Someone Else's Shoes by Ellen Wittlinger
When Izzy came downstairs, dressed for the concert in stylish new boots—an early and surprising Christmas present from her mother—Uncle Henderson did not look at all “back on his feet.” He was sitting in a corner of the parlor in the dark, trembling.
“Uncle Hen, I thought you were supposed to be at the theater by now,” Izzy said. “Where’s Mom?”
“She’s getting my anxiety pills to calm me down,” he said. “But I don’t think I can do it. It’s too soon.”
“But Uncle Hen, there are so many people who want to hear you play again. You can’t let them down!” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Izzy thought maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say. Uncle Henderson looked more frightened than ever, and she was afraid he was imagining all those people in the audience staring at him.
Izzy’s mother came down the stairs with a pill in her hand and a glass of water. “Take this,” she said to her brother. “Then close your eyes and just breathe for a minute. Izzy, let’s get out of here and let Hen try to relax.”
It was a long way, Izzy thought, from the place Uncle Henderson was now to relaxation. “Where’s Oliver?” she asked as she followed her mother to the kitchen.
“He’s in the basement, getting ready,” her mom said. Once Ben had moved back home, Oliver had asked to live in the basement. Izzy thought it was a good sign that he was willing to be a little farther away from his father these days, and also that he obviously wanted to be just like Ben (no tattoos, though). No one talked about Uncle Henderson and Oliver moving back to Wilton anymore, and Izzy hoped they never would.
“We should call Ben,” Izzy said. “He knows how to talk to Uncle Hen. He’ll get him to play tonight.” Izzy’s house, school, and his own house were the only places Ben had been allowed to go all fall. He was taking guitar lessons from Uncle Henderson now, and the two had gotten to be good friends.
“Not a bad idea,” her mother said. “Ben is kind of a miracle worker with Henderson. The kid should be a therapist when he grows up.”
Izzy made a face. “No, he should be a songwriter. They help way more people than therapists do.” Her mother laughed, but Izzy wasn’t kidding.
Her mother called Michael. They were all planning to go to the concert together anyway, but her mom said, “Come over now. We need Ben.”
Izzy had been trying to get comfortable calling Dr. Gustino by his first name. Her mother had been dating him for seven months, which was a record for her, and one night Izzy had overheard them talking about “taking the next step.” Izzy didn’t really mind Dr. Gustino anymore, but she was still shocked at the idea that he could become a permanent fixture in her life. On the other hand, she also immediately saw what the upside to the situation was, and it more than made up for her discomfort with the dentist. If Michael was going to end up being her stepfather, Ben would really be her brother, and that would be the best change ever.
Ben came in with his guitar over his shoulder and went into the dim parlor, patting Izzy’s shoulder as he passed by. Oliver had come up from the basement by then, and the two of them stood in the doorway, watching anxiously.
Whatever Ben said to Uncle Henderson, he said it quietly. All Izzy could hear was her mother fretting to Michael about how Uncle Henderson was going to miss his sound check. Ben absent-mindedly strummed his own guitar. He seemed to be asking Uncle Henderson a question. Sure enough, before long Hen picked up his instrument and started to play. The two of them sang a quiet duet. Little by little Uncle Henderson sat up straighter, his voice deepening into its signature rumble.
In a few minutes they were all on their feet and hurrying outside to the two cars. Ben gave Izzy and Oliver a thumbs-up as they hurried down the driveway.
When they got to the Bellwood Theater, the manager, looking relieved, met them out front and escorted Uncle Henderson backstage. People were beginning to trickle into the auditorium, but Izzy and her family stayed in the lobby, watching the audience arrive. They had reserved seats up front, but they were far too nervous to sit down until they absolutely had to.
Even though Izzy had known that Cookie and Pauline were coming, she was still happy to see them arrive with Pauline’s parents. The adults went over to talk to her mother and Michael, and the two girls gave Izzy a tentative wave from across the room. Really?
“Why don’t your friends come over here?” Oliver asked as he waved to them.
“They’re afraid of Ben,” Izzy said.
“I thought you told them I wasn’t a serial killer after all,” Ben said, grinning.
“I guess they don’t believe me.” Izzy motioned to her friends to come closer. If they were going to keep being her friends, they’d have to stop acting so ridiculous.
Cookie grabbed Pauline’s arm, and the two of them approached cautiously. “Hey, Izzy,” Pauline said. “Hi, Oliver. I can’t wait to hear your dad.”
Cookie’s hand went straight to Izzy’s hair. “Oh my God, you had it cut again. And I love this color! What’s it called?”
“Vivid Violet,” Izzy said.
“It’s really pretty,” Pauline told her. “I wish I had the nerve to dye mine.”
“Thanks. Ben did it for me yesterday.”
Both girls fluttered their eyelids and dared to look up at Ben.
“I guess you haven’t actually met Ben,” Izzy said. “If it weren’t for him, Uncle Henderson probably wouldn’t even have showed up here tonight.”
Ben shrugged humbly. “So, which one of you is Cookie?”
Cookie raised her hand halfway, like a shy first grader in need of a bathroom break.
“Then you must be Pauline,” he said. “I’ve heard all about you two.”
“You have?” Pauline said, looking worried. “We’re not really that bad!”
“Pauline!” Cookie gave her a little shove, and they both giggled and relaxed a little. “Do you really cut Izzy’s hair?” Cookie dared to ask, her eyes big and round.
“I do,” he said.
Izzy laughed. “Now they’ll want you to cut their hair.”
Cookie actually blushed, which Izzy had never seen before. “Pauline’s maybe, but I’m never cutting my hair.” She threw her head back so her curls danced on her shoulders.
Ben tilted his head and gave her a sideways inspection. “Really? It would look better a few inches shorter.”
Izzy could tell Cookie wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. She laughed nervously and pulled on Pauline’s arm. “We should go get seats,” she said. Ben gave them a little wave as they disappeared into the theater.
“I can’t believe you insulted her hair!” Izzy said. “She thinks she’s one audition away from a shampoo commercial.”
He laughed, as he did a lot these days. “She needs a better goal in life anyway.”
“Izzy!” Her mother ran up and thrust her cell phone at her. “Your dad wants to talk to you. He’s got big news!”
A storm swirled in Izzy’s stomach. From the look of excitement on her mother’s face, she was pretty sure she knew why her father was calling, and she didn’t really want to hear his news. When she’d visited him last month, they’d had fun, almost as much fun as when he’d lived with her. She’d done her comedy routine for him, and he’d laughed so hard he started hiccupping. But now things were going to change. Her mother looked at her expectantly and held out the phone. Rise to the occasion, Izzy. She sighed and took the phone.
“Hello.”
“Izzy, I’ve got good news! Your baby brother came two weeks early! He arrived about an hour ago, and he’s a big, healthy guy with great lungs.”
Had she ever heard her dad sound this happy? She didn’t think so. “Wow,” she said without a trace of enthusiasm. “Great.”
“We’re naming him Christopher. Christopher Shepherd. Do you like that name?”
“Sure. I guess.” What did she care?
“I can’t wait for you to come into town and meet him,” her dad said. “Maybe over Christmas break—”
“Oh, okay.” He sounded disappointed, but he didn’t give up. “Maybe just a weekend, then. I’ll come out and get you. What do you think?”
Izzy thought it was a bad idea. Her father probably just wanted her to babysit so he and Emily could go out someplace. Or maybe he wanted to brag to her about what a terrific kid this new one was. She wasn’t going to waste her vacation on that.
But then she looked up and saw that Ben had lifted Oliver onto his shoulders, and she remembered that change wasn’t always a bad thing. Izzy’s heart cracked open a little bit. And when it opened this time, her new baby brother slipped in. Like Ben had said, he might need her.
“Maybe I can,” she said. “I’d like to see…Christopher.”
“That’s great, Izzy. We’ll make plans. I have to go now, but we’ll talk soon.”
“Okay.”
Her dad hesitated for a second and then he said, “Bye, Izzy. I love you.” And then he was gone, before she could decide whether to say she loved him back.
“You okay, Iz?” Ben was beside her, Oliver still riding on his shoulders.
“I guess.”
“You got another brother?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Lucky you. A girl can never have too many of those.”
Before long the lobby was packed. Izzy was shocked that so many people had come to hear her uncle play. Even Oliver’s friend Suzanne and her not-yet-divorced parents came. They gripped her hands tightly as she walked between them like a captive, but Izzy could tell by the way she tossed her pigtails that she wouldn’t be a prisoner for long.
Michael’s voice suddenly cut through the other lobby noise. “What’s he doing here?”
By the time Izzy turned around, Oliver had seen him and was flying over. “Look, Ben! It’s your uncle!”
“Uncle Steve!” Ben said. Izzy followed them over to where the shaggy-haired giant stood just inside the door, looking a little out of place. The three of them formed a protective fence around Uncle Steve, even though it was obvious that Michael could break through it.
Ben shook his uncle’s hand, but Uncle Steve pulled him into a hug. “Hey, I miss you, kiddo, you and your little buddies here. If this is the only way I can hang out with you, I’m willing to listen to a little guitar playing.”
Michael was on top of them by then. “Didn’t I ask you not to contact Ben anymore? Why are you here?” His face was bright red.
“This is a public place,” Steve said. “I guess I can come to a concert if I want to.”
“You didn’t just happen to come here,” Michael said. “You knew we’d be here. I don’t like this at all.”
Uncle Steve pulled his shoulders back and looked down at Michael. “Well, I don’t really give a damn if you like it or not. This boy is my sister’s child, and I have a right to see him if I want to.”
“No, you don’t. You’ve forfeited that right by your atrocious behavior—”
“Look,” Uncle Steve interrupted, “I know you’re mad at my sister, and you probably have a right to be. But it’s not fair to keep me and Ben apart—he’s the only family I’ve got around here. Okay, I let him get some tattoos, and I taught him to drive a car when I probably shouldn’t have. Hell, Mike, I never had any kids—I’m still a big kid myself, and I know I don’t always make the right decisions. I’m sorry. But it doesn’t make me a terrible guy, and you know it.”
Michael was quiet, though Izzy could see the words he wasn’t saying chasing each other around in his head. Izzy’s mother came up behind him and put a hand on his arm.
“We should probably go in now,” she said. “It’ll be starting soon.”
Michael sputtered out his thoughts. “There have to be rules, Steve. You can’t let Ben do whatever he wants to do. I’m his father, do you understand that?”
Ben’s uncle nodded. “I do. And I’ll do my best to follow your rules. Just don’t make ’em impossible.”
“We’ll discuss this later,” Michael said. “When we aren’t in public.”
“Fine with me,” Uncle Steve said, grinning at Ben.
“There’s an extra seat in the front row, by us,” Oliver said. “You should sit there.” He grabbed Uncle Steve’s hand and pulled him toward the entrance.
The rest of them fell in behind, Michael huffing and snorting. Izzy heard her mother tell him, “It’s okay, Michael. We’ll figure it out.”
And then they were in their seats, Oliver sandwiched between Izzy and Ben, bouncing nervously. The lights had gone down, and the audience was quiet. The manager came out onstage, and for a minute Izzy got scared. Was he going to say Uncle Henderson didn’t want to play? Was he going to say he’d run out the back door and couldn’t be found? But no, he stepped up to the microphone and said quietly, “This evening the Bellwood Theater is honored to present one of our favorite performers, the very talented…Henderson Hook.”
Applause echoed through the auditorium. Izzy wondered if everyone here knew why Uncle Hen hadn’t played a concert in six months. She figured they probably did.
Oliver jumped to his feet as Uncle Henderson walked out from the wings and perched on a high stool in the middle of the stage, his guitar balanced on one knee. He didn’t look up right away, but strummed quietly until the clapping subsided. Then he fiddled with the microphone until it was at the right height. He looked around the big room and gave them a very small smile. No one moved, at least not in Izzy’s row. They leaned forward and waited until Uncle Hen’s voice broke the silence.
“I’d like to dedicate this first song to three very important people,” Uncle Henderson said. “My son, Oliver Hook; my niece, Izzy Shepherd; and my new friend, Ben Gustino.” He looked right out at the three of them. “I owe them everything.”
He began to sing, quietly at first, and then with his full, beautiful voice. Soon the words rang out over the auditorium. “Be always tender,” he reminded the audience, and you could tell that everyone in that room understood just what he meant.
Izzy certainly did. She closed her eyes and let her heart rise to the occasion.
THE END
Acknowledgments
My writing has been sustained throughout the years by so many writer friends, particularly those in my two critique groups. Many thanks to Patty MacLachlan, Jane Yolen, Lesléa Newman, Ann Turner, Barbara Diamond Goldin, Corinne Demas, Nancy Werlin, Pat Lowery Collins, Lisa Papademetriou, Liza Ketchum, and Toni Buzzeo. I also depend on the advice and friendship of Elise Broach, Chris Tebbetts, Heather Knight Richard, Jeannine Atkins, and Lisa Yee.
As always, I thank the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, Massachusetts, and the Kindling Words writing retreat for years of support and fellowship.
You would not be holding this book in your hands if not for the guidance and encouragement I’ve received from editors Yolanda Scott and Karen Boss. To all the other creative minds at Charlesbridge, particularly Donna Spurlock and Mel Schuit in marketing and copyeditor extraordinaire Josette Haddad, thank you so much. And of course, my constant gratitude goes to Ginger Knowlton: agent, advocate, and friend for more than twenty years.
Ellen Wittlinger, Someone Else's Shoes