One Black Shoe; One Blue Shoe: A Short Story, A Tribute

I usually do not publish my short stories on my blog. But I thought it appropriate today to post a short story that was written about this tradgic day in history eleven years ago.  It is dedicated to all those who lost their lives that day, and to those, who by the grace of God, were spared.

~ Aspie Writer

Although based on true events, the following story is fiction and all characters portrayed are fictional.

One Blue Shoe, One Black Shoe

By Jeannie Davide-Rivera

After one last look in the mirror, Tara rushed out of her bedroom and into the kitchen. It wasn’t a long walk. The two-bedroom apartment was rather small compared to the five-bedroom house she was accustomed to on Long Island.  Tara didn’t mind the small apartment though, she was glad she had moved back to Rossville after the divorce. She missed Staten Island, and this put her close to her parents.

“Jon—are you ready to go?”

Jon stood at the refrigerator with the cat’s bowl in his hand filling it with water and ice from the dispenser.

“How many times have I told you? Fill the bowl from the sink—why aren’t you dressed?”

“Getting in the shower now, Mom.”

He walked two steps and dropped the cat’s bowl on the floor. Without saying a word Jon picked up the bowl refilled it and set it down on the floor. He walked through the water leaving black smears across the white kitchen floor from his dirty feet.  His medicine bottle, apple sauce jar, soda bottle, cup, and frozen pancakes were sprawled out across the counter.  Five minutes is all it took for him to completely destroy the kitchen that she was up until 2 a.m. cleaning.

“Look at this kitchen. It’s a mess! My God, I’m not here just to clean up after you—get in the shower and hurry.  You’re making me late.”

Tara knelt onto the floor with a towel trying to dry the floor and track down all the ice cubes so she wouldn’t bust her ass again.  Who puts white glossy ceramic tile in a kitchen anyway?

She glanced up at the clock on the wall. Almost seven, damn it. Why couldn’t Mr. Kessler let her come in a little late for a change?  He knew she needed to get Jon Jr. off to school. Not only was this the first day of the new school year, but it was a new place, and a new school.  One hour later was all she asked.

“Eight to five, those are your hours McNally,” is all he said.  That is all he ever said, but she supposed she should be grateful for the job—any job. Finding work was not easy, not after twelve years of being a stay-at-home mom with no current skills to speak of.

McNally… why was she still using that name anyway? Jonathan McNally of Mason, McNally, & Sorenson P.C.—“What a catch,” Grandma Gina said.  Catch my ass—never marry a divorce attorney. They’re the only ones that could fly off to Aruba with their secretary and still somehow manage to screw you in court. Prick.

The shower water had been turned off and she heard Jon Jr. go into his room fifteen minutes ago.

“Jon, let’s go!”

No answer.

Tara walked into his room, clothes spread across the floor, empty water bottles and an empty bag of Doritos were crumpled on the nightstand. Jon sat on the bed wearing a black t-shirt, faded blue jeans, and…socks!

“What are you doing?”

“Can’t find my shoes” Jon said, still staring at TV.

“Look under the bed.”

“Not there.”

“Closet?”

“Nope.”

“My God, Jon, find them. I’ve got to go!”

When he didn’t move, Tara tossed the comforter off the bed, and then she got on her hands and knees to look under it. She heard a tearing sound, and twisted to see her navy skirt’s slit had ripped all the way up to her ass. “Damn it!”

She pulled a pair of sneakers from under the bed. “Not here huh?” and threw them at Jon. “Get them on and get in the car.”

Tara ran to her bedroom and wiggled out of her skirt. She pulled a taupe suit from the closet but remembered that she had sat on something nasty on the train and hadn’t brought it to the cleaners yet. “Shit!”

She grabbed a black skirt off the hanger and slipped it on not bothering to change the cream top and navy blazer. She slipped one navy shoe off, slipped one black shoe on, and stood in front of the mirror to evaluate which pair she should wear with her mismatched outfit.

“Mom, where’s my book bag?”

“Oh my God, I don’t have time for this! Can’t you find anything?”

Tara stormed out of the room, snatched the book bag off the floor and flung it across the room at Jon.

“If it was a snake it would have bit you! You’re not going to be happy until I lose this job.  Then where will we live? On the curb? It’s almost eight and I’m supposed to be there at eight!”

Jon slung the bag over his shoulder and walked out the door. 

Tara sped out of the driveway and down the street toward her parent’s house. It’s a good thing they only lived a mile from her—at least her mom could bring Jon to school.

***

The Staten Island expressway was jammed as usual. Living in Rossville, Tara usually took the Bayonne Bridge to Jersey and then the Path Train to Manhattan, but the traffic was too heavy.  She decided to take the ferry. Maybe she could save some time—if she took the side streets.

Tara rushed onto the ferry and found a seat inside.  It was crowded. Angry commuters complained about their own morning delays.  She looked down at her feet. “Damn it, Jonathan!”

She couldn’t believe she left the house with two different colored shoes on. Maybe no one would notice.  Besides, it was too late now. She couldn’t go back to the house even if she wanted to; the ferry had already begun moving across the water.

If I hurry maybe I can at least make it there by nine.  But that was optimistic, no—impossible. Maybe she could make it to Manhattan by nine, but then she would have to hop on the train to the Trade Center—no, she was never making it by nine.

Kessler is going to fire me today. Tara glanced at her watch. 8:46 a.m.—fired and living on the streets, that’ll be me. Thanks for dragging your ass this morning, Jon.

A woman’s gasp startled her. Tara turned her heard to see what people were pointing at; they were pointing up toward the skyline. Her breath caught in her throat.  Looking up in horror she saw black smoke pouring out of the World Trade Center. Tara rushed out onto the deck with a few other passengers. She heard the reports of a plane crash, an accident.  Oh my God…

As the boat neared Governor’s Island on its approach to Whitehall Terminal, the roar of a plane broke the silence. A 757 on a horrendous angle thundered directly overhead and buried itself into the second tower. Screams erupted on the deck.  She could almost feel the heat from the impact; she saw debris falling from the sky.

Tara stood motionless, rooted to floor. Screams turned to silence; everything seemed to move in slow motion.  She lost track of time, as she stared into the smoke darkened sky, which only moments before was bright and crisp.

Mr. Kessler!

She held her hand over her mouth. She’d forgotten to call him to tell him she would be late. She scrambled for her cellphone. She needed to call the office, to see if he was all right, to tell him she was on her way. She put the phone to her ear, mascara blackened tears streamed down her face as her eyes remained fixed on the skyline. She was unable to look away. She dialed again, but—the call didn’t go through; it couldn’t.

 

NOTICE: This material is copyrighted.

 

Tara McNally is a fictional character, but the events are based on true stories similiar to hers. This story is dedicated to all those whose lives went haywire that dreadful morning, cursed in traffic, yelled at their slow moving kids, and later realized their circumstances saved them from a horrid fate. Honor those lives lost that day by remembering that every day is a gift; live life as such.

~Aspie Writer