Dusty Boots

A dust cloud trailed the familiar old truck as it approached, signaling to Joan that her rent was due.  She anxiously watched its arrival as the children chattered in their make-believe house under the nearby pine tree where tiny walls of straw created a world devoid of worry and trouble.

The faded, red door with the broken mirror creaked open, then slammed shut as the man rounded the front of the vehicle and moved toward the porch, as she stood on the top step, half leaning against the post.  She nervously twisted the dish towel that held the odor of dried beans, the family’s next few meals that continued to simmer on the stove.

“Ma’am, you know why I’m here.”

“Yes, sir.  But I can hardly keep us fed, and don’t have any money for . . .”

“Listen, lady,” he interrupted.  “I can’t let you live here for free.  I know you’ve been trying to hold it together since that no count man left you a few months ago.  And I’m willing to try to work something out with you if you are willing to meet my needs.”

Joan felt his penetrating stare as his eyes studied her from head to toe.  She turned her gaze downward as he examined her.  The vulnerability she felt was buffered by the determination she had to keep a roof over the heads of her children.

She could only imagine what would come next, for she knew him to be a business man who usually got what he wanted.  And he had a wife who had been severely ill for months, now bed-bound, being tended mostly by her sister.  The tenants of his other houses often commented to her that they thought “he was not a very good husband.”

A deep breath helped her to calm the nervousness in her voice as she raised her head, glancing briefly at the children before looking into his face.

“What do you have in mind?”

He broke eye contact, looked down at his dusty boots.

“Well, I was just thinking how good clean sheets feel.”  Pausing for a breath and shifting his weight, he continued, “And soft hands like yours running over a tired and frustrated body would sure be worth a lot.”

Joan felt trapped with no options as she saw the predicament they both faced.

“Please, sir, don’t put us out,” she pleaded.

“Can you send the children somewhere for a little while?”

Looking toward the children but avoiding any direct eye contact with them, she fought back tears and swallowed.

“I can send them to a friend’s house just across the way, . . . if you’ll let us stay here.”

“OK then, here’s what we’ll do.”  He cleared his throat and rubbed his unshaven jaw.  “I’ll get in my truck and drive back toward my house while you get the kids situated.  I’ll send my sister-in-law back to get you in her clean car, so you don’t have to get dirty in this here truck.  When you get to my house, come on in the bedroom and get that clean set of sheets to put on the bed so my wife can feel and smell them.  Beside the bed, under the lamp is her favorite lotion with the rose petal fragrance.  Rub her all over with it, gently, but firmly until she relaxes, and her breathing slows.  When she falls asleep, take the dirty sheet to wash and hang on the line so they will smell like fresh sunshine tomorrow when you come back to do it again.”

With each word, his speech slowed, and his tone softened.  “I don’t know how many days or weeks she will last, but I would like her to know at least that little bit of pleasure.  My hands are more like sandpaper, and I’m not able to give her that kind of pleasure without your help.”  Without looking up, he coughed, and cleared his throat.  “Would you do that for your rent?”

Still as a statue, Joan stood as she watched the man turn and shuffle back to his truck without waiting for an answer.  He hid his wet face from her view, but Joan saw the drops on his dusty boots.  The truck roared and made another cloud of dust.

Now glad to have the twisted, dirty rag at hand, Joan dried her own face as she said to the now absent man, “Yes, sir. I’d be glad to do that for my rent.”