Research: Journals
The Journal
Issue 33.1
J. David Stevens
An Old Woman-Her ShoeShe thought she needed men, and by the time she learned she didn't, there were babies. Then she thought she needed babies–all that dependency, surely love in its way.
She kept after men, though, because they provided babies, but also because she still wanted one–to comfort, to love the babies, to love their dependency as much as she did, or (if none of those) to fix the plumbing. A few had good hearts. There was a teacher who mistook his pity for affection and, later, a young missionary who'd flunked out of seminary but still wished to redeem. When the teacher came to his senses, he sent a tender letter that she hid in a bedside drawer. The missionary made promises before sailing for Africa, never to return.
Some corrections to the historical record. She never beat the children. Or if she did, it wasn't with great force, since she believed the idea of pain was as strong as the genuine article. She was adept with a needle, hiring out for work that kept food on the table–often broth, it's true, but with noodles, which explains the absence of bread. And even old, she remained comely, which explains the men. Who knows why the illustrators got it wrong?
The shoe was not a literal shoe but a shoe-shaped apartment, a long centre hall ending in a crimp. From above, it looked like a boot lain on its side. She rented, but two grandsons would later buy the place. Her upwardly mobile desires were reserved for progeny, though naturally some children succeeded where others didn't. "Neither tragedy nor triumph," she told herself, "just a life."
She never knew why they wrote about her. And she never understood why they misrepresented her, excluding so many details that would have made her story complete. To pretend she was a monster, perhaps, or that they were not.
Such reasons dawned on her in old age, around the time her eldest daughters started caring for her in the room in the shoe that would be hers until she died. She tried to explain things at night, only to have them stroke her hair or kiss a cheek. "Such a small thing," they said absently, to comfort her. And she would forget again, even before they extinguished the candle, mumbling as sleep overtook her, "Yes, I suppose it is."
