Little Feet

By Lacey Riggan

Some days are more difficult than others for Sydney Matthews Davidson as she begins sifting through her life, putting everything in its place, preparing for the inevitable ending to the graveled road of life which barefoot she has walked. Sydney struggles with a childhood wrought with memories that line her stomach, making her nauseous when she breathes - memories of a dead boy, of a best friend who ran away when raped, of the moment her unaffected mother told her that her daddy was dead. All have all contributed to a scab continuously picked and infected with the past. Little Feet is the story of how a woman survived all the sadness of youth, the numbness she surrounded herself with as she grew, and the strength she gained as an adult, finding love, a relationship with her mother, and most importantly, herself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lacey Riggan
• Release date: May 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476491127

Lacey Riggan

Lacey Riggan is a San Antonio-based author. Riggan has spent most of her professional career teaching English in Converse, Texas. Her free time is spent writing and raising her young daughter.

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Little Feet

Lacey Riggan

Copyright 2012 by Lacey Riggan

Smashwords Edition

For my Memaw, for making up and entertaining a little girl with stories when we drove to the lake; and for my mother, for her love of writing poetry and twisting fairytales to gross out a little girl at bedtime

Little Feet

Chapter 1

I ran as fast as I could. Small but quick, I jumped over the tall grass and dodged the overbearing tree limbs. There was nothing that could stop me from getting home before Momma did. She’d have my hide if she knew I’d been out by the creek again. My white cotton slip was brown with dirt. She’d know. She always knew, even when I had changed. I remember this as if it were yesterday.

Quick but fast, my ankles scratched by small twigs scattered across the ground, I trudged, stumbling through the hilly area to get back home before Momma got home. I could see from the trees that the kitchen door was already open. She was home. I needed to have a plan or she would get me. What to do? There was no sneaking in. She always knew. I opened the screen door. It creaked, and I cringed. Waiting, I heard no sound. Maybe she was still out in front of the house unloading the groceries. As I waited to hear my name, all three, yelled through the hall, I studied the white flaking paint on the rotting wood outlining the door showing in brief glances the brown gray of near rotted wood beneath. Come on, I thought to myself. I pushed the door open, and there she was.

I sneaked in through the back. Momma was standing by the gas stove boiling water. This was her way of heating up the kitchen, keeping it warm without turning on the heater situated in the living room. Even if she had turned it on, the heat from that small machine never would have reached the kitchen. Her back was to me, but she knew.

I could feel the oven’s heat from the door. Child, didn’t I tell you that it was too cold to be playing in the creek like that? She didn’t turn around, but I nodded yes. Keeping her back to me, You are going catch a cold playing in water when it’s near freezing out.

I had begun to freeze but refused to give Momma the satisfaction of knowing she was right. No shoes on my feet, I tried to warm them by inconspicuously rubbing one foot over the other. I became partially aware that my toes were numb. I flexed them against the off white linoleum to regain feeling. My arms were wrapped around me, more to hide the mud stains than to keep me warm.

You are too young either way to be out at that creek by yourself. Six years old and you think you’re done grown. Who’s going to help you if you get stuck out there by yourself in the middle of that thing? I didn’t answer but just shrugged, waiting for her to turn around and see what I had done to my slip, prepared for a switch’n. I kept my eyes on her bun which held her hair up off of her shoulders. Earlier that day, it had been tightly pinned with purpose, but now after a day of cleaning and chores, pieces stuck out in all directions.

Go on, she said, still facing the stove, her middle-aged hands turning up the fire under the boiling water. Get that thing off, so I can wash it before the stains set in. It was then she looked at me.

Shocked, I ran to my room to dress before she changed her mind, my feet so frozen that I could not feel the change in flooring from linoleum, to hard wood, to carpet. All that I could be sure of was that there was solidness below me, and I could tell that only because I hadn’t fallen yet. I tried to decipher her plan. What was she up to? Was she trying to make me worry? Because I was, I was worrying. Was she planning to tell Daddy when he got home? What was she doing? I grabbed a t-shirt from the top most drawer and threw my slip in the clothes bin on my way back to the kitchen, hoping none of the mud rubbed off on anything else or I would be in twice the amount of trouble.

I stood there watching her slice the dry orange carrots, her large dress barely containing her, the frayed bottoms of a once brightly patterned dress tickling at her ankles. That was Momma.

You are going to get yourself killed out there. You realize that? You are going to catch a cold, and you are going to get yourself killed. That is if you don’t get caught up in those lines and drown. I knew better than to argue. Not with Momma, not ever. There was no reason; she was always right. Always.

Her hands still busy, she said, Well, Little Feet, are you going to help or just stand there? Little Feet, a name I had apparently gained when I was a baby. Papa used to tell me stories about how when he first saw me, he thought I wouldn’t be able to walk because my feet were too small. He would say that it still amazed him that I could stand when my feet were only slightly bigger than my legs.

I didn’t talk much. Must have seen no sense in it. Conversation seemed to get in the way. It messed things up. Stopped you from really relating to people. Besides, an evil look from Momma said more to me than if she scolded me. A smile did the same. Talk was, was and is, frivolous.

I walked over to the counter, slid the baking sheet off the counter and brought it down to my level, secretly hinting to her I wanted cookies.

Cookies, huh? I’m not sure you should get cookies after that stunt you pulled today, young lady. She shook her fingers and talked angrily, but cookies I got as did my brother, Charlie. We called him CD. Those were his initials. I was four years older than him. At the time, he was two. CD was short even for his age and nearly deaf, or maybe he just learned at an earlier age than I did that if you pretended like you couldn’t hear people, they would most likely leave you alone. He spent all of his time in his room. While most toddlers like to roam, he liked to stay put and play with cars. While I stayed away from people because I didn’t like them, he stayed away because he never quite fit in. Not being able to hear was not a factor, while smart, he was just different, too smart almost.

We spent an hour in the kitchen preparing dinner for when Daddy came home. After cookies, CD went back to his room. He liked it there. Days like these…gone, long passed. Eventually, I did get a cold from going out that day, but that is not why I remember that day. I remember it for what happened later, at dinner, when sadness hit the town like a slow wave, when they started searching for the dead boy.

We made dinner like usual and waited for Daddy. He always came home late with the smell of field on him, because he worked so hard. It was not really hard times, just country times, and that’s how it was for everybody. Small towns made things stiff and interdependent. I heard Daddy come in the front door. Where are my girls? He yelled. I ran to the door. Momma didn’t; she never did. For years, I wondered why she never went to the door. If my husband had asked that, I would have ran to the door, threw my arms around him, and held him like nothing else mattered. Not money, not work and most certainly, not the food on the stove burning. I never understood parts of her. In pieces, she was a mystery; altogether, she was just Momma, a group of paradoxes existing as one. It was like she was removed from us, but Daddy loved her, and she was my mother. There were moments that she seemed there, usually around Daddy. When she didn’t come to the door, which was always, Daddy would slip me candy or money. John? Momma yelled from the kitchen.

Yes, Myra? he answered.

Don’t you give that child any candy; she already had cookies. She does not need any more. Daddy looked at me and winked. You are going to ruin that child, Momma continued. I loved Daddy so much. In my eyes, he was everything. He reached into his red plaid pocket and pulled out a bag of Reese’s Pieces. My eyes grew wide; they were my favorite.

Where’s your brother? Daddy asked though he always knew.

In his room, I said opening my peanut butter candy. He reached behind him and slammed the door.

John! my mother yelled. He slammed the door nearly everyday and nearly everyday, she would yell. The vibrations caught CD’s attention, and he came running in. With the force of his jump combined with his momentum of running, he was able to propel himself a foot and a half into the air reaching Daddy’s thigh and holding on.

Hey there, Buddy, Daddy said as he ruffled his hair.

CD got down and held out his hand. He was in the same routine as I was. Don’t feed him either, John, Momma said from the kitchen. Daddy reached into his pocket and pulled out a small sized M&Ms and handed them to CD. Daddy put his finger to his mouth to show it was a secret. CD smiled broadly as he attempted to open the package. Daddy sat me down, and I grabbed the candy from CD and opened it. I did this quickly before he had time to start whining about me taking it. I shoved them back into his hands, and he went to his room.

Then there was my mother. John, I am serious. They already had cookies. Momma always knew, even though she wasn’t in the room. Days like these are long passed. Days of dinners with the family, long talks of what I found at the creek, laughing in front of the television… days like these long passed, just makes my heart feel alone. The memories, I cherish but they almost make it worse in a way, because I cannot forget the then, and it doesn’t compare to now. It haunts me, and I carry it with me.

Daddy came in and kissed Momma. And how are you doing? he asked. She smiled and unwrapped his arm from around her waist as that is where he placed it upon seeing her.

Just fine if you’d leave me to cook. She popped him in the rear with the towel. He reached for it and caught it as he had done many times before. John, don’t you dare. I’ve got soup on the stove. Daddy smiled as he playfully teased her with the edge of the towel. John Matthews Davidson, I’m serious, She squealed. Get ready for dinner. It’s almost done. When she smiled, she looked younger, more like her age. She was only a year or two older than Daddy but much more plain.

We sat down at the table. Momma set the table. I was not yet allowed. She worried I would break a dish. I was not even allowed to bring out the cups due to an incident a year prior of which I was reminded of every night when I looked at the cold linoleum floor beneath the table in the kitchen and remembered the little blue rug that used to lay there. My only task at any meal was, Go get your brother.

So, Little Feet, what did you do today? Daddy asked.

Mmm, Momma made a little throaty noise. Daddy smiled.

Did you find anything interesting down there? he asked, knowing what Momma’s noise meant.

Mud, she said to herself from the kitchen. Brought some of it back for me to look at.

I looked at Momma and told him no, that I didn’t find anything. She was watching, and I knew that if I told her I found a dark green frog that was missing a few toes, she’d get onto me. I decided I would wait till Momma went to bathe, then tell him all about it. We ate.

CD ate purposefully and ferociously, undistracted by table conversation stabbing at his mashed potatoes to fit more on the spoon.

How was work? Momma asked.

Good. Long. Otto has finally decided to buy that new tractor we were talking about. That’ll save a lot of time when he actually gets around to buying it. Momma brought in the pot of soup and placed it on the table on a dish towel. The table in the center where the pans always sat was not beige but tan. The color aged due to the heat from the food.

Momma smiled, How long do you think that will take? She ladled some soup into his bowl, and Daddy attacked it before answering.

Don’t know, Daddy said wiping his chin with the paper towel. Hell, it took him two years just to talk him into saying he was going to do it. Huh, he laughed, I don’t know how many years it is going to take to actually get him to buy it.

A knock sounded at the door. Momma looked at Daddy as if to ask if he were expecting company. He put both hands up and shook his head no. CD didn’t notice anything had happened till Momma put down her paper towel and pushed her chair back. I can still hear the noise of those metal legs scooting across that floor etching their presence and history into the small irremovable scuff marks. Momma walked back into the kitchen, after having answered the door, with her hand over her mouth, her face whiter than its usual paleness. She walked up to my chair and sharply jolted it toward her. CD jumped a little when she did this. He was sensitive to scoldings as a child. I tried to think of what I might have done. My mind went though the usual list of silliness I conducted when left up to my own devices and could think of nothing out of the ordinary that would get her so upset.

She squatted, the heaviness of her hind end tilting her backward slightly. As from a mile away, I heard my father say, Myra, what’s wrong?

Baby, she said to me as she put her rough hands on my thighs. Baby, did you see anyone at the creek today?

No, I said. I tried to sound innocent and like I was telling the truth. I was telling the truth, but I felt that it was important to sound like I was too, just in case she didn’t believe me.

Her breath was short. She was angry or worried about something. Sidney, I don’t have time for you to be fibbing to me, if you saw that little Horace Hopkins boy playing at the creek, you tell me. She was shaking her finger at me, and I curled my hands up against my chest.

No, Momma, I said. I didn’t see him.

Look, baby, she said softening her voice so as not to scare me as much as she was, he’s not in any trouble. We just need to know if he was down there. Okay? I shook my head yes. Now, did you see him at all?

No, Momma, I said my eyes were tearing though I was not sure why. What’s wrong? When CD saw me tearing up he started crying hard, expecting that I had gotten in trouble.

Momma looked over my shoulder as she walked to pick up CD. I followed her gaze and saw that Daddy was talking to Mrs. Grick from down the street who looked as worried as Momma. Daddy was pulling on his weighty coat. When I turned back around, I caught Momma in one of those rare moments when, just by her look, I could feel her love for me, all around me in her eyes. Her hand patted the top of my head, pushing my hair down flat against my face. Oh, baby, she said and kissed my forehead, and held me against her, pressing me into the floral print so hard I could smell the scent of laundry detergent through the smell of the food that lingered on it. I started to cry hard then. I didn’t know what was wrong, but I knew something was.

Is Horace okay? I asked embarrassed that my voice rose to a high pitch that would denote that I was crying.

I don’t know, baby. I hope so, she said.

Doesn’t his momma know where he is? I asked.

More to herself than to me she whispered, No woman alive could keep up with that kid. Momma scooted the chair up behind her and sitting, waited for Daddy to finish with Mrs. Grick, her hands wrapped around mine.

Horace Hopkins was the most mischievous boy in town. Only seven and always into something, and had been that way since he was three. He was short for his age and could have passed for four. He was blonde with the purest blue eyes. Momma used to talk about how his mother came door to door looking for him when he was just a toddler. Apparently at three,