Historical December 1987 report or notice. Original dates, prices and contacts describe the source period; current availability has not been established.
I guess I had known that she was slipping— mentally, that is—for quite some time.
For years now, I had avoided facing the truth and always ignored what was happening or found an excuse when she did something really bizarre.
The crowning blow, though, was a few weeks ago when she told me that she had named all of her shoes. “You’ve what?” I responded over the Apple-In-the-Middle cereal at breakfast.
In the background, Willard Scott talked about snow flurries and wished happy birthday to someone in Iowa who had just turned 104. “I’ve named my shoes,” Karleen said in her soft voice. I must not have flinched or even spilled my Nutrasweet, because she continued in a cheery voice. -You know how I collect shoes?
Well, sometimes even I get confused which shoes are which and where they are. “I have my winter shoes,” she continued, “and summer shoes and spring shoes and fall shoes.
But then I have my cross- seasonal fall/winter and summer/spring and summer/fall and spring/winter shoes, unless, of course, you count my sandals which, while they’re summer shoes, sort of, can be worn in the winter in the shower.” By this time I was too dazed to answer and just sat, looking at my breakfast bowl, searching for meaning in the formation of Apple-Inthe-Middle within the milk.
If you stare for enough time at the cereal in the milk, you can perceive patterns of squares.
If you stare even longer and don’t blink, the squares begin to circle in concert in the bowl, as if to dance to the beat of Bryant Gumbel’s voice as he interviews some financier. Karleen was talking to me, but looking at the toaster. Like the stove, it’s been broken for months now, but she was attracted by the reflection of her moving lips on its shiny silver side and slowly rotated her head as she spoke.
She continued, “I used to call them by colors. I’d have my red flats with the open-toes or my blue heels with the white piping or my grey slippers with the ruby stones.
But then I thought, ‘hey, how would I like it if they called me the lady with the black hair and brown eyes; after all, my name is Karleen.’ “Since I have between three and four hundred pairs of shoes, not counting those in the safe deposit box or the trunk of the car, I started naming them for friends and very close acquaintances.
After a while I had used up all of those people, so I started to name the shoes for people I knew or had met once or twice.
Finally, I began going through the phone book and naming the shoes after people whose names sounded interesting, people I thought I’d like to meet.” The Apple-In-the-Middles were now full of milk, looking quite porcine and somewhat pregnant. I jabbed at them with my spoon. Occasionally I’d get lucky and an air bubble would rise to the surface from some Apple-Inthe-Middle hidden below the milk. I imagined that I was the captain of a World War II destroyer, seeking enemy subs in the white Atlantic. What appeared to be a simple spoon was actually a sonar device which enabled me to find the hidden submarines and squish the air from their hulls.
The white waves were moving slowly, but there, below the surface I spotted a periscope beginning to rise. “Prepare depth charges,” I called to the ensign. “There are about six pairs of shoes that logically go together,” she said to the toaster, “because they are all part of my outfits for doing ceramics.” The first depth charge slipped over the side of the bowl and we waited breathlessly.
No air bubbles came to the surface, so the spoon probed to the port side. “I named them the Clay family—y’know, ceramics and clay—get it?” but the toaster did not respond. “Ann, Bob, Carl, Doug, Edward, and Florence are their first names.” I decided that there was too much debris in the Atlantic, so I used my silver fork-lift to remove some of the Apple-In-the-Middles to their final resting place.
They could go peacefully, knowing that they had fulfilled their mission in life and had met their destiny. Moxie, our adopted attack dog, and Cleo, our answering service poodle, stood by the table waiting for a dropped depth charge. Moxie was a commissioned officer and Cleo was a non-com, but a good one. I smiled at them and they returned my hidden message by wagging their tails.
She must have gone upstairs without my knowing it, probably during a bit of stormy weather, because I now heard her coming down the stairs. I looked up to see Karleen carrying a shopping bag.
She was wearing unlaced winter snow boots with no socks, and had another pair of shoes on her hands, red ones with black markings on the sides.
While I was looking at her, away from the bowl, I quickly charged my spoon into the milk, hoping to catch a submarine or two unawares. I can be really tricky when the stakes are high. Moxie and Cleo sat motionless and silently approved my deft action. “Here are some friends I want you to meet,” she said, and began to pull out her shoes one by one.
Each shoe had not just a name it seemed, but a small biography as well. “Todd Carter,” she said, holding up a black sandal with a broken strap, “is an architect who moonlights as a meter reader. “Leslie McDonald is a nuclear scientist who collects stamps and 1967 Chevrolets” and she threw a silver slipper over her shoulder. “Professor and Mrs. Jonathan R. Medola,” she shouted, and she held up a brown set of heels. “A researcher who studies alien life forms along with his wife, Emily, who works as a journalist for a daily metropolitan newspaper.” She pulled a beige pump from the bag and balanced it on her head saying, “This is Father Eduardo Domingo. He’s a Catholic Priest who does missionary work in Central America.” When she said Central America, she snapped her fingers and the shoe fell to her lap where she treated it as if it were a hot potato and threw it in the sink. “Muriel Toospence, a telephone operator from Des Moines,” and she held up a pink bedroom slipper. “Here’s Patty and George Rondeau,” she went on, displaying a pair of winter boots. I started to ask her which one was Patty, but I was afraid she’d answer.
Besides, I could see the Apple-In-the Middles moving together to talk about me. I could tell that they were whispering, but my spoon was already probing below the surface near where they had anchored. Their minutes were numbered.
Her voice was faster now, and she clipped off the names of her shoes as she reached into her bag and threw them on to the kitchen floor, one after another: “Abraham Shuttlebus, Mollie Marks, Linda Penelope, Dr. Jane Grimmad, Bob Biple, an undertaker, no less!” she chortled, “Felix Rasmutten, Susan Miranda, Pat and Ed Hilliker—and she held up a pair of scuffed cowboy boots—Adam Turner, Bill Turner, Carl Turner, Dennis Turner, Earth Mother Turner, Frances X. Turner, Galapagos Turner, Henry Turner, Ichabod Turner, Jackie Turner, Klaus Turner, Lee Turner; it’s a family reunion!” she shrieked with tears running down her face.
She paused because the bag was empty. I could see the ripples as the torpedo sped toward my ship. Waves of milk bubbled and churned as it gained speed.
I tried to avoid the collision, but it was too late.
My spoon was stuck and the explosion would be inevitable. “Battlestations, battlestations,” I yelled into the intercom. “Secure for direct hit, secure for…” The explosion occurred just below the milkline on the starboard side of the bowl.
The flooding was intense and I knew that there wasn’t enough time for lifeboats. I had been remiss in not preparing and now my men would suffer a quick death in the cold, milky Atlantic. “Patty Turner, Quizzle Turner, Ralph Turner…” and I saw her holding what looked like a long red slipper in her lap while she continued to pull other shoes from the canvas bag. I immediately recognized the shoe in her lap for what it really was. “Quick,” I screamed, “send me the lifeboat!” “Sancho Turner, Terribly Tommy Turner…” ” The lifeboat,” I screamed, and the milk was above the control panels and the ship was listing badly to the port. “Send me the lifeboat before it’s too late!” “Zeus Turner,” she said with finality, and she wadded the bag and threw it over her shoulder.
Another bag appeared from somewhere and she began to talk about what she called her “Presidential Bag”; all the shoes in this bag were named after Presidents of the United States, their spouses, or their children. “John-John Kennedy…John Adams… Stephen Harding…Lady Bird Johnson…Todd Lincoln…” “The lifeboat,” I cried, and I felt the milk swirling around my feet, “send me your tired, your weary, your huddled masses. “And everything grew white and the Apples-In-the Middle smiled.
Originally published in The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, December 1987.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times1987_12.pdf, printed page(s) 8; PDF page(s) 8.
