Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 16 (12 page)

The storeowner and her employee agreed that Lucy was beautiful, but her most stunning feature was her feet. Her toes angled down in a perfect line. Her soles were pink and soft as a baby's. Her delicate ankles must drive men crazy, they said across the counter only moments after Lucy floated out the store.

And Lucy, Lucy of course knew this too. Why else spend all her disposable income on shoes? She could walk into a party wearing four hundred dollar pumps and men in the room would suddenly turn her way, unaware of the exact cause of their irrepressible attraction. Women would slit their eyes, unable to pinpoint the source of their envy. Men would buy her cocktails and escort her to balconies and offer to fly her to private villas on the coasts of Spain and France. They wanted to uncover what it was about her. And Lucy would twist her lips in a smile, never lowering her eyes so as to give away the secret.

Because they were her most seductive feature, she did everything to keep them looking fabulous. She went to her pedicurist twice a week. She never walked barefoot, not even on carpet. And it was practically a full time job shopping for the best shoes.

She kept her favorite pair on top of her television, their own private altar. They were red silk heels, the color of ripe cherries. She bought them in San Sebastian and was so enamored with the rich red of the satin, she contemplated buying two pair in case one was damaged or stolen in the process of international shipping. But the storeowner assured her they would arrive safely in the States as he folded the cherry shoes in gold tissue and placed them in a velvet-lined box.

Now they were the first thing she saw when she got home from work and the last thing she saw before going to bed at night. Her succulent red shoes. They sparkled on their altar, the glowing television. People were immediately drawn to them when visiting her house. And Lucy would tense up if someone gestured toward them with a compliment:
What cute shoes!
forcing her to dash between the person and the television so as to stop their foreign hands from marring the virgin satin.

Last week one woman asked if she could try them on and Lucy abruptly changed the subject to yogurt and asked if the woman would like some or maybe a cup of cottage cheese? It was then that Lucy realized she would have to invest in a special glass case. This pair was too precious to be exposed to the hazards of everyday life.

The carpenter came at the end of the week. She showed him to the shoes and he pulled out an arm's length of yellow measuring tape, allowing it to retract recklessly as he scratched out some numbers on paper. He was so focused: sketching ideas at her kitchen table with a sharp pencil, tapping on her wall to find studs.

In bed that night, she imagined making love to the carpenter: her hands grasping the strong shoulder muscles, her feet dangling off the bed in sparkling red heels.

The next afternoon, he brought over samples of wood and various stains and thick sheets of tinted glass: sky blue, pink rose, pale green. She answered the door in her newest pair of aquamarine heels and flexed her ankle as he walked in.

She asked if he'd like something cold to drink but he held out a piece of wood, prompting her to feel it. They ship it straight from Japan, he said. Very few trees remain. She braised her hand against his wrist as she reached for the delicate grain.

Spectacular, she said. I'm rethinking the placement of the case. What do you think about the bedroom? He followed her down the hall. I was thinking it could go here, she said. And the light in the case would go on when the bedroom lights turn off. She flicked the bedroom light off and he noticed that her closet was illuminated.

May I? He stepped forward.

She slid open the doors of her closet and they walked in. He ran his hand over the elaborate cedar shelving, admiring the carpentry. The woman admired her shoes. There were hundreds of them: each sitting at attention, waiting to be chosen.

It was then that she found herself unbuttoning her blouse. She let her skirt fall to the floor. She was wearing nothing but her open-toed, gold-flecked heels. Then she ran her hand along the finish of the shelf until it met his wrist and they breathed in the seductive scent of the cedar. The carpenter turned around and in the brilliant light of her walk-in closet, he traced his fingers down the curve of her neck to her breast, the jut of her hip to the small of her knee and down to the delicate hill of her ankle. He kneeled to unfasten the leather strap around her heel and then touched his lips to each of her perfectly painted toes.

I am going to build you so many things, he said. He was speaking to the immaculate shape of her irresistible feet.

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Sean Melican

The first thing Henry Vick did when his mother handed him the acceptance letter was to tear it in two with his greased hands and let the pieces drift with the wind. With a cry, she chased after them through the high grass. It took her a while to collect them, so that by the time she had found them Henry was finished reassembling the mower.

"I had to replace the pinions,” he said. “It'll cost us, but the crop has been good this year. Plus, Kurt said he needs to clean the gears of his mill. That would be a little extra."

Mrs. Vick's arms and face were covered in shallow scratches from the brush she'd run through. She held the letter in her hand, waving it. “Why don't you want to go?"

She was the thin fluttery type of woman that few men love but that love all men. She had seen Henry's father by candlelight after too much wine; then she had woken to see one half of the bed empty and the money lying on her dresser. Ashamed (for it had not been her intention) but not too proud, she had used the money for the chain with the green jewel she wore around her neck.

Henry lowered his head and sighed. “What did you say to them?"

"Only the truth. I told them how good you are with your hands. How you fix most anything that anyone brings to you. Look what you've just done. And Kurt doesn't just ask anyone.” She lowered the letter. She took his hand in hers. “Why don't you go? The worst that can happen is you can be expelled. And so what? If that happens, you can come back here and marry someone. You could make up any lie to tell them if you wanted."

"Who would milk the cows? Who would manage the garden? Who would come if you fell down the stairs again?"

She winced when he said this, her hand going to her hip. “I'll be fine. I could sell the house. Maybe go to work as a seamstress. I'll be fine,” she said once more.

He wanted to go. Who didn't? He could spend his whole life sowing and reaping. Marry a nice girl, have a few kids. Grow old. Die. Or he could go to the College and become something more.

"I'll tell everyone you got in, but didn't go. What then, Henry?"

It was cruel but it was enough. It took him three hours and a lot of spilled ink to print out the carefully blocked letters.

DEAR MR. BRIGHTMAN,

THANK YOU FOR YOUR OFFER. I HAVE DECIDED TO ACCEPT IT. I WILL BE THERE THE FIRST OF THE MONTH.

YOURS,

HENRY VICK

The last of the month would be in three days. His mother had arranged to sell the house to a young couple looking for a good plot, which it wasn't, but the young man looked strong and honest. She had written to a friend of hers in the seamstress trade in the next town. There was always room for a new pair of hands.

She packed his bags. There were two of them but there could just as easily have been one. “For the things you bring back,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. He had to bend down so she could. She touched his eye with a cloth. “Don't you worry. I'll be right as rain.” She removed the necklace and said, “Take it. Don't argue. That money was always for you; I was just keeping it safe."

He tried to say no, but she was insistent.

He was the only one to board the coach. When the coachman stopped at a stream so the horses could drink, Henry stepped out to relieve himself in the trees. When he came back, he saw that the coachman held the door for him. Embarrassed by this display, he said, “Would it be all right if I rode with you?"

The coachman's face brightened. “Sure, young man. I could do with the company. The name's Peter.” He had to crane his neck terribly to see Henry's face.

They rode in silence for some time. Henry could think of nothing to say. Peter pulled his wide-brimmed hat over his eyes, for the sun had risen high and there were no clouds. “Where you headed, young man? Wait. Let me guess.” He waggled his finger. “Your spinster aunt is in need of a young man's strong arm to till her fields, right?” He smiled brightly, but when he saw Henry's face he said, “It's a common enough thing."

"No,” said Henry. “I know. But that isn't it at all. I'm going to the College. But I have to leave my spinster mother on her own."

"When did your father die?” said Peter, and then said, “I'm not doing very good today. I'm sorry. Please, don't tell me. I'll just be quiet now."

"No!” said Henry. “I'd like to talk. You've been to the city. Tell me about it."

The coachman scratched his stubble with dirty fingernails. “I don't know that I have much to tell. I only go to the drop-off and then back out the gates. I've stayed overnight a few times, but I've had to stay near the coach. I haven't seen more than a handful of buildings. Less than that on the inside. Cheer up, young man. It'll be an adventure. But let me tell you this: leave the women alone. You're our kind of people. We don't fit with those city folk."

Of the other four villages they stopped at, no one boarded.

"Strange, that,” said Peter. “I wish you could have company with more to say."

Henry said, “Are the women pretty?"

The coachman looked at him sharply. He indicated his horses. “These nags are slow, but they know their place and do their job. When I was younger than this but older than you, I had the notion that my passengers would enjoy a more spirited horse. She broke two axles before I'd had ten passengers.” He was silent for a while, then he said, “Besides, all you or I ever see is the back end, anyway."

They came to the gates at night. Two men with pikes checked each man as well as the half-empty bags.

Past the gates, the coach barely fit between the buildings on either side of the streets. The coach bounced on the cobblestones. Between narrow houses were narrower dark alleys. There was nothing to see but Henry saw any number of monsters there.

Peter said, “This is as far as I go. Stay on the streets with the cobblestones. Avoid the dirt paths. If anyone cared to go there, the roads would be paved."

"Where do I go?” The buildings were too tall, and seemed to lean. Henry couldn't see the moon even though it was full. There was an odor he couldn't quite name; and then when he felt the pressure in his bowels, he knew. There was the odor of smoke too, but not wood smoke.

"The College won't be open tonight. If I were you I'd find an inn. Can you fight? You might not have to, not as how big you are. Good luck, young man."

There were several inns along the street; but each one had at least one rough man standing before it as well as two or three scantily dressed women. They showed interest in him, once or twice mentioning his size. When he politely thanked them and said he wasn't interested, they laughed.

He stayed along the cobbled streets but wandered aimlessly. It was well past the time when anyone he knew would be awake; yet he heard voices from a few windows. The houses seemed to lean ever closer until he was certain that he would never see the sky. He put a hand to his heart, leaned against a rough stone wall. It was to his benefit that he did so, for the building right across said COLLEGE.

It was indistinguishable from any of the other buildings he had thus seen. There was a plain door with a brass knocker made to look like a demon's head. The thought of touching the thing made him feel ill; and the coachman had told him what to expect. Yet he was more frightened of spending the night on the streets. He was certain he could hear the sound of soft footsteps nearby.

The knocker was heavy and made a heavy noise when he knocked. He counted on his fingers, and when he finished, he tried knocking again. This time he could hear soft footsteps inside.

A panel he had not seen slid open and a pair of dark eyes looked out. “What?” The voice was like a plow striking a hidden stone.

For a moment Henry didn't know what to say; and then he said, “I've been accepted to the school."

"Your letter. Show it to me."

When Henry did so, the man opened the door, glanced nervously around. “Hurry!” His voice was low but strong. He shut the door with a thud. The bolts were loud

"Stop shivering, son. You're safe now. How did you make it here without being harmed? No, I think I know. Your size. My name is Francis Brightman."

The top of Henry's head nearly brushed the wooden ceiling. It was a smaller corridor than most, but not so small that most men couldn't walk easily.

Brightman was the type of small man who carried himself as if he were much taller. His arms were thin but roped with muscle. His shirt and trousers were not dyed but made of better cloth than those Henry wore. “I'm the Dean as well as the librarian,” Brightman said. “You're lucky you weren't beaten and robbed.” He eyed Henry. “But you aren't exactly a city man so you couldn't have known better. Did you see how none of the lowest floors had windows? Out in the country it may be safe to leave doors unlocked, but here even windows are dangerous."

Henry shook his head.

"You didn't notice that?” Brightman made a noise with his lips. “You'll learn. Come on.” He picked up one of the bags. “Go ahead. Ask, else you'll always look like that. Besides, this is a college. Questions are expected."

Henry worried at his lip. “Why are you awake?"

"Good. See? It is good to question. But let me ask one. How would you know whether I told the truth? You see? Though you ask, always ask if the answer is true. In this case, it is. I don't sleep well, not with the pain in my joints. It is better to walk the hall. I think while I do so, so that it is not wasted. I find it is best to think when one is walking as it does not waste time. Come."