The Other’s Shoe
Joseph Guderian
Once again, the old woman glanced right and
down at the bag on the car floor as she slowly drove to the
hospital. Inside the white, opaque plastic was a man’s
well-worn, right shoe, size 11, toe facing forward, sole flat on the
floor and positioned, without intent, as it might be if a passenger
seated next to her were wearing it.
Again, she thought about how fussy he was,
and wondered if she should have hunted down the shoeshine box in the
basement, applied some polish to cover the scuffs and thereby headed
off his anticipated displeasure. Let him fuss, she had decided
at home. Her sister was to visit this morning and she
didn’t want to be late, didn’t want her sister to arrive
before her. Now, she wondered again if she should have polished
the shoe.
The woman was a nervous driver, who usually
kept her eyes fixed on the road. But she had made this drive so
often, first as a volunteer at the hospital for six years, then when
her husband was hospitalized for back surgery, a broken arm from a
fall while fishing, and now the latest problem. She wasn’t
the least bit worried about taking her eyes off the road; she felt
she could do the 15-minute drive in her sleep. Once, she knew
the names of many of the people working in the hospital and they knew
her, but that was before it became part of a regional medical
conglomerate with the attendant changes and expansions. As she
rounded a corner, the Sunday morning summer sun reflected brightly
off the bag, demanding another look. So she looked at the bag,
knowing exactly where the next turn would be.
His eyes were open, staring at the light
blue wall of the room, wondering if it was a dream that he’d had
after breakfast or just a vivid remembrance of a time 60 years ago.
The old man knew how his mind could move
from lucidity to confusion and back again in the course of a
day. Because of this, he would often spend time in
introspection, sorting out the realities from his fantasies. So
he lay there now reviewing the details his mind had produced earlier,
dream or not, of that morning on the porch, of the day his brother
said goodbye to the family and the house that was their childhood
home. His brother had enlisted in the army early in the war,
well before he expected to be drafted. The recruiter had
promised that there was a good possibility he would be assigned to an
engineering unit following training because of his three semesters at
Stevens. He told the family he would first go to Fort Dix, and
after that he had no idea where he would be sent, but promised to
keep his mother informed. As he picked up the canvas grip he
had used for carrying his basketball gear in high school, the brother
dashed off into a light rain for the bus that would take him to the
recruiting station. He didn’t look back to see the tears
welling in his mother’s eyes.
Suddenly, the rain had become snow in the
old man’s mind, and the images had come not from his memory, but
from scenes he’d seen in dozens of war movies and newsreel
clips. He had heard shells bursting. The place was France, near
Bastogne. He knew that because his brother had told him where
it happened. But the dark river, the pontoon bridge, the French
farm houses all were a production of his imagination. He had
watched as his brother directed the construction of a temporary
bridge for armored vehicles to cross the river. Then he had
seen the bright flash like a bolt of lightning, heard the awful
screeching sound in the night sky, and the deafening blast. He
watched his brother go down, a slow motion collapse into the snow,
seemingly lasting minutes. What also seemed like Technicolor
blood, not real blood, oozed slowly from what remained of his
brother’s leg onto the white covered earth in the old man’s
vision. He almost screamed: help! at the scene he was
witnessing. Finally, he watched with relief as a medic rushed
to the side of the unconscious soldier, did what he could to stop the
bleeding, then called for a stretcher.
While the old man was revisiting the horror,
he heard a woman’s voice. It was the nurse interrupting
his thoughts. “It’s time for your shot,”
she said, and then Alfredo will help you into your chair for your
wife’s visit. Did your son come last night?
Did you enjoy your breakfast?”
he old man was sitting upright in the chair,
a light blanket covering his lower body, when his wife entered the
room. She asked how well he ate that morning, and while
listening to his answer, placed the plastic bag on the floor of the
locker near the entrance to the room. She informed him she had
brought the shoe for his therapy and that he should let them know
about it when he started rehabilitation. Why had she brought
only one shoe, not the pair, he asked, and had she disposed of the
other shoe in some way?
“Don’t throw away the other
shoe,” he ordered. Annoyed, she pointed out that the
therapist told her to bring only the right shoe, that she hadn’t
thrown away the other one, and maybe he would like her to have it
bronzed and hang it from the rearview mirror of the Taurus. Upset
with herself for the comment, the woman fell into silence.
While they sat facing each other, she noticed how fleshy her husband
had become. His face seemed fuller and rounder than
before. His bared arms looked soft and had lost most of their
thick black hair. Propped up the way he was, he looked to her
like a baby, an innocent, helpless baby sitting in a high chair.
Will I be caring for a baby again, she wondered? But she soon
remembered that she had been doing exactly that for the past
year. During that time, she had helped him move from bed to
chair to bathroom, helped him bathe, cleaned up his messes, and
listened to his occasional laments. Did someone bring you
communion this morning, she asked? With a grimace, he replied
that someone, a woman, had. He didn’t like to receive
communion from anyone but a priest.
The man asked if she had heard from his
brother. Had she telephoned him? Don’t you think he
should know what’s happened, he wanted to know? She
quickly reminded him that his brother was failing badly, that he was
on dialysis three days a week, had numerous health problems, and he
shouldn’t expect his brother to call. She also reminded
him that his brother’s wife had gone quite senile, so
there’s no point in calling her either. We should just
leave them alone; they have enough problems, she told him. But
the old man was not satisfied with her answer.
The woman’s younger sister arrived and
made a cheerful entrance into the room. As she knew he
would, the old woman’s husband brightened up. He was a
different man when he had company. He perks up like an old coffeepot,
was the way she often put it. The sister lived in a different
town, and explained that she wouldn’t be staying long; she had
Sunday dinner to prepare. Almost immediately after the
sister was seated, the old man asked if she wanted to see his
leg. Not waiting for an answer, he swept the blanket aside with
a flourish as if he were unveiling an empty birdcage where a canary
had once roosted. His face was filled with the pride and
pleasure of the magician who had just completed an amazing
disappearing act for his audience of one. Then he continued his
performance, telling the woman: I’m wriggling my toes now,
but you can’t see them moving. The women was embarrassed at his
antics and her sister was startled that he would be such a show-off
about his tragedy. Both were relieved when his lunch
arrived. His wife helped him eat, more aptly pick at and taste,
the mostly cold food. He took a little juice, chewed some cold
ham, and sipped some milk. He complained of the soreness of his
tongue, so she gave him a medicated sponge-on-a-stick, provided by
the nurse, which was supposed to help heal a mouth irritated by
instruments and medicines. After he had finished eating
the two women went to the cafeteria for coffee and a snack.
“You have to start taking better care
of yourself, the sister said. It isn’t necessary that you
be with him every waking minute. That’s why they have
people here in the hospital,” she continued, “let it go and
get some rest yourself. “
The old woman heard her but did not respond;
her sister had been telling her that for years and the message never
really registered. In fact, it lost a little more force with
each telling. The coffees and muffins in front of them were
getting cold, so they began to drink and eat in silence. He
keeps asking for his brother, the woman finally said. He asks every
day, more than once, and you know the situation his brother is in,
just about hanging on and his wife has just about lost it.
They’ve been in assisted living for two years. His organs
are failing and they have to watch her so she doesn’t wander
away. I have no intention of calling them, but he won’t
let me alone about it, she complained. Besides, she said, almost to
herself, nobody in that family ever liked one another. There
were no tears shed when his sister died, and when they were together,
his brother always put him down. I just wish he’d stop
going on about it as if they were all so dear to each other.
Alfredo had helped the old man get back into
his bed, then turned on the TV without the sound before leaving the
room. The man stared at the muted screen. It showed three
seated men talking, looking serious, their lips moving
inaudibly. As he stared at the TV, he heard a deep voice
gradually synchronizing with the moving lips of the man in the middle
. . .
. . . thank you for joining us this
Sunday. Welcome our guests, on my left, chief of surgery at
Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, and on my right faculty head of
Thomas Jefferson University Hospital in Philadelphia. Thank you
for being here, gentlemen, as the host I would like to
start by asking you if you think the right medical decision was made
in this case. Not completely. Since one amputated leg pleased
the patient so much, it might have been better to remove both legs. I
agree, said the man on the right, and instead of an artificial leg,
he could get around a lot quicker on one of those little dolly
carts. Good for the upper body strength development too.
Why do you suppose he has such a need to walk, asked the man in the
middle? He’s an octogenarian after all. And his overall
health isn’t good. The man on the right answered. It’s
all about his brother. His brother lost a leg in the war.
Took classes at Arthur Murray’s and got to be a good dancer.
The man on the right added, it’s not unusual for a strong
sympathetic emotion to form with a close relative over dancing.
I know of a case where . . .
The old man closed his eyes and the
imaginary voices from the TV screen stopped. He was ready to
sleep. He would often fall asleep watching TV.
It’s part of growing old, he had decided. When he was a
young man he watched news programs and sports, especially football.
He loved the Monday night games and watched until the last play, no
matter what the score. Yet he always answered the alarm for
work early in the morning. Before TV, he loved radio.
During the war when most men his age were in the service, he listened
to the war news. He remembered the strong, deep voices of
Gabriel Heater and Edward R. Murrow reporting on the war. Why
hadn’t they taken him in the army after his brother
enlisted? He couldn’t remember. Was it because of
his poor eyesight? As long as he could remember, he wore thick
eyeglasses with a lot of correction. Was it because of his
work? He was an engineer with RCA in essential defense work
building communications systems. Was it because he was
providing financial support for his parents? Where was Pop
then? Maybe it was because of all three reasons, he concluded,
satisfying him for the moment as he drifted off into a peaceful sleep.
The war ended early for his brother.
After he was wounded, he was sent to a hospital in England for
several months, then back to the states where he was in and out of
the VA hospital for many more months of therapy with a
prosthetic. He returned to college, graduated with honors, and
began a successful consulting engineering career. Everyone who
knew him thought of him as a hero, even if he wore only the Purple
Heart. He was a hero because of his grit after the war, not
heroics during it. He was the neighborhood guy who succeeded in life
despite a major handicap. How often he must have been
held up as an example to area kids growing up. The old
man admired his brother for his sacrifice and achievement.
His wife sat alone, watching him sleep.
She had returned to the room without her sister who had decided to
leave for home. She remembered the relief she felt when the
doctor decided it was best to amputate his leg, to end the
uncertainty. She had been treating the ulcers on his legs with
salve for nearly six months. The doctor first had discussed a
bypass in his leg to restore circulation, later about removing his
toes. Now it seemed like a correct decision had been made and
it was over. She and her husband could get on with life.
She didn’t want to think about what was yet to come just
yet. She was glad when the nurse walked into the room; there
were things she wanted to discuss, especially how to check his blood
sugar and administer the insulin.
The sky outside the window had darkened, and she was unhappy she
hadn’t noticed that her husband’s eyes had
opened. He was staring at the ceiling. She said she hoped
her conversation with the nurse hadn’t disturbed him and asked
if he would like her to raise his bed so he would be in a sitting
position. Then she switched on the light in the room while
telling him how much it looked like rain.
You know my brother’s not going to live
much longer, the old man began. I have to talk to him before he
dies. The woman cringed with the prospect of arranging such a
conversation, but her husband went on. I’m wondering what
they do with artificial legs when someone dies. Those things
are expensive, and he was lucky to get it from the VA. He got
three or four artificial legs from them over the years. All the
fittings, the pain, and the infections, Christ, he went through a
lot! They wouldn’t bury it with him, would they? The question
was addressed to no one in particular. Suddenly, a flash of
lightning lit up the room, and a clap of thunder brought a wave of
rain that rattled the window.
The old woman stood to get a better view of
what was happening outside, hoping her movement would also interrupt
her husband enough so he would change the subject. I know the
doctors will talk to me about getting an artificial leg, he
continued, ignoring her movement and the rage of the rainstorm.
I don’t want their leg. I’ll talk to my brother.
We’re just about the same height and weight. I know
he’ll leave his leg to me. It’s a family legacy, the
old man said with a laugh. He sacrificed a lot for that
leg. He wouldn’t want to see it all thrown away.
When I walk with his leg it would be a way of remembering
him. I want my brother’s artificial leg, he said
louder. Then almost sobbing, he shouted, I WANT MY BROTHER’S
LEG! Then almost in a whisper he said, I want to walk again with my
brother’s leg. The man turned his head toward the
window. Finally he became aware of the sudden change in what
had been a bright, summer day. He had finished and felt relief.
The woman sat in silence, wondering if
the thunder and lightning had mysteriously swept the morbid desire
she had just heard into the room. How would she deal with this
if it continues? The nurse had mentioned there was a staff
psychologist she could talk to if she felt the need. She was
determined that she would keep him off the telephone to his
brother. After several minutes, the old man turned to her and
asked if she had brought an umbrella. Thank God it’s
passed and he’s normal again, she thought before replying.
The rain has just about stopped; I won’t need one.
You’re a good woman, he said, looking at her. You’re
a good woman, he said lovingly. The hospital had begun to
distribute the evening meal.
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