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The Little Shoe
By Max Quayle
I jump as the telephone barks loudly at me. It is an unexpected and unwanted intruder, and Ido not love it. Rising, I cast an eye toward my wife, who holds it, tightly. Her eyes pierce me inreturn, warning – with their sharp glance, knowing. The ligaments in my knees shift and pop as I pick my way through the clutter: I am afraid.I take the call in the hallway between the kitchen and the living room. It is the hospital. As Ilisten, I feel cold black syrup pour over and engulf me. Suddenly, my knees won’t work and thesounds in my ear refuse to be understood. Cracking, I hear my voice say, “But y-you said he wasfine last night…” Far away, my wife begins to cry. _______________________ My family is gathered in a loose circle on the well worn living room rug. Outside, it’ssnowing, hard. This is no surprise; after all, early December in New England usually providessome warning of the cold, white winter ahead. It’s okay though, we have no plans to travel far today. It is the morning of December 6, 2003, Saint Nicholas day. It is a traditional Germanholiday, wherein all children place a polished and well dressed shoe outside the front door to their home the night before in hopeful anticipation of goodies and treats being left by that mysteriousand little seen stranger: Father Christmas.The children are excitedly rummaging through their surprises, and munching greedily uponthe sweets left for them, but even so, our celebration is somewhat muted this year, and feels almostreverent. One small shoe stands alone, off to one side, untouched. It is about 2 inches long, barelylarge enough to contain its trove of three Hershey’s kisses, small candy cane and little bear toy,which have been carefully pressed inside. Oliver is not here, in fact, he never was. Unlike all of our other children’s shoes, this one has never been upon his little foot. He is 120 miles away, beingcarefully monitored in the NICU of a medical center, and has been these past 35 days of his life.We have been thinking of him, especially today. I don’t know how many holidays he mayyet miss, and am in no hurry to become used to it. Distant though he may be, he is unforgettable tome: He has wide, dark eyes and his soft, unsteady breath has become our favorite of his fewsounds. During busy weeks, when there are days between visits, we imitate the purr-like sound,and hold it as dear as we would his first word. Oliver is a reminder of what a precious miracle lifeis.On November first, “All Saints Day,” Deborah pushed his tiny body too easily from her own, in a short, uncomplicated birth. He came un-induced, and a month early, yet Oliver hasn’t
 
done much else. “Septo-Optic Displasia,” is one mouthful of a diagnosis we were offered toconsider. Another highly learned mask called it “Hydroencephalis.”It has become clear to us that Oliver arrived able to confuse the educated minds of hisdoctors, with his own uniquely indifferent one.A sharp-faced woman with a large nose and notably absent chin came into his room oneday, leading a gaggle of polite med students. She gently examined our son, and explained to usand to the group, that the sloping away of his little jaw bone together with the lack of a mentaleminence was a condition known as micrognathia. Deb and I had a much needed laugh when welooked that one up and discovered it meant simply “small chin!”Slowly, more results came in; but no answers – only more tests, more questions. It seemsthat in every single one of Oliver’s billion plus cells, the ends of his second and fifth chromosomehave been swapped. There is no name for this genetic anomaly, so we call it, simply, “heap.” ________________________ Shrieking and scraping, the grinder gnaws away bits of stone and pulverizes them beforeflinging them into a thick cloud which is growing around me. It is like holding a wild, living beastwhich pulls tugs and bites at the stone. Guiding the 7½ inch diamond encrusted blade across asmooth slab of marble is like trying to run a straight line across a sheet of ice, backwards: Unseen paths of lesser resistance within the stone draw the blade away from its desired course. The handcan restrain and coax it, but centrifugal force and contact angle do the steering. Wrestling with ittakes my minds full eye.This marble is of the highest quality; the veins of dark green and grey make it noble anddignified, the white spaces in between, sacred. An odd collection of pretty things, the slabs arescattered and unarranged on and around a make shift workbench. I bend to make one final sliceand pause. With the grinder’s metallic scream still ringing in my ears I can just hear an echo of themonitor warning of Oliver’s irregular respiration. The tears that lurk behind this memory won’tcome. I flip power on to the grinder and bury the lingering echo under a wall of rending sound. With one eye squinting, I carefully draw the whirling, angry tool down in a nearly straightline dividing one half from another. Its course spent the blade, and my resistance with it, slow to ascraping, rasping halt. With the last cut finished, I begin sliding the gleaming stones around; as amedicine man might arrange an altar preparatory to a ritual sacrifice. When the largest piece, ahexagon with the bottom half elongated like a stretched kite with the top and tail lopped off, isdead centered on the board, I draw the other scattered shapes to me. Carefully sliding first onestone and then the others, I lay them next to the centerpiece, until they just touch.It feels good to be working. The dust hangs onto my exposed skin like a brittle shell, fallingoff in small puffs when I move. The marble feels smooth, cool and dry. As the grinder tears
 
through stone I am engulfed in a smell which reminds me of the sea; chalky, salty and fresh – liketears.With the small smaller pieces in place it is time to glue them. The stone glue has the strongsmell of chemicals, solvent and poison and contrasts sharply with the dust. As I tilt each piece uparound the perimeter of the base I am struck by the natural translucence of this particular type of marble. I slowly affix the last piece, and step back to view my creation. Inside the stone casket,muted sunlight embalms the air inside with a softness that eases my mind. I have created a littleEden, cast in stone, wrought of grief and skill: A bedroom for my son.I hear the footsteps of the mailman behind me, and pause to see him.“What are you making?” he asks, unaware of how badly I need to tell him.“It’s a coffin… for my son… he died yesterday”.As I watch the older man fumble for a word, I drink his face. Somehow, my own grief stares palely out of his eyes.His expression softens, and even as the first tear of this event bursts its prison in my eye,and streaks halting down my face, he says, “I am sorry”.We two men part; he with a piece of my burden, I with a hundredweight more to spill.More tears come as I turn and begin cleaning up the workspace. My back hitches, my throat fillswith dry cotton. The dust around me welcomes their nickel splashes, which freely wet the tools,scraps of stone and my son’s coffin. My tears, soft and pure blunt the sharp edge of my pain. Theyfree me to feel the deepest emotions of love and sadness and loss that I ever hope to know. I turnand dry-fit the coffin lid, capturing inside the soft afternoon light, and much of my grief. It isfinished.Later that night, I gather my own father and we report to the mortuary to dress my son’s body for burial. As we arrive, a professionally sympathetic man meets us in the lot and ushers usinto a dim, silent viewing chamber. His charge was to pick Oliver up, across the state line, anddeliver him here. He had offered to dress the body for us, as is his profession, but Deborah and Ideclined. My fingers were chosen for this task instead; unwittingly, unanimously. My Dad isclearly uncomfortable and I am tense and still. Standing next to me I feel him wishing that thiswasn’t and I question my ability to do what this is.I slowly lift my small son, delicately cupping his shoulders and neck, out of the industrialstrength cardboard hospital casket. Dad helps to slip the white satin shirt over his misshapen head.The hospital and mortician both, had warned me not to remove the small white cap coveringOliver’s crown, but I don’t need to; I can see plainly the crescent shaped indentation that is where
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