Ruby's Slippers Read Online Free PDF

ignition catches quickly and wipers slap at the rain, but it’s a losing battle. Suddenly there’s a hammering sound, like someone is pummeling my truck with a baseball bat. Quarter-sized chunks bounce like Ping-Pong balls off the hood.
    The storm is gaining strength. I jerk the gearshift into reverse, back into the street, and push through sheets of rain toward the farm. I can’t see more than ten feet in front of the bumper. The town’s lone traffic light swings precariously overhead and casts an eerie yellow glow against the gloom. Blackened buildings line the way, mere silhouettes. Electricity must be on the fritz. Hail crunches under the tires as I turn at the edge of town onto a one-lane highway that will take me straight to the farm. The wheels skid, making the back end of the truck whip right, then left. I jerk the steering wheel, keeping my foot off the brake, and manage to right the truck.
    As quickly as the hail began, it stops. The civil defense sirens still wail, pull my nerves taut. I flip on the radio for news, a voice of reason and calm in the chaos around me. The news is anything but.
    “A tornado has been spotted thirty miles west of Wichita. There’s significant rotation …”
    I tighten my hold on the steering wheel, lean forward, push the truck as fast as I dare. I grew up in Tornado Alley. I know what to do. Take shelter. And I will—just as soon as I get to the farm. I have to get the animals secure in the barn. Have to get Otto. He’s all alone. The radio announces the position of the tornado—northwest of my location and moving due east and south. Coming right at us.
    I punch the gas pedal and a roar of water sprays from beneath the truck. I worry about the chickens loose in the barnyard, the pigs grunting, butting up against the fence, bumping into each other, huddling together, squealing. And Otto. Is he scratching at the door to get out? Whining? Barking? Cowering?
    A black lump in the road startles me. Two eyes. A wide nose. A cow. I stomp the brake and blast the horn. The truck whips around in a circle. I lose sight of the frightened animaland come to a jerking halt half on, half off the road. The rear bumper tilts down into a ditch.
    My breath comes in hard gasps. Where did the cow go? I look out the back window, but she’s disappeared. Wind buffets the truck. I press the gas, but the truck only makes a grinding sound. In the side mirror I can see mud shooting from the back tires. I jerk open the cab door and the wind slams it wide, nearly taking it off its hinges. Rain pelts me in the face. I try to get my bearings, searching for anything recognizable. On the road, a few feet away, a mailbox rolls over, the wind tossing it about like a handkerchief. On its side is painted my family name—Meyers.
    Okay. I’m close. I can make it. Even on foot.
    Fighting every inch of the way, fists clenched, eyes straining, I trudge through mud that seeps into my shoes and sucks at my two-inch heels. My ankle bobbles and I step on the side of my foot. Wincing, I kick off the shoe, all the while moving toward the house. Even though I can’t see it, it must be there. Rain plasters my hair to my head, stinging my cheeks, slashing my eyes. I’m leaning so far forward that if the wind were to stop suddenly, I would fall flat on my face.
    I find the driveway almost immediately, and it guides me right up to the house. The picket fence has taken a beating. Slats tilt like teeth needing braces. Many are missing altogether. I push and shove, then kick at the gate. Old habits die hard, and I turn to close it. The wind jerks the gate out of my hands and slams it closed with a decisive clink. I turn back into the wind, glance toward the barn obscured by rain and darkness. I need to secure the animals, but a vortex has formed not a hundred yards away, a pale gray beast devouring the farmland and stalking toward the house.
    I creep in what feels like slow motion toward the porch.
    A post offers refuge and I cling