Ruby's Slippers (8 page)

Gloria laughs. “You have no power here. Dottie’s attorney just submitted papers giving her back all of her rights.”

Otto punctuates her words with his own bark, then a low menacing growl.

Abby grabs the red lap blanket off the end of the bed and throws it on top of Otto. The blanket covers him completely. Under the knitted yarn, his body makes a little wiggling, squirming lump.

I jump up too fast, feel a wave of dizziness. My knees weaken and I sit down hard on the bed.

“Go away.” Gloria steps between Otto and Abby. “I won’t allow you to upset my pa—”

“Very well.” She glares at me, her green eyes flashing. “But I’ll be back.”

Otto barks again, the sound muffled by the blanket.

Abby turns on her heel, swooshing her long hair over her shoulder, and is gone before I can catch my breath.

Gloria whisks the blanket off Otto, folds it, and sets it on a shelf in the closet. “She’s gone now,” she tells Otto. “You’re safe.”

“Abby does like to make an entrance.” I stare at the empty space my sister occupied. “And exit.”

“All she needed was fire and smoke.” Craig puts an arm around my shoulder. “You okay?”

I nod.

“Did she look green to you?”

I attempt a smile.

He hands me the stuffed animal from Disneyland. It’s a purplish monkey with a long, curling tail and a funny-shaped hat on its head. “The kids picked it out. It’s from a movie, I think.”

“It’s Abu.” Gloria takes hold of my wrist and checks my pulse. “From
Aladdin
.”

Craig limps over to the chair by the window and sits, the cushions making a puffing sound as air
whooshes
out of
the cracks in the plastic edging. “So what’s this about a pair of shoes?”

“Slippers, actually. The ruby slippers from
The Wizard
of Oz
.” I rub Otto’s soft chin.

“I looked them up on the Internet.” Gloria rearranges the plants and cards on my bedside table. “No one knows where all the shoes are.”

“There’s more than one pair?” I’m not sure if my brain is on the fritz again or if this conversation is just so fantastical, so bizarre, I can’t fully grasp it.

“No one knows how many pairs of ruby slippers were made,” Gloria continues. “Apparently, when movies are filmed, they usually make several identical costumes for the lead actor. You never know when there might be a rip in the material or if there’s a scene where they get wet and several shots are required. The same goes for shoes. Especially when the actor or actress is dancing. Why, Cyd Charisse could go through many pairs from rehearsal to filming each dance scene.”

“What else did you learn about the slippers?”

Gloria tosses away an empty water cup. “One pair was made exclusively for the close-up at the end of the movie when Dorothy clicks her heels and says—”

“There’s no place like home.” The words come out before I contemplate them. My throat tightens as I remember the front porch where Momma and I would sip coffee in the morning, watching the bird feeder where flocks stopped on their way south. Longing swells inside me. Maybe, just maybe, I can find my father and save the farm too. I could rebuild the house.

“How much could a pair of shoes like that be worth?” Craig asks, meeting my gaze and seeming to understand exactly what I’m contemplating.

“They’re part of our culture.” Gloria hands me a cup of water. “One of a kind.”

“Or five of a kind.” Craig winks.

“There’s a pair in the Smithsonian,” Gloria continues. “A couple of folks own pairs privately. Another pair was stolen from the Judy Garland Museum. One woman won a pair in a contest in 1939.”

So the agent
was
after the shoes. But if Abby stole them, why would she be looking for them now? Or did my father—?

“The last time a pair was auctioned off,” Gloria breaks into my thoughts, “the shoes were sold for more than $600,000.”

My back straightens. “Say that again.”

Craig meets my gaze. “Six hundred thousand possibilities.”

“But wouldn’t another pair just make them worth less?”

“Not necessarily. It would depend on many factors, like the condition they’re in. Or whether they were actually worn by Judy Garland.”

My heart starts pounding with anticipation. “Would my shoes realistically sell for that much money?”

Gloria picks a brown leaf off a plant sent to me by my church back in Maize. “Probably more.”

“Inflation,” Craig says.

“So that’s what Abby’s been after this whole time.”

“What a woman won’t do to find the perfect pair of shoes, huh?” Craig grins then grows serious. “The auction is in eight days. Not much time.”

Craig says good-bye and promises to do all he can to stall the auction. I locate Sophia. “I need to talk to you.” I think about the FBI agent who visited me, and that strange woman in the night. Not to mention my sister. “And I don’t want anyone to overhear us.”

Sophia hooks her arm through mine. “Let’s walk down to the wharf. It’s not too far.”

Otto and Maybelle join us, and we walk along a red-brick street, crossing over to a sculpture of three dolphins leaping from a fountain surrounded by tall palm trees. The rush of water soothes my frazzled nerves as I tell my story.

“Why would she tell Abby about the ruby slippers and not me?” I ask the most perplexing question, the one that haunts and hurts me the most.

“Maybe because Abby was—is—an actress,” Sophia suggests. “Mothers try to find common ground with their
children. You shared the farm with your mother. I went to football and baseball games and rock-and-roll concerts with my son.”

“My mother drank,” Maybelle says as she lights up a cigarette.

I put an arm around her and stare at the dolphins arcing through the air. The sun glints off the blotched blue coating, making them shimmer with different rainbow hues. My mind drifts back to my childhood, before DVDs and videos, back when
The Wizard of Oz
was televised once a year. Abby and I would settle on the sofa with a knitted blanket and a bowl of Jiffy Pop popcorn between us. She hid under the blanket when the ugly green witch appeared, and I laughed at her. Momma would usually be in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner, folding clothes, darning socks. She was never idle, never one to just sit and watch a movie straight through.

Granny, before she passed on, would tell us stories of working in Hollywood. Demanding directors, insecure actresses, flamboyant and brilliant designers. She could look at a film and know exactly who the designer was: Adrian, Edith Head, Walter Plunkett. When Abby would pepper her with questions, she’d wave a hand and say, “That was a lifetime ago.”

“The farm auction is set for Tuesday, one week from tomorrow,” I say as we step onto the planks of Stearns Wharf. “But I can’t just sell the shoes. I have to know where they came from, why my father gave them to me. If he …”

“Stole them?” Maybelle says what I can’t.

“If I do sell them, then I might be able to save the farm.”

“Your sister would get what she wants,” Sophia adds.

“Money,” Maybelle blows out a stream of smoke.

Sophia coughs and waves away the smoke. “And you’d
have your life back.” She points to some wooden benches. “Do you need to rest?”

“I’m fine.” Then I remember my friends are older than me. “Do you?”

Maybelle is the only one huffing, her short legs having to take two steps to our one, but she puffs her cigarette and keeps chugging forward.

I stare out at the ocean that stretches for miles in either direction, the blue hues shifting and changing. “It’s going to take a miracle.”

“Miracles happen.” Sophia smiles, the wind making her hair stand out in all directions. “After all, you’re alive and well.”

Miracles. Wishes on haystacks. She might as well have said the wizard who lives in the Emerald City will help you. Which almost makes me laugh, considering all that’s happening in my life.

It’s not that I don’t believe in God. I was raised in the church. I attended every Sunday, or at least I did before the tornado. Services take place here at the facility with local preachers from different denominations coming in on a rotating basis, but I haven’t bothered. I showed up for church all those years, but God didn’t show up for me when I needed him most. Does God really care what I do? Where I go? That I’ve lost everything?

I was raised believing God was all-knowing and all-powerful, able to see everything I did wrong, able to squash me like a pesky fly. Momma was accepting of God’s will, as she called it. Or was it simple resignation?

Crippled from a bout of polio as a child, Momma never seemed to doubt God. Her faith, even when polio came back in a different form and stole the strength from her muscles, never wavered. What did she know or learn that I haven’t yet?

I remember some verse my pastor used in a sermon or two, something about running and not growing tired, soaring like an Easter … eagle. Am I the one who’s crippled? Spiritually, that is? If so, then maybe that’s why I can’t muster enough faith to believe in miracles.

Maybe God is simply absent from my life the way my father has been all these years. Perhaps my future is entirely up to me. But I wouldn’t mind a little help from the Almighty if he’s paying attention. So I toss up a prayer.

“I could use a little help down here.”

* * *

THE BEACH IS crowded with older couples and young families. Children shriek at the chilled water, splashing and running. Otto noses around, sniffing and searching. Running a few feet ahead of me, he scampers back when the cold surf touches his paws. Sophia walks along beside me, quiet in her own thoughts, her sandals dangling from her fingertips. Maybelle marches off to find some refreshments.

Using a Popsicle stick, a sticky Coke can, and my cupped hands, I sit on the beach scooping and patting a rather lopsided California coastal map in the sand. Otto sits beside me, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, slobber dripping off the end of his tongue.

Sophia pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head. Sunlight turns her hair golden. “A Wii just isn’t the same, is it? All that virtual stuff, it can’t measure up to reality. It’s fun to play around with and it does get you moving, but it doesn’t compare to playing volleyball on the beach in the warm sun with the sand between your toes.”

I smile at her. “Or the salty taste.”

“Standing about in your house slippers can’t slough
the dead skin off your heels either.” She brushes sand from the bottoms of her feet.

“Neither can walking in someone else’s shoes.”

She tilts her head, studying me with an open curiosity.

“My sister said that’s what I’ve been doing. Or was doing … before the tornado.” I trail my finger through the sand, drawing a line and turning it into my name. “Most of the time, I guess, I was just trying to make a living, get by on what we had. Help Momma.

“There was always something to do. Days were long. During the school year, when I was teaching, I’d get up at

4:00 a.m. to feed the stock, do a little work in the fields. Then I’d shower and get to work. Some of my students worked for us during the summer.” I shrug. “I thought it was a good life. It was hard, but I liked it.” I scoop up a handful of warm sand and let the grains trickle down between my fingers. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, Dottie. If you want the farm, then you have to fight for it.”

“Here ya go.” Maybelle plops down beside me, shoving a bare foot right through Oregon on my map. She passes each of us a sweaty Coke can, then places a cup of water in front of Otto who laps it up.

“Which means going to Seattle.” I jab the Popsicle stick into the top of my map like a flag. “That’s where Craig thinks my father might be living.”

“You know,” Maybelle pulls a squished box of popcorn out from under her arm and shoves it toward Sophia, “that junk show so many folks are going to—”

“
Antiques Roadshow.
” Sophia opens the red-and-white striped box, her face lighting up. “It’s gonna be in Seattle.”

“Maybe I could go with the tour from the facility.”

“That would work,” Maybelle says. “They’re leaving Wednesday. Might still be room in the van.”

“But then I wouldn’t be able to stop in San Francisco.” I draw two lines in the sand resembling the Golden Gate Bridge. “And I need to do that.”

“I can take you!” Sophia offers the box of popcorn for us to sample.

Maybelle scowls. “How?”

“My car. I can take you wherever you need to go.” There’s a tremor of need in Sophia’s voice. “It’ll be an adventure. We can take our time or go as fast as we need to.”

“You could take a train or a bus,” Maybelle suggests.

Sophia frowns. “Have you tried to sleep on a train?”

“As a matter fact, I have.” Maybelle slurps her Coke, making kissing sounds with her thin lips. “I was in the circus. Remember?”

Sophia shakes her head. “Besides she’ll need a car to get around in Seattle.”

“You can’t drive.”

“Can too. I have a license, issued by the State of California. And I’ll have you know, I’ve never had a wreck or received a ticket in my life.”

“What’d you do? Keep the car parked in the garage the whole time?”

“Phooey!” Sophia bats her hands at Maybelle.

I try to interrupt. “Look—”

“Why do you even have a car?” Maybelle is like a bulldog with a bone. “Not much point where we live.”

“I like knowing I can come and go as I please.” Sophia gives Otto a bite of popcorn. “Besides, my son gave it to me. He lives in Oregon now.”

“Seems like a foolish thing to do.” Maybelle scratches her head and a tuft of steel gray roots stand, topped by a maroon red. “Can you even read a map?”

“Of course! See here—Santa Barbara,” she points to my rough outline, “San Francisco. We can take the Pacific Coast Highway or get there faster on the Ventura Freeway. No problem.”

“This ain’t a good idea,” Maybelle grumbles.

“You should come with us,” I say, sensing she might be feeling left out.

She purses her lips and shakes her head. “Nope. Not me. I done traveled all my life. Not anymore.”

“If we push hard,” Sophia draws her finger up the sandy coastline, “I think we can make it to Seattle by Thursday. That’s plenty of time to find your father. And we can take the shoes to the
Antiques Roadshow
over the weekend. Might stir interest for a quick sale. Then,
voila
!”

“Save the farm.” I nudge Sophia’s finger back toward Oregon. “Which gives us time to see your son on the way.”

“Oh, I’ll have plenty of time for that later.”

“Sophia,” I say, “if there’s one thing I’ve learned through my ordeal, it’s that there’s no guarantee there will be a tomorrow or a next week.”

Her mouth tightens. “You’re right. Every day is a gift.”

“My ma always said, ‘Maybelle, eat your fill today ’cause there might not be any vittles tomorrow.’ Kinda the same thing, don’t ya think?”

I smile.

“Mothers never stop worrying about their little chicks.” Sophia wraps an arm around Maybelle’s shoulders.

“Not my ma. She kicked me out when I was sixteen.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. I may not have had a father, but I had a mother who loved me and took care of me.

“Ah, don’t matter,” Maybelle huffs. “Learned to get by on my own. That’s all any of us has. Right?”

“We have God,” Sophia says.

It sounds like a glib answer, but I suspect with her it’s not.

“Easy for you to say,” Maybelle grumbles and jabs a stick at the sand.

“No, it’s not. I learned the hard way. Like everybody else.” Sophia’s eyes cloud with dark emotions as she looks at me.

“I hope I’m doing the right thing.” I admit my doubts.

“My daddy always said, ‘The truth shall set you free.’ And whatever you find on this trip, I think it might just set you free.”

“From what?”

“Whatever you’re holding onto. Or whatever has a hold of you.”

What truth could there be in a pair of old slippers? My father wasn’t nearly as forthcoming with advice as Sophia’s. I don’t remember anything profound he ever told me. I do remember he liked to play with cards, asking me to guess which card he placed in his pocket, telling me to pick one out of the deck and then telling me what it was. He also could hide a penny in his hands and pull the coin out of my ear. At one time, I thought he was magical. But with one decision—
poof!
—he disappeared from my life, and the magic vanished forever.

I don’t expect miracles or magic to come from this trip.

I’ll be satisfied with the truth.