For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn (Actual Story)

For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn (Actual Story)

By l.eila Lucas

Ernest Hemingway famously wrote a novel in 6 words: For sale: baby shoes, never worn. The rise and fall of a story, summed up in one phrase, from a master of a storyteller. I, however, have decided to expand upon his novel, crafting a story around Hemingway’s shortest novel. Therefore, without further ado, here is For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn (in about 1377 words more than the original). 

Groceries. I’ve got to focus on the groceries. Ham, zucchini, barley, and milk. Every Monday is the weekly restock, the trudge over to the supermarket and back, always passing her. Sisyphus on his hill, pushing the rock to the top and going down, refilling my grocery basket week after week. I can’t focus on her, of course, for the groceries are the goal. Don’t see her dirty, ragged clothes, tattered from months of living on the street. Can’t look at her hopeful eyes, nor listen to the ringing of her can, jingling with the paltry amount of coins amassed throughout the week. Can’t look at the sign, big letters scrawled on damp cardboard with messy letters. No. Groceries are the goal. Groceries are the bubble in which I live, and she is not a part of it.

I am strong until I hear the giggle. It's always that which breaks my bubble. Somehow, the whining laughter trickles through the seams, breaking into my little grocery world with exuberant laughs and wet gurgles. She can’t be more than two. Less, probably. I can see her, playing with the matted fur of a toy bunny, one of its arms missing. Groceries. Not the bunny. Focus on the groceries. Can’t look at her mother‘s adoring eyes, gently patting her daughter‘s hair, smoothing out the knots made from the dusty wind. Absolutely not, no. The groceries are all I came for. The groceries are all I need. Don’t even glance at them. Put the ringing laughter as far away from me as I can. But somehow, it follows me far past the street corner upon which they reside.

Milk, the one that I had made sure to make note of, slipped my mind. So it’s back to the grocery store, a second trip this Monday, not per usual. Which means a second trip past her, and her daughter. I can feel the toy bunny before I arrive, hear the bubbling laughter, watch helplessly as passersby chuckle, seeing the sweet little girl. One of them has a pair of shoes. The mother takes them, mumbling her thanks. The shoes are too big for the child. Far too big. No, I must focus. Groceries. I’m here for groceries, I’m here for milk. So I walked by, undeterred, unsmiling. They live in their world, and I live in mine. Still, I hear the jingle jangle of her tin can, a heavily accented please help exiting her cracked lips, the child echoing her mother's sentiments as I brush past.

I have the milk, so that means a fourth time. The fourth time passing by the two, seeing the sign and the tattered clothes, smelling the stench of days without a bath, watching the little girl whose frame is too small for her already miniscule body. They are not mine to watch. Home is now the objective. The groceries are secured. So I walk past, and I do not smile. But she does, smiling that little impish screen that only children seem to possess, wielded by one with a gurgling laugh and a tattered toy bunny. But I do not return the smile.

My house is warm and clean and dry, and I drop the groceries on the table as I ease my weary feet into soft slippers. Slippers that are too big for her feet. Of course they are, she’s too little. Her bare feet smack on the ground, little toes smaller than the peas attached. I walk up my stairs, carpeted and plush, up to a steamy bathroom, where the water is just right. I wash the grime off of my face and body, luxuriating in the steamy warmth. I wonder how long it has been since they’ve had a shower. I wonder if the girl has ever. No, this is my home. They do not belong here. This is my world, mine. So I put them out of my mind. But when I sleep, their voices fill my dreams, ringing in my ears far past the time I awaken. 

I need to go to the drugstore to buy toothpaste. Have they ever tasted toothpaste, I wonder? The minty freshness of the dense cream, grittiness rubbing against the smooth surface of their teeth? No, I suppose not. But the drugstore is across the street from the grocery store. Which means a fifth time, a fifth time passing by the twinkling eyes and rattling can and homemade sign, hearing the pitter patter of shoeless feet and the please help with a heavy accent. So I take the long route. It saves me from walking by, at least directly. But I see, out of the corner of my eye, the street. She’s dancing to some invisible tune, heard only by her little toddler ears. And her mother is watching, smiling with a bittersweet sadness that only she can have, singing along to her daughter's invisible song. I look away. I’m here for toothpaste, only toothpaste.

When I exit the store, toothpaste in hand, something is wrong. I feel it long before I see, the vibration of the car arriving before the sound. It would certainly not pass inspection, amplified speakers and raring engines deafening anything who dares to cross its path. Anything. It is a machine, a monster made of steel and claws, hungry jaws devouring the road ahead. They are right in front of me. The mother is turned away, fussing over something so kindly gifted by a pedestrian. She does not see. She does not hear. I do. 

I see the butterfly pass in front of the girl, distracting her. I see it fly across the street. I see her follow. But I do not see it hit her. No, I hear the crunch. The pitiful wail that exits her small body is almost worse than the one of her mother. Almost. The car careens to a stop, skid marks appearing on the road and acrid smoke burning the air in front of it. From it, emerging from the beast’s maw like a hunter from his armor, is a man. He is not particularly tall, nor attractive, doughy rolls tumbling down from beneath his shirt and a miscellaneous stain embedded in his pant leg. His hands are sticky and his demeanor annoyed, wondering what could possibly have stopped him in his path. Who would dare?

The mother rises from the ground, the broken, bleeding body in her arms. She turns to see the monster that broke it, blank eyes of plastic and metal meeting the unseeing ones of her child. Its owner does too. His mouth curls into a snarl, eager to get this over with and move on with his life. He does not care for her. He does not care for them. She screams. He laughs. She begs. He glares. She shows him the crumpled, lifeless form, oozing red liquid onto her already stained clothes. He returns to his monster, starts the ignition, and leaves forever. She crumbles to the floor, howling with misery never heard before. I leave to go home. I came for the toothpaste, after all, and that is what I got.

—---------------------------------------------------—

The ball has rolled to the bottom of the mountain, and it’s time to get groceries again. It is time to see her, now a singular facet in this world, no longer accompanied by her smiling child. I walk, steps echoing through the hollow air, no longer filled with burbling laughter. She is there, still on her street corner with her tattered clothes and handwritten sign. The original lettering is crossed out, newer writing scrawled above it, the flimsy cardboard stained with tears. Her eyes are closed and she is asleep, tears having cleared paths through the dirt on her face. Her chest rises and falls with each car passing by, and her can lies empty beneath her feet, no coins in sight. I must leave to get groceries. I must ignore her, move on with my life, leave the situation in a way that she never can. In a way that she never could. Still, as I flee, abandoning the woman to her tears and her rags, the new lettering is burned into my brain. On the sign, written above the original please help, are six words. 

For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn.