Lorelei Kay

CRACKED   

 

Pulling my new faux fur jacket around my shoulders,

I grab the black plastic bag bulging with bottles and head

out the door for the recycling center. I’m glad for any

excuse to wear this furry wrap. Because of the pandemic,

 

it’s hung in the closet without a chance to go anywhere,

but the weather is chilly this December afternoon. Dusk

begins to fall as I pull up by the recycling shed which

 

squats on an edge of a large area of undeveloped

California desert acreage filled with Joshua trees and

scrub oaks behind a McDonalds and next to a thrift store.

 

I park as a figure emerges from the desert sands, which

slowly turns into a middle-aged woman wearing a skirt,

thin blouse, and no shoes. She sails across cracked sand

 

and rocks and sticks and prickles and stickers on bare

feet. Those feet, with nothing to protect them from

stones or cold, bring her to the rough asphalt where she

 

joins in lively chatter with the bearded recycling guy and

a young gal clad head to toe in denim. I tug my out-of-

place jacket around me as I open my Honda’s trunk and

 

heft bags from its depths. I can’t peel my eyes from

the bare feet covered with callouses and heels laden with

deep cracks. Looks painful. I vow to give the barefoot

 

one the proceeds of my anticipated bounty for shoes. As

I drag my bags toward green bins marked “plastic,” an

explosion of sound showers down as the barefoot one

 

hollers, “GET AWAY FROM ME” and darts away on

crusty feet. Eyes wide with disbelief, the denim customer

explains, “All I did was offer to give her my shoes!” We

 

stare as the barefooted stranger skitters off toward a

shiny white Taurus. After a few words, she gets in. I

breathe a sigh of relief. Someone to help her. The

 

bearded guy explains, “She’s around here a lot.

Along with other homeless folks. Seems to live out there

somewhere.” Waves his hand toward the open desert.

 

“But she shows up here most every day. Always with

bare feet. Always refuses help. Then climbs in cars.” The

shell of my sheltered life begins to crack open. Here I’d

 

thought the Taurus driver was a friend offering a lift.

It’s not just my faux fur that’s out of place, but my whole

understanding of the situation. Her plight is so much

 

greater than needing shoes, yet how can she be helped?

And whose responsibility is it? Can’t be mine. With all

our minds strung out on Covid and earthquakes and

 

drought and flooding, who has the time or energy to

help those with bare feet? Yet a pestering thought starts

kicking round inside my head—Am I my sister’s keeper?

 

The sun is rapidly dropping behind the Joshua trees. It’s

colder now. With a sigh of frustration, I tighten my

jacket and begin the drive home—the haunting question

 

buckled snugly in the passenger seat beside me.