Free Going Away Shoes by Jill McCorkle

on down the road.”
    I wait, unable to look up, even though I know he’s staring at me. He puts his hand on my back and rests it there a long comfortable minute and then he is up and moving. Edie is waiting, he says. They have stuff to do before the grandkids arrive; they like to go caroling with a group from the neighborhood —he drives his smaller truck, which doesn’t smell like the business, and folks sit there in the back on hay and blankets; Edie sits back there a little bit, but mostly she likes to be there beside him. Then before bed, he and Edie like to sit by the fire and talk. “We both like totalk,” he laughs. “Edie can outtalk me on a good day but I can hold my own. I know that’s hard to believe but I can.” He pulls and recoils the huge tube. “You’re fine,” he says and points to the rectangle of brown grass that looks just as it did when he arrived. “I believe everything’s fine. Make sure your tree’s in there tight. I wire mine up to the ceiling. Ain’t taking any chances on Edie.” And then he is gone, all the debris of my life sucked away and hauled off in his big silver truck and I am left wondering if he was even for real. When Gretchen calls to get the report, I tell her all about this incredible visit, how I feel the best I have felt in years. I feel alive, hopeful. I want to say that I feel I’ve been visited by an angel, that whoever is in charge of the great beyond would know that I would never believe in white gowns and shiny wings. My angel would never play a harp and sing sweetly on high; no, my angel vacuums crap and bad odors and worries. My angel talks too much and thrives on bad jokes. “He didn’t even bill me,” I say, further proof of the wonder of it all.
    “He knows where you live,” she says, desperate to turn the conversation back to what I plan to wear, cook, say at this ridiculous event I’ve planned. “He’ll bill you.” And I am thinking the bill will make it even better, as well as his return to install the pipe to vent leftover bad air when a rush of warmth blows from the furnace. I will love nothing better than to have that vent firmly in place and to know that he is real.
    So, what makes this night different from all other nights?
    My tree is wired to a big sturdy hook in the ceiling and Christmas music is playing from three different sources. Clark’s girlfriend has TMJ problems and carpal tunnel syndrome. I have to avoid looking at the boys when she first walks in with little wrist braces and a tight jaw. She, like Clark, is allergic to Beau and to the Christmas tree and to the dust mites. My ex-in-laws are cordial and like their soaps and chocolates. It is a little awkward and formal. It is easier when we all just focus on the boys and listen as they tell what they hope Santa Claus will bring. They have tied felt antlers to Beau’s head and he sits looking at me with those big sad eyes as if pleading for my intervention. We both are eager for the visit to end. When Beau rolls over and quits participating, I fill the silence by saying I like my acrylic cookbook holder that keeps food from splashing on the pages, which is a lie. I told him years ago that I didn’t need or want one of these, that I like how my favorite recipes are coated with necessary ingredients. Challah recipe glazed in dried dough and loose poppy seeds, cranberry bread with red smudges, Russian rye with a sticky molasses corner and little caraway seeds. “Thank you very much,” I say with the practiced clear speech of a ventriloquist, because those words didn’t come from me but from some person far across the years who dreams of clear fresh water just up ahead on the horizon. Yet, I am here, in my own house, awash with everything new. I am sodipped and bathed and resurrected that I expect to find a puddle on the floor around me.
    When it is time for good-byes and I walk them to the door, Clark tilts his head to the breeze and comments that something must be wrong with