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Mary Granfield
The Boots

Caroline peered through the window into the dawn, the air an inky blue. An absurdly full moon hung in the sky; two squirrels dashed across her field of vision, chittering. Amidst the snow striping her driveway glistened a plastic sheath: her newspaper. She reached for her lace-up winter boots, then hesitated. Pulling them on was a challenge, and she had only to walk across the driveway and back. Slip-ons would be easier.
       Her eyes went to the pair of brown ankle boots that had been sitting there for … how long? A sheen of dust coated them. They were more than a few sizes too big for her, but even so, she slipped her feet inside, hand braced against the wall. As she made her way down the front steps, an icy wind slapped her face. Caroline moved cautiously toward the newspaper.
       Down the street, a dog barked. She wondered if it was Tessie, a neighbour’s beautiful fox red Labrador. For some reason, Tessie had taken a shine to Caroline and always trotted to her excitedly upon seeing her. Caroline had come to enjoy their encounters; her fingers itched to stroke Tessie’s sleek fur. She stepped over the newspaper and went to the end of the driveway, looking down the street. I’ll just go by her house in case she’s coming out for her morning walk. Her feet slid around inside the boots, so she walked slowly.
       She shuffled past the first house, where the awful neighbours lived who’d poisoned her favourite cherry tree, keeping her eyes straight ahead as if glancing their way could infect her, only slowing down when she was in front of Tessie’s snug home. As if by magic, the door opened and the Lab bounded towards her, followed by her family’s thirteen-year-old son, Bard, who shambled after her with the laces of his untied sneakers trailing behind. ‘Wait up, Tessie, wait,’ he called, then seeing Caroline, he grinned, slowing his pace. ‘Oh, hey there, Mrs. Romer.’
       As Bard drew nearer, he looked her up and down, a crease appearing between his dark eyebrows. ‘Are you, uh, okay?’ She was bent over Tessie, arms wreathed around her neck as the dog wriggled ecstatically inside them. ‘Oh, I’m more than okay when I’m with this sweetie,’ she replied, straightening up again with difficulty. For a moment, she listed sideways, so Bard grabbed her arm to steady her. ‘Thank you, dear,’ she said. ‘How are you?’ The boy’s face opened like a daisy. ‘We made it to the state championship!’
       Caroline searched her mind for his sport; was it basketball or soccer? She was transported back to a crisp fall day in the bleachers, watching breathlessly as a ball blasted toward the goal cage where her son Rory stood, arms raised. Had he caught it? She couldn’t remember. He’d loved soccer and was a decent, if perhaps not stellar, goalie. ‘That’s wonderful news,’ she told Bard. ‘Just wonderful.’
       As Bard attached Tessie’s leash, Caroline gave her a parting pat. She felt a stab beneath her ribs: why hadn’t she allowed Rory to get a dog? He’d pleaded with her for years, but she’d always been dead set against it. Her late husband, Graham, said he’d gladly take care of a pet, but he often travelled on business, which meant the burden of care would fall on her. Their daughter, Bella, wasn’t an animal lover, so she’d have been no help. Was it too late to apologize to Rory? It made her terribly sad that his childhood didn’t include a lovable dog like Tessie. I’ll mention it to him next time we talk, she thought.
‘Well,’ Bard said, giving the leash a tug, ‘we should go. Have a good day!’ As he and Tessie moved off, Caroline called after him, ‘You’d better tie those laces!’ Without looking back, Bard gave a thumbs up. However, he didn’t stop to tie his sneakers. She shook her head with a sigh.
       As she reached the town centre, she inhaled a delicious aroma. She smiled, remembering her family’s Sunday morning ritual. Graham would time his stroll down to Arise to get there just as they unloaded their first tray of fresh donuts. Caroline would watch the children caper around the front door, occasionally peeking out its window as they waited for their father to return with his paper bag laden with donuts, warm and fragrant.
       Inside, the shop looked oddly different and the person at the counter stared at her, not understanding her order of two glazed crullers. Maybe this young man was an immigrant who was still learning English? But that would be strange as she recalled that this bakery was run by an Armenian family who’d been in Massachusetts for generations. Why would they put someone at the counter who couldn’t grasp a simple order? ‘Oh, never mind,’ Caroline told him, turning away. As she reached the door, she noticed an ATM machine. How strange, she thought. I wonder when that got put in.
       As she continued down the street, she passed the orthodontist’s office where Bella and Rory had gotten their braces eons ago. The sign caught her eye: Laszaris Orthodontics. She stopped, staring at it. Something was wrong. The dancing tooth was gone! As was the “& Son.” Caroline tried to swallow, but her throat was dry. She envisioned the missing cartoon tooth, whose fruity attire telegraphed Carmen Miranda.
       The morning after Rory got his braces, he’d shown up for breakfast muttering, ‘My teeth are definitely not dancing right now.’ It had become a joke in their family for all manner of complaints, like Graham after his beloved ‘old-guy’ basketball games moaning, ‘My knees are definitely not dancing right now.” Caroline made a mental note to mention it to both children, though she thought Rory would care more. She knew in her bones that, silly as it was, he’d mourn the dancing tooth as much as she did.
       To her left was the cemetery’s entrance; so, ignoring a pulse of dread, she went inside. Caroline’s sockless feet, sore from chafing, brought her to the plot she hadn’t visited in a long while. The poinsettia—wilted now, of course—lay on its side as if trying to nap. I need to bring fresh flowers, she thought. How long had Graham been gone? A drawn-out illness had whittled him down to a shadow by the time he died in his sleep. It hadn’t even been ten years, though it felt to her like decades. In the trees above, crows made their harsh, pitiless cawing. She shivered and hustled toward the exit.
       On the path ahead of her gleamed a small, pale shape. A baby bootie. She chuckled, envisioning little Bella in her stroller, pulling off one of the booties, Graham’s mother, an avid knitter, had made, and dropping it onto the sidewalk. Bella lost so many booties that by the time Rory came along two years later, there were no more matching pairs for him. Caroline reached for it, her fingers grazing the soft wool, then pulled back, thinking, I’ll leave it in case the mother comes back.
       Her smile collapsed as she recalled the fight she and Bella had had over the phone. Bella kept insisting she move into one of those ‘residences’ where wrinkled oldsters pushed cage-like walkers along endless hallways or vegetated in small rooms, staring off into space. ‘Mom, you shouldn’t have to deal with all these headaches,’ she had said, ‘like mice in your attic, snow shovelling, roof repairs. Wouldn’t you love to be free of all that?’ Caroline privately agreed that her daughter had a point, she would love to be free of all that, especially the mice skittering in the ceiling above her bed at night. But there was no question of her leaving this house, something Bella would never understand. She was a good daughter, but there was so much about Caroline’s life that she simply couldn’t comprehend.
       Another thing gnawed at her. Bella was coming for a visit soon, wasn’t she? Along with her wife Geeta, a lovely woman with a big job in bio-something. Caroline felt she was a good match for Bella, but thought it strange that women could have ‘wives’. Shouldn’t there be a better word? Something more … elegant. When the children were young, Caroline often played ‘The Game of Life’ with them. Bella was only eight or so when she chose a pink peg for her ‘spouse.’ Caroline had gently reminded her that it was supposed to be her husband, that is, a blue peg. But the girl had just shrugged, saying, ‘I like the pink better.’ Had she already known at that early age? Their wedding was something else; Caroline had never seen so many flowers in her entire life. She clicked her tongue: the drab ‘wife’ did stylish Geeta no justice.
       Caroline allowed herself a quick glance back at the grave with the wilted poinsettia and felt, as she so often had in recent years, a flash of fury toward Graham’s bossy twin sister, who’d demanded he be buried in their family’s old plot in the Berkshires, a three-hour drive away. Why had she agreed to that? He should be here, in this place, where she could easily visit him. And where he belonged, especially now.
       As soon as she stepped out of the cemetery, a weight like a dentist’s lead apron dropped away. That sense of relief ironically made her realize that her bladder was about to burst and there was no chance in hell she’d make it to the library with its public restroom, only a block away. Her frantic eyes fell on a large yew bush, and it was all she could manage to shuffle behind it and crouch down with her feet spread wide before a torrent of pee erupted. Still squatting, she dug around in her bathrobe pocket, relieved to find a tissue, only lightly used, to wipe herself.
       A pair of bulging brown eyes ogled hers and she yelped, nearly toppling over. The little boy, who was kindergarten age, screamed and scrambled back toward the house this bush belonged to. Caroline read the alarm on the face of his mother, who was emerging from the front door with her coat on. Lord almighty, she thought, standing up to face the woman, who was fast approaching with her boy tagging behind her, clutching the hem of her unbuttoned coat.
       The woman’s expression softened as she drew nearer, and Caroline noticed that her protruding brown eyes looked prettier on her than on her less fortunate child. She felt a twist of sorrow for this mother and her son, whose froggy face would never inspire the swoons Rory’s angelic one had on trips to the supermarket.
        ‘May I help you with something?’ the woman asked kindly, her eyes snagging briefly on the soiled tissue Caroline had, in her shock, dropped into the puddle of urine.
       Caroline, cheeks aflame, couldn’t locate her voice.
       ‘You’re welcome to use our bathroom, if you still need one,’ the woman added.
       ‘No, no,’ Caroline blurted. ‘Please forgive me, an emergency, so very sorry.’
       As she turned, limping toward the sidewalk, acutely aware of angry blisters forming, she heard the woman say, ‘Ma’am, do you need a ride home?’
       Caroline mumbled over her shoulder, ‘No thanks, I’m fine, have to catch a bus …’
       She’d used that as an excuse to escape, but as the bus shelter came into view, she headed straight for it. There was a bench and she had to rest her screaming feet. A teenager with earbuds snaking out from his watch cap shot Caroline a look of alarm before sliding over, making room. I must look a fright, Caroline thought, aware that she’d left the house without brushing her hair. She sat, looking down at the boots that were causing her so much agony, rubbing the skin of her toes raw. I need to remind Rory, she thought, that he left these behind.
       How long had it been since she’d talked to him? He called her without fail every Sunday afternoon at four o’clock. Such an attentive, loving son. When she’d left the house earlier, the garbage cans were all out, so it must be Thursday. Just a few more days before she’d hear his low, raspy voice. Her unleashed mind wandered back in time. Opening her door to a police officer, a short, wiry woman whom, if it hadn’t been a balmy day in June, she’d have mistaken for a trick or treater. Hat slightly too big, tilting over one eye. Giving Caroline news she didn’t want to hear, news that drove daggers through her chest, news she was still trying to erase. Phrases flew at her like shards of glass: T-boned at intersection, 90 miles per hour, fiery wreck, no survivors, remains at morgue.
       Her face was wet and she became aware of how parched she was, and cold, so she plunged her hands into her pockets to warm them. A man standing nearby took a water bottle from his backpack, and noticing her stare, twisted off the cap and gave it to her. She smiled her thanks and drank it down in a few gulps. He gently took the empty bottle from her and held up an energy bar. How did he know she was famished? She nodded and he unwrapped it, presenting it to her with a flourish. It was delicious, crunchy with chocolate chips and walnuts, just sweet enough.
 
       Someone tapped her shoulder and Caroline jolted awake. Had she fallen asleep? She glanced around; the man who’d given her the water was gone, as was the earbuds teenager. A solemn face haloed by frizzy golden hair loomed over her. ‘Are you waiting for this bus?’ the girl asked. ‘It’s just arriving.’ Caroline got to her feet, wincing as her blisters caught fire. These buses all stopped at her destination in the next town. The driver gave her a sceptical once-over, and, watching her dig worriedly around in her bathrobe pockets, waved her on, grumbling, ‘Pay me next time.’
       At the third stop, Caroline got off, thanking him. Although her feet were killing her, she said aloud, ‘C’mon, you can do it. It’s only one block away.’ Somehow, she made it to the house she hadn’t seen in a very, very long time. She stood in front of it, smiling faintly and remembering. Before long, a police cruiser pulled up next to her. Caroline was relieved this officer wasn’t the prankster with the overlarge cap and frightful news, but a tall, polite young man with a dimple in his cheek. He would bring her safely back home, to the home she would never leave except feet-first, no matter how much Bella badgered her. No, she had to stay where her dear boy could find her.
       As the officer murmured into his phone, she gazed fondly at the small “starter” house her expanding family had lived in once upon a time. Its tidy sign with the black 24, a pleasingly even, and one could say, optimistic number. With plenty of room for a shiny future. Caroline was gratified to see that the exterior paint was still yellow, with green shutters. She wondered if the family who’d bought the house from them ever used the badminton set they’d left behind in the shed.
       Ah, those summer evenings of kiddie pools and badminton! The children, of course, were small, so they’d crawled around in the grass while Caroline and Graham smacked birdies over their heads, carving white arcs through the darkening blue air. A soundtrack of soft thwacks and trilling crickets. A baby laughing. The cruiser pulled back onto the road with Caroline gazing through its rear window. On the horizon, the sun bobbled like Rory’s tiny face on the day he arrived, bright as a new buttercup.     AQ

Ross McQueen
Hotel on Kinkerstraat

The rain had not stopped since they’d reached Amsterdam. It lashed the pretty gabled houses. It churned the waters of the canals. They might as well have stayed in England for the weather!
       Their hotel was on Kinkerstraat, a short tram-ride from Leidseplein. They had taken the tram to Leidseplein, where the cafes were, and now they sat inside at a window looking out at the rain.
       It rattled on the striped parasols and the tables on the square, and they watched it and glumly drank their Heineken.
       ‘Isn’t it funny,’ said John, ‘how Heineken tastes better in Holland?’
       But she thought it tasted like every other beer, and she wasn’t a beer drinker anyway, and being in Holland did not make it taste less like beer.
       Their guidebook lay closed on the table before them. On the plane from London they’d pored over its recommendations: a walk in the Vondelpark; a boat tour of the canals… But none of these sounded appealing in the rain.
       In fact, Amsterdam had been grey and disappointing since they’d landed at Schiphol. It was their first trip in almost a year. They’d hoped it might bring them closer together…But so far, the city had inspired none of the romance they’d been longing for.
       ‘The weather was much better five years ago,’ John said. ‘Strange, because it was the same time of year. It must be climate change.’
       ‘Oh, drop it, John,’ she said. And in fact she was thinking of her own last trip to Amsterdam, back in her early twenties, before she and John had known each other. And for several reasons she’d never told John about that trip. Possibly because she’d had more fun on that trip than she’d ever had with John in the three years they’d been together.
       The café was warm and dry and when they finished their drinks John wanted another. But Jen wanted to go back to the hotel. She felt a longing to walk the rainy streets alone.
       But she knew he’d insist on taking her back, afraid she’d get angry at him for leaving her alone. And so they went back to the hotel together, which was really what neither of them wanted to do.
       Now she lay on the bed with a book while John flicked through the TV.
       There were channels in Dutch and German and French and English. He settled on an English channel. How like him to come to Amsterdam and watch English TV. What could he possibly have done on his previous trip here?
       She pictured him and his friends drinking Heineken and ogling the women in the Red Light District, each too nervous to go in. When they talked about it now, they probably considered that trip legendary.
       ‘Look at that, we can watch any English show we want,’ John said.
       ‘Why don’t you put on a Dutch channel?’
       ‘What for?’
       ‘For the local flavour.’
       ‘We won’t understand it.’
       ‘That’s the point.’
       ‘But we won’t understand it.’
       She was too weary to argue.
       She went back to her book. She wouldn’t have cared about not understanding the Dutch channels. That was part of the enjoyment. With the rain and the English TV, what evidence was there that they were really even abroad? She thought about trying to explain this to John, about telling him that she didn’t want to understand the Dutch TV shows, she just wanted to feel like she was somewhere else. But he wouldn’t have followed. He’d have found it silly and annoying. It would have led to a souring of the air.
       And so John watched TV and she read her book and the rain pattered down on the balcony of their little hotel on Kinkerstraat.
       ‘Where shall we eat tonight?’ John said.
       ‘Somewhere Dutch,’ she said.
       ‘Isn’t it all Dutch?’
       ‘Somewhere not touristy.’
       ‘Will the waiters speak English?’
       ‘Of course they’ll speak English.’
       ‘It’ll be tricky if they don’t speak English.’
       ‘Everyone speaks English, John. Have you met anyone in Amsterdam who didn’t speak English?’
       ‘What’s Dutch food like?’
       ‘I suppose we’ll find out.’
       ‘I hope they do chips.’
       She was finding it hard to focus on her book.
       Usually she was good at shutting out John and the TV. But today the words on the page weren’t linking up properly. She had to reread everything. Over the rain she could hear the noise of the street down below: the hum of a tram, the trill of the cyclists’ bells, the rumble of cars, the music of voices speaking a language she didn’t understand but which was foreign and exotic and full of mystery.
       She heard the trams ringing their bells as they set off. Then the whirr of the tracks, the crackle of the overhead lines… She pretended to read her book, but really she was listening to the trams.
       Finally she could take it no more. She wanted a drink.
       She was drinking more often in the evenings–not excessively, but enough. It was a habit she’d formed. She and John would have a drink and watch TV, and that would save them having to say anything to each other. And between the dulling effects of the drink and the images on the TV she could imagine that she was somewhere else entirely, and she’d be able to put some distance between herself and her drab London flat and the life she lived in it.
        ‘Do you fancy a drink?’ she said.
       He looked at his watch. She had already checked. It was just after five.
        ‘Yeah, why not,’ he said.
        ‘There’s a supermarket on the other side of the street,’ she said. ‘Across the tramlines. Can you go down and get a bottle of wine and whatever you want?’
        ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Shall I leave the TV on?’
        ‘If you like.’
       Taking some euros from their envelope of holiday money, John went out.
       When he was gone, she picked up the remote and found a Dutch channel.
       She lay back on the bed and looked at the ceiling. Her last trip to Amsterdam had been so different. So different indeed! She’d been seven years younger for a start.
       She was still young. But you noticed a difference between 22 and 29. At 22 your twenties are ahead of you; at 29 they are behind you, and 30 doesn’t feel so far away. And that had always seemed like the end for her, 30. If you hadn’t made it by 30, you hadn’t made it. You were meant to have your life sorted by then. She and John had been together for three years now and shared a flat. Did that make her life sorted?
       Her last trip to Amsterdam had been different. She’d been fresh out of university and into her first real job – a stupid tech start-up which had since folded, but a job nonetheless. For the first time she’d actually had money. She’d come here with different people, of course. She’d come here with friends, and with that guy she’d been seeing at the time, Simon, who’d wanted to be an artist.
       That had folded too, of course. She’d had her job and he wanted to move abroad, and in the end, she’d kept her job and he’d moved abroad and after a while she’d met John.
       But she’d always wondered what would’ve happened if she’d moved abroad with Simon.
       He was doing fine now, of course. Not successful, but fine. His art career was taking longer than expected to get off the ground.
       She knew he was doing fine because she’d met him a month ago, when he’d been passing through London–‘a duty jaunt to see the parents,’ he’d called it. Nothing had happened, of course. Nothing at all. It had just been a drink, just for old time’s sake. He’d walked her back to the Underground and they’d made a few off-hand remarks about keeping in touch, even though it was difficult under the circumstances. But as she’d sat on the Underground home, and as she’d got to the flat and found John sprawled on the sofa watching TV, a part of her had wished that something had happened with Simon that evening.
       He was living in France now – in Paris, where artists were meant to live. Simon had always had his head in the 1920s. He thought walking the same streets as Picasso might turn him into Picasso. And she pictured herself living modestly in Paris with Simon, in a bright studio filled with easels and oil paints and bottles of wine and cognac, which of course was a fantasy since it was impossible to live modestly as an artist in Paris. Still, a part of her wished she had at least tried…
       She took out her phone and scrolled through her contacts. Simon’s number was there. The sight of his name sent a painful thrill through her. If it wasn’t for John she could go and see him, perhaps try again with him. What would happen if she just phoned him now and told him she was coming to Paris? From their drink back in London she could tell he still liked her. He wouldn’t have got in touch with her otherwise. Should she call him?
       And she wanted so badly for someone else to take charge of her life. Someone to tell her what choices to make, to tell her which of these men she’d be happiest with.
       How much easier if some higher power reached down and took the decision away from her…
       Out in the street came the noise of a tram. The ‘ping’ of its bell as it slid through the rain. It just didn’t stop raining here. And she thought then…
       No, it was too awful. It was terrible. She was ashamed to think it.
       But she thought just then how much easier, how much less hassle it would all be, if on the way back from the supermarket John were to be hit and killed by that tram…
       The thought was so dreadful that she rolled over and put her face in the pillow. How could she think like that? This was John – the same John that she shared a flat with in London, the same John that she’d introduced to her parents, the same John that she’d spent the last two Christmases with. The John who she mechanically said ‘I love you’ to once every couple of days, for the sake of appearances, and who reliably said it back.
       One traffic accident and it would all go away…
       The trams whirred down Kinkerstraat and in her mind’s eye she saw the accident happen, the noise and the shouts, the sound of the rain.
       When John entered with a bottle of wine and a sixpack of Heineken he looked at her in surprise.
       ‘Have you been crying, Jen?’ he said.
       ‘Yes – no. There was something sad on the telly. I’m fine now.’
       ‘Don’t worry. I’ll pour you a drink.’
       There were no wine glasses so he poured the wine into a bathroom tumbler. She took a big gulp.
       They watched the English TV shows and drank their wine and Heineken. And out in the street the sound of the rain lessened. And she heard the trams more clearly–heard the electric whirr as they glided down the tracks, heard the ‘ping’ of their bells as they set off.
       And each time a tram went by she was reminded of what she’d thought, of what she’d wished might happen to John, and she’d look over at him just to make sure he was still there, and feel the shame rise up inside her like a hot wave.
       And, of course, he was still there. The same John she owned a flat with. The same John she’d said ‘I love you’ to for the last three years.
       When the two of them went out for dinner that night, John asked for a side order of chips with his meal, and was puzzled when they came with mayonnaise. She watched him scraping the mayonnaise off his chips, and felt her heart breaking.     AQ