Read The Ruby Slippers for Free Online Page B

the road, a whole tangle of unhappy scenarios slowly slipping and twisting from the spool inside his head and looping into chaos.
    ■ ♦ ■
    Harrison shuts the door on New York City and takes off his jacket in Goose Creek, South Carolina. The joke of it used to make him smile when he was a child, but now it has worn thin and he simply puts up with this place called home because he knows that it will never change so long as Great Aunt Crystal is alive, which will surely be a long time yet. It is nice enough, even if it was last done twenty years back, when Uncle Henry was still alive: all in blues and pinks to keep up the country look; cottage sofa and set suggesting solidity and comfort, with jolly old ornaments and southern prints under glass for tradition and good cheer. A perfect finishing touch is supplied by gingham tiebacks, to frame the city through the window and make it just another picture on the wall.
    Jesus is here, too, of course. His image hangs above the piano – dreamy-looking, eyes raised to heaven, long-haired white man – surrounded by the family photographs. Generations of sad-but-smiling black people, some dignified by sepia, some bleached of colour. His holy face imparts dignity to their passing. Of course, none of this tells us that Great Aunt Crystal has no one left in the world – apart from Harrison, who is the source of her anxieties and the subject of her prayers. Nothing in this quaint preservation of a time and place that once was her world hints at the fact that she is penniless, housebound pretty much, and dependent on kind members of the congregation to take her Sundays to the Tabernacle. In each fretful week of cleaning and scrubbing, Crystal has just one allotted hour to make her prayers, speak in tongues and cleanse her spirit in the bosom of the Lord.
    As Harrison comes from the hallway into the living room, Great Aunt Crystal enters from the kitchen, carrying a freshly baked cake and offering greetings: ‘Hello, my honey,’ she coos, ignoring his gruffness as he throws down his coat, pushes past her to the refrigerator in the kitchen and gulps down milk straight from the carton – all as if she didn’t exist. It is her Christian duty to soak up the sins of others and offer serenity in return. She goes to the table and transfers the cake to a cake stand, all the while watching him sideways, avoiding unpleasantness, keeping things sweet. Somewhat needlessly, she announces, ‘I baked a cake.’ But Harrison just picks up the remote and flicks through channels on the TV. It is, of course, wounding to Crystal, and she has often wondered what he gains from these ill-mannered displays, consoling herself with the idea that young people are all like this these days. With a sigh, she starts to divide up the cake, following her age-old ritual: ‘One for you . . . one for me . . . one for Henry.’ Smart. She knows Harrison won’t be able to resist saying how crazy she is, and she gets a reaction at last:
    ‘Uncle Henry been dead ten year!’ It’s something, even if the tone is hurtful.
    She goes to the kitchen, doggedly cleaving to the way of the righteous: ‘Uncle Henry always loved my cakes.’ She returns with a tea tray, pours two cups of tea and holds out a slice on a plate. Harrison picks up instead a neatly folded pile of ironed clothes she has left for him and makes for the hallway. But she hasn’t quite given in: ‘Have a piece, please.’ She insists. He strides moodily to his room down the hallway. ‘I don’t want your fucking cake!’ Crystal shakes her head, sharing her sorrows with Jesus up on the wall, who doesn’t look in the least bit fazed. She arranges the cake plate, with both unclaimed pieces, in the middle of the table, knowing that he will take them later when she is gone from the room. Forgiveness, forgiveness is everything, she tells herself. After all, didn’t she herself have such a happy childhood with loving parents, who worked their days, took