Shoes for the Baby

One calendar year passed since I last visited Ron and Rena Hubbard, both mildly retarded. Old Man Time has a haunting way of standing still in their simple lives. Rarely do they change their unstylish ways, especially with emotional benchmarks. Before I utter a preliminary question, I can almost predict their final stance. Three steps through the front door of their cluttered apartment; I find Mr. Hubbard spit shinning a pair of infant black patent leather shoes in The Empty Cupboard. Ron passed the kitchen dish towel to his wife in order to shake my hand.

Ever so willing to please Reba picked up where the husband left off. She polished around the heel of the left shoe. The towel sported gravy stains on it so I wonder about the exercise in futility. Ill-equipped to care for human beings, I pray that the little shoes belong to a baby doll but there is no circumstantial evidence to suggest this saving grace. Afraid to ask the right question that would lead to the wrong answer, I watch their diligence to the task before speaking. The shoes seem to take on a life of their own in their otherwise empty hands.

I said haltingly, “What or who do the shoes belong to?”

“These are the shoes to our firstborn baby that people like you took away from us. These shoes are the only thing the courts let us keep. Joe, it is all we got left.”

I stood there stonewalled, not wanting to delve deeper and risk emotional upheaval.

Mr. Hubbard interrupted the three-way silence. “I know what you are thinking?”

“You do?”

He reasoned, “Yeah, you are wondering what happened to our guinea pig. It died.”

My bottom lip curled to the damning mortality. “Yeah, a guinea pig held in captivity is what I was thinking.”