Laundry Shoes

Happy Rainy/Snowy Wednesday everyone! Less than three weeks until Christmas, and even though today's story isn't about the holidays, it is about giving a gift. I'm unsettled at the end of this story, as I think I'm supposed to. Try to read it keeping the boy's actions vs. intentions in mind, and what happens because of them. The author, Judy Mayhew, is a writer living on Vancouver Island, British Columbia. She currently belongs to two writer's groups and is working on a novel. 

 

Laundry Shoes
By Judy Mayhew

 

The boy waited until his mother carried her basket of wet laundry onto the back porch of their double-wide trailer. He could see her from her bedroom window, worn jeans frayed at the cuffs, flip-flops revealing rough heels. Her arms held high, a clothespin in her mouth. The cool breeze filled her first sail and she bent to its mate.

 

He pulled her dresser drawer open, inch by inch, and felt for the stack of bills, folded and double circled with a rubber band. The band stretched until it snapped off and landed on top of a pile of cotton underpants. Two hundred and twenty dollars, the same as yesterday. He peeled five twenties from the top of the bundle and tucked them into his back pocket, glanced out the window and saw her peg a pillowcase to the line, open side up, one peg on each side. The packet of bills felt slightly thinner between his thumb and first finger as he wound the band twice around.

The drawer slid home without a sound and he tiptoed down the hall, opened the back door and watched as she swung the line out as far as it would go. The first sheet caught on the wisteria growing up the anchor pole and she tugged the line to extricate it. The sheet caught the wind and billowed free. Tucking the empty basket under one arm, she turned to the door. A smile lit her face and she held out her free arm to touch the boy’s shoulder.

“Hi, honey. What are you doing this morning?”

The boy shrugged. “Just going to the mall, I guess. I need batteries for my iPod.”

“Can you pick up a couple of D-size for the flashlight?” She set the basket on top of the washer and ruffled his hair.

He nodded and pulled away from her.

“Do you need any money?”

“No,” he said, gazing at the newly applied red polish on her toenails.

“Be back by noon. Grilled cheese for lunch.”

The wide corridor echoed with the click, clack of high heels as a store clerk hurried by carrying a cardboard try of lattes. He wandered slowly, stopping at every window. Cheap jewelery, books, CDs. The twenties warm in his pocket, he stopped at the window of a shoe store. A pair of red high heels with open toes and an ankle strap of rhinestones caught his eye and he entered the store. He hadn’t seen her in high heels since his stepfather left.

A bored young clerk, hands in the front pockets of her tight cords, approached him.

“You want those?” she asked.

He nodded.

“What size?”

“I think 6.”

“Just a sec,” she said, snapping her gum.

The black curtains at the back of the store parted as she pushed through. The boy sat down on the narrow wooden bench. The girl returned and placed the box beside him and he lifted the lid. Nestled together in white tissue paper, the shoes lay like jewels. He reached in and ran his finger under the rhinestone straps, diamond bracelets for her ankles.

The girl checked her watch and stifled a yawn.

He breathed in the smell of leather, cardboard and the warm sweat at the girl’s waist and placed the lid on the box.

“How much?” he asked.

He girl pointed to the sticker on the end of the box.

“89.95,” she said. “Plus tax.”

“Okay. I’ll take them.”

The girl shrugged and headed for the till.

When he reached his driveway, he saw his mother in the open doorway talking to the widower who lived in the big house in town next door to the pharmacy. The man passed a black garbage bag through the doorway and she smiled and held out her hand. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.

The boy crouched behind his mother’s rusted Nissan as the man sauntered down the walk and climbed into his Mercedes. His mother pushed the door closed with her hip, and the boy rounded the house, slipped in the back door and hurried to his room. He hid the box under his bed and stared at his worn running shoes.

At breakfast the next morning, he set the wrapped box beside his mother’s coffee mug. She set his cereal and toast on the table and eyed the box, running her hands down her hips.

“What’s this?” she cried.

The boy studied the raisins in his cereal.

“Happy Birthday, Mom,” he mumbled.

She sat down sideways on the chair, knees together and set the box on her lap.

“Oh, honey. Thanks for remembering. I didn’t expect anything.”

She pulled the ribbon off without untying the knot and slit the tape with her fingernail. With the coloured paper neatly folded beside her mug, she lifted the lid and pulled back the tissue. Her eyes widened as she lifted the left shoe by its rhinestone strap. She smiled and brought it close to her cheek, then paused and glanced across the table. Her eyes glassy, she lowered the shoe into the box and covered it with the crumpled tissue.

Clouds moved in from the north as she rubbed the top of the box with her palms and looked out the kitchen window.

“Thank you,” she murmured, and turned to look at her son.

Raisins, evenly spaced, circled his cereal bowl. The boy gazed out the window at the sheets hanging still in the damp air.

“You’re welcome,” he said.