The Shoes Laced On at the Bench

One text

I sent Kimber one text at nine thirty. I read it over four times before I sent it, to make sure there was nothing in it but facts.

Took Dad to the foot doctor today. He’s at Feldkamp’s on the square in the morning, 9 to 10. Can you pick him up there at 10 for the clinic? Thanks.

She wrote back ten minutes later. Sure.

That was all. One word. I set the phone face down on the nightstand and lay awake a long time, looking at the ceiling, listening to the furnace kick on and off.

I said my prayers that night the way Mom taught me, kneeling, which I hadn’t done in a while. I didn’t pray for anything to happen to Kimber. I prayed that I would keep my mouth shut, and that Dad’s heel would close up before Christmas.

Tuesday morning

I called the office at seven and took a vacation day. The woman who works our front counter said she’d tell anybody who called about a bill that I’d be back Wednesday. I have eleven years of unused vacation days. I had never taken one in November.

I picked Dad up at a quarter to nine. It was one of those November mornings that make you forgive the month for everything else, bright and cold and still, with the sky that hard pale blue you only get after a frost.

He was waiting by the front door in his brown corduroy jacket. His thin white hair was combed wet and straight back. He had his cane in one hand, and on his feet were the gray slippers.

“I didn’t want to put on the old work shoes,” he said. “The doctor said.”

“That’s right, Dad. Slippers are fine for the car.”

He had shaved. He’d put on a clean shirt, the blue plaid, buttoned all the way to the top. He looked like he was going to the bank to sign for a loan. I pinned my hair in a low bun and fixed my scarf in the hall mirror, the mustard-yellow one Mom knit me the last winter she was well, and we went out.

The square was quiet. A couple of pickups were parked outside the café, and a man in a seed cap was sweeping the walk in front of the hardware store. The courthouse clock said four minutes to nine.

Feldkamp’s has the same big front window it has always had, with the gold lettering on the glass and a display of winter boots and a few pairs of children’s church shoes. The sun was coming straight in through that window, laying a long bright square across the floor.

The bell over the door rang when I pushed it open. It’s the same bell. I’d know it anywhere.