Ruby's Slippers (9 page)

Well, so long. Let me know what happens.” Maybelle hugs us good-bye and heads back inside to the cafeteria for breakfast. I carry the suitcase Sophia loaned me. It looks as if it’s been around the world seven times on every major and minor airline. Tucked safely inside are the ruby red slippers. “Come on, let’s hit the road.” Dragging her suitcase, Sophia leads me along the damp sidewalk. It must have rained last night as the grass shimmers with moisture. She steps off the curb and stops at a black Jeep Wrangler. It’s an older model but in good condition. The top has faded from black to gray. “This is your car?” “My son’s. He’s very generous. He might be reckless, but he has a good heart. He wanted to get me some fancy
convertible. ‘You’ll be stylin’,’ he said. But this was good enough for me. And it’s fun to drive.”

Sophia gives a little hop to clamber into the driver’s seat. I settle beside her in the passenger seat. There’s a rip in the plastic cushion, and the jagged edge rubs against my hip. Otto settles on my lap, his paws digging into my knees as he peers over the dash and out the dusty windshield.

“Don’t take offense,” Sophia says, taking the wheel and keying the ignition, “but somewhere along this journey we’re going to have to do some shopping.”

“Shopping?” I notice the Jeep’s engine resists but finally catches.

“Don’t get me wrong, Dottie. You’re a pretty girl. Very pretty.”

Not an adjective I would have used. I touch the untucked hem of the blue-and-white-striped shirt I inherited from someone at the facility. “What? You don’t think I look California chic?”

“If you’re going to meet your father, then you need to look your best.”

That puts a lump right in my throat.

“Don’t worry—my treat.” She releases the clutch, and the Jeep lurches forward. She grins, and for a moment I can see what she must have been like at twenty—wild and full of life. “Hang on to your hat.”

I’m not wearing one, but that seems beside the point. We’re off, bumping along the red-bricked road, on an adventure I’m not sure I’m ready for. But I’m convinced that if I don’t take this journey, I’ll never find the answers I need.

* * *

BEFORE WE REACH the highway, Sophia is balancing a bag of peanuts in her lap while shifting gears and steering. She looks as nimble as a juggler. A peanut sticks to her lip then falls onto her lap. Otto jumps across the stick shift before I can say, “No!”

Panicking, I check to make sure the Jeep doesn’t veer out of its lane or slam into the back of another unsuspecting car. When I’m assured all is well and that Sophia has everything under control, I add, “Sorry.”

“He’s just a hungry boy. Aren’t you, Otto?”

He licks his chops and waits anxiously for the next peanut to drop. I pull him back into my lap with one hand under his belly. He carefully watches Sophia, his eyebrows twitching.

I wonder if she was the type of woman to drive, drink coffee, and apply mascara all at the same time. Which makes me wonder what she did for a living before retiring, before moving into the facility.

“Did you ever work?” I pull a dog treat Gloria bought for Otto out of my bag and give it to him.

“Oh, sure. Had to. I was a single mom, just like yours. Let’s see, what all did I do? I was a secretary, but not very good. A clown. I did get a few laughs. I was an extra in the movies. You name it, I’ve done it.”

“Really?” Granny sought her fortune in Hollywood and found her life on a small Kansas farm. My sister had big dreams that led her to Hollywood. “Did you want to be an actress?”

“Oh, goodness no. I fell into it. Helped pay the bills.”

“What movies?”

“Did you ever see
Maverick
? The TV show? You might be too young. Oh my goodness, James Garner was so handsome.

Let’s see, what else? I was in
Cleopatra
, with Elizabeth Taylor. Scenes with the masses, just another face in the crowd.” She glances in the rearview mirror, tilts it toward her, then back. “Not too bad a face. Anyway, and yes, Liz Taylor was just as beautiful in person, if not more so. And kind. Let’s see,” she sips her Coke while shifting gears with her right hand as the Jeep enters the freeway ramp. “I was in that movie with Debbie Reynolds.”

“
Singin’ in the Rain
?”

“No, the Wild West one.”

I shrug.

“I can’t remember the name. It’ll come to me sometime. Middle of the night probably. But I wasn’t just an extra. I became a gofer. I’d get the stars coffee or little things they needed. Anything from maxi pads to scarves and hair spray. Doris Day needed throat lozenges one day when I was on the set for … oh, what was the name of that movie? I’ve forgotten more than most people—”

A sports car whips in front of the Jeep, nearly taking the bumper with it. Sophia blasts the horn. Traffic on the Ventura Freeway resembles salmon swimming upstream. So many cars and trucks are jam-packed together moving as one along the curves of the highway. My nerves are as snarled as the traffic.

“Are you okay?” Sophia glances toward me, then back at the road.

I give a curt nod.

“Are you a control freak?” Her curled lip makes me laugh.

“Not anymore,” I laugh nervously. “But I probably used to be. I’ve never been one to sit idly by while someone else does the work.”

“You’re the take-charge type. Taking care of the farm, your mother. Never afraid, just charge!”

I know that in at least one area of my life, I’ve let fear rule me. Now I’m being forced to face that fear head-on.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I know what I’m doing.” She steers with the inside of her wrist. “I even drove a taxi for a while. A friend owned a limo service, and I filled in occasionally for sick drivers.”

“You sure have lived a varied life.” Mine must seem boring.

“Well, you do what you have to do to make ends meet.”

“I’ve only been a teacher. I’ve been about as adventurous as a turtle my entire life.” What was I waiting for? My father to return home? The truth yanks off my shell, and I cringe against the light of it.

“Running a farm sounds very adventurous, what with weather and livestock. I bet lots of things have happened to you. Why, just being a teacher … well, there’s just nothing more interesting than kids—what they say, what they do. Besides, there’s something to be said for stability. But I’ve always been drawn to adventure.” Sophia takes a quick breath. “My daddy is that way. Encouraging me to take chances, try new things.”

“Your father is still alive?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Where is he?”

“Around.” She glances over her shoulder before switching lanes.

“What about your son’s father? Did he leave you?”

“We were never married.” Her answer doesn’t seem loaded with baggage of regret, uncertainty, or bitterness. “I suppose I should regret that now. Regret doing things I had
no business doing. But that’s how we learn. And empathize with others. If we never made mistakes, we wouldn’t need God, right? Besides, good can come from mistakes. All things work together for good. That’s what my daddy always says.”

My throat constricts. I know firsthand the destruction that can result from being left behind. Maybe leaving, forging ahead, unaware of what you leave in your wake, is the way to go. Being left behind sucks. Is that why Abby seems determined to always leave first?

“I ended up with a son to raise on my own, and that was hard. But I don’t regret having him. Not for one minute. Thing is, with a husband, he would have carried half the blame.”

“Blame?”

“For all the things I did wrong as a parent.”

“Why do you think you did anything wrong?”

“All parents make mistakes, whether they admit it or not. I sure did. So many …” Her brow furrows. She shakes her head, mumbles something under her breath. “I’m sure my son could chronicle a thousand things I did wrong.”

“I don’t blame my mother for anything.”

“Blame your father, do you?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it much.”

“One or the other usually gets the blame.”

I run my finger along the armrest between the seats. “Your son must not blame you for much or he wouldn’t have given you a car.”

“Conscious or subconscious, it’s there.” She waves her hand, rolling her thin, bony wrist. “Not much I can do about it now. But I do wish …”

“Wish what?”

“I do wish I could be of help to Leo. Must be the plight
of most parents. So many times we want to help but can’t for various and sundry reasons. Wonder if that’s how my daddy felt all those times I was too stubborn to turn to him for help.”

Is that what I’ve been, too stubborn to try to find my father? Stubborn in wanting him to come home of his own accord? Was that Momma’s problem? Stubbornness and pride? Running my hands down Otto’s back, I remember what it was like to lie in the hospital bed, not knowing if he lived or not. I couldn’t do anything to help him, and it was the most awful feeling in the world. I ache for Sophia and the anguish she feels for her son. One thing that trapped feeling taught me—life is too short to be stubborn or proud. It’s why I’m on this journey north.

“How would you help him?” I ask.

She tightens her grip on the steering wheel. Her swollen, freckled knuckles whiten with the pressure. “I would tell him—” She shakes her head, flips on the blinker, and switches lanes to move around a dilapidated truck carrying yard equipment. Three exhausted, sun-bronzed faces stare blankly at us from the bed of the truck as we pass. “No, I wouldn’t. You can’t tell some people anything. Sometimes folks just gotta learn things for themselves. If he asks, of course, I’ll speak the truth.”

Cars pass us with drivers chatting on their cell phones. So many people, yet so few connections made with those around them. I think of my relationship with Abby, how I want us to get along but how we always seem to bring out the worst in each other, like we’re stuck in a junior-high time warp. What keeps us apart? Different interests? Or is it something deeper? Pride? Hurt? Selfishness?

“Look there!” Sophia points to a billboard.

I recognize the iconic figures of Dorothy, the Kansas farm girl, and her three friends skipping along a yellow-brick roadway. The caption reads, “Let the joyous news be spread!” Dates for a children’s theatrical production are listed below.

I could certainly use a little joyous news right now.

The blue sky seems endless, with only a few clouds on the horizon to the west of us. The Jeep stalls on the highway when we’re sitting in traffic. “Sitting” being the operative word. “What do we do?” I sit upright, glancing behind me at the long line of cars, some of which are beginning to lay on their horns in an angry cacophony. “We’re fine.” Sophia shifts to neutral. Ahead, another endlessly long line creeps forward, leaving a gap between our bumper and a micro convertible. A Yukon squeezes between us. Otto barks at a poodle in the next minivan. Sophia turns the key and restarts the Jeep. “See, no worries!” The Jeep jerks, surges forward. Sophia brakes and accelerates ad nauseam. I eat a couple of bites of a snack
cracker we bought at a convenience store in an effort to settle my stomach. The anticipation and nervousness of the day wanes, giving way to exhaustion. I lean my head back and my eyes droop. Soon my head is bobbing.

I jerk awake.

Sophia glances over at me. “Did you have a good nap?”

I blink, shift in my seat. “Sorry.” Otto jumps into my lap from the bed he apparently made on the floor at my feet. Panting, he walks around on the tops of my legs in circles, his little paws digging into my thighs. The air conditioner blasts cool air on my face, and I turn the vent toward Otto’s limp pink tongue. “I shouldn’t have slept.”

“Why not? You were tired.”

“Sometimes I just feel exhausted.”

“Of course you do. Your body has been through a lot in the past few months. Don’t you worry about a thing. I like driving.”

It’s an odd area we’re in—a contrast in sights with forests on one side, ocean on the other. White-capped waves roll toward shore, breaking onto rocks. The sandy beach is dotted with beachcombers lying on pink, green, and yellow towels. An occasional umbrella pops open. Along the walkway paralleling the beach, tanned and scantily clad bodies jog, walk, and Rollerblade.

“Keep watching. You might see dolphins. Further north there are seals. I thought since we were so close you should see this little stretch of coastline. I know we’re in a hurry, but—”

“Don’t apologize. It’s breathtaking.” A hum of excitement vibrates through me. I feel like a kid again. “Where are we?”

“Carmel-by-the-Sea. Are you hungry?”

I touch my stomach, feel an emptiness deep inside. “I could be.”

“Good! There’s a fabulous little restaurant right on the water. Great seafood.” She glances at the dashboard. “We made such great time that this might be a good place to do our shopping.”

We meander along the coast, passing golf courses that bump up against the ocean. Jagged, rocky cliffs jut outward, accentuated by the fluidity of the surf. So far the trip has been a feast for my starved eyes. I’ve always loved how the waving Kansas cornfields resembled an emerald green sea that turned to a golden hue in the fall. But nothing has prepared me for the endless blue ocean, the sight of which quenches a thirst deep in my soul.

Back home, a few gentle hills rolled across the Kansas plains, but most of it was as flat as Momma’s Bisquick pancakes. The land was solid, safe, comfortable. The contours of the California coast make the road twist and turn ahead of us. At first the peaks and ledges, cliffs and drop-offs unnerve me. But as the day progresses I begin to look forward to finding out what’s beyond the next bend.

We pull over at an overlook to catch a glimpse of gray seals as they languish on the rocks along the beach as if they have nothing better to do but lie around, lifting their head occasionally to bark. Otto answers back. Brown pelicans pick their way along the shore as baby seals play in the surf, their parents looking on sleepily as the sun warms their skin. Their sleek, rounded bodies are like dark moonstones set in golden sand.

“This is nothing like Kansas,” I whisper. For the first time since I was transported out of my comfortable existence, I’m actually glad to be here.

Not far off shore, a large shape breaks the water, making an enormous splash. “That was no seal.”

“Whales!” Sophia clutches my arm excitedly. “It’s been years since I spotted one.”

“What kind was it?” I wonder aloud.

“This time of year probably a humpback. Maybe even a blue whale.”

“How do you know that?”

She shrugs and smiles. “I’m full of useless information, when I can remember it!”

A few minutes later, we park near the seaside restaurant, gleaming with bleached woodwork. We leave Otto in the car, with the windows cracked. “Should we take,” Sophia tilts her head to the side, “the shoes?”

“Might not be a bad idea. Just in case they are … well, you know.”

With the shoes tucked safely inside Sophia’s giant handbag, we walk into the restaurant. In the foyer, a wall-size aquarium holds bright, colorful fish that flick their fantails and stare with dark, unconcerned eyes. We settle into our seats on a patio overlooking the water. A canvas overhang keeps direct sunlight off us. A slight breeze off the ocean stirs the air with whispers of relief.

“This is my treat. Unless Clint shows up. Then I just might let him pick up the tab.”

“Clint?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t you have movies in Kansas? Clint Eastwood!”

“You know him?”

“He might not remember me. But then again, he might.” She waves her hand at the menu. “Just pick something yummy. I might have to sample.”

I half expect to see a famous face sitting at a table nearby, but I’m not sure I’d recognize a star if one orbited our table. I feel overdressed in my T-shirt and jeans in the sense that I have more clothes covering my body than anyone else sitting at the linen-covered tables. But Sophia’s right, I do need new clothes. Something that matches at least. But I don’t want her funding this trip. I still have money from the sale of my animals.

I lean forward, my elbows on the small round table between us. “You’re on a fixed income.”

“The eternal realist,” she says. “Don’t worry about me. I’m good and fixed.”

“How?” I stare at her. She’s dressed casually. Her clothes are on the nice side but not fancy. She doesn’t shop like some of the wealthy widows who live at the facility. But the fact that she lives there says something about her. It’s not the Ritz, but it is upscale. “Did catering to stars give you enough to retire on? Or was it driving taxis? Do you even get social security?”

She touches my hand. “My father has provided very well for me.”

I feel a pinprick of jealousy. “Did he leave you a lot of money?” I ask, more to make my point than to pry. But didn’t she say he was alive?

Momma was always adamant that we never accept charity. I suppose it was her mid-western attitude that makes me, even now, not want to be indebted to anyone. Abby used to like to play up our situation—Momma being a single mother; she had a knack for giving listeners a weepy look that had them handing her five dollars or bringing over supper or even wrapping up extra presents at Christmas that Momma always made us return.

“We can make it on our own,” she often scolded when we complained. I used to think she was embarrassed by our circumstances, but as I grew older I realized pride ran deep inside her.

A few minutes later our lunch arrives. A basket of assorted breads is placed between us. As we let our meals of almond-crusted mahi mahi and salmon with a mango relish cool, I try to explain my difficulty in accepting help and how Momma wouldn’t let us accept charity.

“So it’s not you,” I finish. “It’s my stubborn mid-western pride.”

Sophia smiles tenderly. “Maybe this is a lesson you need to learn. It’s okay to accept the love of others. Especially when you’re always quick to help others yourself.” She rolls her silverware out of a linen napkin and sets the pieces at the edge of her plate. “When I was pregnant with my son, I was put on bed rest. Now there is nothing that will make you more dependent on others than having to stay in bed all the day long.” She takes a bite of her fish. “Mmm, very good.” With her fork, she points at mine. “How is it?”

“Delicious.” The mango gives it a tangy sweet flavor.

“I’m sure you’ve felt some of that over the past few weeks.”

“Momma, too, during her last few years.”

She reaches for the bread and offers some to me. “Of course. I was single and unable to work. I didn’t even have insurance. But I was so proud. Proud I’d made it by myself for so many years. But suddenly it wasn’t just me I had to think about. I had a baby. Another person was depending on me, and that was very humbling.”

I take one of the wheat rolls and a chilled pat of butter from a little dish. “What did you do?”

“A few neighbors and friends brought me food and such, but as time dragged on, they disappeared. Then some folks from a church I attended a few times chipped in and helped pay for my medical expenses and doctor bills. Basically, they loved me when I wasn’t lovable at all. They’d come sit with me during the day or at night and just talk. At first, I wasn’t happy about that. I thought they were going to lecture me, point out the error of my ways. Believe me, I knew all the mistakes I’d made. But they didn’t do that. They just brought me food, books, and magazines. They even helped me pay my rent. All without making any judgmental comments about how I’d gotten myself into the situation.”

I remember how our church in Maize offered to help Momma, but she declined, saying there were needier folks. After a while, they quit offering.

“Back then,” Sophia butters her roll, “in the early ’70s, single mothers were looked down upon. It must have been hard on your mother too. Divorced women were stigmatized.” She sits up suddenly, places her hands on her hips. “Why is it men’s reputations remain intact if they get some girl pregnant or go off and leave their families? It’s the women who take the hit, and we’re the ones who stick around and clean up the mess.” She draws a quick breath, then shrugs. “Sorry. Personal soapbox.”

“You’re right. My mother stayed. She did the hard work. Maybe that’s why I never wanted to get married. Never wanted to end up a single mom, struggling the way she did.”

“Not all men run off,” she says. “Some are loyal and honorable.”

I shrug off the notion and turn the conversation away from me. “I remember some women at our church told Momma it was her fault for letting her husband run off.”

“Oh, that gets my hog! What was she supposed to do, goat-tie him?”

I smile softly at her mix-up of words. “Momma used to say, trapping a bird only gives you a trapped bird. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Great wisdom your Momma had.”

Or was it a good excuse not to risk her heart again by asking my father to return? I remember Momma’s determined gait, halting sometimes, lopsided and cumbersome, but steady and resolute. I’ve tried to emulate her, keeping my chin up, no matter what. But was it only an empty façade? “So what happened with your situation, Sophia?”

“Oh, I had a beautiful baby boy. As you’ll see. A bit wild and boisterous, but aren’t most? Named him Leo.” She whispers, “Wanted him to make better decisions than I did, be smarter than me. So I named him after the smartest person I could think of.”

“DaVinci?”

“Exactly!” She laughs. “He turned out to be a free spirit just like the original. Smarter than I ever was.” Her pensive smile tells me how proud she is of her son, yet there’s an edge of worry. “I made some wonderful friends back then. Many have now gone on, but,” she pauses, sips her water, “that’s what happens when you get old.”

“You don’t have to be old to lose someone you love.”

Her eyes soften. “You are so right. It’s painful, isn’t it?”

My chest tightens, and I shift in my seat, take another bite of salmon, glance around at the other tables.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, Dottie.”

“You didn’t. I’m fine. Really.” I sniff back emotions I thought I’d moved beyond. “Sometimes I think I’m past all that. Then it sneaks up on me. Or maybe it’s the head injury
that stirs it all up again.” I clear my throat, wave the focus away from me. “So everything turned out okay with your situation.”

She watches me for a moment. “I insisted I repay all those kind folks from the church for their generosity. They argued with me, but I insisted. They told me how wonderful it made each of them feel to be able to give, how they had learned the value of hands-on ministry, instead of just writing a check. In the end, they agreed to let me pay them back. I worked hard. It took three years to save enough money. Then when I presented them with the last check, they gave me a gift in return: They had saved my checks and invested the money for me. They gave it all back to help me raise my son.” Tears glisten in her blue eyes. “If I had known at the start how much those folks were going to do for me, I would have balked. Pride is such a huge obstacle.”

I nod, remembering Momma’s irritability as she had to lean more and more on me to run the farm. “I suppose I am prideful.” I draw the tines of my fork through the saffron rice. “It took a lot of work—the farm, caring for Momma, teaching. Even now, I wish I could do this trip alone. Not that I’m not enjoying your company. I am. And I am grateful—to you, to Maybelle, to Craig. I just …”

Sophia leans forward and reaches a hand across the table. “It’s not easy to accept help from others. I’m not pointing out your shortcomings; I have enough trouble seeing my own. I’m simply telling you what I went through. If we could do everything for ourselves, we wouldn’t need each other now, would we? And what kind of a world would this be?” She pulls back, dabs her mouth with her napkin, and grins. “Now, let’s go shopping.”

* * *

“I CAN’T AFFORD to buy a hankie in this town!”

She laughs. “I know a specialty shop that makes poor folks’ dreams come true.”

Pressure builds in my chest, behind my eyes. A hard lump wells up in my throat. I mull over all she has said. When I can speak without my voice wavering, I whisper, “Thank you.”

She loops her arm through mine as we walk two blocks over from the oceanfront drive. “Don’t forget you’re helping me too.”

We enter the Rainbow Resale shop. A
ding-dong
sounds as the glass door closes behind us.

“Did you see that sign?” Sophia asks. When I shake my head, she pulls open the door again and shows me the poster taped to the glass. Another advertisement for the
Wizard of
Oz
stage show. In this one a young actress stares off at a rainbow, with the caption,
A place where there isn’t any trouble
.