The day was a mangled combination of insanity, frustration, and monotone boredom. Mrs. Letmore, an elderly woman suffering from dementia, screamed at me, and swore I would go to hell for cheating her out of her money. Mr. Young came in and made me explain his contract for the twenty-seventh time since he had signed the papers a week before. He kept insisting I hadn’t told him any of the fees or conditions of his debt.
Before I managed to clock out for lunch, several people called me multiple nasty names, Mr. Swall threatened me, and I was sexually appraised in a vociferous manner by the most disgusting man I had ever met. All in all, it was just another day in the world of Darlene Hansen, Liver of an Insane Life. My assistant had at least been cheerful; I could always count on Jenny to be smiling.
The day finally ended, and I nearly ran out the door. I climbed into the big Ford truck as Jenny slid into her beautiful, new Dodge Charger. She smiled apologetically before roaring away as I eyeballed the receding gas gauge and hoped I made it home without having to stop.
The traffic was terrible. I had forgotten the rodeo was in town. Trucks on big tires pulling livestock trailers thronged my usual way home. I would have loved to take the kids, but so many other pressing needs killed that dream. My heart weighed heavily as I chugged along at a snail’s pace, watching the cowboys and girls live their seemingly interesting and carefree lives.
As I made the turn onto the interstate, I remembered the boots. Like a subliminal message in an old-time theater movie, the thought slid across my brain almost unnoticed. I was so focused on my newest plan to right the wrongs of my life, nothing else was important or could drag my mind away. I had to make more money. I had to find a way to pay the bills, replace the flat screen TV my son had recently broke, buy a new dryer, and fix my car. A pair of old boots meant nothing to me, other than being a momentary distraction I could not afford.
My brain churned as the miles passed. I never looked up to check my progress. I simply let the radio drown out the sound of the rattling mess of a truck and focused. I decided if I took on a night job for six months, we could catch up. I worked from nine am to six pm at the office, so I could still go home, clean, cook, and spend time with the kids before going in at eleven pm and working until seven am. In my head, I figured if I only worked three days a week at the second job, I could possibly sleep every other day. I had gone longer without rest. The money was what was important to me.
I neared the exit toward home and glanced up, out of habit, to see the sign. As if they were some strange enigmatic symbol, the boots stood in the same place as they had before. Having seen them already once, my mind took in more detail than it previously had. I noticed they were not as worn as I had thought they might be, and there was something tucked inside the top of the left one. It looked like a clear, plastic zip bag with a note inside.
My brain accepted what it saw, and I tried to push away the questions before they could begin again. Yet, something about the lone pair of boots pulled at me. It whispered into my mind like a child’s voice in the dark, “There is a story behind them.”
Glancing into the mirror, I watched the brown tops fade into the distance I put between them and me. My mind played with their presence once more. I idly wondered to myself. Did they wait for someone specific? Did someone place them there to simply mess with the other motorist as they were messing with me? Did a MODOT worker find them while mowing and set them to the side to be thrown away, only to forget them? The possible answers were many.
The days sped by in the typical manner in which I lived. I noticed the boots every day and wondered about them often. My life spiraled into one constant complaint. Something was always broken, bills always stacked up and unpaid, and someone always wanted more than I could give. I began to pull away from my family. I hid in my bedroom, afraid to be around anyone. I wouldn’t cook or clean because the lack of supplies to do so often left me in tears. When someone spoke to me, it usually ended in me screaming for them to go away. I could feel my self-control cracking like a fragile eggshell under constant pressure. If it continued, I was sure I would burst.
I don’t know what made me stop along the side of the road. I was already late getting home because a new client had come in ten minutes before we closed. I was frustrated and angry. I could feel the oncoming insanity welling up inside of me and threatening to devour the little happiness I still gleamed from my day-to-day life. I glanced up and saw the exit sign reflecting the light of the setting sun. As if a beacon in the dark, it called to me.
Slowing down and edging the massive truck to the farthest margin of the shoulder, I sat in the cab and stared at the boots. They rose above the grass, which hadn’t been cut recently, but was still low enough not to conceal the object of my curiosity. A piece of paper inside a clear plastic bag peeked out from the left shoe. The very oddity of its existence was a temptation I could not resist.
Without even looking to check the oncoming traffic, I opened the door and slid my body out of the truck. A passing diesel laid on his horn, making me jump. I considered the thought that the man probably feared I would become road kill, but the adrenaline rush of fear only added to my disturbed mind. I wanted to tell him I didn’t care if I lived or died in that moment.
I made my way to the front of the truck and stepped off the shoulder, telling myself how crazy I must look. I was sure someone would call the troopers and tell them a strange woman was wandering the side of the highway. The thought actually made me smile as I considered how much I would relish the distraction. I even mused that, perhaps, I would get lucky enough to be whisked away to an asylum and the happy pills they would provide for a welcomed vacation from my life.
I approached the boots with caution. I knew there was no danger, but it felt odd coming so close to them. Somehow, they had taken on an ethereal quality in my imagination. Standing above them, staring down, I could see they were new and not worn at all. The laces had been lovingly and evenly ran through the eyelets and tucked inside as if by a mother’s caring hand. The Timberland logo spoke volumes as to the cost someone had paid for such a roadside tribute.
My curiosity ran rampant. I had to know why the boots had been left there and who they were for. The idea of spending so much money only to abandon the product on a lonely stretch of highway baffled me. The unfairness that someone could have the means to do such a thing stabbed at my wounded pride. No mother liked to see wasted funds, but I hated it even more as I thought of the meager meals my children ate each night. Unable to resist, I plucked up the bag.
Pausing for a moment as I listened to the traffic rushing by and felt the heat of the day dampen my clothing, I had a moment of clarity. I was a good woman, who worked hard and did what was right. Not only was I completely out of my mind for being there in the first place, it felt wrong to open the zipper and remove the paper. However, the small part of me that remained the carefree girl I had once been overtook my logical thinking. I needed to know the story behind the boots, and the only way I could was to read the note someone had left behind.
I pushed my thoughts aside, unzipped the little plastic bag, and removed the contents. The paper looked as if it had been folded and unfolded many times, the lines running through it dug deep into the once unblemished page. My heart skipped as I let my eyes roam over the page. The handwriting was definitely feminine, with loops and curls that perfectly decorated the letters.
Standing on the side of a busy highway, near an exit sign, above a pair of mysterious boots, I began a journey. The letter read:
Dear Mark,
I hope this letter finds you and finds you well. I received yours just yesterday, and I wept with relief knowing you are alive. My sister hid it for me so my parents would not burn it. I wonder how many letters you have written that I never received.
My dearest Mark, please come home. Annabelle and I miss you terribly. She’s almost two now. She has your laugh and her eyes light up just the way yours did when she sees something she likes. She is so beautiful,
and I know if you could see her, you would love her as much as I do.
I drove you away, I understand that now. The pressure to take care of us must have been so much. I never meant to make it seem that I did not appreciate you. I love you with all my heart, and I am still here waiting for you to return home.
My father has never forgiven me for keeping our baby girl. I do not care. His money was not enough to keep me from loving you, and it will not keep me from loving our child.
I am living in my own little apartment, and I work at an office just down the street. The lady next door takes care of Annabelle for me. Money is tight, but I survive because I have too. I keep going for our beautiful baby, and in hopes you will someday come home.
I am staying in the town just up ahead with some friends. I will be here for the next three days. It is the little brown house on the corner of the main road. Please come. I miss you. I love you. I always will.
I bought you these boots with my own money to help your journey back to me be a little easier. It must be weary to walk the highways as you do, but wonderful to see all the things you have. You always were an adventurer.
My darling, my dear, my Mark. I cannot say all the words I need to say to you. I only ask, please come. If only for an hour. Come meet your daughter and hear me out. I love you so much.
Sincerely,
Lee
At the bottom of the letter, there were notes, handwritten by others who had stopped to see the boots. By the looks of the spelling errors and inscriptions, other road wanderers seemed to urge the man, Mark, to go home. Most of them were signed with such names as Detroit Dan, Tucson Mike, Cincinnati Mary, and Traveling Joe. I assumed these were their home cities and their names, and I thought how odd it must be to only be known by those two things. My heart went out to them as I realized, with no last names and no real place to call home, the men and women of the road must lead hard and lonely lives.
I stood there, tears streaming down my face and questions burning a hole in my brain. Who were these people? Why would a man leave his pregnant wife or girlfriend behind? I felt guilt pull at my conscience as I recalled thinking doing the same so many times over the last week. I could have remained there in silent contemplation for hours, but another car blasted its horn as if that might somehow make a difference.
Snapping out of my reverie, I came to a decision. I knew I shouldn’t have read the letter. I knew I shouldn’t be there on the side of the road. I had to get home to fix dinner, help the kids with homework, and try to be brave for my family. Yet, I felt a weird sense of camaraderie with the woman who missed her lover, and with the man who had left her behind. I had to find out the answers to my questions.
I nearly ran to get back into the truck. Pulling out my cell phone, I called my husband to tell him I was running late and had some errands to do in town. He sounded surprised by my excited tone, but never questioned the reason. Perhaps he was relieved to hear anything but the sound of misery in my voice. Before I hung up, I told him for the first time in a long time that I loved him. His astonishment increased, but he returned the sentiment and called me baby just as he used to. My heart fluttered as I pressed the button to end the call.
I thought about him as I drove the next mile to town, turning left instead of the direction of home. I was lucky. We had been teenagers when we met, and I had become pregnant with our son soon after. Gene had stayed with me, though it was hard. Within a year, we had become parents to yet another baby, a little girl with her daddy’s smile. From there, things seemed to go up and down like a roller coaster. The bad times were harsh and the good times were rare, but we had always had love.
I thought of the fatherless baby, Annabelle, and wept. I felt another surge of guilt and wondered if I had ever thanked my Gene for being the man he was. He treasured his children and me, giving us all he could, whenever he could. The tears fell freely as I let the images of him and our children fill my mind as I drove.
I pulled into the gravel driveway of the only little brown house on the corner of Main Street. The tidy yard seemed peaceful, and an older model Buick sat in the driveway, sparkling as if it had been recently washed. I almost chickened out. From the outside looking in, the home was a picture perfect haven of small time life. Yet, I was too timid to get out of the truck.
I was afraid the woman might be angry with me for reading her letter, or she might resent me coming there to ask questions about something so personal. My hands shook as I dried away my tears and debated on what I would do next. I almost put the truck in reverse and backed away.
I reached for the shifter that would send the truck into a wobbling and squeaking back pedal just as the front door opened. A young girl holding a small child stepped onto the porch. Her face lit up with hope and apprehension as she stared through the windshield, attempting to see if her lost love was a passenger inside its cab. I hated myself for causing the disappointed look of pain that crossed her beautiful features when she saw it was just a woman inside.
Almost as if by its own volition, my hand removed the keys from the ignition and opened the door. I found myself propelled toward the girl with an awkward smile on my face. With every step, my mind screamed how weird the situation was, and I trembled even more.
While cradling the squirming child tightly to her, she glanced back to gauge the distance between her and the door. I almost expected her to bolt, the fear in her eyes was so evident, but as I reached the first step to the porch, she asked, “Can I help you.”
I don’t know how I ever found the words, but the whole story poured out of me in less than two minutes. I told her how I had felt a strange pull to the boots for a week, and how I had finally read her letter. I confessed that I had come to thank her for reminding me of how grateful I should be for the life I lived. The strangest thing was, I meant the words I said, though I had never known they were one of my reasons before that moment.
The girl smiled at me, tears shining in her eyes, when I told her of the others that had found the gift she had left for her Mark. Reciting their words to her from memory, I cried. I must have seemed like a stark raving mad woman to the entire world, but the girl who stood before me. Instead, she smiled through her own tears, touched the drifters hadn’t simply thrown away the note and kept the boots.
She invited me inside the small house and let me hold her precious Annabelle while she made us coffee. The child was a bundle of pure joy and beauty. Looking into her bright blue eyes, so much like my own babies’, I wondered again about the father. I couldn’t imagine my little Darla without a daddy to hold her, tickle her, and kiss her goodnight.
With the coffee served and the small talk completely neglected, Lee slid an opened envelope across the counter to me and lifted Annabelle from my arms. The date on the letter showed it had been written weeks before.
Lee,
I know you may never forgive me, but I needed to write to you. I need to know if you had the baby. I wanted to tell you I think of you all the time. Was the baby a boy or a girl? Or did you never know?
I am sorry I left. I couldn’t take the pressure any longer. Your family hated me, and I was afraid. I was scared that, if you gave up our child, I would hate you. Now I am sure you hate me.
I have spent the last two years on the road. I walk mostly. Sometimes I catch rides from strangers, but I like to walk. I have been to California, Texas, Florida, Alabama, and many other places. Each time I go somewhere we used to daydream about seeing together, I miss you even more.
I sometimes go home to my mother’s in South Dakota. I never stay, but if you could, please write to me there. I know you owe me nothing. Please, please just let me know you are okay and if I have a child somewhere in this world.
I dreamed of you last night. You held a beautiful little girl in your arms. She had your hair and your tiny ears. I don’t know if it is because I am heading back to Missouri (that always makes me think of you), or if it was a sign. I know you always believed in that stuff more than me.
>
I am working the Bootheel Rodeo next month, and then I will make my way to Saint Louis to work the big fair. After that, I am heading back to mom’s place to rest. I am weary of this road, and my heart hurts from missing you.
I love you, Lee. I hope you know I never stopped loving you.
Always Yours,
Mark
I felt the hot tears running down my cheeks, and any words I could have offered her caught behind the large lump in my throat.
Lee smiled a wistful and sad smile, knowing the pain of her situation so much clearer than I ever could. “You see, my family thought I should have an abortion or give Annabelle up.” She stopped to cast a loving look on the child playing in the floor near her. “I was only seventeen, and I lived a very pampered life. I threw it all onto Mark, insisting he get a better job. Demanding he do something about our situation. I never once thought about how scared he was. I just expected him to make it all better. When he left, he thought I was going to give up our child. I thought I was too, but when it came down to it, I couldn’t go through with it. I couldn’t destroy or give away our baby.”
She stopped to dry her eyes, “I don’t know if he will find the letter and the boots. I don’t know if he will come here if he does. All I know is, after I read his words, I had to try. The interstate is the fastest walking route from where the Rodeo is to Saint Louis. I hoped he would see the boots and need them. I know he is kind enough to read the letter first to make sure it would be okay to take them. It was stupid really to try such a silly thing, but he won’t see the letter I sent to his mom’s for months. I need him. Annabelle needs him.”
As Mad as a Hatter: A Short Story Collection Page 3