Karen and Angie had been dancing without a break for twenty-seven hours, and were the only ones left on the dance floor. Karen’s lips felt swollen, her mouth was dry, her head pounded with the heat. The humid hall held her sweat against her arms and legs, making her so wet it feel like she was swimming through the air. Exhaustion drained her, so she couldn’t do much more than shuffle her feet. Still, when Angie fell, and Karen knew she had won, she looked toward the ceiling and yipped, doing three quick ball-change steps in a victory dance. A burst of pride coursed through her; on top of the world, she didn’t have to care about not fitting in.
When she looked down again, Angie’s shocked expression drilled into her as deeply as her words had. “You don’t rightly care about me, do you? No, you won’t let yourself care, it isn’t normal. You don’t care, you can’t care, about anything but that damn fine house you live in and winning those damn boots!” Angie had taken a deep breath. Karen held out her arms to her, but it was too late. Angie had already started her curse. “May you always have to dance, alone, homelessly wandering without a breath of hope until you let someone else win!”
Angie had died on the way to the hospital; no one knew she had a bad heart. Karen hadn’t ridden in the ambulance with her, instead staying in the hall and collecting her prize. When she first pulled on the boots, her feet tingled with new life. By the time she heard about Angie’s death, the boots were making her dance again, each step a heartbreaking pain.
Karen looked down again and saw Frieda. She tried to stop, but it was too late. She tried forcing her weight against the floor so her boots couldn’t lift her feet up. But her boots, fueled by her victory, were now stronger than she was.
Karen stayed in the center of the two-stepping couples, dancing alone, as always. When she spun, she saw Frieda standing in the corner, talking with a young man — Harry, she presumed — but always watching her. If only Frieda would come back and challenge her again, she would back down this time. Honest, she would. But her boots wouldn’t let her stop and walk over to the girl.
The hall started emptying slowly. The long, live version of “If You Really Loved Me” signaled the last dance of the evening. Karen knew there would be no rest for her. She made her way out of the dancing couples. Instead of heading back to town, she two-stepped across the railroad tracks to an empty spot nearby.
Frieda found her there, still dancing. Karen accepted her fate when she saw the baseball bat in the other girl’s hands, the glazed look in her eyes. Frieda was under the spell of her boots, too. Sometimes just winning wasn’t enough, and her boots wanted physical pain as well. Yet Karen found Frieda’s possessed smile beautiful.
Frieda fondled Karen’s face, then slapped her with her full arm. Karen kept her head turned away. Frieda grabbed Karen’s chin, kissed her, then punched her in the mouth. Then she used the baseball bat as if hitting a grounder, knocking Karen’s feet out from under her. Karen landed hard on her back but didn’t try to get up. Frieda knelt and felt up her leg, then pounded on it with her fists.
With a last fingertip stroke along her cheek, Frieda stood. Karen curled up on her side, trying to protect her stomach from the other girl’s kicks, her breasts from her fondling. When Frieda started using the bat again, both for caressing and for hitting, Karen put her arms over her head, but she couldn’t protect her ribs. She heard them crack, one by one.
Through the choked pain in her side she heard the click of a hunting knife opening. She laughed, or maybe it was only a gurgle through the blood in her mouth, at Frieda’s frustration when she couldn’t slice her boots. Karen wanted Frieda to cut her feet from her legs, but she couldn’t catch enough breath for the words. Before she felt anything else being cut, a soft darkness came, swooping her away.
Karen awoke in the bed of her truck, which Frieda had driven past the county line. Her body ached, but she could move; none of her bones stayed broken for long. The collar of her now clean and starched shirt pressed against her bruised cheek. Her jeans had a crease in them again, like when they were new. Her boots were a darker red, more blood-colored. She looked through her pockets. Her “prize money,” awarded by the curse, was there; more than any waitress made in a month, she was sure. The beating had been worse than she’d received in other towns, and maybe she could have stayed this time. … Her toes twitched. She had to get going.
She stood by the side of her truck a moment, stretching her legs. The flat countryside was so empty of people. She’d forgotten that. Her ribs a solid block of pain, she didn’t try to take any deep breaths.
Maybe next time she would back down. Maybe next time she would listen to that voice in her head and stop before it was too late. Maybe it could be okay to not be normal. Maybe … The bleakness of the Texas morning sunshine on the bluebonnets stilled her thoughts. After a quick look to make sure no one was watching, she raised her arms and started doing pirouettes down the center of the road. She knew she could dance forever down that dotted line.
“The Red Boots” is based on Hans Christian Andersen’s story “The Red Shoes.” Andersen’s fairy tales often end cruelly and unhappily. Neither the little match girl nor the little mermaid live happily ever after in the originals. And so it is for the poor orphan, cursed by a mysterious old soldier to dance in her beautiful red shoes until she begs to have her feet chopped off.
Although Cutter’s version isn’t quite as brutal as the original, both demonstrate the sin of pride.
Rosie’s Dance
EMMA HARDESTY
Emma Hardesty lives in the American Southwest and does quite a number of satisfying things, of which writing is second to gardening. She was surprised to learn only a few years ago that lots of other writers have long reworked and newly phrased all the classic fairy tales, because she’s been writing such stories since she was a kid. This is her first published work of fiction.
“Cindy’s all right but her butt’s too big.”
They all had a really good laugh at that. I don’t know why. Clyman, and most of the others, had known me about all their lives. I wasn’t any kind of surprise to them. It seemed that every day of my life I had heard some boy yell “Hey, Hardcastle. Get on out here.” They never meant me, of course, the only girl in a family of overgrown boys, who were also mean. Not that I would have ever answered them. I was used to hearing their stupid names for me, especially because of my wild hair, but this was a new one about my big butt. It kind of gave me the creeps because all of them were younger than me.
My name isn’t Cindy. That’s just something my father started calling me after he saw me down on my knees scrubbing the bathroom floor, like you-know-who, for my stepmother. My real mother named me Rose, but just about nobody remembers that. Serafima remembers it, though.
This story here is something I am ready to tell and to forget.
I finished wiping down the counter that day, while the boys were still laughing at my expense. That kitchen counter was mostly bare plywood, full of jagged holes. It was a real job to keep clean, but I always tried. I cared if the house was clean because it made me feel better, even if the boys didn’t care at all. I think the only thing they ever noticed was whether their pants were zipped or not. Trying is everything, it seems to me, and I didn’t mind trying anything I thought I could handle. I wiped the crud off the cracked wood, pulled all the big splinters out of the rag, and left the kitchen so those boys could make their jokes without me.