Red Pumps
by Jessica Zeng
Lenny is walking with his mother. She wears a short skirt that reveals a tangle of gray varicose veins on one
of her calves. The boy had always thought the mass of veins resembled an arrow pointing downward. Today it is
pointing downward at his mother’s glaring red pumps. Lenny looks up to see his mother chatting on her
smartphone. He squeezes her loose hand. She flicks him an annoyed glance and continues to talk on the phone,
“You near? Which car? Hurry up.” They stop in front of a streetlight.
It is a blinding day; the sun is too close, almost as if it is leaning forward.
Lenny watches the cars fly by. The metal tops are golden in the light. The windows wink at him. Each breeze
made by the vehicles tickles him. His mother had suggested that they go for a walk. He was delighted that she had
decided to spend time with him. Usually, she would lock him up in a cramped room, alone with a buzzing TV. He
looks up again at his mother, trying to memorize every detail of her face. He hardly had a chance to see it—their
home was always dark. The only thing he was familiar with was her legs. She always towered over him and her
head was always in the dark. But Lenny didn’t mind—he was friends with her legs.
His mother has a haggard face. Powder and concealer make her face look unnatural in the light. Her eyes
look as if they had been punched--like in cartoons, he thinks—and the skin around her eyebrows looks stretched.
Lenny thinks she was pretty. “Mama,” he whispers. She ignores him. He tries again and freezes. Something about
the crease of her thin lips makes him stop. Lenny tightens his mouth too, just like her, and drops his hand from her
hand. His mother continues talking on the phone. Lenny stares down at her red pumps. He shakes.
What if one of those cars ran into me? He thinks of the cartoons he watched. The characters, after being
run over by something, became flat but would always spring back to life. It looked harmless and a good way to
crush the feeling that was now drumming in his head. But then he remembers that it wouldn’t be like that for him.
If he were to be run over he would gush out something bright and scarlet, like the time he got a gash on his leg.
His mother had punished him because he had commented on the web of veins in her leg. I’m not right, thinks
Lenny, I have red stuff in me…Cartoons don’t... He wondered if he was made of the same things her shoes were
made out of. He inches toward the edge of the sidewalk. A torrent of cars rushes by his feet.
This time, he correctly visualizes himself being hit by a car. He feels the imprint of the front bumper on his
torso. The speed of the car would shock him and roll him upward into the windshield, where he would bleed. Or
perhaps he would just be taken under the tires and bleed. He imagines the sound his body would make. He fails.
Cartoons dance in his mind. He really wants to see what would happen, to hear the sounds. It should be okay, he
thinks, Mommy will pick up my parts. He pauses and glances back at his mother.
She stares back at him with faraway eyes and suddenly, she smiles. Lenny scampers back to her side. She
loves me. He reaches for her hand.
But her hand wasn’t where it always was, it is higher up where she is examining it. “Lenny, I lost my ring.
It’s very important to me. Can you find it?” He nods vigorously. “I think,” she says with narrow eyes, “I saw it roll
into the streets.” He sees it, a shining ring on the blacktop of the street. The light turns green. “Run, Lenny, run
and get it…for mommy.” Lenny smiles and runs toward the ring. He gets it.
“Mommy—I,” he starts and then he hears the sounds he had been curious about. They are soft sounds,
tender and a bit wet. Like a fruit, he thinks. He wants to tell his mother, but when he looks back, she is checking
her phone. He reaches his arm toward her, trying to offer her the ring. But he freezes when he sees that his hand
is red. No! Mommy will think I’m wrong! Lenny does not move after that.
The car that hit him skids away.
The black ground laps his blood, seems to swallow him up.
“Finally,” the woman says, “With that mistake out of the way, I’m free.” She speaks into the phone, “Nice
job, babe. I’m coming.” She walks away from the bloody scene, her red pumps glistening in the light, as if moist.
of her calves. The boy had always thought the mass of veins resembled an arrow pointing downward. Today it is
pointing downward at his mother’s glaring red pumps. Lenny looks up to see his mother chatting on her
smartphone. He squeezes her loose hand. She flicks him an annoyed glance and continues to talk on the phone,
“You near? Which car? Hurry up.” They stop in front of a streetlight.
It is a blinding day; the sun is too close, almost as if it is leaning forward.
Lenny watches the cars fly by. The metal tops are golden in the light. The windows wink at him. Each breeze
made by the vehicles tickles him. His mother had suggested that they go for a walk. He was delighted that she had
decided to spend time with him. Usually, she would lock him up in a cramped room, alone with a buzzing TV. He
looks up again at his mother, trying to memorize every detail of her face. He hardly had a chance to see it—their
home was always dark. The only thing he was familiar with was her legs. She always towered over him and her
head was always in the dark. But Lenny didn’t mind—he was friends with her legs.
His mother has a haggard face. Powder and concealer make her face look unnatural in the light. Her eyes
look as if they had been punched--like in cartoons, he thinks—and the skin around her eyebrows looks stretched.
Lenny thinks she was pretty. “Mama,” he whispers. She ignores him. He tries again and freezes. Something about
the crease of her thin lips makes him stop. Lenny tightens his mouth too, just like her, and drops his hand from her
hand. His mother continues talking on the phone. Lenny stares down at her red pumps. He shakes.
What if one of those cars ran into me? He thinks of the cartoons he watched. The characters, after being
run over by something, became flat but would always spring back to life. It looked harmless and a good way to
crush the feeling that was now drumming in his head. But then he remembers that it wouldn’t be like that for him.
If he were to be run over he would gush out something bright and scarlet, like the time he got a gash on his leg.
His mother had punished him because he had commented on the web of veins in her leg. I’m not right, thinks
Lenny, I have red stuff in me…Cartoons don’t... He wondered if he was made of the same things her shoes were
made out of. He inches toward the edge of the sidewalk. A torrent of cars rushes by his feet.
This time, he correctly visualizes himself being hit by a car. He feels the imprint of the front bumper on his
torso. The speed of the car would shock him and roll him upward into the windshield, where he would bleed. Or
perhaps he would just be taken under the tires and bleed. He imagines the sound his body would make. He fails.
Cartoons dance in his mind. He really wants to see what would happen, to hear the sounds. It should be okay, he
thinks, Mommy will pick up my parts. He pauses and glances back at his mother.
She stares back at him with faraway eyes and suddenly, she smiles. Lenny scampers back to her side. She
loves me. He reaches for her hand.
But her hand wasn’t where it always was, it is higher up where she is examining it. “Lenny, I lost my ring.
It’s very important to me. Can you find it?” He nods vigorously. “I think,” she says with narrow eyes, “I saw it roll
into the streets.” He sees it, a shining ring on the blacktop of the street. The light turns green. “Run, Lenny, run
and get it…for mommy.” Lenny smiles and runs toward the ring. He gets it.
“Mommy—I,” he starts and then he hears the sounds he had been curious about. They are soft sounds,
tender and a bit wet. Like a fruit, he thinks. He wants to tell his mother, but when he looks back, she is checking
her phone. He reaches his arm toward her, trying to offer her the ring. But he freezes when he sees that his hand
is red. No! Mommy will think I’m wrong! Lenny does not move after that.
The car that hit him skids away.
The black ground laps his blood, seems to swallow him up.
“Finally,” the woman says, “With that mistake out of the way, I’m free.” She speaks into the phone, “Nice
job, babe. I’m coming.” She walks away from the bloody scene, her red pumps glistening in the light, as if moist.
