These Boots Weren't Made for Walking

by Melody Carlson

  “Man, I know how that feels,” he admits. “It wasn't easy coming back here and starting over, having to tell everyone about my failed marriage, no education, and no great job experience. I felt like a real loser.”

  “But you don't now?” As soon as I say this, I wish I hadn't. Fortunately, it seems to go right over him. Or maybe he's just a gracious guy.

  “I'm really starting to feel good about myself,” he says. “I know I'm not much. But I'm happy.”

  “There's a lot to be said for being happy,” I say a little too longingly.

  “And you're not going to believe this,” he says in a conspiratorial tone.

  “What?”

  “I've started going to church.”

  “No way!”

  He nods. “Yep. I haven't told anyone except my mom. The idea of old party animal Gary Frye going to church…” He chuckles. “Some people are gonna be shocked.”

  I'm thinking most people probably don't really care, but I don't say it. “So what church are you going to?”

  “It's a nondenominational church.” He grins. “I'm not really sure what that means, but it sounds important. Anyway, Mountain Fellowship started up last year. I'd been doing some landscaping for this woman who goes there, and she kept inviting me to come. When the weather cooled off and the business slowed down, I decided to give it a try. And I like it.”

  “Well, I think that's very cool.”

  “Really?” He looks surprised.

  “Really. In fact, I've been thinking I need to find a church here.”

  “So you go to church?”

  “I have in the past.”

  “Well, come try our place. We meet in the old Lutheran church—you know, that little chapel out on the highway.”

  “Oh, I always liked the looks of that church.”

  “It got too small for the Lutherans. They built a bigger one on the other end of town. Anyway, service is at ten thirty on Sunday morning. They have other things going on, but I don't know too much about all that yet.” He slaps his thigh and gives a hoot. “I've only been twice myself, and here I am, inviting newcomers. They should give me a gold star or something.”

  I laugh at this and am surprised to realize I'm actually having a good time. I notice a guy coming into the room—and then my heart seems to skip a beat when I see that it's Todd, who's looking extra handsome in a golden-colored suede jacket that goes great with his hair. He sees me and waves. This is too good to be true. But then I realize I'm sitting here with Gary Frye, local lawn man, and I'm sure Todd will assume we're on a date. So I'm formulating what I'll say to him, something like, “Hey, are you here for Black Bear High happy hour? I heard there were supposed to be lots of old friends here, but so far its just Gary and me.” Yeah, that ought to work.

  But it looks like he's waiting. Then I see that he's with someone. And when the two of them come fully into the brewery, I can see that this particular someone is a pretty woman who happens to be my mom. I try not to fall off my barstool as the two of them approach us with warm smiles.

  “Cassie,” says Mom, “fancy meeting you here.”

  “Small town,” I say, then, I notice her footwear. “Nice boots, Mom.”

  “That's your mom?” says Gary in a shocked voice.

  “Yeah, my mom wearing my boots,” I add.

  “I got your note,” she reminds me. “I like your earrings.”

  “How's it going?” asks Todd politely.

  “Great,” says Gary. “Cassie and I've been getting reacquainted after all these years. I think I even talked her into going to church with me on Sunday.”

  “Good for you,” says Todd, winking at me. “I think the girl could use some religion.”

  I am speechless. So the three of them talk and joke about some of the local happenings, and then Todd and Mom excuse themselves to a booth in the corner where I can't see either of them. I am fuming.

  “Wow,” says Gary, “that's one hot mama you got, Cassie.”

  “Yeah, right,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “Bet the apple don't fall far from the tree,” he says to me.

  I'm sure he means it as a compliment, but all I can think is Get me outta here. “Wow, look at the time,” I say, glancing at my watch. “I really need to get going.”

  Gary looks sincerely disappointed. “You have someone to meet?”

  I nod. “But I've really enjoyed getting to know you again—” I force a laugh. “Well, again for the first time.”

  He smiles now. “You'll think about coming to church?”

  “I sure will.”

  He stands as I stand and actually shakes my hand. Then I thank him for the beer, which is still half there, and the buffalo wings, which I did indulge in and weren't half bad, and then I leave. It's getting dusky outside, but if I hurry, I think I can make it home before dark. I button my jacket to my chin and wish I'd thought to bring a wool scarf and gloves tonight. Although it's not even November, I can feel winter in the air. Winters here can be brutal. I walk down the quiet streets, the cold sting of the wind numbing my face and chilling my tears as they trickle down my cheeks. So much for my can-do optimism.

  can't believe that its Halloween today. Consequently, I will be wearing my happy mask for the entire day. Ive already given myself several lectures regarding Mom and Todd. For one thing, their relationship is really none of my business, and for another, Mom saw him first—or at least dated him first. So what if she's just having a little fling with him? He knows the score. And even though the whole thing about the boots really had me steamed, well, I asked for it by borrowing her jewelry and leaving that stupid note. If I hadn't wanted her to take me up on my offer, in particular with my boots, I should've hidden them. From now on, I will! So, anyway, I'm trying to act all cheerful and fine. I really don't see the point in pouting.

  For some reason, Mom seems to think I've really turned a corner. If she's right, I'm pretty certain it will just lead to another deadend street. Still, in trying to regain my optimism, I told Mom about my plan to get a good job in town and to join her fitness club. She was ecstatic about this and insisted on taking me to the club to sign up today. So I ride with her in her pretty car, then fill out the forms, which include questions about height and weight and general health and “regular workout routines.” I add an inch and subtract ten pounds. What're they going to do, arrest me? Anyway, it looks better that way, and I always did like looking good on paper. Mom pays the fees, and I am an of Bcial member of Black Bear Fitness Club. I just don't look like it.

  “Now you'll have to come to the big shindig tonight,” says the receptionist, a perky redhead named Cindy. “It's a costume party, and it's going to be a real hoot. I heard the mayor is dressing up like Batman.”

  “That's right,” says Mom. “I almost forgot about the Halloween party. Oh, you'll come too, won't you, Cassie?”

  I shrug. “I guess I could. Although I don't have a costume.”

  “I haven't got one either,” says Mom. “But we can forage in the attic and throw something together. You girls always had lots of dress-up things. It'll be fun.”

  I nod, catching some of her enthusiasm. “Yeah, maybe so.”

  “See ya tonight,” calls Cindy.

  Then Mom and I head for the locker room. Part of the fitness-club agreement was that I'd work out today. “No time like the present,” Mom chirped as we ate our bark-o-mulch cereal for breakfast. But, as I reminded her several times, I am going to do my own thing at the fitness club. Today my own thing consists of riding a stationary bike with this electronic panel that gives me several options. I choose the beginner option and monitor my own speed, hill incline, and whatnot. I keep it low—like a beginner-beginner. Even so, I can feel my heart pumping hard by the time I finish my twenty minutes. Mom is still doing the elliptical machine, whatever that is, smiling and chatting with people. While she's distracted with the grade-school principal, I slip out of this part of the facility and go downstairs to peek at the swimming pool.<
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  To my huge relief it is empty! Despite my body-image problems, I really do love to swim, and the idea of working out in the water is extremely appealing. I just hope that I can get into my swimsuit and out here before anyone else comes along. So I hurry back to the locker room, peel off my sweaty clothes, and wrestle into my one-piece, slimming, black Calvin Klein swimsuit that I paid way too much for several years ago. I pause briefly in front of the mirror, tugging on the suit here and there. Didn't this fit me better the last time I wore it? When was the last time I wore it?

  I wrap a towel around me like a sarong—well, almost—-then hurry back out to the pool. Naturally, there are several lap swimmers in it now: two athletic men who seem to be racing each other and a stocky, white-haired lady who's just getting in. The woman, who must be in her seventies, gives me hope as she slowly eases herself into the water. She chooses to swim in the only “slow” lane, which leaves one unoccupied “fast” lane. Okay, I think as I get into the open fast lane, I should be able to outswim this granny.! begin to do an easy backstroke, keeping my head up because I'm not sure I want to get my hair wet. I slowly move through the water, watching as grandma puts on her swim goggles, adjusts them, then ducks under the water and pushes herself off the side of the pool. With surprising grace and speed, this old lady slices through the water like a fish. I'm halfway through my first lap when she meets me on her way back—still swimming in the slow lane. Yeah, right. She smiles at me as she takes a breath and another smooth stroke. Or maybe she's laughing.

  After twenty minutes of trying to keep up with granny, who has swum at least twice as many laps and probably more, I decide to quit. My hair is soaking wet, and I can tell my eyes are going to be red. I need to get some goggles. But when I climb out of the pool and scramble to get my towel wrapped around me before anyone looks up, I realize that my legs feel weak, like they are seriously tired. I was actually working pretty hard in there.

  I go back to the locker room, where I have things partially figured out. With my swimsuit on, I can head straight to the showers without having to disrobe in front of everyone. It's not so crowded today, since there wasn't a class, but I can hear my mom in there now. She's still chattering with the grade-school principal, and I have no desire to strip in front of them. Getting dressed after the shower might prove more of a problem, but hopefully the little corner will be free, or maybe they'll be gone by then.

  “There you are,” says Mom as I return to the locker area wrapped in two towels. She introduces me to the principal, Linda Moore, who's topless at the moment, and although she looked fairly trim in her sweats, she seems to be sagging a bit now.

  “Didn't you know you're supposed to use only one towel?” she says, sounding like a principal.

  “Oh?” Am I supposed to drop one of them? Forget it.

  “She's new,” says my mom. “Her first day as a member.”

  Linda Moore nods. “Well, we don't want them raising our dues. Just one towel from now on, Cassidy.”

  I resist the urge to say, “Yes ma'am,” as I grab my bag and retreat to my corner.

  I hurry to dress and then go to the mirror, where I attempt some damage control on my face and hair. Today I remembered to bring a bit of moisturizer and makeup so that I don't look quite as devastated as last time. Still, it's not good, and my eyes are really red. I'm thinking goggles and Visine. I will get this down eventually.

  “Ready to go?” chirps Mom as she does a quick fluff to her blond hair, then applies some lipstick from what appears to be a Chanel tube. Very impressive. It's a perfect shade of peachy pink that looks fantastic on her. I stand there just staring at her for a moment. Her hair looks great, her skin tone is perfect, her eyes are clear… She's so together that it makes me want to scream and pull my wet hair out by the roots.

  “You look so unreasonably good, Mom,” I say as I shove my lip gloss back into my bag. “How do you do it?”

  She laughs. “Oh, I've put some work into it, Cassie, don't kid yourself.”

  “What kind of work?”

  She doesn't answer right away, and I wonder if she's had some plastic surgery. “Well, after losing the weight, I decided I needed a makeover. I read about this place in the city where they do a total redo, and I made an appointment.”

  “You were in the city?” I say. “And you never called?”

  “It was during the week, sweetie, and I knew you'd be at work.”

  “But you never even called?”

  She smiles. “I didn't want to bother you. And I had a pretty full day with my little makeover.”

  “So what did they do to you?” I ask in a flat voice, not sure I even want to know now. Who is this stranger?

  She glances over her shoulder like she's worried about eavesdroppers. “Oh, lots of things. How about if I tell you over lunch?”

  I look at the mirror, seeing my mom next to me, and I try to imagine us pleasantly sitting together at lunch. She looks hot, and I look, well, not. Still, it's not like I should care about such things. I mean, it's not like I have a life or a job or a boyfriend or anything. Besides, despite my hurt feelings about being snubbed in the city, I am curious—has Mom actually gone under the knife?

  “Sure,” I agree. “But let's not go anyplace fancy. I'm not really looking so great right now, and my hair's still wet.”

  “You can dry it,” she says, holding up the hair dryer.

  For whatever reason, this just irritates me. “I don't want to dry it,” I snap.

  She nods. “Sure, whatever. How about if we go to Claire's?”

  “Sounds good.” Claire's is a tiny deli on the quiet end of town, and as I recall, the lighting is rather dim in there.

  After placing our orders and taking our drinks to the table, I ask Mom to tell me about her makeover. She proceeds to tell me that she got “the works,” which included a little Botox, a little collagen, a chemical peel, and some kind of electronic treatment that's supposed to tighten sagging jowls.

  “Really?” I lean forward to look at her more closely. “Any surgery?”

  She shakes her head. “No, I wasn't too sure about that. I worried that I might come out looking like someone else.”

  “You do look like someone else,” I point out. Someone who's not my mom.

  “Well, that has a lot to do with losing the weight and changing my style as much as anything.” She takes a sip of her white tea. “Also, I changed my eating habits, which can greatly affect your looks, especially at my age. Of course, I had a makeover with my hair and makeup. That helps. And I almost forgot, I go in for tanning now too.”

  “You do a tanning bed?” For some reason the idea of Mom cooking herself in a hot tanning bed totally astounds me.

  “No, not at all. I get sprayed.”

  “Sprayed?”

  “Yes, you know. You stand in the booth and get sprayed with a tanning solution.”

  “Seriously?” I vaguely remember seeing an ad for this once, but it sounded ridiculous.

  She giggles. “I know it sounds terribly vain, but last summer I wanted to wear shorts, and my legs were ghosdy white. The spa in town had just gotten a booth for this very thing, so I thought I'd give it a try. I go in twice a month now.”

  “No kidding?”

  She nods. “And I always have an exfoliation treatment before the spray-on. I keep thinking I'll stop doing it when winter comes, but it just feels so good to have tan legs. Do you want to see?” She actually bends over now like she's about to pull up her pant leg.

  “No, Mom,” I say quickly, “that's okay.”

  Fortunately they bring our food at that moment, so I'm not forced to view Mom's tan and slender legs. Oh. My. Word.

  “I felt silly about all this,” she admits as she forks a piece of salad, “then I thought, why shouldn't I have some fun? I may be fifty-five, but I'm still alive!” She laughs at her litde rhyme.

  I take a bite of my turkey sandwich and think that I'm thirty-one and I'm no fun. But I don't say this. I just chew
and watch my mom daintily picking at her healthy-looking salad.

  “I was thinking, Cassie, that maybe you'd like to have a makeover too.”

  “That's okay,” I say, still chewing. The truth is, I would love a makeover. I would absolutely love to go someplace far away and have talented professionals totally work me over until I emerged looking like—like Cameron Diaz. The problem is, I just don't want my mother involved. I can't handle that right now.

  “My treat.”

  “No thanks,” I say firmly.

  “It's fun,” she says in a tone that she must think sounds tempting to me.

  “Look, Mom.” I set down my sandwich. “All that foo-foo nonsense might work for you, but I am not you, okay?” So what if part of me wishes I were her?—not that I'll ever admit it to her or anyone. It just irks me that she's so obsessed with fixing me right now—as though a makeover is going to change my life. Okay, it probably wouldn't hurt. But not like this. I don't want to be Mom's little project. No thanks!

  She looks down at her salad. “Sorry, Cassie, but you just seem so unhappy. I wish I could help.”

  “I'm unhappy because I lost my job. I'm unhappy because I got dumped by my boyfriend. I'm unhappy because my finances are a disaster. A makeover isn't going to change any of that.”

  “But it might not hurt.”

  “Mom. Stop.”

  She returns to eating her salad, and I can tell I've hurt her feelings, which makes me feel horrible. Why am I so mean to her? It's not her fault that my life's a mess and that hers is starting to look up. Still, it seriously irritates me that she's dating a guy young enough to be her son, a guy I happen to like and who might even like me, or so it seemed the other night on the phone. I remember what Todd said about that whole cougar bit. Although he made it clear that he didn't think my mom was a cougar per se, I'm beginning to wonder. As if to answer my thoughts, an attractive, forty-something man pauses at our table and leans over to smile at my mom.