Ruby's Slippers (23 page)

“No.”

“Good.” Then he tilts his head and slants his mouth across mine. He’s soft and insistent at the same time, demanding and giving. His strong arms envelope me with a warmth that melts my insides until they pool deep in my belly. Behind my eyelids, stars erupt along a background of night sky. When he pulls away, his mouth quirks into a cocky smile that this time sends pure pleasure through me. “Me either. And this time, you didn’t think about anything else, not even Otto.”

I mouth the name, as if trying to lock into place what he’s talking about. My brain seems to be working in slow motion. Then memory snaps into place. “Otto. Where is—”

“Right there. Don’t worry.” He tightens his hold on me and whispers, “Don’t be afraid.” Then he steps away and bends down. “Come here, boy.”

Otto comes to him immediately.

Inhaling deeply of the night air, I stare up at the darkness, feel Leo’s shoulder brush my leg. For so long Otto was the only constant in my life. Since Momma’s illness, changes have marked my days. Each one a new disaster. But what family hasn’t been hit by a medical emergency or illness?

Fire, flood, tornado. There’s often no one to blame. And until recently I’ve never been one to blame God. But I haven’t been quick to credit him either.

This latest whirlwind turnaround of my relationship with Abby is a force of nature that has me wondering if it’s a work of God. It certainly feels supernatural for Abby and me to talk and share heart to heart.

And Leo has pushed his way inside my heart in such a short period of time. It makes me realize how much I missed by staying on the farm all those years, afraid of venturing further than my own backyard, afraid of being wounded, afraid of so many things.

Less than a week ago I prayed for answers, for direction, for hope.

This time I offer up a silent
thank you
.

Back at our father’s house the next day, Abby and I stand together as we once did on Easter Sundays of long ago, hair shining, faces scrubbed, anticipation churning. Abby is decked out today, hair swirling about her face, makeup carefully applied with a light but dramatic touch. She looks sure of herself, confident in black slacks and colorful jacket. She wears chunky jewelry around her neck and wrists. I wear one of the new-to-me outfits, the soft beige slacks pressed, the white blouse crisp with starch.

When I picked Abby up in the Jeep, leaving the rest of the Oz-or-bust gang at the hotel, Otto greeted her with a growl.

“Move over, you little beast.” She waved a hand in his face.

I waited for Abby’s usual greeting, “Is that what you’re going to wear?” It’s what she used to say in high school, putting me in my place, making me feel insecure. But today she gives me a bright smile. “You look nice, Dottie.”

“Thanks. So do you.”

“You think? I wasn’t sure what to wear. I mean, what do you wear to meet your father for the first time? Pink?” A tiny wavering in the corner of her mouth revealed her insecurities. “So, you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Now, idling outside the gate, it’s my turn to say, “Are you ready?”

Abby is quiet for a long time as she stares at the colossal estate. “You’re not serious, are you?” Her tone carries an accusation.

“You didn’t tell me, Dottie.”

“I didn’t know how … what to say.”

She gives me a nod, reaches for my hand, and squeezes my fingers. “Together, right?”

The guard checks his schedule and waves us through the wrought-iron gate. The winding road is paved smooth. Trees of all shapes and sizes seem to part before us, forming a canopy overhead. A jumbo weeping willow looks like a shaggy yellow dog. Ponderosa pines and big-leaf maples create a lush environment. Once away from the road, traffic noises recede and nature takes over. Myriad birds, thrushes and chickadees, with dark wings and golden bellies, flutter from tree branch to branch, chirping and making unusual calls that I never heard back in Kansas. Black squirrels scamper across a meticulously groomed lawn, chasing each other up the cragged trunk of an old walnut tree.

Last night’s rain has left puddles at the side of the road. The grass is still damp.

We reach the top of the ridge, and I put a foot on the brake, gathering my nerve. The monstrosity of a house is a blend of modern and traditional, brick and stone, glass and marble. It is nothing I would have chosen. It’s pompous in its self-importance, as if the designer went out of his (or her) way to waste money on unnecessary trappings like a Grecian fountain in the middle of a circular drive.

Slowly we descend the hill. Abby remains quiet. I steal a glance at her but can’t read her expression. Shock? Anger? Excitement? Is she imagining what it would have been like to live here? When I park, we stand in the circular drive for a moment while Otto chases a lone squirrel. The heat of late summer presses in on me. Or maybe my nerves are cranking up my blood pressure. Butterflies morph into snarling tigers inside my stomach.

We head toward the wide double door that appears to be at least fourteen feet tall and made of solid, heavy wood. The panels gleam as if polished daily. The scent of rain is heavy in the air; I can hear drips fall off leaves nearby.

When we reach the stone steps, the door opens before we even ring the bell. A tall, stately man who looks unfazed by the enormous spectacle of his workplace is surprisingly casual in a simple black shirt and slacks. “Welcome, Ms. Meyers.” His gaze shifts from Abby to me. He swings an arm wide to usher us inside. “Can I take your coats?”

Abby steps through the doorway first into a marble foyer that is as large as most houses in Kansas. She turns a circle, looking up at the domed ceiling. Around it little cherubs and fluffy white clouds float in a cerulean blue. “Oh, my!”

“Your coats?” the man prompts.

“Oh, no thanks.” I hug the buttery soft leather, the fringe flapping at my arms. “I’ll keep mine.”

“As you wish.” The man in black leads us to the other end of the great hall, to a simple, unassuming door. He knocks twice then turns the brass knob and lets the door open. “Mr. Meyers will see you now.” Then he walks away, disappearing through yet another doorway.

The door yawns wide, and I stare at the opening. Inside, the room appears dark, shrouded in shadows and mystery. Abby looks at me, tears welling in her eyes. I offer a reassuring smile and enter first, Otto and Abby close at my heels.

The room seems small and cozy at first with its dark wood-paneled walls and hardwood floors that give it a womb-like quality. A rug covers most of the floor with deep shades of brown, highlighted with a pale, earthy blue. Near a wall of windows where thick, heavy curtains hang is a large bare desk that looks as if it’s been swept clean. A massive leather chair sits behind the desk, turned away from us. My heart pounds as I wait for my father to swivel around and greet me for the first time in over thirty years. My limbs begin to quake.

Darkly stained wooden blinds cover the windows, but sunlight slants through them across the room, alternating shafts of light and shadow. The room takes on a different proportion, seeming to grow larger as my eyes adjust to the dimness. The ceiling is at least twenty feet high, if not more. Abby gives me a nudge with her elbow. My knees feel weak. Together we shuffle forward, standing before the imposing desk.

But the chair doesn’t turn. My father doesn’t speak.

What’s he waiting for? For us to pass out? It’s then I wonder if maybe he’s watching us secretly from some hidden camera. A shiver ripples down my spine.

“Say something,” Abby whispers.

“What?” I ask, my voice coming out hoarse. I clear my throat with a cough. “Um, hello. I brought her.” My voice sounds tiny in the large room, engulfed by the enormity of the situation. “Here’s Abigail … Abby.”

She stands slightly behind me, like a little girl hiding behind her mother’s skirts, so close that if I take a step back I’ll crunch her toes in those pointy little shoes. I tighten my hold on my own emotions. Abby has never known our father, has even fewer memories than I do. She only knows the stories I told her when we were little, lying in the dark together. But I kept some all to myself, as if hoarding a favorite toy from her prying fingers. I can see the expectation in her, the hope, the fear. She wants our father to embrace her, to offer her the love she’s always wanted. But I’m not sure he’s that type of father.

“What’s he doing?” Abby asks.

I shrug and turn to look at her, see her eyes fill with tears. A shadow behind her stirs. In the far corner, where two built-in bookshelves connect, a bulky shadow of a man looms.

Then a voice comes out of the darkness. “Hello.”

“Are you my … Duncan Meyers?” I ask, feeling myself tremble.

“I am. Who are you?”

“D-Dorothy … most call me Dottie. And,” I feel Abby clutching my arm as she turns, “this is Abby … Abigail. Are you—”

“Did you know I named you Abigail?”

Abby shakes her head.

“Ruby wanted to name you just plain ol’ Gail. So we’d have Dorothy and Gail … you know, like the girl in
The
Wizard of Oz
.”

Abby nods as if she can’t speak.

“I thought that was a bit much. Don’t you?”

I don’t know what to say.
Hello? How’ve you been for the
past thirty years? Why didn’t you care about my mother? My
sister? Me?
But my voice fails right along with whatever confidence I once had, if any.

“Why did you come here?” he asks.

“I wanted to meet you. And you asked me to bring Abby, remember?”

“But why now?”

My throat burns. “You left the ruby slippers …”

“So that’s it, eh?” He steps into the light, looking smaller than I imagined. His face is a road map of wrinkles, weathered and worn. What’s left of his hair is gray and threadbare, his cowlick wiped away with age. His shoulders are stooped. He’s not much taller than I am. I try to figure out how old he might be. He looks beaten and worn like a discarded paper sack. He can’t be more than sixty or sixty-five. But maybe it’s not age. Maybe it’s something else. He moves slowly past us and settles behind the desk. “Please,” he waves a hand toward two empty chairs facing him, “have a seat.”

I glance at his bookshelves and desktop. There’s not one picture displayed. Only row after row of books. No artwork brightens the walls. No knickknacks decorate or clutter the shelves. Nothing elaborates who this man is, what he likes, who or what he holds dear. I should have warned Abby, not tried to protect her. This will never be the kind of family either of us desires.

She clutches my hand. Her fingers are warm and smooth where mine are cold and callused from farm work. I’m not sure if Abby is trembling and I’m feeling the aftershocks or if it’s me. The shaking rocks through me, unsettling my
composure. I don’t know how to think of this man or what to call him. Father? Dad? Mr. Meyers? So I don’t call him anything. I simply sit in the leather seat across the desk from him. When I pat my thigh, Otto jumps into my lap.

Abby starts to sit next to me but instead walks around our father’s desk. He looks up at her, leaning back into the comfort of the wide-backed chair. His mouth goes slack. She hesitates, then leans forward, arms outstretched, and embraces him. He remains seated as if not expecting her hug, as if he doesn’t know what to make of it or do with it, as if maybe he’s not accustomed to receiving them. His arm lifts as if to hug her back, but he never touches her. My arms close about Otto, his warm body comforting against me. After a long, agonizing moment, Abby pulls back.

“Remember this?” He holds out his hand. On his palm is a shiny quarter. Abby reaches for it, but he closes his palm. “I’m going to turn it into two coins.”

She takes a half step back, watching him beneath heavy lids.

He folds his arm backward, his hand touching the back of his collar. He rubs his elbow with his other hand. “Abracadabra. One. Two …”

A flash of silver catches my attention. Then I hear the clink of a coin hitting the floor beneath his desk.

His features fold. He pushes back from his desk to retrieve the coin. “Let me try it again.” His voice falters. “I practiced.” He holds his hand out again. “I’m going to turn this coin into two.”

Again he raises his arm, rubs his elbow while his fingers fumble beneath the back of his collar. Once more, the coin falls to the floor, rolls under the desk, and lands at my feet.

I slide the toe of my loafer over the coin and it snaps against the wood floor. I pick it up. It feels cool against my palm. “I remember.”

“You do?” His voice lilts as if with hope.

I nod. “I remember the magic tricks you used to perform.”

A wisp of a smile touches his thin lips. He looks to Abby, and my heart contracts. “What about you?”

“She was a baby,” I explain.

Our father rubs his forehead as if trying to remember or correct his faulty recollection.

Abby backs away from him, returns to my side of the desk, and sits next to me. She avoids my gaze, but I can see the hurt, deep and gaping, in the way she sits, her shoulders slightly slumped when they’re usually straight. She looks downward, the muscles along her jaw slacking. Her thumb rubs along her pointer finger. A tear splashes on the back of her hand.

Aching for both our lost dreams, I wish I’d prepared her for this disappointment. I touch her arm, smoothing my hand along the soft jean material of her jacket. She looks at me then, her green eyes clear and hard as glass.

“We’re both here now,” I address our father. “What did you want with us?”

“I wanted to see you.” He shakes his head. His throat tightens and jerks. “You surprised me the other day when you arrived. I wasn’t prepared … I didn’t know …” He coughs, his jowls expanding. “You’ve grown up lovelier than I could have ever imagined.”

His words surprise me. I suspect he’s talking about Abby, not me. She’s usually the recipient of such flattery and
succumbs to its allure, but here and now the hardness of her expression remains.

“Why did you leave us?” Abby asks. Suddenly I like her brashness.

He stares at us a moment as if surprised we’d asked this question. “Ruby told me to.”

“Momma?” I breathe.

He leans forward, his elbows resting on the edge of his desk. His shoulders seem narrower than I remember, as if they’ve been worn away by the hard knocks of life. “She never told you?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t want to upset her. She didn’t want to discuss it.”

“Knowing her, Ruby didn’t want to make me out to be the bad guy.”

“She never said anything bad against you,” Abby adds.

He folds his hands together. His knuckles are bumpy and large. His nails are trimmed neat and short. He wears a wedding ring, and my hope plummets like a coin off the top of a high-rise building. My fascination with him irritates me. I can’t seem to stop staring, trying to take in every tiny detail.

“Oh, that’s Ruby. She’s not one to talk poorly about someone.” He pats the desktop. “You see, girls, I had a dream.”

My stomach tightens. A dream. Just like Craig. Just like Abby. Even Leo had a dream that died. What good did dreams do them?

“Ruby wanted me to pursue it. To come here and try my hand in the aerospace industry.”

“You couldn’t do that from our home?” I ask.

“Not back then. Boeing was building 747s, 707s … here on the West Coast. And I wanted to be a part of that. Ruby
didn’t. She said she’d reached her own dreams—living there on the farm, having little girls. She wanted me to go find my own dreams, follow my own yellow-brick road. She said I could always come back.” He touches the ring on his left hand. “Said I was always welcome.”

Abby crosses her arms over her chest. She seems to be withdrawing into her own protective shell. “Why didn’t you come back then? You obviously reached your dreams. Did you forget about us?”

“It’s a long road home.” He remains silent for a moment, drawing first one breath then another. “At first the weeks went by slowly without you all. I called often. I loved my girls. My wife. But this was something I had to do. Or maybe it was something I rationalized. I don’t know anymore.”