Black Heart, Ivory Bones

The Red Boots LEAH CUTTER

Leah Cutter grew up in Minnesota and lived all over the world, teaching English (in both Hungary and Taiwan), supervising an archeological dig in England, and bartending in Thailand. She currently lives in northern California with her husband, and works as a technical writer.

She originally wrote “The Red Boots” while living in Taiwan, then rewrote it at Clarion West, which she attended in 1997. “The Red Boots” was her first sale, although another story was published first, in the anthology called Last Stop at the End of the World. She’s working on her first novel.

After driving 2295 all day, Karen decided that the larger the Texas highway number, the smaller and meaner the road. When she saw the signs for 624, she turned off gratefully. Annaville, population 5,087, was the first town she came to. Scrub oak with dirty leaves edged the town square. Mother’s Café, one of the restaurants facing the square, had a sign in the window, promising fresh pies. She and her mama couldn’t have afforded even a run-down small town café; the Old Lady who’d taken her in after her mama’d died would have walked by without bothering to look. Karen tried to drive by slowly, but her foot kept tapping the accelerator instead of the brake. She circled back around the square for a second look.

At the stop sign on the far corner, a young couple in jeans crossed the street in front of her. They held hands with two children; an older boy and a younger girl, in matching striped shirts. Enviously, she watched them swinging their arms and skipping. She imagined the home-cooked meal of pork chops and apple compote they would have in their cozy kitchen, passing warm biscuits around a wooden table and interrupting each other with talk about their day. Unable to join them, or any family of her own, she decided that Mother’s Café was the next best thing.

Karen angled her flatbed into a parking spot half a block past the café. After she pulled to a stop, her feet danced across the pedals as if they wanted to keep driving. She ignored them. A pain shot up her shins as she stepped down from her truck. She stamped her feet, then wriggled her ankles as much as she could in her brilliant red cowboy boots. Because of her curse, she usually only ever felt physical pain for a few minutes; at most, for a few hours.

Karen walked toward the café using slow baby steps, almost on her toes. A mother with a stroller was walking the other way. The baby in the stroller started crying and fussing. The mother kept walking, reaching a hand down to casually pat the baby’s stomach. Karen minced to a halt to let them pass. If only she hadn’t been cursed. She would care for a baby better than that. Better than her mama had. Better even than the Old Lady had. Sighing, she moved on.

As she neared the café sign, she saw the border was decorated with different types of fruit; blackberries and strawberries chased each other in a cotillion, and solitary peaches with a hint of fuzz stood in the corners like wallflowers. Her feet twitched at the sight.

“Please,” Karen prayed softly. “Let me stay calm enough to eat. I won’t try to stop any longer than that. Mercy,” she asked of any passing angel. Her feet twitched one last time, then she felt a tingling move up the front of her legs, through her shoulders, and out the crown of her head. Her French braid loosened slightly, like unseen ravens adjusting their perch on her scalp. Karen stood still, too shocked to move. What had just happened? Had an angel heard? And maybe answered?

When no other sign came, she walked the rest of the way to the café. The heavy glass door felt warm against her palms as she pushed against it. Inside, the moist heat wrapped around her face like a towel fresh from the dryer. The salty, mouth-watering smell of grilling potatoes and garlic greeted her. Luckily, no music was playing.

She paused by the door, bracing herself for the tide of conversation that always rolled away when she went anywhere to surge back. But no one seemed dazzled by the rhinestones embedded in the yoke of her satin blouse, or tsked over how tightly her jeans molded her legs, or giggled at the brilliance of her red boots. The pair of women that looked up didn’t stop their own conversation but did give her welcoming smiles.

Karen smiled back, then, following the sign directing her to make herself at home, chose a table far from everyone, next to the window. Healthy looking spiked ferns, pothos and spider plants lined the low windowsill. The plastic tablecloth was stiff and yellow with age, but a real cloth napkin lay folded next to her plate. It still smelled of Ivory soap. A scratched stainless-steel vase sat on the table, holding a sprig of cheap silk fuchsia. The menu was stuck behind it: hand-lettered on green construction paper, stained and bent.

Karen had just picked up the menu when the waitress came up and asked her what she wanted.

Karen wanted to order pie, and only pie, but she needed fuel, a full meal; she was skinny as a Yankee.

“The special’s awfully good tonight,” the waitress said. Karen looked up, then gawked at the smiling woman. The light coming in from the picture window back-lit the waitress’s frizzy hair, making it glow like a halo. Karen’s eyes adjusted. The waitress’s beautiful dark eyes held the light, her round cheeks and full lips hinted at liking good cooking, her small chin spoke of stubbornness. She was young, like Karen, probably only eighteen or nineteen. Her name tag read, FRIEDA.

“I’ll take the special, then,” Karen said. She read the menu after the waitress had walked away and discovered she’d ordered chicken-fried steak with mashed potatoes, all the gravy and biscuits she could eat, a serving of the vegetable of the day, and a bottomless glass of iced tea to wash it all down.

She put down her menu and looked at the other customers. Mostly women, women who seemed friendly with each other, who weren’t giggling falsely or screeching in competition but sharing good-hearted laughter. She saw two women holding hands over a table. Isn’t this a friendly place? she thought. No wonder no one had commented when she walked in. Maybe she and her best friend Angie would have been comfortable here, even though it was so run-down. All the chairs and tables looked secondhand and didn’t go together. The Old Lady wouldn’t have approved at all.

The waitress came back with her order quickly. The off-white platter holding her steak didn’t match the small blue bowl of vegetables, but everything smelled heavenly under the blanket of gravy. Karen picked up her knife and fork immediately.

“Can I get you anything else? Ketchup? Steak sauce?” the waitress asked.

Karen forced herself to be polite and look at the waitress. An oval stain ran from her shoulder to just above her name tag. “No, thank you,” she said, then, unable to hold herself back, she attacked her food.

The steak was hard to cut, and the bright highlights in the gravy turned into grease, but Karen didn’t care. She sliced the meat into small bits and was nibbling on some gristle when the waitress came back.

“So how is it?”

“Best I’ve had since I don’t know when,” Karen said, hastily clearing her mouth with a gulp of iced tea.

“I’ll be sure to tell Harry. My brother, the cook.”

Karen nodded. They were quiet for a moment, then Frieda asked, “Where you from?”

“A long ways away.”

“Just passing through?” the girl asked, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Yes,” Karen said, drawing out the s a little, watching Frieda’s gaze amble from her braided hair, along the slope of her neck, past the glittering yoke of her blouse, only to pause at her breasts, then continue down to her hips, and after another pause, slide back up again. A bell rang in the kitchen.

“Shame,” Frieda said as she walked past Karen, her hips within fingertip-grazing distance.

A warm, floating feeling rose in her chest as she watched Frieda’s shapely back. With a start, Karen pushed down the feeling and made herself look at her plate. Her mama had told her it wasn’t natural to feel that way. She speared another piece of patty-pan squash and tried to eat lady-like. Her feet started tapping the patterned linoleum impatiently.

When she finished wiping up the dregs of gravy with her last biscuit, her belly felt full and solid, yet her mouth still hungered for something comforting, like pie. Through the fatty cooking smells she imagined she could smell apples and nutmeg. Her mouth began to water.

When she was a little girl, she’d watched on Saturday mornings as the Old Lady’s cooking woman carried the pies out of the oven to the cooling racks; white-gold crusts topped with large grains of beet sugar, dark red fruit bubbling within. Karen had been patient then, and could sit in one place for hours. She would stare at the pies, greedily watching them cool in the sunny whitewashed kitchen, flour dust dancing in the air, the heavy combination of baking soda and cinnamon sticking to her jumper. Waiting for that first bittersweet taste of berries, buttered crust, and sugar; baked feelings of home forming her bones, making them solid.

The memory of living in a home, staying in one place, unmoving, made her full belly seem empty and hollow. Her feet jerked violently, bringing her back to the restaurant. She had to go.

When she stood up and began walking to the counter, Karen realized she’d been sitting too long. She couldn’t walk regularly anymore. Her feet insisted on dancing. She tried to take gliding steps, tried to seem normal. About halfway to the counter she turned as if to check her table, to see if she’d left anything there, sneaking in a quiet pirouette in the process.

Karen handed Frieda a crumpled ten dollar bill and asked, “You know where there might be any dancing tonight?”

“I don’t know if we have anything like what you’re used to,” Frieda said, her look appraising Karen’s outfit.

“I don’t dance that fancy, I just like to dance,” Karen said. “With anyone,” she emphasized, putting her arms around an imaginary partner and taking a few steps. Frieda stared at Karen, her eyes growing larger. Karen waltzed closer, almost touching her.

Without moving her eyes from Karen’s, Frieda replied, “If that’s what you’re looking for, I know the place. The VFW hall. It’s about two miles down Main Street. Tonight — every Wednesday night — eight o’clock.”

“How do I get there? Do I go down this street?” Karen gestured, making a sweeping motion, her fingertips almost brushing Frieda’s curls.

Frieda shook her head. “The street on the opposite side of the square is Main Street. It’s a one-way. Just follow it past the county museum. The street’ll fork at Ed’s Chicken Shack. Take the left side. The hall’s on your right, just outside town, before the railway crossing. There’s a sign out front, but sometimes it isn’t lit. You’ll have to go by slow and listen for the music.”

“Thank you,” Karen said, and with another elaborate movement asked for her change.

Frieda placed the bills in her palm but held onto them for an extra moment and said, “If you’ll be there later, I might get Harry to close up early tonight. I haven’t gone dancing in a long while.” She waited expectantly, one eyebrow raised while the other half of her lips lifted in a smile.

Angie had always looked at her in that same quizzical, playful way. Angie, her best friend, who smelled of Lily-of-the-Valley powder, even when she sweated. Angie, the one she wasn’t supposed to love. Angie, who had cursed her.

Karen wanted to stop and touch that smile. She wanted to plant herself and be drenched in it daily. But her feet kept waltzing. She had to leave before she embarrassed herself completely.

She turned toward the door abruptly, accidentally jerking the money out of the other girl’s hand. Karen looked over her shoulder at Frieda and saw her slowly moisten her top lip with the tip of her tongue, like Angie always had. What gods were playing with her now? Or was she being given a second chance?

Her feet propelled her away, their need to move greater than her ability to stop them. But she still smiled at the other woman when she reached the door.

“See you later,” Karen said.

“See you later,” Frieda called out after her.

Karen rushed from the café, struggling to walk in a straight line while her feet insisted on moving from side to side. In the safety of her truck, she watched with dismay as her feet moved wildly in a heel and toe pattern across the pedals. Generally, driving, moving from place to place and never knowing a home, pacified her feet. But she couldn’t curb them enough to drive now. She had to dance.

She tried to distract herself by counting all her money. She was running so low. She didn’t know how much she’d have to dance, or who she’d have to outdance, before her boots gave her more money. Or if she’d get beaten up again. By the time she had counted every penny three times, her feet had slowed to the point that she could control them. A little. She checked her dashboard clock. Not quite seven-thirty. Maybe she could walk, maybe a stroll through the cool evening would dampen the fire banked inside her.

She slid out of the cab of her truck, touching the concrete cautiously, like a child testing the temperature of a lake with her toe. Her feet didn’t dance away under her, so Karen left her truck and started walking.

Just beyond the town square she passed a mansion that had been turned into the county museum. Fluted pillars lined the front, painted yellow with white tops and bottoms. Gabled windows poked out from the red roof. A carriage house stood connected to the side with a leafy arch. It was only a little more grand than the house the Old Lady had lived in. Karen walked by its soft green lawns quickly, hoping no one would see her, the shame of being turned out of a place like that still burning her face.

Next came a less expensive house, with white wooden sides and black window shutters. The lawn was brown, and the front yard sprouted an abandoned car as trimming. It was like Angie’s house.

Karen wondered what type of house Frieda lived in, what the kitchen looked like. She decided it would probably be poor, though not as poor as her mama’s shack had been. The stove would be tiny and there wouldn’t be enough counter space. But in between the permanent stains the sink would be scoured and smell like bleach. There would be room for standing and talking while Frieda cooked. Karen could see herself watching Frieda, leaning against the door to the kitchen, the buzzing, round fluorescent light in the center of the kitchen ceiling a comforting note underlying their conversations. She and Frieda would talk, and eat, and laugh, try new recipes on each other, steal bits of food off one another’s plate; closer than sisters, better than friends. Maybe their friendship could be accepted here. Even if her feelings weren’t normal, maybe she could fit in, here in Annaville.

The hall was much farther than two miles away — typical Texas directions. Just after the abandoned Ed’s Chicken Shack she heard the first few notes. Suddenly her arms lifted, her fingers snapped, syncopated with the cicadas, and her feet started a sideways pas de bas.

No one was on the road, so Karen indulged herself for a few happy steps. She brought her arms around an imaginary partner, closed her eyes and let her boots move across the road without a care. The air felt soft against her cheeks. She smelled wildflowers in the fields next to her. As she danced, a partner grew out of the shadows of her dreams. The image solidified into Frieda.

Shocked, Karen opened her eyes and tried to bring her arms to her sides and walk plainly, but her boots wanted to keep dancing. Angrily, she fought for control, focusing on her feet, trying to bring them back into line. Though she couldn’t restrain her arms, she could drive her nails into her palms. The shock broke her stride. Within the next few steps she suppressed her boots again. She forced her arms to her sides and wiped her sweating hands down her jeans, wincing. She had bruised her palms with her nails, but she knew they wouldn’t hurt for long because her body healed so quickly.

The VFW hall sat twenty feet from the railroad tracks, square and indistinct, the edges blurred by the evening sun. Karen didn’t see the poorly lit sign until she walked up to it. She paid her dollar at the door (running out so fast!) and stepped inside.

The hall looked like a thousand others she had danced in. Overhead fluorescent lights scorched the room: on a Wednesday night dancers wanted to see each other, not spoon. A few couples were already moving around the floor, dancing to “Let’s Sleep on It Tonight,” a medium-paced two-step. Mostly they wore plain clothes: jeans, boots, clean work shirts. A few of the women had flashy yokes on their blouses. A cursory glance told Karen none of them danced as well as she did.

In the far left corner of the hall a pair of elderly women sat behind a table. They sold pieces of cake trapped on paper plates with layers of cellophane, and lemonade sweating in waxy cups. A tall, skinny man in a green and white western shirt with a red kerchief tied around his neck stood in the far right corner. Next to him a black portable stereo system sang out dance music.

Karen scanned the hall for the right partner. Most of the people standing on the edge of the dance floor appeared too old or too taken, though a cluster of high school girls stood close to the door, giggling. Karen decided on a gray-haired yet vigorous-looking man who kept eyeing the door every time it opened. He stood apart from the other couples, yet clearly he wasn’t a stranger.

He watched as she came near, a puzzled look in his eye. Karen looked down and swallowed hard before she smiled at him. So he wouldn’t hear now nervous she was, she indicated with her hands that she wanted to dance with him. His eyes darted to the door again. Would it make the person he was waiting for jealous? Angry? It didn’t matter. To her relief, he nodded at her, then took her outstretched arms.

“Let’s Sleep on It Tonight” slowed to an end. Karen and her partner danced until it finished, then paused in the quiet between the songs. Karen rocked back and forth on her feet, waiting. The next song was faster, more bouncy, and brought a twinkling grin to her partner’s face. He bobbed his head to the beat three times, then they started.

Karen glided across the room as if a cushion of air lay between her feet and the wooden floor. It was better than flying. The rush of adrenaline made her giddy. The people standing around the edge of the dance floor blurred into a white mass. A swift comparison with the other dancers reassured Karen she was the best. She felt her feet go faster. She wanted to throw her head back and laugh, but didn’t; it wouldn’t have been proper.

Her partner danced well, with an easy grace and a bit of skill. He didn’t talk to her, though he smiled often. Karen knew she made him appear a better dancer than he actually was. She tried to stay in that supportive partner role, trying not to be a prima donna, but she couldn’t rein in her feet as he turned her. She spun too many times, making him wait. When she looked up, a forgiving grin filled his face. After that he turned her often, pausing and subduing his dance for hers. Karen felt so grateful she could have cried. She spun faster now, like a moth when it first finds a flame.

After the proper three songs, all she could dance with any one man without giving him ideas, she pulled away and thanked him with a slight curtsy. He bowed with a large flourish in return. She hoped she could dance another set with him later.

The next song was a familiar line dance, “The Turkey Three-Step.” She stood at the perimeter for a minute to watch for any local variations. A few cropped up, nothing to throw off the rhythm of the dance, so she flowed into the center, joining the steps in perfect time.

Now she could really let go. She didn’t have to worry about a partner or what anyone else thought. She could discharge the energy cached in her legs and feet and toes. She added small touches — an extra kick at the turn, a couple of shakes as she moved forward, a twist of her wrist, fingers splayed, as she sidestepped — all the things she needed to do to make the dance her own. It felt good to express herself and to lose all her lonely aches in the music.

Karen barely glanced at the surrounding dancers. Sure, some of them were good, but she felt magnanimous. She didn’t need to compete with anyone tonight. She would forget she had so little cash. Instead, the hall could become her temple, she, a dervish, sacrificing herself for them. She could dance until a fey light shone through her, until she was pure and clean, her sweat smelling sweet. She did still love to dance.

After the song ended, Karen heard someone close to her say hello. She jumped and turned around. Frieda was standing behind her. Impulsively, Karen took both of Frieda’s hands in her own, greeting her the same way she had always greeted Angie. Frieda’s hands were smaller than Karen’s, and warm. When Karen felt Frieda squeeze her hands, she looked down, embarrassed. They had only just met, and it wasn’t, well, normal. She dropped Frieda’s hands and didn’t meet her eye again before the music started.

Karen started adding her own flourishes right away. Frieda matched her step for step: as soon as Karen came up with a new twist, Frieda also started doing it, almost at the same time. The warm glow spread through Karen’s belly again. They augmented each other’s dance, dancing with each other in a line. When Frieda smiled the Angie smile again — one eyebrow raised while the other half of her lips lifted — Karen felt blessed. She chanced a set of syncopated finger snaps. Frieda was right with her, the rhythms piling up on top of one another. Karen let herself laugh out loud with joy.

The next song, “King of the Mountain,” was a country waltz. Neither Karen or Frieda looked for other partners. They stayed in the center of the bobbing dancers, weaving around each other with slow, intricate steps and expressive arm gestures. They almost danced like a couple, moving from side to side, mirror images. Karen felt her boots running out of steam, the slow movements releasing the pressure faster than the two-stepping had. Maybe she could leave the floor with Frieda after the waltz.

Karen looked away from Frieda once. A heavyset woman with a big bosom smiled at her before her partner turned her again. Maybe Annaville was a different place, and she could be accepted here. She extended her arm to Frieda, as if she was passing a fragile glass ball to her. Frieda accepted it gracefully, then passed it back. More than once their hands almost touched.

As the music wound down, Karen reached for Frieda’s hand, her fingers extended. Frieda smiled at her, and reached out her hand as well. But before their fingers met, the man in the corner switched from the soft music and started playing “So Much for Pretending,” another fast two-step. Frieda turned abruptly to look at him. Karen retracted her hand. When Frieda looked back, she snapped her fingers and slapped her feet. Stunned, Karen didn’t respond immediately. Frieda did another flurry of steps, heel-to-toe with her feet turned out, and threw Karen another smile.

Was it a smile of friendship? Or mocking challenge? A voice inside her head warned, No! Don’t do this. This is your chance. Walk away now! But Karen wouldn’t let herself leave, though her boots were no longer controlling her dance. She paused for another beat and swept her eyes over Frieda. The quilted yoke on Frieda’s blouse was obviously hand-sewn on top of a plain shift, and her jeans showed wear down the thighs and through the knees. Her boots, too, were scuffed. Karen added a half-stag leap to her hitch-kick, spun on her heels and snapped her fingers. She wasn’t about to be outdone by a simple waitress at a local café.

Frieda’s smile sharpened. Fiercely they danced at each other. Sometimes they copied and changed the other’s steps, sometimes they came up with new portions of dance. Even during the slow dances they didn’t rest.

Within two hours Frieda’s frizzy hair flattened down with sweat, her eyes closed to half-mast exhaustion. Karen thought she still looked beautiful, even though it wasn’t right for her to notice that way. Soon after that, Frieda stopped challenging or bringing new flourishes to their dance. A thick core of excitement strengthened Karen’s bone and fueled her feet. She felt loose and warm, ready to dance forever. She bounced on the balls of her feet with every step and spun often. The thrill made her breath come short and shallow. An intoxicating heat filled her chest, like an expanding balloon, anxious to explode. The taste of near victory, sweeter than any pie, made her forget all the empty miles between dance halls.

The man in the corner was playing “One More Last Chance” when Frieda tripped and fell. Karen didn’t stop. Chin raised high, she clicked her heels in triple time and danced a fandango around the girl, clapping her hands over her head. She had won. Again. The balloon burst through her limbs, melting all her hard places, filling her with beauty. She danced on her toes, in love with the world, which must now surely love her back. For a measureless moment she danced at the top of the world. The stars moved in mere mimicry of her faultless steps. Crystal music shimmered in the soft night air, then gently carried her back to earth.

When she looked over her shoulder at Frieda, the other girl shot her a look of contempt that burned even in the night’s heat.

Suddenly Karen saw Angie on the floor, fallen as she had the night they competed with each other for the red boots she now wore. It had been an endurance contest. If they’d been a true couple, they could have danced with each other, supported each other. But they had been separate dancing forces, competing against each other for a single prize, like girls were supposed to, according to her mama.

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.