Shoeshine Girl

by Clyde Robert Bulla

The Medal

  * * *

  Every evening, after work, Sarah Ida was tired. But every morning she was ready to go back to Shoeshine Corner. It wasn’t that she liked shining shoes, but things happened at the shoeshine stand. Every customer was different. Every day she found out something new.

  Some things she learned by herself. Like how much polish to use on a shoe. A thin coat gave a better and quicker shine. Some things Al told her. “When a customer comes here, he gets more than a shine,” he said. “He gets to rest in a chair. When you rub with the cloth, it feels good on his feet. When you tie his shoelaces a little tighter, it makes his shoes fit better. My customers go away feeling a little better. Anyway, I hope they do.”

  One warm, cloudy afternoon, he said, “We might as well close up.”

  “Why?” she asked. “It’s only three o’clock.”

  “It’s going to rain. Nobody gets a shine on a rainy day.”

  He began to put away the brushes and shoe polish. She helped him.

  “Maybe you can run home before the rain,” he said. A few big drops splashed on the sidewalk. “No. Too late now.”

  They sat under the little roof, out of the rain.

  “Hear that sound?” he said. “Every time I hear rain on a tin roof, I get to thinking about when I was a boy. We lived in an old truck with a tin roof over the back.”

  “You lived in a truck?”

  “Most of the time. We slept under the tin roof, and when it rained, the sound put me to sleep. We went all over the South in that truck.”

  “You and your mother and father?”

  “My dad and I.”

  “What were you doing, driving all over the South?”

  “My dad sold medicine.”

  “What kind?”

  “Something to make you strong and keep you from getting sick.”

  “Did you take it?”

  “No. I guess it wasn’t any good.”

  She had never heard him talk much about himself before. She wanted him to go on.

  “Was it fun living in a truck?”

  “Fun? I wouldn’t say so. Riding along was all right. Sometimes my dad and I stopped close to the woods, and that was all right, too. But I never liked it when we were in town selling medicine. Dad would play the mouth harp, and he made me sing. He wanted me to dance a jig, too, but I never could.”

  She tried to imagine Al as a little boy. She couldn’t at all. “Why did he want you to sing and dance?” she asked.

  “To draw a crowd. When there was a crowd, he sold medicine. We didn’t stay anywhere very long. Except once. We stayed in one place six months. My dad did farm work, and I went to school.”

  He told her about the school. It was just outside a town. The teacher was Miss Miller. The schoolhouse had only one room.

  “There was this big stove,” he said, “and that winter I kept the fire going. Miss Miller never had to carry coal when I was there.”

  “Did you like her?” asked Sarah Ida. “Was she a good teacher?”

  “Best teacher I ever had. Of course, she was just about the only one. I hadn’t been to school much, but she took time to show me things. Do teachers still give medals in school?”

  “Sometimes. Not very often.”

  “Miss Miller gave medals. They were all alike. Every one had a star on it. At the end of school you got one if you were the best in reading or spelling or writing or whatever it was. Everybody wanted a medal, but I knew I’d never get one because I wasn’t the best in anything. And at the end of school, you know what happened?”

  “What?”

  “She called my name. The others all thought it was a joke. But she wasn’t laughing. She said, ‘Al wins a medal for building the best fires.’”

  “And it wasn’t a joke?” asked Sarah Ida.

  “No. She gave me the medal. One of the big boys said, ‘You better keep that, Al, because it’s the only one you’ll ever get.’”

  “And did you keep it?”

  He held up his watch chain. Something was hanging from it—something that looked like a worn, old coin.

  “That’s what you won?” asked Sarah Ida.

  He nodded.

  “That’s a medal?” she said. “That little old piece of tin?”

  She shouldn’t have said it. As soon as the words were out, she was sorry.

  Al sat very still. He looked into the street. A moment before, he had been a friend. Now he was a stranger.

  He said, “Rain’s stopped. For a while, anyway.”

  He slid out of his chair. She got up, too. “I—” she began.

  He dragged the folding door across the stand and locked up.

  “Go on. Run,” he said. “Maybe you can get home before the rain starts again.”

  She stood there. “I didn’t mean what you think I did,” she said. “That medal—it doesn’t matter if it’s tin or silver or gold. It doesn’t matter what it’s made of, if it’s something you like. I said the wrong thing, but it wasn’t what I meant. I—” He had his back to her. She didn’t think he was listening. She said, “Listen to me!”

  He turned around. “You like ice cream?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Come on. I’ll buy you a cone.”

  She went with him, around the corner to Pearl’s Ice Cream Shack.

  “What kind?” he asked.

  “Chocolate,” she said.

  They sat on a bench inside the Shack and ate their chocolate cones.

  “It’s raining again,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Then they were quiet, while they listened to the rain. And she was happy because the stranger was gone and Al was back.

  The Accident

  * * *

  For a month it went on that way—she and Al working and talking together. She’d thought it would go on and on like that.

  Then came the day of the accident.

  Al had run out of black shoe polish. He told her, “I’ll go over to the store and pick up some more.”

  “I’ll go,” she said.

  “No,” he said. “You keep on with what you’re doing.”

  She finished with her customer. By that time Al was coming back across the street. He hardly ever walked. He almost always ran. He was running now, with his head down.

  He was nearly to the curb, when a long, blue car came around the corner.

  She shouted. She was too late. The car struck him. He spun around and fell, half on the sidewalk, half on the street.

  The car stopped. A man jumped out. His face was pale. “He walked right in front of me,” he said. “I couldn’t stop.”

  Other people came running.

  “Don’t try to move him,” someone said. “Wait for the ambulance.”

  The ambulance came screaming down Grand Avenue. It stopped near the stand.

  Sarah Ida pushed through the crowd. She saw Al lying across the curb. He looked like a bundle of old clothes.

  Two men in white were there. They turned him over. She saw his eyes looking up at her. He reached into his pocket.

  One of the men said, “Don’t move.”

  Something fell out of Al’s hand and onto the sidewalk. She picked it up. It was the key to the shoeshine stand.

  “Lock up,” he said in a whisper, “and go on home.”

  The two men lifted him into the ambulance. The ambulance went screaming on down the street.

  The crowds moved away. Sarah Ida was alone. She felt numb. She went over to the stand and sat down.

  On the sidewalk was the can of shoe polish Al had bought. She sat looking at it.

  Someone spoke to her. It was a man she knew—a customer. “Where’s Al?”

  “He’s . . . gone,” she said.

  “Well, can you give me a shine?”

  He climbed into a chair. She could hardly think, but her hands knew what to do. She shined his shoes.

  Another customer came by. She shined his shoes.

  Then a tall young man was the
re. She had never seen him before. “I’m from the newspaper,” he said. “Did you see the accident?”

  She nodded.

  “What happened?”

  “He was coming across the street, and the car—the car—” She couldn’t go on.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  She told him.

  “Any relation to Claudia Becker?”

  “She’s my aunt.”

  “Are you visiting her?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old are you? About ten?”

  “Nearer eleven.”

  “How long have you worked here?”

  “A month.”

  “Are you going to keep the stand open?”

  “I—” She said suddenly, “Yes, I am.”

  “Good luck to you,” the man said, and he went away.

  A customer came, then another. She hoped someone would bring her news of Al, but no one did. Late in the day she took off her apron and closed the stand.

  She wasn’t sure where Al lived, but she knew it was on the other side of town. She went down Grand Avenue and across the railroad tracks. She came to streets where the houses were small and close together.

  She asked several people, “Do you know where Al Winkler lives?” At last she found someone who told her.

  She found the house. It was tiny and it needed paint. A woman came to the door.

  Sarah Ida asked, “Could I see Al?”

  The woman had been crying. She said, “Al’s not here. He’s been hurt.”

  “Didn’t the ambulance bring him home?” asked Sarah Ida.

  “No. He’s in the hospital,” said the woman. “You must be Sarah Ida. I’m Doris. I’m Al’s wife. Come on in.”

  Sarah Ida went into a small, neat room.

  “I just came from the hospital,” said the woman.

  “How is he?” asked Sarah Ida.

  “I don’t know. They don’t tell you anything.” Tears ran down the woman’s cheeks. “I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

  “I brought you this.” Sarah Ida took the money out of her pocket and put it down on a chair. “It’s what I made today. I kept out some change. I’ll need that for tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” said the woman.

  “I’ll be over again. I hope Al is going to be all right.”

  Sarah Ida went home.

  Aunt Claudia said, “Do you know what time it is? I’ve been waiting—” She saw Sarah Ida’s face. “What is it?” she asked.

  Sarah Ida told her what had happened. “I’m going to keep the stand open.”

  She waited for Aunt Claudia to say, “You can’t keep it open all by yourself.”

  But Aunt Claudia said instead, “Yes. I think you should.”

  Across the Railroad Tracks

  * * *

  Sarah Ida was up early in the morning.

  “I just called the hospital,” Aunt Claudia said. “The nurse said Al had a good night.”

  “They don’t tell you anything,” said Sarah Ida.

  She could hardly eat her breakfast. There was a lump in her throat.

  “Will you be home for lunch?” asked Aunt Claudia, as Sarah Ida left the house.

  “I forgot about lunch. No, I won’t have time,” said Sarah Ida, and she hurried off to Shoeshine Corner.

  She unlocked the folding door and pushed it back. It was strange being there without Al. She thought of the way he’d looked up at her and reached for the key. Even then he’d been thinking about the shoeshine stand.

  It meant a lot to him. She was right to keep it open.

  Every morning Al bought a newspaper for the customers to read. She ran up the street and bought a paper. She put it on one of the chairs in the stand.

  Back in a corner she found Al’s broom, and she swept the sidewalk in front of the stand. She didn’t expect much business so early in the morning. People were on their way to work. They didn’t have time to stop.

  But this morning they kept looking at her as they went by. Some of them smiled. Some of them spoke to her.

  She heard someone say, “There’s the girl!”

  A customer came. He was the man from the pet store up the street. He said, “That was a nice story about you.”

  “What was a nice story?” she asked.

  “Haven’t you seen it? It’s right here.” He showed her the paper. There on the front page she saw the words:

  SHOESHINE GIRL

  KEEPS STAND OPEN

  There was a story about her and Al. It told how Al was struck by a car—how ten-year-old Sarah Ida Becker was keeping the stand open while Al was in the hospital.

  “Is that why people are looking at me?” she asked.

  “It probably is,” said the man.

  When she finished with his shoes, he gave her a five-dollar bill. “It’s for Al,” he told her. “He can use it.”

  Most of the morning she was busy. Almost every customer asked about Al and left money for him.

  At noon she heard someone say, “Hello, Sarah Ida.” When she looked up, Rossi Wigginhorn was there.

  Rossi was smiling. “Your aunt was afraid you’d get hungry,” she said. “She sent you this.”

  She held out a paper bag. Sarah Ida looked into it. There was a sandwich. There was a carton of milk with a straw. There was an apple.

  “I don’t see how I can eat this,” said Sarah Ida.

  “Why not?” asked Rossi.

  “Look.” Sarah Ida held out her hands with shoe polish on them.

  “You can drink the milk with the straw,” said Rossi, “and I can feed you the rest.”

  She was laughing. Sarah Ida laughed a little, too. “I know what,” she said. “I’ll go to the filling station and wash my hands. Can you stay here a minute? If any customers come, tell them I’ll be right back.”

  She washed her hands at the station. When she came back, a customer was waiting.

  “Go ahead. Have your lunch,” the man said. “I’ve got time.”

  She had her lunch.

  Rossi was saying, “I read about you in the paper. Did you know you’re famous?”

  “No,” said Sarah Ida.

  “Well, you are. Everybody thinks it’s wonderful the way you’re running the stand all by yourself. I wish I could help.”

  Sarah Ida looked at Rossi’s pink and white dress. “You’d get awfully dirty.”

  “I don’t care,” said Rossi.

  “Your mother would care,” said Sarah Ida. “And you’ve helped already. You brought my lunch.”

  “Shall I bring it tomorrow?”

  “No. I’ll bring something from home,” said Sarah Ida. “Thanks, anyway.”

  By the time Rossi left, there was a customer in every chair. Sarah Ida was busy all afternoon. At the end of the day, her arms ached and there was a crick in her neck, but her apron pockets were stuffed with money. She took it out and put it into the pockets of her jeans.

  She locked the stand and started down to Al’s. She saw a boy walking behind her, half a block away. She had a feeling he was following her, but when she looked again, he was gone.

  She crossed the railroad tracks, and she saw the boy again. This time he was ahead of her. She wondered how he had got there so fast. He must have run down a side street.

  He seemed to be waiting for her. Now she knew him. It was Kicker.

  She came up to him. The sidewalk was narrow, and he was in the middle of it. She stopped.

  “What do you think you’re doing here?” he asked.

  “I’m going to Al’s,” she said.

  “Al’s not home. You ought to know that.”

  “I’m going to see his wife.”

  “What for?”

  “Business,” she said.

  “What business?”

  “My business,” she said.

  “You bringing money?”

  “I don’t have to tell you.”

  “You are bringing money. I see it in your pockets,” said Kicker. “You b
etter get out of here.”

  “Do you own this end of town?”

  “There’s something I could tell you about it. Listen. There’s a gang here. If they think you’ve got money, they’ll get it away from you.”

  “I was here yesterday. I didn’t see any gang.”

  “You were lucky.”

  “Get out of my way,” she said. “I’m going to Al’s.”

  “All right.” He stepped aside. “Go on, you fool.”

  She went past him.

  “But if you’re going to be a fool,” he said, “I’m going with you.”

  He walked behind her all the way to Al’s house. She knocked at the door. No one answered.

  She turned back toward home.

  Still Kicker walked behind her. He followed her to the railroad tracks.

  “You were lucky again,” he said. “But don’t you ever come down here with money any more.”

  She walked on alone. She was thinking. Kicker was ugly. He was mean. She’d hated him for trying to bully her.

  And now she didn’t hate him. Because maybe there had been danger and he’d been trying to help her. Maybe she had been a fool because she hadn’t listened.

  A Letter

  * * *

  That night she and Aunt Claudia went to the hospital. They found Al in a room with two other men. He was sleeping.

  His wife was sitting by the bed.

  “I went to your house today,” Sarah Ida told her.

  “I wasn’t home,” said Doris. “I’ve been here with Al.”

  “How is he?” asked Aunt Claudia.

  “Better,” said Doris. “At first they thought he was—you know—hurt inside. But they found out he wasn’t. They think he can go home tomorrow.”

  Al woke up. He saw Aunt Claudia first. “Miss Becker!” he said. “I couldn’t believe it was you.”

  She shook his hand.

  Sarah Ida went to the bed.

  “I guess I’ll talk to you,” he said, “even if you didn’t do what I told you.”

  “What was it I didn’t do?”

  “The other day I told you to lock up and go home,” he said. “You didn’t do it.”

  “Aren’t you glad I didn’t? Look.” She began to take money out of her pockets and spread it out on the bed.