my hair to my head, stinging my cheeks, slashing my eyes. I’m leaning so far forward that if the wind were to stop suddenly, I would fall flat on my face.

I find the driveway almost immediately, and it guides me right up to the house. The picket fence has taken a beating. Slats tilt like teeth needing braces. Many are missing altogether. I push and shove, then kick at the gate. Old habits die hard, and I turn to close it. The wind jerks the gate out of my hands and slams it closed with a decisive clink. I turn back into the wind, glance toward the barn obscured by rain and darkness. I need to secure the animals, but a vortex has formed not a hundred yards away, a pale gray beast devouring the farmland and stalking toward the house.

I creep in what feels like slow motion toward the porch.

A post offers refuge and I cling to it, catch my breath. The overhanging roof tries to shelter me, but the slanting rain stings my exposed skin. I fumble with the keys, unlock the bolt, and fall into the house.

“Otto!” My voice sounds hoarse. “Where are you, boy?”

The wind whistles, moans, slaps at the house. The shutters tremble. There’s a
whoosh
,
pop
,
whoosh
,
pop
as something slides and smacks the roof. A rumbling fills the air. It sounds like I’m in a tin can and being shaken like a marble.

“Otto!” I charge through the rooms, search his hiding places. Behind the recliner. Under the kitchen table. Finally, dropping to my knees, I find him huddled in a tiny ball under the bed. He’s shaking so badly his teeth chatter. His little body spasms as fear rocks through him. “Come here. Hurry, Otto!”

But he won’t budge. His heavy brows hide his eyes in dark shadows. I stretch my arm out, my fingers barely grazing his side. The bed is too low for me to slide under, so I try again, stretching my arm as far as I can. The bed frame cuts into my shoulder. Finally I curl my fingers around his front leg and tug him toward me. He pulls back, fighting me.

Behind me, a window shatters. I duck and shield my head. Glass flies and an unseen hand flies through the room, knocking over pictures, tables, chairs. With a final tug I pull Otto from beneath the bed, press him against my chest, and start to rise.

Thunk!
The sound explodes in my head.

Black clouds snuff out my vision, and I feel myself falling, falling, falling.

* * *

IT’S A SWIRLING world, everything spinning out of control around me. It feels as if the house itself has been picked
up and is being spun like a top. But I remain still. I can’t seem to raise a hand or lift a finger.

Scratching, wavering sounds twitch around me. I can’t grab hold of or understand the words, if they are such.

It’s as if I’m in the eye of chaos and everything else orbits around me. I watch it all as if on a giant movie screen. My truck skids past, its bumper crunched, the side caved in, the yellow paint caked with dirt. Otto runs in circles, racing around, barking. I call after him, but he doesn’t listen, doesn’t mind. Then there’s Momma.

“Momma!” I cry out.

She simply waves and goes on, busy as if on an important errand. Swinging on her arm is a basket of Easter eggs, a reminder of things I have yet to do for the hunt on the town square. Then Abby blows past in a bright red convertible, her long hair trailing behind. She cackles at the wind. Craig hobbles past me too. Neither seems to notice me. And I am left behind. Alone.

Then it all starts again, everyone coming around for another lap. When I try to call out, no one hears. They’re busy doing their own thing. It’s as if my life has stopped and their lives have gone on. I feel tired just watching them. Their motion exhausts me.

I’m so very, very tired.

Still there is no rest, no comfort, no peace.