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Bare Feet

N. E. Payne

    The slap of bare feet on concrete – that is what growing up sounds like. Thick and solid. Knowing you should have shoes on, but not caring enough to stop. It’s a hushed noise and more felt than heard. It’s a shock because you almost don’t expect the ground to be so hard. Every now and then a stumble and cry as a rock sharply embeds itself in the soft skin of my foot. I rarely ever bled. Never broke a limb. It wasn’t until college that I sprained an ankle. And that was from wearing high heels. Not from any strenuous activity.
    If I ran too fast, I always had to be careful of scraping a toenail on the cement. I hated that. It would send chills down my spine.
    I ran faster on my toes so it’s surprising that running in heels was nearly impossible. But that’s not when I sprained my ankle. That happened long after I stopped running. Almost when I wasn’t expecting it anymore. But that’s when things happen isn’t it? When you don’t expect them. If you expected them, you’d know when they were coming. And if negative, prevent them.
    I wouldn’t have walked in that room. I wouldn’t have seen my mother having sex with someone who wasn’t my father. I wouldn’t have gotten up from Saturday morning cartoons when I heard the picture – of my brother and I dressed up for the camera at Sears Portrait Gallery – fall. The frame thudding against the hard wood of her chest of drawers. I wouldn’t have run down the street, forgetting my shoes, to the corner of the block where I’d wait for the bus every morning.
    Then when life led me to a second interrupted sexcapade I would have taken off my shoes anyway and run barefoot all the way back to my car. Not just to the corner where I could scream “Fuck,” into the night air.
    More than likely, I wouldn’t have walked in the room to my boyfriend fucking his next-door neighbor. The girl with the exotic coffees and shag carpeting. I would have known that my boyfriend, by saying, “Hey Julia’s got this awesome red shag carpeting,” was admitting, “Hey I fucked my neighbor on her awesome red shag carpeting.” So then I wouldn’t have seen them fucking in his bed instead, heels or no.
    When my mom finally caught up to me on the corner, after I assume she’d fumbled for her clothes and apologized to the sweaty naked guy, I was patiently looking down the street.
    “What are you doing young lady?” she’d asked me.
    “Waiting for the bus,” I’d said directly. And I was. Any moment the bus would pass and I’d be carried off to school, or my dad’s company or whatever. She told me, “Don’t be silly.” It was Saturday after all. I was missing Rainbow Brite. And she walked me back home.
    Standing on the corner with the echo of “fuck” still stinging the back of my throat nobody came to call me back. I’d screamed the first time in the faces of two grunting adults. I had better manners the second time and I waited until I was outside. I imagined the pair awkwardly fumbling for their clothes, not looking in each other’s eyes afraid to acknowledge what they’d realized they’d done.
    After about two minutes I knew that no one was coming to bring me back to my cartoons and that they were probably still naked lying in each other’s arms. So I began to walk to my car because I no longer needed to wait for a bus. That’s when I sprained my ankle – my heel catching in a crack on the sidewalk.
    I plopped down in the grass because with one good foot and a short black dress that’s really all one can do. I took off my heels and felt the newly watered lawn against my legs. I didn’t care that a wet spot was now forming on my ass.
    I hobbled barefoot back to my car holding my shoes. I realized I really had to stop walking in on people having sex.
    What I did think of was watching my dad carry his boxes from what was now not his house to his car. He kissed me on the top of the head and said he’d see me later. That was not actually a memory, just a desire. He moved out while I was in school. He did kiss me on the top of the head before I left for the bus. Later turned into every weekend, which turned into every other weekend, which became once a month. I still get cards for my birthdays and Christmas but visits are hard to come by.
    I remembered this only because I’d need no boxes to clear out my stuff. He still had my reading lamp and spare toothbrush. I’m sure there were a few clothes there too but the fear that Julia may have worn them, or would wear them, or just roll around on them on her awesome red shag carpeting was enough for me to say she could keep them. I’d need no boxes to wipe clean the physical presence of me in his life. He’d need even less since there was nothing of his in my apartment except a few photos of us and a faint scent of his body. He’d come over once to help me put my bookshelf together. He didn’t stay long. I don’t drink coffee or have shag carpeting.
    When I got to my car I threw my shoes on the passenger seat and drove home. I took a shower and crawled into bed naked and still a little damp. I needed the moisture. I hadn’t even cried yet. My pillow was soaked.
    My dad. I hadn’t seen him cry, not once. But then he hadn’t looked pissed either. I wonder what emotion had thrust itself forward on my face as I came to the realization that the mass of twisted limbs and sweaty flesh on my boyfriend’s bed was actually he and the neighbor. Did I look angry? I really wasn’t now. Just upset to be caught off guard. To not have seen it coming.
    Later that day when my mom had brought me home she’d explained that her and Daddy had grown apart. I shouldn’t be scared or upset but these things happen. Then I was angry. How dare she toss my father aside. He was the greatest. The best guy ever. He worked hard and told the best jokes. I’ve often been told that I am my father’s daughter. But maybe I am my father. Maybe I didn’t pay attention enough to notice the distance growing between us. I probably should have known long before the awesome red shag carpeting.
    As I lay in bed that night there was no one there to explain away why I’d been lied to and cheated on. No one to kiss my forehead and to say don’t be upset or afraid. Just an empty feeling, dry eyes, and hardwood floors. I let my eyes adjust to the dark, and just lay there staring at the ceiling, replaying the scene over and over in my head. I forced them to remain open so they would at least water a little.
    What could I have done differently? Maybe if I’d yelled or cried, pointed out how bad they were for doing what they did. Maybe I should have stayed there in the doorway in my Scooby Doo pj’s just looking my mom in the eyes with disappointment and shame pasted on my face. Maybe she wouldn’t have forced my father away. But I’d run instead.
    Copying myself the second time I never called again to find out if Julia and he were an item or to get my stuff back. Chock it up to experience. Lesson learned. No more Saturday cartoons.



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