Baby Shoes, Never Worn by Megan Neary

     Jill Robidoux​ CC


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Baby Shoes, Never Worn


    She is bleeding. The doctor told her she would, told her it might last days and days, told her that when she finally got to the hospital after three buses and a long, cold walk, feeling the baby leave her with every step, sure she could feel the baby leaving her with every step, walking alone because Jack was too drunk to get up off the kitchen floor, had been drunk all week, had thrown up all over the floor and she’d had to scrub it up, wipe it up with the last of the paper towels, soap it up with the last of the dish soap, mixed with water twice already to stretch it out, had to clean it up even though it made her sick, sent her running to the bathroom every few minutes to retch into the toilet that wouldn’t stop running and she wanted to say, look, idiot, this is what grownups do when they’re gonna be sick, but he wouldn’t have heard her, anyway, and the kids might’ve and she wouldn’t have wanted them to see him there, lying in his own green sick, so she cleaned it up before she left, went across the hall and woke Old Mrs. White up, too, and she came to the door in a see-through pink nightgown and she glared at her, dontcha know what time it is, but then she saw her, saw how pale she was, how she bent double and gripped her stomach, and she said, oh, honey, I’m sorry, of course I’ll watch those kids for you, now dontcha worry, I understand about Jack, my Tony used ta get like that, don’t mean he’s a bad man, but you was right to come and get me, those kids should have someone there in case they wake up, let me get my robe, I’ll head right over, and, here, honey, for the bus. Oh, no, I can’t take that. Come on, now, it ain’t much. Just go on now. You get yourself to the doctor quick as you can. And she did, got there quick as she could. It didn’t matter. Nothing they could do, really. The baby was gone already. But the bleeding wasn’t. She’ll bleed for a while yet. She washes her hands. Takes a look in the mirror. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, her face is paler than usual so her freckles stand out and she remembers how she used to hate those freckles, used to coat them in thick, caking makeup. She never stopped hating them, actually, just has better things to spend her money on than a bunch of makeup. She tries a smile in the mirror. It doesn’t reach her eyes. She doesn’t think anyone will notice. Already today she’s been told to smile twice. The man on the bus said, hey beautiful, give me a smile, it’s not so bad and she almost said it is so bad. It is so bad. Oh God, you don’t know how bad it is. You don’t know what it feels like. You don’t know about the paper in my drawer at home with my list of baby names. I couldn’t decide. Couldn’t decide. It was so important to choose the perfect name. Special, but nothin’ for the other kids to pick on, pretty, but strong, too, you never know what your baby will grow up to want to be. And she couldn’t decide. Couldn’t decide. And now it’s too late. And the baby’s gone and it never had a name. But she didn’t say this, just gave him a sad little smile then turned to the window and watched the raindrops race down the glass and was glad it was raining, was glad the world felt her pain, wouldn’t have been able to stand sun and blue skies. Then, when she got to work, Rick took one look at her and said, what’s the matter, you sick, and she said no and he said okay, then, put a smile on that face, that’s part of the job, you know. Smiling Service. Smiling Service. She’d give smiling service. Couldn’t afford not to. Couldn’t get sent home. Needed the money. Needed the job. Wondered if she ever wouldn’t need the money, wouldn’t need the job, if she could ever look at Rick when he told her to smile and say, you smile, you little creep. And he was. Was always creepin’ on everybody. Stood too close, squeezed past them with his hand on their waists when there was plenty of room to just walk around, grabbed her ass sometimes as he walked by, just said he hadn’t when she told him not to, and what was she gonna do, fight him about it? Say you damn well know you did? And then what? Walk out? Go find another job, sure, she could, but there’d be that lag between paychecks and the hours here were good, early, meant the kids didn’t have to spend much time alone in the apartment. And she had regulars, people who knew her, who gave her extra cash at Christmas for the kids and sometimes somethin’ on her birthday, too. You don’t get that just anywhere, customers who remember your birthday. And what, she’ll get a new job and there’ll be a new creep to deal with, always is. 
    A customer waves her over like he’s swatting away a swarm of wasps. Yes, sir, what can I get for you? Is this orange juice fresh squeezed? Yes, sir, sure is. Doesn’t taste fresh squeezed. I’m sorry about that, sir, but it sure is fresh squeezed. I grow the oranges myself in the backyard. You do? No, uh, I was just joking. But we do use fresh oranges. I’d be happy to get you something else, though. No, no, I don’t want anything else. This just doesn’t taste fresh squeezed is all. I’d be happy to take it off your bill. That would be good. Okay, will do, is there anything else I can get you? Where are you taking the juice? I thought you wanted me to get rid of it for you. I never said that. Just said it doesn’t taste fresh squeezed is all. Give it here. She sets the juice back down, wonders if it really tastes off or if he just wanted it for free, doesn’t care. She made fresh squeezed orange juice for the kids once, bought a whole bunch of oranges and made it by hand, and they drank it, drank it cuz they’re sweet kids, cuz they saw her makin’ it, squeezin’ away, heard her tellin’ ‘em how special it would be, how nice and healthy, too, but they didn’t like it, didn’t think it was as good as SunnyD, she could tell. 
    A woman comes in with a baby in her arms, wrapped up tight against the cold, wearing a snowsuit that makes him look like a teddy bear. What a beautiful baby. Oh, thank you. I’ll have a coffee, please. She almost cries, almost says, my baby’s gone, almost says, he would’ve been the most beautiful baby, all my babies are beautiful, I’m lucky that way. Lucky. Says instead, cream and sugar? What would her baby have become? Who would he have been? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. What matters is he would have been. Would have been. 
    She drops a tray overladen with an eight-top’s order. Drops it to the ground with a clatter, shatters the plates, ruins the food. Ruins it. Right in the middle of the dining room. Right in the middle of a rush. And someone claps. Claps. Why do people do that? She feels hot tears in her eyes, brushes them away with a bloody hand, must’ve grabbed the sharp end of one of the shards, doesn’t even feel the cut, just sees the blood seeping from it, just feels the eyes on her. Then Cindy’s there, helps her clean it up, hands her a rag to wrap her hand in, tells her to go get a bandaid, tells her she’ll finish up here. And she does. And she tells the cook and he groans, are you kidding me. I have to remake all that shit. They had four eggs benedict. I know, I’m so sorry, don’t know what happened. It’s alright. You don’t look so good. You okay? Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I’m really sorry. It’s fine, go tell them it’ll be a few. Give ‘em free coffees or somethin’. 
    Folks, I’m terribly sorry. We are remaking your orders on the fly. Should just be a few minutes and all of your beverages will be on the house. This is ridiculous. What kind of service is this. Honey, come on now, she dropped the tray, it happens. I really am sorry. Get someone else to carry the tray next time. I don’t usually- Just get someone else, okay, not gonna risk my breakfast again. Yes, sir. His kids look embarrassed, train their eyes on their placemats, the oldest gives her a shy little smile before looking down again. Nice kids. Kids don’t have to be their parents. Her kids won’t be their parents. She’ll see to that. They won’t work like this, won’t scrimp and save and scrounge and starve just to have nothing at all. She’s got ‘em doing extra work at night. Math and reading and writing. Got some books from the library and got Mr. Rogers down the hall to let her use his copy machine, traded him some of her chocolate chip cookies for it. The kids whined when they realized the cookies weren’t for them, but she said, when you grow up you can buy all the treats you want. I’m gonna see to that. And they’re not gonna drink. Oh God, she wishes they could’ve known Jack before he took to drinkin’. He was so clever, so fun, so kind, still is, still is, just buried it beneath the liquor, just pickles himself ‘til he’s half vinegar. They were gonna have a good life. He was goin’ to college. Gonna get his degree, get a good job, a real good job. But then she was at a sleepover and her friend was cryin’ cuz her cramps were so bad, and she said cramps are the worst, I’m glad I haven’t had ‘em in a while. And then she realized it had been a long while. Too long. And she called him and he rode over on his bike, climbed out his window and rode through the snow, stopped at the store on his way, bought the test, and she took it. And a baby was coming. And she hid it from her parents ‘long as she could, but of course they found out and they threw her out, told her she was a disgrace to the family, but he stood by her. Married her. Found a priest to do it, young as they were, got her Daddy to sign the papers, and he quit school, too, and they went to work. She thought it was fair, when they threw her out. Thought she deserved it. Then she had her baby. Held that baby. And she doesn’t understand it anymore.
    The O’Malleys come in. She knows them. Knows their order. Come in every day at this time. She brings him his coffee with whipped cream on it and her her extra strong green tea and they say, hey, honey, how you doin’ today? And she wants to say, good, how ‘bout you, wants to smile and breeze along, can’t, says not good, and then she’s crying and he stands up and maneuvers her into his chair and she reaches across the table and says, honey, what’s the matter? And she’s crying and she can’t stop and she knows she shouldn’t be sittin’ like this, shouldn’t be cryin’ like this, should’ve said everything was fine and dandy, should get up now, should wipe her face, should go put in his order for scrambled eggs and burnt toast and hers for oatmeal with strawberries, can’t get up, can’t pull her hand from the one that holds it. Gasps, I, I lost the baby. And he places his hand on her shoulder, gives it a squeeze. And she says, I’m so sorry, that’s terrible, is there anything we can do? When did this happen? You were just talkin’ ‘bout names yesterday. And then she seems to realize, whispers, this just happened, didn’t it? And she nods, can’t find any more words. Honey, you shouldn’t be working. You need to get some rest. You shouldn’t be on your feet like this. And then Rick is approaching across the dining room, and she’s jumping to her feet, and wiping her red face with her white apron and plastering on a smile and saying, a little too loudly, I’ll be right back with your breakfast. And they watch her. Watch her the whole time they sit there. He doesn’t even do the crossword puzzle. She doesn’t even read the horoscopes and tell her hers, she’s a Capricorn. They eat and they watch her and she knows they’re right, knows she shouldn’t be working, knows just as well that she won’t stop, can’t stop. When they leave, she finds a pile of money on the table stuffed beneath his plate, looks like he emptied his wallet, she emptied her purse, they even left their change, stacked neatly in a tower, and a note on a napkin, We’re so sorry for your loss. You’ll be in our prayers. And she shovels the money into her apron pocket, folds the napkin carefully, knows already that she’ll save it, that she’ll keep it in her top drawer with the Euro someone gave her once and the little bobblehead turtle someone else said would bring good luck. She’s almost angry, then, for an instant, with the man who gave her the turtle. Where is her good luck? When is her good luck going to begin? But it’s silly. It’s just a turtle. It was nice of him to give it to her. 
    Her shift ends. The rain has stopped. There’s that beautiful smell in the air, that smell like the grass and the trees and the flowers and the earth itself have just given a sigh of relief, thanks for the water, we really needed that. And the sun breaks through the few remaining clouds and shines upon the wet pavement and a little boy dressed in a raincoat that makes him look like a frog walks by, dragging his mother toward a puddle. And she tells him he’ll get his shoes wet and he looks up with a big smile and nods. Uh-huh. He’ll get his shoes wet. And won’t it be great fun. The bus comes. She watches the little boy play in the puddle until she turns a corner and can see him no longer, and still she looks behind her out the window, still she thinks of him, wonders if her baby would have liked puddles. Probably. Don’t they all? When do we stop jumping in puddles? Why?
    She gets home. The kids look up from their toys and smile and she makes herself smile back, says she’ll be right back, just gonna get out of these dirty work clothes, goes to her room, her room with the ancient orange shag carpet and the water stain on the wall that sometimes she and Jack joke about, pretend is like the clouds, look for shapes in it. I see a horse. No way, it’s a butterfly. She goes to her dresser, stashes the napkin, pulls out her baggy red sweatpants, her torn grey sweatshirt, pulls them on, then she sees them, sitting there, sitting beside the picture frame, beneath the lampshade. The shoes. The shoes she bought for him. Brand new. A waste of money. Babies don’t need shoes. But weren’t they just beautiful. White. Patent leather. Tiny little laces. Beautiful. And she remembers a story from back in school. Remembers her teacher read it to them. For sale: baby shoes, never worn. Said Hemingway wrote it to win a bet, bet he could write a story in six words. And she’d said, but it’s not a story. It’s just a sentence. And the teacher said, but it tells a story, can’t you imagine what happened? Can’t you see why those shoes are being sold? And she’d said, but that’s not in the story. How’d you like it if I turned in my next essay blank and told ya to imagine it. And he’d said, please raise your hand when you have a comment or I’ll have to send you to the office. But she was right. She was. It isn’t a story. Just six words. No plot. No beginning, middle, and end, stories were supposed to have those, teachers always said so. She picks up the shoes, holds them in one hand, so small, so very small. And she won’t sell them. No, she’ll keep them. Maybe she’ll hang them up somewhere. Or she could glue them next to the ultrasound. Could use some of the kids’ construction paper for it. That would be pretty. But not now. Now, the kids are hungry and dinner has got to be made. Now, she’ll have to tell them there won’t be a new baby, after all. Will have to explain it. How will she explain it?



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Megan Neary is a writer and middle school teacher living in Columbus, Ohio. Her work has appeared in various literary magazines and journals, including: The Amethyst Review, The Cleveland Review of Books, and After Dinner Conversation. She also co-edits Flyover Country Literary Magazine. She can be found on Twitter @meganneary2 
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