Rita Hayworth's Shoes (16 page)

A couple of days later, Amy sprawled out on the couch and watched Zoë play with Heimlich's bisque dolls. For the life of her, she couldn't imagine why Deck was so obsessed with them. Had he truly gone completely nuts? It made her all the more suspicious that he may have had something to do with Marny's latest disappearance. How well did she really know him? How far had he been pushed by Marny? What kind of old grief had surfaced from deep within him? And what was he really capable of?

But this was Deck. Giant, goofball Deck. Deep down, she just couldn't accept that he could be capable of such violence. The man who'd touched her on more levels than she even knew she had.

But of course she could be wrong. It wouldn't be the first time.

“What's this one called, Auntie Amy?” Zoë called up from the floor, interrupting her thoughts.

“I don't know what any of them are called,” Amy said. “I really don't know anything about them. But they may be valuable, so please just be careful playing with them.”

“Do you really think they may be worth something?” Jane asked, bringing Amy a cup of tea in an oversized mug. Amy smiled to herself, in spite of herself, when all she could think was that this would be a much more suitable mug for Deck. Crazy Deck. Killer Deck…

“I don't know,” Amy said, reaching for the tea. “Thanks,” she said and took a sip. “Deck asked about them again.”

“You didn't mention that,” said Jane.

“I didn't?” she asked. “I'm sorry. I'm still a little confused about everything.”

“And you look terrible,” said Zoe, sweetly, from the floor. “I thought you threw that thing away,” said Zoë, looking at Amy's jumper.

“It's comfortable. I guess I just wanted to be comfortable.”

“Comfortable, like hanging-around-with-David-comfortable again?” Jane jabbed.

“We're both kind of in the same place right now,” Amy snapped. “I don't have to defend myself to you.”

Jane and Zoë exchanged a look, but said nothing. Zoë went back to the dolls and Jane traced the rim of her mug with her finger. “Zoë's right,” Jane said. “You do look terrible.”

“I'm okay.”

Jane paused a moment and then took a deep breath. “I have something for you,” she said. “Something from Ollie—well, from Deck really.”

Amy waved her away. “I don't think I can have anything to do with him anymore,” Amy said. “I'm sorry. But he was so mean to me.”

“He's going through a kind of rough time right now, Amy,” Jane said, placing an envelope on the table in front of her. “Ollie says he wrote this to you after you left. That he felt really horrible about how things went down. He was just so hurt by the David thing and…”

Amy pushed the envelope away. “I don't think—”

“Amy, he
needs
you now,” Jane said, pushing the envelope back to her. “If only as a friend.”

“He doesn't act like he wants anything to do with me. And besides, I'm busy,” she said dismissively.

“Yeah,” Jane rolled her eyes. “I know. With David.”

“Okay, what's your
real
problem with this?”

“I heard you're postponing your defense again,” said Jane.

“How did you…”

“Hannah.”

“What the fuck? Hannah again? How would she know anything about anything. And why would she tell you?”

“Facebook,” she said. “You
do
know what Facebook is—”

“I get it,” Amy said, cutting her off.

“And she also emailed me because we're all worried about you.”

“I don't buy that from her. I can't trust her. Did you know she's
friends
with David.”

“So she can keep her eye on him,” Zoe piped in. “So she can keep tabs on things over here while she's over there.”

Amy remained defensive. “You know it's because of her that the note got to Ollie and…”

“Ah, so you
do
feel something more for Deck than anger?” Jane smiled.

“She shouldn't have passed along that note unless she knew for sure that something was wrong—that what it said was true. It's because of her that everything went to hell.”

“It's because of Marny, who wrote the note, who showed up at all and disappeared again that any of this happened,” said Jane. “Come on. You don't
honestly
believe that he would be capable of what she said. She's a terrible woman, clearly, and—”

“Let's just say there are things you don't know,” Amy said. “And besides, why would she set him up like this? She was out of his life. She was free. Why go through all the trouble?”

Jane paused and looked down at her tea. “There must be something in it for her,” Jane said.

“Is that what Ollie thinks?”

“I'm not allowed to say,” Jane said, and took another sip of her tea.

Jane and Amy sat quietly for a while and watched Zoë play with the dolls, each carefully considering their words before speaking again.

“You really don't look so good,” said Zoë, now looking up, her angelic face radiating its trademark warmth and wisdom. “And I think I know why,” she said, catching her tongue on her tooth on the last word.

Zoë went back to the dolls, now thumbing the back of one of their dresses. Something wasn't quite right about the way it was laying on the doll, and she started to undo the fasteners.

“Why? Why do I look so terrible? Come on, your turn to take a shot at Auntie Amy,” she snapped.

“It's just that,” Zoë began, and stopped. “This tooth. I can't take it anymore,” she said, and placed down the doll. Zoë started to tug at the tooth with her thumb and forefinger, first slowly and then with an incredible urgency until she finally pulled it out. “Got it!” she exclaimed, as she spit the small incisor out into her hand.

“Oh, baby,” Jane cried. “You got the dangler. My goodness. You're all grown up now, aren't you?” she said. She jumped to the floor and gave Zoë a giant hug.

“Congrats, Zoë!” said Amy, joining them. “This is really huge. There's a tooth that could launch your thousand ships.”

Zoë's eyes glazed over. “I'm not sure what that means.”

“Well, it's not an exact parallel. But you know—like Helen of Troy?”

“Who?” she asked, more than a little confused. “What are you talking about?”

Amy and Jane looked at each other, each about as confused as Zoë seemed. Zoë picked up the doll she had been playing with and regarded it for a minute, as if there was something she was supposed to remember about it, but nothing came to mind. So she placed it down and picked up another one.

“I know what you wanted to say, Zoë. But I don't think it's because of David that things have changed,” Amy said, sitting back down on the couch. “I think it's because of the shoes, you know, how they broke and everything,” she said. “Must have broken the spell,” she laughed.

“What!” shouted Zoë, in the manner of Linda Blair in
The Exorcist
.

Amy was taken slightly aback but decided to continue. “Think about it, guys. I got the shoes and everything was great. I lost them, and everything went to hell.”

“Except that you broke your shoe
after
Marny showed up,” Jane said. “And you met Deck before you even knew they existed.”

Before Amy could come back with a new argument, Zoë started to laugh uncontrollably. “Are you kidding me?” she managed as she gasped for air. “The shoes?” At this she literally rolled on her back laughing.

“Yes. The story. The legend?”

“The what?” Zoë asked, now teetering back and forth.

“The
legend
,” said Amy. “Of Rita Hayworth's shoes!”

Zoë stared at Amy for a minute as she prodded the empty new space in her mouth with the tip of her tongue. Then her face took on a maniacal gaze. “That?” she exclaimed, and started laughing again. “Oh, my God. I
so
made that up.”

“You made it up?” both women asked at once.

“Magic shoes? Come on, Auntie Amy. That's just ridiculous,” she lisped through the new space between her teeth. “You actually believed that? You silly girl,” Zoë laughed again.

“I'm sorry, Amy. I don't know what's gotten into her,” said Jane.

“It's okay,” said Amy, and both women watched Zoë laugh and roll and laugh and roll some more. Then, as though her battery had run out, she came to a dead stop.

“Mama, I'm a little sleepy. Would you mind if I lay down for a little while? I don't really feel like myself.”

“Of course, baby,” said Jane, concern in her voice. “Go ahead. Just don't forget to put your tooth under your pillow.”

“Okay. Night-night then,” Zoë said in a four-year-old's voice neither Jane nor Amy could remember her using, even when she was a four-year-old.

“What happened?” Amy asked Jane as they watched Zoë stagger down the hallway. “I don't understand.”

“What's not to get?” asked Jane.

“She's acting like a drunk,” said Amy.

“No, silly,” Jane said. “She's acting like a child,” Jane said, her face filled with love.

Amy stood with Jane and watched Zoë slip into her bedroom. “Now what?”

##

Amy walked home that night, feeling more lost and confused now than ever before. She clutched her backpack where she carried the dolls close to her and wondered what she was going to do with them. Sure, she could give them to Deck, but that might only push him over the edge.  She could give them to Zoë, but they somehow seemed to make the child nuts as well. Or maybe she could sell them to Smitty's? At the very least, she could get the old woman's opinion on them she decided and headed to the store.

But when she got to Smitty's she froze. For there, in the window, set between an ancient toaster and a set of Statue of Liberty cocktail coasters, perched magnificently upon their black velvet pedestal, were the shoes.
Rita Hayworth's shoes
.

“What the fuck?” she said, and she headed into the store to confront the woman.

“Amy,” the shopkeeper said when she saw her. “So nice to see you again.” Amy couldn't help but notice that the woman looked older somehow, more frail.

“What are they doing here?” Amy asked, gesturing wildly to the window. “How did they get back here?”

The woman regarded her with a cold stare. “They were abused,” she said flatly. “So they returned home.”

“But how did they get here? They didn't just fly over on their own—not from the garbage pail where I left them.”

“Well, if you must know,” the shopkeeper said, “I bought them back.”

“From who? Who sold them back to you?” She gasped. “Not a bald guy?” she asked, her arm raised to indicate tallness. “Fortyish?”

“If you must know, the answer is no,” the shopkeeper coolly replied. “It was some Ava Gardner-looking trollop with a giant tattoo,” she said with disgust. “She brought them to me and then asked if anyone had come in with a bunch of dolls.”

“Dolls? Like antique dolls?”

“I didn't ask. I mean, honestly. Does this look like a toy shop to you?”

“Forget it,” Amy said. “And I'll have you know those shoes weren't anything but trouble for me. They're cursed. You should get rid of them.”

“How dare you!” the woman accused. “What do you know of anything? Those shoes belonged to Rita Hayworth. Those shoes changed her life!”

“Oh, yeah? Because I heard that story was complete crap.”

“That's what you heard,” the old woman said, perfectly calm and composed.

“Yes,” Amy challenged.

“And that's what you
believe
?”

“Yes, actually. Yes, it is.”

A dark shadow fell over the woman's ancient face. “Get out of my store and never come back,” she hissed. Amy stood in her place. “I'm not kidding with you,” the woman raged, her eyes on fire. “Go. Get out. Now! Go!”

So Amy turned on her heel and left.

##

And while Amy was navigating the murky jungle of her past and present, of broken hearts old and new and revisited, of the stories people tell and the stories people believe, Hannah Anastasia Lindstrom was navigating a different kind of jungle. Dressed very much like a 1940s archaeologist, in a tight-fitting khaki shirt and matching shorts, she lead her simple team through the rain forests of Brazil, on a mission as important to her as her own life.

As she cut through a clearing, she stopped for a moment. She reached into her belt for her canteen and took a long draw of water. She replaced her canteen, wiped off her chin, and pulled out a map. She pointed to the map and she looked into the distance.

Just then, an improbably large man, similarly dressed, the sun beating down on his shiny bald head, emerged from the thicket. She smiled warmly at him, a smile he returned, and she showed him the map. He looked ahead and she nodded. “This way,” she motioned, as the man and the others followed. She was now sure, at last, that she had found what she had been looking for.

The parking lot of Little Bay Park is located underneath the south section of the Throgs Neck Bridge. Built in the 1960s, the Throgs Neck Bridge's sole purpose was to alleviate congestion on its larger, more impressive, more glamorous sister-bridge, the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge—known for the most part as the Whitestone Bridge, or simply “The Whitestone.”

The Whitestone was conceived and brought to fruition by Robert Moses, the father of road and park development on Long Island and the outer boroughs. In the ribbon-cutting ceremony for this bridge, which was built in less than two years, Moses hailed it as “architecturally the finest suspension bridge of them all, without comparison in cleanliness and simplicity of design, in lightness and absence of pretentious ornamentation. Here, if anywhere, we have pure, functional architecture.”

There was no such excitement or enthusiasm for the Throgs Neck Bridge, however; no lavish ribbon-cutting ceremony on record, no fanfare of any sort. Much in the same way some people are compelled to have another child, not because they have a deep-seated desire to love and nurture another human being, but because their existing little lone darling needs a playmate, the Throgs Neck came to be. Even the bridge's name seemed a sloppy afterthought, loosely derived from one John Throckmorton, who settled in the area circa 1643.

Now surely Moses, who wanted these bridges, and Othmar Ammann, who designed and oversaw their construction, must have known that the structures might inspire lovers to park under them and admire their beauty, among other things. And surely all the workers who actually built the bridges—some of whom lost their lives in the process, becoming food for the fish or filler for the foundation—must have realized that someday, the blood, sweat and tears they poured into creating such an urban majesty as well as her ugly afterthought of a sister, might attract throngs of lovers   to make out in the surrounding parks under the stars as headlights and taillights of cars streaked above them. But had they any awareness of the goings-on inside one particular Dodge Charger, registered to a Mr. David Hayes of Flushing, Queens, at this moment in time, they likely would be spinning in their cement-fixed or watery graves.

“What was that?” asked Amy, as a wave of something not quite water seemed to wash across the front of her dress.

“I'm sorry, Scruffy,” David said, making direct eye contact only with the peeling vinyl on the car's ancient dashboard. “I guess it's been a while.”

Amy was still straddled around David's lap. Both of them were fully clothed, both of them were considerably wet. Amy wanted also to believe that both of them were horrified and embarrassed at what had just occurred, but when David smiled up at her, pursed his lips and held his hands up in the manner of “oh well,” she imagined she was probably taking it all too seriously. Of course this happened all the time. To adult people. Who were not geriatric. Didn't it?

True, it had been a while since they had been together, but it wasn't like he'd been celibate all that time, sexing up the sea monster as he was. Deck had gone far longer and…well, what did Deck matter now any way.

Amy started to feel a quiet, inexplicable rage well up in her, until David softly laughed. “What a mess,” he said. She realized then that he was embarrassed, of course, and she started to feel sorry for him.

She started to warm, except she couldn't lie to herself about being disappointed. Though this was just the tip of the iceberg. The real problem this night was that he had forgotten her birthday. Or at least he was doing a pretty good job of pretending he had, not picking up the tab at dinner or making any mention of her having turned thirty today. The dinner bill wasn't such a big deal, she rationalized. He hadn't wanted to go out to dinner, after all. He had wanted to cook for them. He probably had something really special in mind, something intimate and romantic, and she had gone and blown it insisting they go out for sushi. Stupid.

And of course they could have gone back to her apartment after dinner, but this he resisted. It had been his idea to go sit under the bridge and watch the stars, and she'd given in, thinking he'd meant sitting on a bench in that quiet, lovely park under the Whitestone; not cramped into his car in a brightly lit parking lot under the Throgs Neck, right off the main road. And now a new wave of embarrassment washed over her as she wondered if anyone had been watching them. She quickly jumped off his lap and slumped down into the passenger seat.

“I am
truly
sorry,” David said, and he brushed her face with the back of his fingers and looked at her with those eyes of his, those shiny amethysts he used to see. “I promise I'll make it up to you. Let me make it up to you?”

She could feel herself melting now with each beat of his eyelashes; with each word he shaped with his gorgeous mouth, but she tried to keep cool. “Maybe another night,” she said.

He looked at her over his eyebrows, in that way he had. “Couldn't I at least come over for a little bit. Just get cleaned up. You know…”

Amy wasn't exactly sure what she was supposed to know, or who he would be avoiding having to face back at his own home, caked in his own frosting as he was, but she rationalized. Maybe he had something for her at her place. A gift he had hidden for her somewhere. Of course this was all just a ploy. Of course it was!

“Sure,” she smiled. “Let's go.”

They drove without speaking to Amy's apartment, David humming a tune she couldn't identify, Amy quietly beaming in anticipation of what could be waiting for her when they arrived. As they approached the building, she felt a twinge of panic that the Boys would be on the stoop and was relieved as they pulled up in front that they seemed to have found something better to do this night.

David stopped the car, got out, and made a beeline for the front door. He turned to face her and nodded in the manner of,
Are you coming?

Amy let herself out of the car and followed David inside. As they trotted up the three flights of stairs to her apartment, Amy looked down at her dress and noticed that what she had thought was only a small spot had seeped to the shape and possible size of Texas. She was no scientist, but she was a bit curious as to why it hadn't dried yet.

As they arrived at her front door, David held out his hand for the keys. She smiled at this seemingly gentlemanly gesture as he went about the business of turning the locks. Then he pushed open the door, leaving Amy in the prime spot to unexpectedly and horrifyingly be greeted by a loud chorus of: “SURPRISE!”

Everyone was there. Well, not everyone. Not Hannah, at least, who she guessed was probably still in the jungle, but everyone else. There was Jane and Ollie and David and Lauren—and oh God, little Zoe, adorably dressed as a “flapper” fairy with a sash draped around her that read “Goodbye Twenties.” There was Aunt Enid and Aunt Clarabelle and Uncle Mort. There was Grant and the ever-unsmiling Ava. There were the Building Boys. All of the Boys. Then her heart jumped into her throat as it occurred to her that Deck might also be there. But as she scanned the room, she saw he was not. Which caused her then to experience an unexpected pang of disappointment, until Uncle Mort yelled out, “What the hell is that all over your dress?”

She turned to David. “Did you know about this?” she demanded, partly infuriated that he would keep this from her, partly delighted that her family had finally included him in something—and wholly horrified that he had let them come home like this, to this, covered by rogue sperm as they were.

“It's your birthday?” he asked, seemingly stunned.

She cocked her head at him. Of course, he was kidding with her. “You knew that. Of course you did!”

He looked down at the floor. “Oh, fuck. It is your birthday isn't it.”

She looked away, and Jane swooped in. “The same day as the past seven years,” she snapped at David as she pulled Amy through the doorway and into her arms. “And the twenty-three years before she knew you.”

Amy felt defensive. “That's not really necessary…”

“Happy Birthday, kiddo,” Jane said, and then pulled away. “Is that spot wet?”

“Nice to see you again,” David managed.

“As long as we both know that's a lie,” Jane said, as Ollie approached, and sized David up as he did such things, by twirling the corners of his moustache. Amy and Jane shared a glance; Amy giggled and looked away as Ollie untangled his hand from his facial hair and offered it to David.

“Ollie Franks,” he said. “Detective Ollie Franks.”

David accepted Ollie's handshake, though with a slight repulsed reluctance. “David Hayes.”

Ollie dropped David's hand and went back to his twirling. “Ah, yes,” he said, squinting at David. “I suppose you are.”

Everyone just stood around quietly and stupidly watching this until Amy nudged David with her elbow. “You wanted to change?” she asked him.

“Right,” David said, now slightly twitching, his eyes still on Ollie. “See you all in a bit,” he said, and he sprinted to the bedroom.

“Not if we can help it,” said Jane. Amy rolled her eyes and took off after David. They hadn't noticed that Zoë had joined them and was scowling at David as he walked off. “That bastard.”

“Zoë!” Jane gasped.

“The little one's right,” said Ollie.

“That may be. But Zoë, nice little girls—”

“I know, I know,” said Zoë. “But where has being nice gotten Amy anyway?”

Jane had no defense for that, as she quietly played with a loose thread on her dress.

“Uh, huh,” said Zoe as she walked off.

In the bedroom, Amy handed David an oversized T-shirt and sweatpants she sometimes slept in and she headed for the door.

“They're not going to be easy to win back, are they?”

Amy considered that David had never really won her family to begin with, so winning back was not technically what he was looking for here, but she decided to keep that to herself. “They're just very protective. Especially Jane.”

David approached her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Amy,” he said. A surge ran through her as he looked deeply into her eyes. “I know I've made some mistakes. Some stupid mistakes,” he said, “like forgetting your birthday. So stupid,” he said, shaking his head back and forth.

“Just forget it,” she said, looking away. He lifted her chin with the tip of his finger.

“But I'm really trying here now. I am.”

Amy hoped this was true, she wanted to believe it. Especially as looking at him all bare-chested and sexy like that made her want to believe a lot of things. She smiled. “I know you are,” she said, encouragingly. “They just need some time to get readjusted. Just keep trying.”

He kissed Amy on the forehead and she headed back into the living room.

She took a deep breath before heading back into the fray, sizing up her surroundings. The room had been decorated with great care. Streamers were strung, balloons were hung. Someone had thought to bring in some chairs and a couple of long tables. Both of the tables were covered in festive tablecloths of brightly colored plastic. One was loaded up with bowls of chips and dips and platters of delicious-looking foods, while beautifully wrapped packages covered the other table.

Someone had even though to dig up Amy's parents—or at least the life-sized, cardboard-mounted photo placard of Eric and Shirley. Lauren had crafted it years before and it used to appear at all family get-togethers, decorated in some way to commemorate the occasion. Except one Easter Seder, after perhaps one sip too many of the Passover wine, Lauren got particularly weepy watching Shirley and Eric just standing there while everyone else sat and ate while Joshua, irrationally angry at his friends for disappearing as they had, marched right up to the cutout and punched Eric in the face.

Amy was glad they were back again, no matter how creepy the circumstances.  Eric's nose and cheek looked perhaps slightly indented, but otherwise they appeared no worse for the wear. Today, a “Happy 30th Birthday” sign was haphazardly glued to the front of the placard and party hats appeared stapled to their heads. Amy smiled as Lauren approached.

“I'm happy they made it,” said Amy and she started to tear up.

“They wouldn't have missed it for the world,” said Lauren, as she pulled Amy into a warm hug.

Joshua joined them. “He doesn't look so bad,” said Joshua, more than a trace of guilt in his voice.

And then Enid. “You really gave it to him good,” she said, and they all laughed.

Then David emerged from the bedroom and came over to them. “Still can't believe they just vanished,” he said, shaking his head. “Makes no sense. I mean, who just disappears like that? On vacation?”

Joshua was just about to pull out his left hook again when Enid remarked, “Disappeared indeed,” and started looking around the room. “Has anyone seen Grant?”

“Come on, Enid, I'll help you find him,” said Lauren, offering her arm.

David, sensing Joshua's displeasure, took the opportunity to flee. “I'll help you,” he said, leaving Joshua and Amy alone together.

“So, Amy,” said Joshua, not looking away from the cutout. “You think it might be time to change?”

Amy squinted at the poster to figure out what about it Joshua thought they might change. “Change?”

“Your clothes,” he replied in a pained whisper, shifting uncomfortably. Though it would be hard to say who was more horrified—him, or Amy, who just then realized she had forgotten all about the mess on her dress. She gasped and raced to the bedroom.

Amy slammed the door behind her and caught her reflection in the mirror that hung over her dresser. She appeared to have been hit with a water balloon filled with snot. She quickly pulled her dress over her head and ducked into her closet to find something else to throw on when she heard a commotion from the fire escape outside her window, followed by a male voice. “Try the pink one,” it said. “You look better in colors.”