Cynthia L. Smith - Indian Shoes

For my grandparentsDorothy and Melba, Clifford and Rayand my stepgrandpa, Herb

With thanks to:

Anne Bustard; Toni Buzzeo; Frances Hill,

who suggested collage; my aunt Gail McCauley, for telling me about the barbershop;

my very dear friend, Greg;

my agent, Ginger Knowlton;

the HarperCollins Childrens Books marketing team; Marisa Miller; Courtney Stevenson; and especially my editor, Rosemary Brosnan, who believed that these two characters belonged in childrens literature and found a place for them

Ray and Grampa Halfmoon traipsed down the cracked sidewalk of a steel and stone city. Ray tracked Grampas steps, danced to the rat-a-tat-a-clang of a trash-can band, and skipped beneath the ruffling branches.

Lets duck in here, Grampa Halfmoon began, and say Morning.

When the wind whistled into Murphy Family Antiques, Ray and Grampa whistled in with it. At the welcome mat, Grampa said Morning to Junior Murphy. Ray retied his neon orange shoelaces and took a look around the store.

The shop brimmed with treasures: an autographed baseball... a Chinese lantern... ostrich feathers... a basket of antique buttons on a pedestal... a tabletop held up by a real elephant leg... a moose head mounted high on a wall.

Where are the coats that matched the old buttons? Ray wondered. What happened to the rest of the elephant? Who took the body of the moose glaring down?

Grampa asked, Do you see that?

A pair of mens moccasins waited in a glass box on a pedestal. The card read:

Seminole Moccasins

from Oklahoma

$150 $100 $75 $50

or best offer

Grampa Halfmoon told Ray, These put me in the mind of being back home.

For a long moment, they both looked at the moccasins. But Rays mind was mostly on their afternoon plans, and his gaze wandered to the autographed baseball.

Wed best get a move on, Grampa said, to todays Cubs game.

Grampa and Ray left the shop with matching grins. They rode the rattling elevated train to Wrigley Field and watched the Cubs take on the St. Louis Cardinals.

From the first inning on, Grampa Halfmoon told old-time Cherokee, Seminole, and family stories. Every once in a great while, my gramps used to wear moccasins, Grampa said, instead of his cowboy boots. Grampa paused a moment to study the Cubs scoreboard. He used to pitch to me and my cousins, too, and Gramps usually struck us out. Then hed jump in the lake to cool down afterward, just like us kids. The lakes back home in Oklahoma... those are the prettiest lakes Ive ever seen.

Ray frowned, thinking it over. Not far away, Lake Michigan lapped against the shores of Chicago, a fierce blue blanket alongside the park. It was a pretty lake, Ray decided. A lot bigger than the lakes in Oklahoma. More sailboats.

After the seventh-inning stretch, Ray and Grampa Halfmoon ordered hot dogs.

Now, these Chicago hot dogs, Grampa said, theyre dandy, but every now and then I get a hankering for some of that crackle-fried bacon your Aunt Wilhelmina likes to make. You know, that woman fries everything she cooks. I saw her fry a whole turkey once for Christmas, and it was sure enough some big bird.

Ray bit into his hot dog. He knew all about Aunt Wilhelminas cooking. Ray and Grampa drove their pickup down to visit her and Uncle Leonard in Oklahoma once or twice a year. What he didnt know was why Grampa Halfmoon was thinking so hard today about Aunt Wilhelminas crackle-fried bacon.

When the wind carried a home-run baseball into the stands, Ray almost caught it.

Cheers filled the air, but Grampa Halfmoon didnt make much of a fuss.

He was homesick, Ray realized.

Ray wiggled his toes inside the hightops with the neon orange shoelaces. He couldnt afford a bus ticket to Oklahoma, but he had an idea. Ray thought about it during the last two innings of the game and while riding on the rattling elevated train all the way back to the stop nearest his redbrick bungalow.

Meanwhile Grampa Halfmoon talked about this wild-haired mutt hed had when he was a kid and how hed named it Catastrophe. Grampa talked about Rays parents, who were killed by a tornado back when Ray was just a babe. And Grampa talked about how he used to take Rays daddy fishing by starlight.

At bedtime the wind breathed against the stained-glass pane in Rays bedroom window. He dumped jangling moneytwenty-eight dollars and sixty-seven centsout of his jar and onto his woolly blanket.

It was the most money Ray had ever owned at one time, but it wasnt enough.

Or was it? The sign had said $50 or Best Offer. Maybe the best offer would be a little less than thirty bucks. Maybe the best offer would come from Ray.

On Monday after school, Ray marched down the cracked sidewalk. He held tight to his money jar, danced to the rat-a-tat-a-clang of a trash-can band, and skipped beneath the ruffling branches.

When the wind blew into Murphy Family Antiques again, Ray blew in again with it. At the welcome mat, he retied his neon orange shoelaces and said Afternoon to Junior Murphy. Then Ray breezed by the table with the elephant leg and the basket full of antique buttons. He paused behind a lady who was carrying a library book.

The lady seemed interested in the moccasins. Do you know if these are real? she asked. Native American worn and Native American made?

I could double-check, Junior Murphy answered, but it might take a while.

I dont have a while to wait, the lady replied. And I dont walk by this way too often. She hugged the library book a little tighter. Ill tell you what. I could give you thirty dollars for them now, but thats all my budget will allow.

Ray shook his head at the moose. Thirty dollars topped his best bid.

Just then the wind rushed in. The door sounded ka-bam! Ostrich feathers fluttered. A Chinese lantern whirled to catch on the mooses antlers. The autographed baseball splashed into the button basket, toppling the pedestal. Buttons whizzed everywhere!

Ray thought, This is my last chance. Ill give twenty-eight dollars and sixty-seven cents for the moccasins, he told Junior Murphy, and Ill pick up every last button, too.

Sorry, Ray, Junior said. This shop needs the money more than I need the time.

The lady looked at Ray like she wanted to say something, but then she set her book on the counter and paid for the moccasins.

The wind died silent, and Ray felt like the elephant that had lost a leg to the tabletop. He rocked in his hightops with the orange shoelaces. He stared at the autographed baseball in the mess of buttons. He thought about the stories Grampa Halfmoon had told at the Cubs game and on the train ride home.

When the lady opened the door to leave, the wind gusted in and shoved her back over the welcome mat. Suddenly Ray knew what to do.

Wanna trade? he asked the lady. Ive got some Indian shoes you could use. Beats me who made em, but theyre for-sure Indian worn.

The lady shifted the book beneath her arm and held tight to her purchase. Ray just knew that he and Grampa Halfmoon had lost out. But then the ladys gaze fell to Rays feet. She chuckled, and they left the shop together.