Blue Shoe

by Anne Lamott

  “We have the key our dad used to open the can of paint that he painted this place with. Isn’t that funny?” Mattie reached into her pocket, having meant to bring the key, but there was only the shoe. She curled her fingers around it, then took it out of her pocket.

  Noah gaped at it. “Where’d you get that?”

  Al said, “It was in the glove compartment of our dad’s old VW.”

  Noah froze. Mattie held the shoe in her palm and waited. Noah reached for it gingerly, as if it were blown glass rather than rubber.

  “We got this from a gumball machine at a Mobil gas station in Sebastopol.”

  “Who did?” Al asked.

  “Me and my dad,” Noah said. Kabooom—everything buckled inside Mattie, like a wood floor during an earthquake. Al’s face went white, but he listened to Noah with a calm expression. “My dad,” Noah had called Alfred, and even though this was why she was here, hearing it was a blow. He was your dad? But how could that be—he was our dad.

  Al soldiered on. “Do you remember the day you got that shoe?”

  Noah nodded. He turned it upside down to look at the tread, scraping grime off with his thumbnail. “The gas station was near where Yvonne lived. I remember the flying horse, the old Coke machine, the coldest Cokes in the world. My dad always gave me a quarter for the gumball machine.” She shuddered: Kabooom again. “You could get Ratfink decals,” he said, “or shrunken heads, but one day I got this stupid shoe. It came in a hard plastic bubble, which I kept my tiny treasures in for a while. My dad used to give me tiny things. I collected them—little space dudes, dinosaurs, miniature locks.”

  “Do you still have them?” Mattie asked. He shook his head. He was pleasant enough to her, but warmer toward Al. Of course, Al was not flinching as if cannonballs were blowing up all around him. Noah looked at his watch. He handed the shoe to Mattie, but she was afraid that if she took it back, he’d leave.

  “My dog died,” Mattie blurted out, and horrified at herself, she began to cry again. No one spoke. Al got to his feet and put his arm around Mattie’s shoulders. She wiped at her eyes.

  “God,” Noah said, “that’s so sad. What kind of dog was it?”

  “A Cavalier King Charles spaniel.”

  “Oh, that’s a great breed,” he said. She nodded miserably. Leaves rustled. “Can I keep the shoe?” he asked.

  “What?” she said, as if he wanted her car.

  “Could I have the blue shoe?”

  “You mean, like to keep forever?”

  “Jeez. Never mind.”

  She looked at the turquoise high-top in his hand, the rubber filigree shoelace. “I would need it back someday,” she said.

  Noah looked dubious. “Well, that would be okay.” He held it like a ladybug that had landed in his hand. Then he thought for a moment. “I think I have something for you. I’ll be right back.”

  Al nodded jovially, but clutched his chest when he and Mattie were alone.

  “He’s really warmed up to you,” Mattie whispered.

  “I’m his brother,” Al whispered back. “He can look into the mirror of me.”

  Noah returned with a wooden box, a padlock on the hasp, a key in the lock. Mattie’s eyes widened, and her mouth opened, like a contestant on a game show: here were the papers that would make them all rich, Alfred’s stock certificates, or the insurance. Noah put the box on the porch near Al’s feet and sat on the step nearby. Noah was close enough that Mattie could smell the sweat on his skin. They all stared at the box, as if what was inside would step out on its own in a moment. Al looked over at Mattie, and then turned the key. The lock popped open. He handed the key to Noah, wiggled the lock out, set it down, and lifted the hinge. Mattie held her breath as he pushed back the lid and then looked in.

  Inside was a rumpled wallet, flat brown, lightly stained, a little dusty. Al reached for it, glanced up at Noah, and opened it. It was empty, except for a few coins that fell out.

  Noah took the wallet from Al and held it up. “This was my dad’s,” he said. He opened it and shook it, so Al and Mattie could see there was nothing inside. He slid his fingers in a hidden compartment, paused for a moment, and pulled out a black-and-white photo. He observed it with reverence.

  She knew the photo even before it came fully into focus. She remembered the day it was taken. She could remember the colors of their clothes. She remembered sitting on the hi-fi cabinet with Al, in new pajamas Isa had bought them at Montgomery Ward. Mattie’s were a soft red Asian style with black frog clasps. Al’s were flannel, pale blue with silver circles. He had a crew cut and his arm was flopped around her. They looked very grown-up for the camera, although she was about three and he about seven, a little younger than her own kids now. She and Al were somber children smiling for the photographer, urchins in nice new jammies.

  Mattie looked up from the photo to find Noah watching her. He seemed so young, as if he were showing his parents a homework paper he’d gotten an A on. She raised her eyes to the sky. The day had grown humid, pearly gray. Noah bent to pick his dog up from the basket. He knitted his fingers together to hold the dog. Mattie reached forward to lift the lid of the box, wondering whether they had somehow missed something.

  “That’s all there is, Mattie. An old wallet of dad’s. A photo. Some coins.”

  She turned to Noah. “Did you recognize us from the photo?”

  “No,” he said, “not the first time I saw you alone. But when you came into the library together—actually, after you left—I started feeling very odd, like in the Twilight Zone. And then I got this feeling, of knowing, even though I didn’t know what I knew. Until I came home, and ended up digging out the picture. Then I could see who you were.”

  “Your mother never said anything about us?”

  “No. My mother pretty much has her hands full, with herself,” Noah said. “You can keep the picture.”

  “I’m going to leave you our telephone numbers,” Al said. “In case you want to call. Do you have a pencil?”

  “There’s one by the phone, right inside the door.” Al went in to get it.

  Noah looked toward the door for Al. Mattie couldn’t think of a thing to say. She idly peeled a piece of bark off the bay tree branch. There were veins of white rot on its underside. She wanted to show Noah, as she would show Harry or Ella: Look! Rot! It’s the beginning of the divine process. You know why? Without rot, things don’t get soft enough for anything to happen. She held the bark up to the space on the trunk where it had been, and fitted it back carefully. More awkward moments passed.

  “How’s Abby?” Mattie asked.

  “I haven’t seen her lately. She hasn’t been around.”

  Mattie heard Al call her name. She got up and went inside. He was pointing to a clipping taped to the wall above the phone. It was a story from the local paper, dated nearly a year before, recognizing Yvonne Lang for a large donation she’d made to the library where Noah worked, which would keep it open another year. The first paragraph referred to her as a former Marshall resident. There was a small photo of her: the big, beautiful, ageless earth mother had grown old. She looked like an ancient Russian nun, all wrinkles and creases, spokes emanating from around her mouth like sun rays, deep dark eyes hidden by folds of skin. Half of her face was in light, the other mostly in shadow, which created a sense of rest: without the shadow you wouldn’t have seen the shape, the landscape of her face. The shadow told one kind of story, and the light, burning through the ravages of age, told another.

  On the porch, Noah stood with the dog in the sling of his arms, fingers knitted effortlessly, big hands and dirty nails making a cradle for his dog. He laid the dog back in the basket with the easy motion of hands that knew what to do.

  • • •

  Al and Mattie sat at her kitchen table studying the photograph, trying to remember who the people in it were. The two children in pajamas had their best faces forward. They were sitting so close that the patterns of their pajamas merged. His arm was around her shoul
ders, and the fingers and thumb of his hand formed a circle as if he might be about to make a shadow animal, open the circle to make the coyote bark.

  “We should have asked Noah where Yvonne lives,” said Mattie.

  “We can ask him another time. We would’ve sounded like the FBI.” They both leaned forward over the photograph.

  “All that effort to find a box, and all that’s inside is us,” said Mattie.

  Al kept looking at the picture. “I never noticed your head was so large.”

  “I know, I look like a dwarf. And you’re so handsome. We look like we’re hoping someone will adopt us, don’t we? We’re so clean! And eager.”

  “You are so full of hope here, though,” said Al.

  “It’s not hope. It’s desperation. Here I am, Daddy! Daddy, here I am!”

  “Look at our old eyes,” said Al. “You look so tired. We look like little kids who’ve got that disease that turns you into old people.”

  “I didn’t ever sleep.”

  “Why not?”

  “Someone had to stay up on watch. Or the ship of us might have sunk.”

  “You look so calm here.”

  “You don’t get adopted if you look too nervous.”

  • • •

  One drizzly day at the end of January, after she had driven the kids to school, Mattie felt an unshakable desire to walk along the salt marsh near The Sequoias. It was not convenient—there was so much work to do around the house—but this was her only day off for the week. She parked near The Sequoias and got out of the car. There was a sweet moistness in the air. Something tugged at her sleeve, just as she turned toward the marsh. Let’s go visit Personal Care, it said; it’s time. I have to get home, she replied. Just come inside one minute. No, no, I have to think about this some more, she implored. Trust me, it said. But we don’t have the money, she cried, and there aren’t any beds. There will be, it said.

  Maybe she was going crazy. But she made herself walk to the Personal Care entrance anyway. The young receptionist, Mia, wore her hair swept up into a bun, and a patient smile. Mattie told her a little about Isa. “You need to apply at the front desk,” Mia said. “They have a waiting list for the rooms, but I could show you the units. To tell you the truth, winter is really hard on our residents. Flu, you know. People move on fairly frequently to nursing care. Has your mom seen the facilities?” The phone rang. “Just a minute.” Mia took the call, then rerouted it to a social worker.

  “My mother won’t come in and check it out,” Mattie said. “She won’t want to move.” The phone rang again. Mia patched it through to a resident’s room.

  “Sign her up. There’s time to get her used to the idea. They all hate it at first, and then they all love it and forget about the old life. Hold on.” Mia plugged the line from her headset into the phone grid. “Hi, Yvonne,” she said. “Where are you?” Mattie watched and listened. “There’s a Whistlestop bus at Safeway at noon. Can you wait?”

  Mattie reeled. There were hundreds of Yvonnes. This couldn’t be Yvonne Lang. Get a grip, she told herself sternly. When Mia was off the phone, Mattie told her she’d return for a tour another time. She went outside, started her car, and drove to the Miller Avenue Safeway. She pulled over near the bus shelter in front, where, wreathed in turquoise necklaces, Yvonne Lang sat, calmly reading on the bench.

  Mattie recoiled, as if Yvonne had turned and pointed a bony finger at her. She was beautiful, a radiant old woman. A lavender sweater set covered her full breasts, and she wore flowing black pants.

  Mattie pulled away from the curb so fast her tires squealed.

  • • •

  “Hi, Yvonne,” she said into the phone that night, several times. Al stood beside her in the hall. “Hi, Yvonne,” she practiced. Daniel had taken the children out for ice cream. She and Al looked at each other like kids making crank calls. And then Yvonne said, “Hello?”

  “Hi, Yvonne,” Mattie said. “It’s Mattie Ryder.” There was silence.

  “Oh, for God’s sakes,” Yvonne said, her voice trembling. “Mattie.”

  • • •

  She met Yvonne the next afternoon in the sunroom of The Sequoias.

  Yvonne had a pleasing, slightly crooked smile, rose lipstick, and a big, marvelous nose. She took Mattie’s hand and gazed into her eyes. Mattie’s heart was hard, pounding like an injury. Yvonne led her down the hall to her studio, holding on to her hip and limping as she walked.

  They sat and faced each other in purple velvet chairs. There were no refrigerators, stoves, or doors in the Personal Care units, just one big room and a bathroom. The residents ate their meals communally. Yvonne had made mint tea with an electric pot, with a switch that would turn itself off if you forgot. She poured the tea into chipped antique cups. Sunlight shone through the curtains on the windows. Her dark furniture gleamed, with doilies on every surface, lace islands of agates, shells and feathers, keyhole limpets, sand dollars as big as your hand and as small as a dime, beach glass of all colors in tiny bowls.

  Mattie sighed and tried to figure out a way to break the ice. “Why are you in Personal Care?” she asked finally. “You seem so fit.”

  “I’ve had two heart attacks, and six months ago I had hip replacement surgery. A unit opened here while I was convalescing.” Mattie nodded. Silence descended.

  “I take it you know about Noah, then?” Yvonne asked. A wave of fear passed through Mattie’s chest. She nodded. “Abby, and me too—with your dad, I mean?” Mattie nodded again. She couldn’t speak. “You know everything?” Mattie shrugged. Yvonne sighed with relief. “Thank God. I think if he’d lived longer, he’d have told you himself.”

  Mattie stared at Yvonne, desperately wanting her to keep talking. Instead, she sipped her tea. A grandmother clock tocked on the dresser. Mattie looked at Yvonne. Her skin was as old and dry as desert lands whose bones you could see. “Yvonne, please. Tell me everything anyway, all of it.”

  “All right.” Yvonne set her teacup down with a trembling hand. It chattered like teeth on the saucer. “Your father and I fell in love the year you were born. I was living with Neil, but it was your father and I who always connected, deep down. Neil was a charming rogue, and brilliant, but your father was special—the kindest, smartest man I ever knew.”

  Mattie reached for her cup, and her hand shook so much that the tea sloshed into the saucer.

  “We did the best we could. Our feelings were not convenient. I never tried to get him to leave your mother, and I don’t think he ever would have.” Yvonne fingered her necklace, the rock of turquoise that lay nestled in the deep hollow of her throat. “And Alfred had to share me with Neil. But I loved him. And he loved me.”

  “Did Neil kill himself? That’s what William Allen thinks.”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Pills and alcohol. He lost us all—me, your father, Abby—all in a day.”

  “How did he find out about you and my dad? And Abby and my dad?”

  “Abby told him.”

  “Why do you think Abby told?”

  “Because she hated him. And she loved your father. And she was crocked half the time.”

  “Was she the friend you found a house for, when you asked Neil to tell my dad you’d found a house for your friend? Run-down, needed some repairs?”

  “Yes. Abby was six months pregnant, and your father for obvious reasons didn’t have a lot of spare time to help her find a place to live. I rented it for Abby, and then the baby when he arrived. Later I bought it for a song, with the money Neil left me.”

  “Are you close to Noah?”

  “I’ve helped out when I could. I took care of him for a while, actually. At first. I’ve seen him over the years. I felt like he had enough to deal with, as it was.”

  “Did my dad paint that house?”

  Yvonne nodded. Mattie hugged her stomach, like a pregnant woman. The clock tocked, little birds outside sang, her heart pounded. A look came over Yvonne’s face, as if she were tr
ying to swallow aspirin without water and, caught in her throat, it was dissolving. Mattie reached for her hand as tears, diverted by her wrinkles, began to run down Yvonne’s face.

  Mattie began to cry too, and withdrew into herself. After a while, she heard a rustle, and felt a Kleenex against her hand. She took it from Yvonne and dried her tears. They sat together, gravely.

  “Did he ever really work in Washington?” Mattie asked.

  Yvonne nodded. “He was a consultant on civil rights before Congress, during the Kennedy years. He did some great work. But he could not abide LBJ. Of course, he continued to let your mother think he was needed in Washington, because it meant he could get away.” She shook her head. “He did the best he could, and that involved lies, and other women, and a girl. There was no excuse for what he did with Abby. Still, things might have been different if someone had been there to protect him early on. But you know, no one was, and he never recovered.”

  “Protect him from what?”

  Yvonne looked puzzled. “You know. From what happened. Because hurt people hurt other people. That’s the way it works.”

  Mattie could not quite track what Yvonne was saying. “You mean that he hurt my mother because he had been hurt somehow? Or that he hurt you, when he slept with Abby?”

  Yvonne stared back. “You said you knew everything,” she said, her voice flat, wary.

  “I know about you, and Noah, and Abby.”

  “But not about the garage?” Yvonne sighed. When Mattie looked blank, Yvonne cleared her throat. A door inside Mattie swung open, creaked. A roar of water, like a mill, and a ringing, tinnitus, in an ear about to become diseased by what it had yet to hear.

  “There was a man, a neighbor,” Yvonne said. “He must have been forty when Alfred was ten, when this started. He was a fireman. He lived down the block. He offered all the neighborhood boys candy bars and Cokes to come over. Not just your father.”

  “Uh-huh.” Mattie remembered something about a fireman who’d been her father’s friend when he was young. The man had been a hero. “Jerry?”