A First Attempt at a Writer's Group

Prompt: Compose a short story where the emotional climax is the result of a misspelling.

A mother enters Wal-Mart, squints as she searches through the blaring lights on the ceiling for the sign labeled SHOES. She grabs her son’s hand, dragging him away from the Christmas candy display and regrips the infant carrier that holds her 8-week-old daughter.

They are there on a last minute mission to buy her son some new boots. Not surprisingly, her son had outgrown last year’s boots. His kindergarten teacher sent home a note last week marking tomorrow as “play-in-the-snow day!” It is the last day before winter break and there is no chance of holding the attention of a class full of 6-year-olds.

She sits on the wooden bench between shoe racks and sighs at the relief of no longer hauling the infant holder. “Go ahead, James. This is your size. Pick a pair.”

Her breasts tingle as she glances over at her sleeping daughter. She needs to feed her but can’t imagine peeling off her own layers of clothing that are now making her sweat. They will make it home, she decides. James skips over holding a pair of blue holographic PowerRanger boots.

“Put them on really fast for me please. How do they feel?”

James shuffles around the row in the boots held together with a plastic connector.

“I love them!”

The mother smiles. Mission accomplished: they got out, new boots were purchased, and the mother feels a little awakened from the foggy loneliness she carries inside of her body. She knows this is the type of loneliness that slithers into your gut, curls up and sleeps. You nurture it as long as you nurture the young life of your children. The problem is, when your job is done, the loneliness does not slither away.

At home the next morning, James is dissecting his cinnamon Pop-Tart while his mother reads over the play-in-the-snow day checklist. Boots, hat, gloves, coat, snow pants. The note says in bold lettering that any missing items will result in the child having to sit inside with the classroom aide.

“You excited to go outside today?” She is satisfied now that she has marked his first name and last initial with a Sharpie on the tag of every item and placed them in his bag.

“Yup. Chris says he can build a bigger snowman, but mine will be bigger.”

The mother glances out the kitchen window.

“You know, kiddo, this snow might not be snowman snow.”

James looks at her with a crinkled brow.

“This snow is still a bit wet, because the air is a little warm. But give it a good shot.”

James nods. “I dreamt about it all last night. The snow was good enough for snowballs and angels.”

As she drops him off later that morning, she marvels at his height. When she hugs him, he buries his face into her belly. He barely makes it through the classroom door when she realizes that he is dragging his snow apparel bag and his book bag on the ground. The mother rolls her eyes. Boys.

After lunch, Sister Linda is waving her sweatered arms to direct the kids to their cubbies to dress for the snow. The students at table A go first. James waits until table B is called and runs to his cubby and slides into his coat that he just learned how to zip. He puts on his hat, but not his puffy gloves because they will slow him down. He looks for his boots in his bag, but they are gone. He is not worried now, because he saw them go into the bag this morning.

But they are gone.

“Sister Linda,” he waves his hand, “My boots are missing that we bought yesterday.”

Sister Linda stomps over to James and looks through his bag.

“Oh. James P?. I think that maybe your mother forgot your boots.”

He shakes his head. “No way. She put my name in them and they look like those.” He points to James O’s feet.

Sister Linda asks James O if she could look inside the boots.

“These are mine!”

“Okay, James O, but I just want to make sure.” she folds the boot openings down to search for a name. “James P is missing his boots and he says they look like these.”

“These are mine.” He claps his gloved hands together.

“Well, James P…” Sister Linda turns around, “These boots say James O. Look..”

James bends over. He recognizes his mother’s handwriting. The large, black block letters that label all of his school things. But they do say James O. The sharpie mark to complete the letter P looks like it has disappeared into thin air.

“Your mother forgot, dear.” Sister Linda rubs his head. “You have to stay inside today, but we will have play outside day again.” She smiles.

James can’t ignore the stinging he feels on the bridge of his nose moving to his eyes. He steps backwards into the classroom. The lights are off. There is one other girl at a table coloring. She looks sad, but this girl always looks sad to James. Every day her hair hangs long and tangled around her shoulders.

He turns to the window as he sees him classmates file out on to the large courtyard. The expanse of white is now freckled with them, some are running, some are rolling, most of the boys are throwing snow. The sun glare that makes the snow sparkle turns to bright, bleeding light. James surrenders to the stinging in his eyes and allows his large tears to fall.

The mother arrives at the classroom to pick James up, baby carrier in hand. All of the kids are wound up and leaving with their mothers. Sister Linda rushes over to her, holding James hand, looking stricken.

“Mrs. Peters, there was a mistake. We thought you forgot James’ boots, but James Orbitson put them on instead.” She reaches for the boots and holds them up. “Mrs. Orbitson picked her James up earlier and said that these were not his boots. But see,” she folds down the tongue of the boots. “Your P looked like and O to me. I am so sorry. Your James had to sit inside today and he was very sad.”
She ruffled James blonde hair. “James O said he was sorry, right?”

He nodded, looking away. He did not want more tears to fall.

The mother’s voice cracks, “Okay. It was a mistake. Thank you for telling me.”

Sister Linda smiles at baby Alison in her carrier. “I am so sorry again. James, you were such a good boy about it.”

He nods and follows his mother out the door.

When they are all finally buckled in the car, James reaches over and touches his sister’s pink nose. She opens her mouth to suck on his finger and whines when he takes it away. He laughs and makes a face at her.

He sees his mother has her forehead on the steering wheel, her shoulders shaking.

She is ashamed at the guttural sobbing noises she is making. She sounds like an animal, but she cannot stop. Her breasts are leaking. She has to pee. And she can’t stop sobbing.

“Mom?” James voice shakes now too, “Are you mad?”

“I am so sorry, James. I am so sorry that you didn't go outside today.”

“Mom? It was a mistake. I told James O it was okay.” He shifts under the seat belt, uncomfortable now. “Mom, I was sad, but it is okay.”

“It is okay.” Her breathing is stuttered. “No. No. It is not okay. I am so sorry honey. You were so excited, we talked about it all week. We went to buy special boots. We did everything right, but it was not enough. I am so, so sorry that it is not enough. It is never enough!” She bangs a fist on the steering wheel, then starts the car.
James sits silent on the way home, confused.

That evening, James is eating Spaghetti-Os alone at the table. His Dad will be home late from work, so he got to pick his own meal.

The mother stands at the counter and leafs through his homework folder. There is a page with instructions to identify the letter “M” in every bubble word on the sheet and color it green. There is a note about the New Year’s silent auction. Behind these is a crayon drawing of a large pink oval with a tiny face and two blue blocks sticking out from the oval.

She stares at the drawing for a long time before speaking.

“James? Is this Alison?” She holds up the drawing so it faces him.

“Hmm Mmm,” he swallows a mouth full. “She is wearing my boots there. I drew it when I was inside today. I think when she gets big, she will want to wear my boots.”

He closes his fist around his spoon, holds it high over his head before making a nose-dive into the bowl of bright orange Os, which splatter on his shirt. He looks up nervously.

“Sorry, mommy.”

The mother drops her shoulders and shakes her head. “I love you, kiddo.”

She feels giddy for the first time that day as she hangs the drawing under her favorite refrigerator magnet, which reads, We tried to childproof our house, but they keep coming back.