Ruby's Slippers (11 page)

Tim’s brow folds downward. “Oh, no. I shouldn’t have frightened you, my dear. He’s alive and kicking. Far as I know. Just not a part of my life much, so I tend to think of him in the past tense.” He rubs the back of his neck, turning stiffly to the right and left. “Fact is, I think of most people in the past. These days I don’t get around much. Live in the past more than the present, I suppose. Live in these old photographs.”

He’s still standing, waiting as a gentleman for me to find a seat. So I settle myself back in the surprisingly comfortable chair. Otto puts a paw on my leg, signaling he wants to sit in my lap. I give a sharp shake of my head then rub his ears.

“Elizabeth would have hated all of these pictures of her about. She didn’t even like to have her picture taken. She preferred to be behind the camera. Always was that way. After …” He gestures toward one, then reaches out, touches the corner of the frame lovingly. “I had the few pictures of her framed. I miss her face.”

Nothing else is said for a moment. Somewhere in the distance I hear the slow perpetual ticking of a clock.

“They looked alike.” My voice is too loud in the quiet of the room.

Tim slants a quizzical gaze at me.

“Elizabeth and my father,” I explain.

“Not in stature. She was slight. He was burly.” He blinks. “Is burly. But you could see the resemblance in their eyes. No mistaking those eyes.”

“And cowlick.”

A smile plays about his mouth. “They shared many of the same traits. The Meyers legacy, I always called it.”

Hearing of family traits acts like a waterfall on my senses, chilling me with regrets and yet drawing me ever closer. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, they could charm the soul right out of a saint. And the one being charmed never quite knew. Or if they did, didn’t care.” His fingers fold over the curved arm of the chair.

“And she charmed you.” It’s a statement, not a question, as I can see it in his gaze and gestures.

“To the core of my heart.” He looks down at the floor for a moment before speaking again. “Ruby suffered the same fate.”

This surprises me. At first it doesn’t seem to fit Momma, but as I contemplate the way she lived her life, I begin to wonder. She rarely mentioned my father, but maybe that was a coping skill. She never did find love again. Maybe no one else measured up to my father.

“Do you know where my father is?” I ask.

He seems surprised by the question. “Where he’s been for the past thirty or so years.” His gaze narrows. “Don’t you know, my dear?”

I shake my head, feel my throat compress. “Seattle?”

The corners of Tim’s mouth pull downward. He leans forward, places his hand on mine. His skin is smooth but paper thin, cool to the touch as if life has started to drain out of him.

“We hadn’t had contact with Duncan for years and years. But he came to Elizabeth’s funeral. From what I understand, he’s very powerful. The people he told me he’d met … heady to think of the influence he must have. Very powerful.”

Otto curls into a lump on the floor, finally settling down.

“Powerful?” I ask.

“Oh, yes. Don’t you know? Maybe it’s hard for children to see their parents as the world sees them.”

I’m confused and surprised by his statement.

“Surprised me when he came to the funeral. I hadn’t contacted him. Not that he wasn’t welcome. I just wasn’t thinking clearly … I think he read the obituary in the paper. I’m not exactly sure.”

He leans back, pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabs his eyes, then rubs the thin white material beneath his nose and sniffs. “My days are filled with things I should have done or meant to do. I suppose I put contacting Duncan out of my mind as I was missing Elizabeth. He must be suffering something awful with Ruby gone too. Was it sudden?” Before I can answer, he continues. “Elizabeth went fast. A heart attack. She passed out and never woke. A blessing, I suppose. I didn’t want her to suffer, but I would have liked to have told her …” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I go on and on. I don’t mean to.”

“It’s okay,” Sophia says.

“My father left when I was four and never came back.” I wish I could erase the hard edge from my tone.

Tim flinches as if suddenly wounded. “W-what? H-how could that be?”

“I haven’t seen my father in thirty years. I don’t even know if he knows Momma died. Or cares. He didn’t come to
her funeral.” Bitterness saturates my words. I want to ask why he went to his sister’s funeral and not his wife’s.

“But he came to see you,” Sophia says.

I take comfort in that reminder.

Tim leans back as if all the air has escaped him. “I just can’t believe that. He said …” He shakes his head as if trying to rearrange his understanding. “I can’t believe that.”

My heart skips a beat, imagining my father speaking of us, talking as if he knew us. “What did he say?”

“I asked about Ruby and you two girls.” He rubs the handkerchief over his face again. “You’re not girls anymore. But I guess you’re locked in my mind as a certain age. He said you were all fine. But how could he know that if …”

Anger pulses through me. “He couldn’t.”

“I-I’m so sorry, my dear.”

“I asked Momma if she wanted me to contact him before she passed, but she didn’t want some contrived family reunion. She said he knew where we were. And so I never let him know about Momma. He never came.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this. I try to keep my voice dispassionate, but my heart beats a different rhythm and pace.

Tim remains quiet as if absorbing all the information I’ve given him and reorienting himself to a new reality. Maybe I shouldn’t have dumped so much on him. My tone was a bit jarring, my words sharp. I thought I’d given up on those feelings, dismissed them a long time ago.

Tim’s gaze drifts toward a three-by-five-inch framed photo of Elizabeth, her smile wistful, incomplete. My heart aches for him.

“You knew Momma?” I ask.

Slowly he comes back to this moment from some recollection. “Knew her? Of course I did, my dear. Why,” he chuckles,
“I was in love with her. For a while anyway. Until she ran off with Duncan. Took my heart with her. If I’d known he’d treat her the way he did, I would have stayed and fought for her. But I thought she’d made her choice.” He shrugs his narrow shoulder. “He was younger than me. And I thought … well … maybe it turned out the way it was supposed to. I’ll never know.”

“Sounds like they both made their choices. Where is Duncan now?” Sophia asks.

“Seattle, as you said.” He looks at me again, his eyes soft and tender. “He left me his card. I tucked it in my wallet at the funeral and haven’t touched it since.” He pushes forward in his chair and pulls a wallet out of his back pocket. With slow, fumbling fingers, he opens the fold and removes a slightly bent white card. “I don’t know when he moved. But it was a different address than what we had. I don’t know if he built a new place or what.”

A surge of an emotion I would rather dismiss easily but seems to be ground deep into my bones rises up in me. I’m not sure this was a good idea coming to San Francisco, finding Tim. He seems kind, sweet, and maybe it was worth the emotional upheaval just to meet him, just to have some family connection. But to know my father is powerful, talks about me like he knows me, is not what I wanted to hear.

“So Seattle is where we’re headed.” Sophia’s words are soft, barely uttered. “Are you okay, Dottie?”

The few feet between us seems like a great distance.

“She looks pale.” Tim pushes up from his seat, stumbles on the rug, then gains his equilibrium. “Can I get her something?”

Otto jumps to his feet, taps his tiny paws on the floor, and looks at me anxiously.

“I’m okay.” I don’t want anyone fussing over me. “Really.” I touch my forehead, feel my hand trembling. I reach down and soothe Otto’s worried brow. “Maybe we should go.”

“But you just got here,” Tim protests.

“She needs to rest,” Sophia says. “Dottie’s still recovering.”

“Recovering?” Tim asks.

“She was in an accident.”

“A tornado.” The syllables feel disjointed in my mouth as I piece all the parts of my story together.

“You poor dear,” Tim says, hovering close.

“And we’re on our way to find her father.”

“He left me something while I was in a coma. A pair of slippers. I have to know why.”

As if in slow motion, Tim sinks down into his chair again. “The slippers. I’ve seen them once. A long time ago.”

Sophia pulls them out of her purse.

He reaches for them, cradles them in his hands. A smile plays at his mouth. “Ruby’s slippers.”

My uncle invites us to stay the night. Seeing that it’s already too late to venture further up the coast, we accept his generous offer. He seems reluctant for us to leave anyway, as if he’s lonely and in need of company.

Sophia and I manage to haul our luggage upstairs, with Otto racing ahead and behind and around our feet. On the third floor is a lovely guest bedroom with windows that overlook the city. As the sun dips toward the horizon, lights sprinkle on throughout the city like an ocean of fireflies.

“We must take Dottie to Fisherman’s Wharf for dinner,” Sophia insists.

It’s chillier than I expected, and I’m grateful for the leather jacket. After a cable car ride to Pier 39, we stroll along the plank walkway. Sophia buys a sweatshirt with red-embroidered letters that spell “San Francisco” in the
shape of the Golden Gate Bridge. The smells of the wharf are sharp and pungent, and chilly wind whips at my hair and the flags overhead. The pier is crowded with tourists and we shuffle along, moving slowly for Tim’s sake, taking in the sights and sounds of the bay, where ships and sailboats are moored. Across the rippling water is Alcatraz. The freedom and fear, worry and exhilaration I am experiencing on this journey make me wonder if my quiet home in Kansas wasn’t a prison that I had created for myself.

“I haven’t been down here in years,” Tim says. Pride deepens his voice as he points out different attractions.

We stop at the Bubba Gump Shrimp Company for a dinner of fried fish and shrimp. The batter is crisp, the fish fluffy white, the tartar sauce piquant yet sweet. Pelicans and seagulls perch along the wooden railings. There’s a salty tang and bite in the air.

Tim and Sophia chat amiably, bonding over talk of vitamins, prescriptions, high blood pressure, and arthritis. They compare which medications worked for them and which didn’t, the side effects that made some intolerable, and others they couldn’t live without.

Later we sit on the wharf, watching sea lions lounging only a few yards away on miniature piers. Tourists snap pictures. A couple walks past holding hands, whispering to each other, pointing out sailboats and shops. A man on stilts wobbles past as he juggles brightly colored balls. His translucent stilts are lit from within, flashing different colors every few seconds.

Sophia buys a pretzel from a vendor and offers a bite to Tim. He tries pulling off a piece, but his fingers fumble and Sophia helps him. They share a chuckle at their awkwardness, then Sophia wipes a chunk of coarse salt off his upper lip.

I look away, feeling as if I’m intruding. Many times I’ve gone to dinner with Craig and his wife, Lindsey, with Abby and her many beaus, with friends and their significant others. I never felt lonely, never felt as if I was missing out on something. But tonight I do.

“You want some, Dottie?” Sophia asks.

“No, thanks. I’m full.” But I feel empty inside.

The night is black, clouds blocking out the stars and the moon. Lights strung along the wharf reflect in the dark water like tiny jewels of sunken treasure bobbing to the surface.

“When I see your father again,” Tim says, sitting between Sophia and me, “I might just punch him in the nose.”

I laugh, then realize he’s serious. His arthritic hands are curled into loose fists resting on his thighs. I cup a hand over his gently. “Thank you.”

“For what? I didn’t do anything to help you, my dear. Or Ruby. I should have helped. I should have tracked down that fool and made him go back to his family.”

Sudden tears prickle my eyes like tiny needles. My cheeks feel cold in the ocean breeze. “Nobody ever even wanted to stand up for us before.”

“Well, they should have. Ruby should have let us know. I could have done something, persuaded Duncan—”

“Momma didn’t want him to feel forced to come home. She only wanted him if he wanted her.”

He nods. “She was always proud. To a fault maybe. She always overdid, pushed herself. She wouldn’t accept help or excuses. Even with that bad leg of hers. She wanted to be like everyone else.”

“Pride’s a cold bed to lie in,” Sophia says, tearing off a piece of pretzel.

Is pride why my own bed is empty but for Otto? I ask, “Why didn’t we have contact with you and Aunt Elizabeth?”

The creases around his mouth deepen. “It’s my fault, my dear.”

“Your fault?”

“I was in love with your mother when I left for California. Elizabeth moved out here not long after. I didn’t know it until years later, but she apparently had a crush on me back in Kansas.” In the yellow lights of the wharf, his ears redden. “Men can be stupid that way, not seeing what’s right in front of them. Took me a while to get over Ruby. And then one day I took notice of Elizabeth, and that was that. It was as if she healed my wounded heart and stole it all at once. That sound crazy?”

“Not at all,” Sophia says. “Love heals.”

They don’t seem to notice I’m silent on the subject of love and romance. I glance past the wooden railing at the sea lions, their bloated bodies content to lie where they are. Two rub noses. Another barks into the night. It’s a forlorn and lonely sound that echoes deep in my soul.

“Elizabeth knew how I felt about Ruby,” Tim continues. “Not that she was the jealous type. She never said anything. But I thought keeping our distance was a good idea. She seemed relieved not to be around your mother. I didn’t want to stir up any strife or cause Elizabeth to be jealous or think my heart still pined for someone else. Now, though, I regret that choice.”

“You didn’t know.” I wonder if I should tell him about the letter Elizabeth wrote Momma. Of course, all that was left was an empty envelope. I rub a hand along Tim’s back. “You didn’t know.”

“That’s true of many things in this life, my dear.” He
curls his fingers over the bench seat. “Many times I wondered about my purpose in life. I couldn’t imagine that being an accountant and financial adviser would change the world or make it a better place. Looking back, I know now my greatest purpose was loving Elizabeth. Might not seem big, but a life doesn’t have to be magnificent to be important.”

“Exactly.” Sophia eyes a popcorn vendor nearby. “I’ve been around a lot of important people who seemed to be destined for great things. But I’ve always seen my own life as a series of small, purpose-filled moments.”

“And there’s satisfaction in that,” Tim says.

“Which means your usefulness isn’t over just because your wife is passed on,” Sophia says.

Tears spring to Tim’s eyes.

“It might be just beginning.” Sophia turns to me. “For you too.”

* * *

MAY BE IT’S THE long drive or simply the ocean air, but I sleep hard that night as if I haven’t slept in a year. I wake to morning light streaming through thin white curtains in the guest bedroom. Sophia tiptoes about the room, murmuring to herself. As I sit up, I realize she’s dressed in loose slacks and a long-sleeved yellow top, her suitcase packed and zipped.

“Good morning, sleepy head.” She smiles.

“What time is it?”

“Almost time for breakfast. Tim is preparing French toast. He insisted. Then he’ll give us directions and we’ll be off.”

I stare out the window at the awakening city, cars moving along the roller-coaster roadways, bumper to bumper. Somewhere out there is my purpose.

After taking Otto for a quick walk, I shower and dress. Tim serves us a hearty breakfast of French toast topped with maple syrup and fresh fruit on the side. Then we pack our things and maneuver the luggage back down the stairs without bumping a wall. We stand at the doorway, delaying the inevitable good-byes. I’ve come to like my uncle immensely. I sense his equal reluctance to see us go. Remembering the look in his eyes when we first arrived and asked for him by name, as if he’d won some prize, I make a rash decision.

“I know this is short notice, but would you like to go with us?”

A peculiar expression crosses his features. He steps forward and embraces me, holding me against his chest for a long moment. It’s then I hear a distant whir and realize it’s the microwave in the kitchen. Soon there’s the pop, pop, pop of kernels and the buttery smell fills the hallway. “I was hoping you’d ask.” He steps back and releases me. “Your popcorn is almost ready.”

“You won’t miss work, will you?”

“Retired last year.”

“Excellent!” Sophia kisses him on the cheek.

“I’m not sure I’ll be of any use to you on this trip, but I would like the chance to help you, Dottie. If I’d only known …” he seems stumped by his own helplessness. His features contract. “I would have tried to knock some sense into Duncan, or at the least turned him out at Elizabeth’s funeral.”

“It’s okay.” I place a hand on his arm.

“I feel responsible.” He talks as if his honor has been tarnished.

“But it wasn’t your responsibility. You couldn’t have done anything.”

“Two more stubborn people, Ruby and Duncan, you’ll never know. Still …”

His words stick inside me like a piece of old chewing gum on the bottom of my shoe. Is that what people will remember me for? My stubbornness?
You remember Dottie
Meyers, don’t you? She wouldn’t give up on that old farm, would
she? Held on till the bitter end.

“Maybe Miss Sophia is right,” Tim says. “Maybe I still have some purpose left.”

I recognize a deep determination in this man I’ve quickly come to respect and admire. “Okay, then, you better get packed.”

“Already am, my dear. Already am.” He glances over at the closet door beneath the stairs where a simple black suitcase waits.