Stories
| Pink | My Sin |
| 611 | Stupid Cupid |
| Plastic Shoes | To Begin Again |
Plastic Shoes
© Sande Boritz Berger
Bennett
Kane died watching reruns of I Love Lucy the episode with Lucy
and Ethel on the assembly line, popping chocolates, their cheeks puffed
like chipmunks.
Miriam was
standing in the kitchen when she heard her husband’s loud cackling
cut off in the middle before it wound down to its usual soft sighing.
She’d been drying a dessert plate, was about to place it in the
cabinet, when it slipped from her hands and shattered over the freshly
mopped tiles. As she lifted the last splinter, the need to pry took hold
of her, ushering her frail body towards the den— a pine paneled
room where Bennett lay stretched across a flowered sofa.
The cool
gray glow of the picture tube illuminated the walls making the room unbearably
bright. Miriam shielded her eyes. Even the chorus of dubbed- in laughter
felt intrusive. She stared down at Bennett, and then reached for his spotted
hand; it was still warm. Was there a pulse? She sat on the edge of the
couch, resting her head on his sunken chest. She couldn’t tell if
it was his or hers this fading beat, hollow as a child’s
drum. There was no familiar rhythm to mimic, like the cadence she recalled
from so many long, sleepless nights.
Her eyes
caught a fresh water stain, forming a perfect sphere on the cocktail table.
How many times had she told him to use a coaster? She dabbed the wet edges
with a corner of her apron. A quick thirst parched her throat making it
difficult to swallow. Lifting Bennett’s glass to her lips, she noticed
the inch of chalky sludge settled at the bottom like a miniature snowdrift.
She had nearly taken a sip. Hands trembling, she rushed to the kitchen
and pulled on her yellow rubber gloves, then rinsed the glass with scalding
water. Later, she would throw it in the garbage and leave the bag at the
curb. But what if someone noticed her? Miriam never went out alone at
night never tended to the trash. She reached for the phone and
dialed 911. In a mechanical voice she gave the address of their condo
complex. She requested no siren as if she were ordering salad without
the dressing. Pressed against the stucco wall, she felt the nibs of the
prickly plaster pushing through the fabric of her blouse. A reminder
this was not a dream.
Like a flirtatious schoolgirl, hands clasped together in a pyramid, she
peeked at Bennett. A trickle of saliva dripped down the corner of his
mouth, and she stepped forward swabbed it with her finger that
bore a slight indentation left by the wedding band she no longer wore.
Searching
the room for a diversion, Miriam’s attention fell upon the array
of antique frames arranged on the small upright piano. The largest one
beckoned her and when she stood, she felt vacant, as though she might
faint. The veins near her temples pulsated, and a distant ringing filled
the caverns of her ears. She leaned on the piano coming face to face with
an ornate silver frame that held a photograph taken when? She guessed
in 1944. The image portrayed a handsome sailor and his bride: a striking
young woman wearing shorts and a striped halter her auburn hair
swept back in a black, netted snood. Miriam crawled her fingers over the
photo, remembering how she had used rouge and powder to tint the original
sepia image, hoping it would resemble one of those Navy pin-up posters
she had seen in magazines. Bringing the frame closer, to the tip of her
nose, she noticed how Bennett’s arms wrapped around her slim waist.
But just a few months later, she would be plump and pregnant with Sara,
their firstborn. Miriam sighed, remembering how she had kissed Bennett
seconds before this picture was taken, and how his hand quickly wiped
away the ruby stain of her lipstick.
“A
90 Day Wonder” was what the Navy called him and the others they
had sent to Officer’s Candidate School at Cornell to earn the equivalency
of a college education in only three months. Afterwards, he was stationed
aboard a huge ship that docked in Miami, far from the dangers of combat.
He spent most days in the ship’s kitchen performing menial tasks
like peeling mountains of potatoes and mopping slippery floors. But on
deep blue moonlit nights, Bennett had felt privileged standing alone on
the crow’s nest, writing to Miriam gazing up at what he
had learned to be Cassiopeia— the Queen of the sky.
After the
war Bennett’s diligence prevailed. He had once dreamed of medical
school, but now there was a family to support. Bennett worked for a fabric
mill, became their number one salesman. But he never managed to make a
great deal of money, not like Miriam’s father. During some of the
couple’s early fights, Bennett’s face would flash like a stop-light
when he unleashed months of stored anger: “Maybe I wouldn’t
have to work like such a dog, if your father had asked me, just once,
to join him!” He yelled bitterly when she complained about one of
many road trips. Sometimes, he’d be gone for weeks leaving Miriam
feeling so desolate she couldn’t eat or sleep. But, always, on the
day of his return, she engaged in the ritual of primping in front of the
bathroom mirror, while Sara sat mesmerized on her plastic potty. When
Bennett walked through the door of their small split-level, Miriam flew
into his arms her heart as buoyant as a red balloon.
She would
always depend on Bennett at least until that fateful day that
changed their lives. Two days after heart surgery, a blood clot became
lodged in the part of the brain that allows thoughts to be transferred
into words. In the morning he was reciting his favorite bawdy jokes; hours
later, he couldn't say his name, or Miriam’s, or the children’s.
Like an untamed
beast, Bennett became trapped in his own head able to communicate
solely through gesture and inappropriate language. The cry of “BULLSHIT!”
became his password into the world. He carried a small notebook that listed
his medications and favorite foods. In the binder, he stored business
cards that he handed to anyone who looked at him with trepidation. Printed
in bold navy blue ink, the cards had his name, address, phone number followed
by the words: I am a stroke victim. Please have patience with me. But
that was nearly a decade ago, and now it was impossible for Miriam to
remember himthe gentle and serious sailor in this photo.
Lately, it
felt as though all his rage was directed towards her. Most of his fits
occurred in restaurants. If a waitress was young and sensual, Bennett’s
macho unwound like a snake being charmed from its basket. First his anxious
eyes scanned the menu as he bought some time—faked reading. Eventually,
Miriam would have to order for him. Then, he pounded his fist on the table
muttering “god damn bitch,” loud enough for the other diners
to hear. Miriam gulped down water, and scanned the room while curious
faces turned away avoiding her searching eyessearching for anyone’s
compassion.
Bennett grasped
the tiniest threads of his masculinity, and still insisted on driving
after passing his test at the local veteran’s hospital. And if Miriam
drove, he’d make her quake from his back seat driving. Many times,
his hand flung out to navigate the wheel. Until one night on the way to
dinner, she swerved, stopped the car and began to sob.
Was she crying
because she hated the feeling of hating him? Or was it something deeper,
indelible, like mourning the loss of a lifethe life she had once
hoped for? Bennett showed no remorse. He sat there sulking, then squinted
at his watch. Miriam guessed he was thinking how now he’d have to
wait on line.
Something
caught her eye, peeking out, from under the couch. They were Bennett's
favorite creme colored shoes, a plastic knock-off of a Docksider moccasin.
She remembered him bringing back three pairs of these shoes boasting how
each pair cost only $19.99. He had stood in front of her squealing with
delight, trying hard to talk, holding up his fingers. And like a game
of charades, Miriam played along laughing, but truly wanting to cry. She
guessed $5, then $10; exhausted, she stopped at $20. For as long as she
had known him, Bennett likened all great bargains to stealing.
Despite her plea, Miriam heard the shrill whine of a siren approaching
their quiet community. Sirens had become such an ordinary sound—
the Musak of southern Florida, a place Miriam called land of the living
dead. Quickly, she struggled with the plastic moccasins, shoved them back
on Bennett's pliant feet where they belonged. She smoothed her tousled
hair and opened the door.
The paramedics
pushed past her and headed straight for the couch, as if that’s
where they’d expected to find him. They worked hard. Twisted colorful
wires were attached to Bennett’s pale chest. A small apparatus hung
from his slackened mouth. Someone asked questions and followed Miriam
to the kitchen where prescription bottles lined up like dominoes. All
except one tarnished silver thimble of pills, wrapped in tissues and tucked
inside her apron pocket. This drug had been prescribed for her; sometimes
it helped her sleep. On nights when he paced the bedroom yelling “why
dammit why” she’d given one to Bennett. Maybe, two or three.
She chattered about the surgery, the stroke, the terrifying seizures,
but not the foaming fits of temper. That was her business, not anybody
else’s. Her hands shook, but nobody seemed to care or notice.
Bennett was
pronounced dead after ten minutes. “ Sorry Ma’am” is
what echoed in her ears. Just a well practiced “sorry ma’am.”
There were no neighbors to callno one close enough to comfort
her. Miriam had shied away from social amenities. She would never know
when Bennett’s rage would erupt or what event might trigger it.
Sometimes, she admitted, she needed it as confirmation of his strength
although it drank, mercilessly, from her own.
She knew she should call the children. They’d need to make arrangements
to fly down in the morning. Their 4th of July would be spent under the
brutality of a Miami sun. What was it her mother used to say? Yes, yes.
We plan, and God laughs. But this was where their father wanted to be,
living or dead. To Bennett, Florida had always been Mecca.
Miriam reached
for the phone; it dropped, bouncing like a yo-yo from its cord. She needed
to rest just for a few minutes. From her apron, she took the silver
thimble of pills. Without liquid, she swallowed one, then two. She lost
count, her hand and mouth robotive like Lucy and Ethel.
Exhausted
and weak, she lay down on the sofa, her head resting on the place where
Bennett sat and watched his shows night after night. Bennett, interested
in the news desperately grasping information, struggling to interpret,
or Bennett laughing, tears streaming at a slapstick sitcom.
Miriam turned
towards the TV. It was still on; some show about wild animals
Bennett's favorite. She smelled the musty oils of his skin, and caught
the shiny impression left by his hair. It was then and only then she opened
the door to her grief. A family of lions scurried from their den, and
Miriam Kane began to weep, suddenly missing her husband.