Walk Me Home (17 page)

It seems wrong to Carly to just throw or stack all that stuff behind something. Like that solves it. Out of sight, out of mind. Carly is anything but a neat freak, but it argues with her sense of order.

Someday, she thinks, I’ll have a sweet little piece of property. But not here. Someplace that’s nothing like here. Someplace that’s not so hot. And dry. And empty. And depressing. And I’ll keep it nice. Not like this.

“What’s wrong with your feet?” Delores asks. Suddenly.

It startles Carly out of her thoughts. She stops and drops her rock, careful not to drop it on her foot. Jen keeps hauling.

“Who, me? Or Jen?”

“You.”

“Nothing’s wrong with my feet. Why would you ask that?”

Her blisters are killing her. But she doesn’t want to admit it. She feels like a wounded deer being watched by two coyotes. I am not lame. I am not lame.

“C’mere a second,” Delores says.

Carly inches closer to her.

The old woman’s hand darts out and grabs her by the calf, pulling her foot up, pulling it closer. She’s surprisingly strong for her age and stature. Carly almost falls but catches her balance again. She thinks the old woman is going to somehow look at her foot very close-up. The better to see it. Instead, Delores shakes the foot up and down. Carly can feel the oversize boot slip back and forth.

“These boots’re too big.”

“I know it.”

“Don’t they give blisters?”

“Maybe. What’s it to you?”

“Nothin’,” Delores says. “Nothin’ at all. You want blisters? Fine. Keep ’em.”

She drops Carly’s foot. It hits the dirt with a
whump
, raising a miniature puff of dust.

“What choice do I have?”

“I was gonna offer to fix ’em. But you ’n that attitude…”

“How can you fix them? They’re just too big. You can’t make them smaller. You can’t make my feet bigger.”

“You wanna argue about it? Or you wanna see?”

Carly looks over her shoulder at Jen, who is clearly listening.

“You didn’t tell me you had blisters,” Jen said.

“Sure I did. Remember at the bus station. I…” She started to say “took.” I “took” those bandages. She changes it. “…got those adhesive bandages?”

“You said that was ‘in case’ your heels got rubbed.”

“Well, they did.”

Delores Watakobie lumbers to her feet. It’s quite the production.

“C’mon’n the house,” she says to Carly. “Little one,” she calls to Jen. “Wanna take a break?”

“Naw, I’ll keep going,” Jen says.

Which seems weird. Hauling rocks if you’ve just been given a chance to stop hauling. That’s outside Carly’s understanding of the world.

Carly follows the old woman into the house.

She sits on the couch while Delores rummages, mostly by feel, through boxes in the closet. Most are the size of shoe boxes.

“How did you know I had blisters?”

At first, no reply. As if she doesn’t rate the attention. As if answers were something like cooked eggs. Something Carly might not deserve.

The old woman grunts deeply and straightens up, clutching a shoe box to her chest. She crosses the room to the kitchen and plows noisily through a drawer.

“Could hear it,” she says.

Carly laughs out loud. Not an amused laugh but a judgmental one. A laugh that discounts. Criticizes.

“You can’t hear blisters. They don’t make a noise.”

“People’s steps sound one way when all’s well, another way when there’s pain. Person walks different in pain. Hard to explain. But I know it when I hear it.”

She sits down next to Carly on the couch. “Take ’em off,” she says.

Carly unlaces her boots, sighing slightly as she slips one off. It feels good to have nothing pressing against the bloody disasters that are her heels.

Delores opens the box. Inside Carly can see small, narrow scraps of what look like thick sheepskin. None of them look wide enough to line a shoe.

The old woman sets the box top on the rug, sets a big pair of shears on top of it. She runs her hands through the scraps until she finds the biggest, widest one. Then she holds it to the bottom of Carly’s boot and begins to cut the scrap, feeling the edge of the boot sole as she goes along.

It seems like a process that will take a little time. Carly has no idea how to pass that time. Where to look. What to say.

She wants to say something halfway nice.

“No shotgun today.”

She knows that wasn’t it.

The old woman only grunts.

“How do you know we won’t just walk away?”

“Up to you.”

That sits in the air for a moment. Carly has no idea what to do with it.

“What do you mean, it’s up to me? You’re forcing us to stay here for a week.”

“Nope.”

“What do you mean, nope?”

“You don’t know what ‘nope’ means?”

“This is not voluntary.”

Carly’s getting heated now. She can feel it. Something about this old woman brings out the fight in her.

“Honor system. You two say you’re all about honest. If so, you’ll do what you promised. If not, you’ll go.”

Delores has already finished cutting one sheepskin insole. It has something like a long sheepskin tail at the heel end. Maybe an inch wide. Carly wonders when the old woman will cut it off.

“Last night you were holding us at the point of a gun.”

“Last night if you’d of taken off, you’d be dead. Nothing clear to Arkoba Village the way you was headed. And even that’s only if you know how to get there.”

“That’s bull. You don’t even know which way we were headed.”

“Yeah, I do. Your sister told me. Besides, it don’t matter. Nothin’ in a day’s walk in any other directions, neither. If I hadn’t put some food and drink in you, you wouldn’t’ve had a chance. Don’t like your chances now, but that’s up to you. Pigheaded enough to chance it, you will. Your sister got more sense, though.”

Carly can feel her jaw hanging open. Dropped. She doesn’t know what to counter first. The part about Jen was over the line. So she leaves that part alone.

“Oh, right. So this is all for us. Not for you. You’re just being helpful. Is that what you want me to believe?”

“Believe what you want,” Delores says. “Ever’body always does.”

Carly stands at the kitchen sink, her left leg weirdly angled up, watching Delores wash one of her blisters by feel. It makes her wince a little. Partly from pain, partly from a squeamishness about being touched with those spotted, wrinkled hands.

Delores is using a rough bar of soap that doesn’t exactly look like soap you buy in a store. It stings, a sting exceeding any logical expectation for soap in a wound. Delores is not gentle, either. Anything but. In fact, when the old woman feels the flap of skin dangling from Carly’s heel, she pulls it off. In one quick rip, the way you’d take off a bandage you know is stuck to the wound. All at once, just to get it over with.

“Ow!” Carly shouts. Really even a little louder than necessary. “You want to ask before you start removing pieces of me? Maybe I wanted to keep my skin.”

“You don’t want that.”

“Really. Why don’t I?”

“’Cause it’s infected. Last thing you want’s for a flap of skin to seal back over an infection.”

“Oh. Still. Can you warn a person?”

“Put your foot down and gimme the other one.”

“Right,” Carly says. “Sure. Whatever you say. Thanks for answering the question.”

She takes her still-wet left foot out of the sink and sets it on the kitchen floor, presenting the second disaster to Delores and the sink.

Delores washes by feel again, her head slightly tilted.

Then she says, “I’m thinking to take this flap o’ skin, too, so you might be wantin’ to brace yourself now.”

Without waiting for an answer, Delores pulls.

Carly does not say ow.

“What about this thing?” Carly says, indicating the long strip of sheepskin that protrudes from the top of each boot. “You’re not going to cut that off?”

“Now why would you want me to go ’n do that?”

“Well. When I stick my foot in, it’ll get all smashed down into the boot, and I’ll be walking around on that all day.”

Delores just shakes her head. As if Carly has brought a level of silliness into the house that doesn’t even warrant the old woman’s attention. Instead she takes hold of Carly’s shoulders and plunks her onto the couch.

“Sit,” she says, when Carly is already down.

“I’m not a dog.”

“I noticed.”

“You don’t say that like it’s a good thing.”

“If you was a dog, all you could say to me’s ‘woof.’ That’d be some improvement.”

Carly decides not to escalate things any further.

Delores picks up Carly’s feet, one at a time, and slathers her heels with a thick, evil-smelling, translucent ointment. Carly expects it to burn like hell, and she braces for that pain. Instead it’s soothing, which leaves her speechless and feeling, for some inexplicable reason, like she might be about to cry.

Delores tears strips off a length of clean white cotton fabric and wraps it twice around each foot like a bandage. Then she lumbers to her feet.

“Those socks you got are worth next to nothin’.”

She hobbles over to a chest of drawers.

Carly looks around, wondering where the old woman sleeps. It’s all one big room. No bed in sight. Maybe the couch folds out.

Delores comes back with a pair of thick gray socks. Weirdly thick, like boot socks or hiking socks. Nothing like any socks Carly’s ever worn before.

She drops them in Carly’s lap.

Carly just stares at them, as if she doesn’t know what they are or how to use them. In fact, she simply doesn’t know if they are a loan or a gift, and if she can accept either one from this horrible old woman without being obliged to tone down her hatred and resentment. At least by a notch or two.

Delores says, “Waitin’ for directions?”

“Why are you acting like you like me? I know you don’t.”

“So…you don’t like somebody…you see ’em sufferin’…You just let ’em suffer?”

Carly has to think about that for a minute. If it was a stranger…Maybe. She’s always thought of other people’s suffering as entirely
outside her realm of influence. Not so much like she’s withholding assistance. More like she’s on a different planet from the suffering.

As if I don’t have enough trouble with my own life, she thinks. What could I possibly do for a stranger? What do I have that could rescue anybody? I can’t even rescue Jen. Or me.

“So you admit you don’t like me.”

“I like your sister,” Delores replies, without missing a beat.

That just hangs in the air, leaving Carly at a loss for what to say, or even what to feel. But a moment later, something breaks through. Something that hurts. Everybody likes Jen better. Why does everybody like Jen better? What did Carly ever do that was so wrong? She tries so hard to make everything work out right. Jen just floats through the world, through her life, and people spark to her. Just like that.

Teddy liked Jen better.

The thought slices up her gut like a rusty can opener. She’s always known that but never formed it into words. Not even in the privacy of her own head.

“Sister thinks like a Wakapi,” Delores says. “Picks up the feel of the land. First thing she did this mornin’…when she got out of the trailer…hold still ’n look around. Said she was lookin’ at the way the sun hits that big mesa back behind the place, and then she sniffed the air. Smelled the mornin’ to take the measure of it. She knows where she is. She’s payin’ attention.”

“She thinks this is someplace,” Carly says, her heart as cold and dark as frozen mud. “I know better.”

Delores levers to her feet, a little faster this time.

“Put your boots on ’n get to work.”

She waddles out of the house.

Carly looks down at the boots and suddenly gets it. The sheepskin liners have been cut to extend all the way up the back of her heel. There’s even enough to fold over the top of the boot, a little
tab to hold on to, so they stay in place as she slides her foot in. Not only do the new liners make the boots fit better, they include a soft cushion for her damaged heels.

Just for a moment she wants to follow Delores and say something. Somehow leave the conversation on a better note. But instead she just sits. Their talk, this morning, is like the suffering of others. Well out of her sphere of influence. Life just keeps happening to her. If there were a way to make it work out right, to take it in a better direction, she would have veered down that road a long time ago.

Jen is mixing plaster of Paris with a hoe, stirring it back and forward in a low metal trough. As if she’s mixed plaster every day of her life.

Carly is walking back and forth, stacking the last of the rocks on the pile again. Feeling the difference in her ability to walk without pain. Oh, the broken blisters still hurt. Some. But the boots don’t rub against them anymore—they fit normally now, plus there’s that extra cushioning in back.

When the rocks are all stacked, Carly squats down next to the trough, looking in. As though nothing could be more fascinating than watching plaster mix.

“How much did you talk to her while I was sleeping?” she asks Jen.

“A little,” Jen says, already on the defensive. She seems to know what Carly wants to hear. Apparently it doesn’t match with what she’s got to tell.

“What did you say?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know, Jen? You were there, weren’t you?”

“I don’t remember. She weaves her own baskets. I was looking at the baskets. We were talking about how she gets the different
things she needs, being so far away from a town and all. Nothing, really.”

“She’s already decided she likes you.”

Jen’s face lights up. “Yeah?” Then she catches the look in Carly’s eyes, the daggers Carly is quite purposely throwing, and her face falls again. “Well, that’s dumb. We don’t even know each other.”

“Stay away from her, Jen.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like her, that’s why.”

“
I
like her.”

“I thought you didn’t even know each other.”

Jen’s mouth moves briefly, but no audible words come out.

Then, suddenly, the old woman is back. She’s carrying two straw hats across the dusty yard. One is a cowboy hat with a curved brim. The sides of the brim curl up close, like a roper’s hat. It’s battered and old. And small. The other is floppy-brimmed, like an old lady’s gardening hat. Which is probably exactly what it is.