Rita Hayworth's Shoes (6 page)

“I don't get it,” said Brendan.

“What? No.” said Amy, getting annoyed that Zoë was entertaining Ava at her expense.

“Well
did
you?” asked Grant. “Did you buy them?”

“That's the ridiculous part,” Amy said. “They were two hundred and fifty dollars.
Used
. I mean, could you imagine?” she looked around for support from the other women, but not even Jane would look at her. “You don't think that's just a little ridiculous?”

“What price can you put on what you're worth?” asked Morty, seemingly to the air.

Amy was amazed. “That's so weird,” she said. “That's kind of what the saleslady said,” and she looked around for a response. She got none. “Anyway, she also said that the shoes had belonged to Rita Hayworth, like that was supposed to decide it.”

“Rita Hayworth,” mused Joshua. “Now that's a name you never hear anymore. Big in my day, but—”

“Dad, you're in your sixties,” said Jane. “Were you even
born
when
Gilda
came out?”

“Well, in my father's day maybe. But, oy. What a knockout she was. Hair red as fire. And the most gorgeous set of—”

“Pappy!”

“Sorry. Well… Anyway, tragic story. Tragic girl,” he shook his head. “Started out bad,” he said, draining the wine from the bottom of his glass. “Drunken horrible parents,” he said, and poured himself another. “Ended badly.”

“What happened?” asked Amy.

“Drank herself crazy,” said Clarabelle, grabbing another bottle from the table and filling her glass. “Alzheimer's and a slow death.”

“Abusive childhood. Bad marriages,” said Joshua. “Divorced five times,” he said, looking right at Grant.

“And here I thought one was a pain in the ass,” Jane smirked.

Grant was not amused. “Sometimes once is enough,” he chortled, and looked as though he would burst into tears at any moment. “It's like being cut off at the waist. Every day a new struggle. I just don't—”

“Oh, are you still sensitive about that? Sorry.” Jane said snidely. She collected some dirty plates from the table as Grant glared at her.

“Let me help you with that,” said Brendan. She blushed and as he followed her into the kitchen.

Zoë looked at her grandparents and then back at Amy. And then at her grandparents. And then back at Amy.

Joshua reflected for a moment and stood. “I have to agree. Two hundred and fifty is too much for a pair of shoes,” he said, as Lauren coolly looked the other way. She stood, collected more dirty plates, and headed for the kitchen. Joshua dutifully piled up the plates in front of him and followed.

Zoë waited for her grandparents to be out of earshot before she leaned in and said, “Except he didn't tell you the important part.”

“What do you mean?” asked Morty.

“The legend,” said Zoë. “About the shoes?”

“I don't think I know anything about the shoes,” said Enid.

Now they all looked to Zoë, as they often did. “Well, from what I read,” she began, and looked around.

Clarabelle leaned over to Morty, “That child is always reading,” she nodded. “She would know.”

“From what I read, Rita Hayworth was kind of plain and boring when she was young,” Zoë said. “A little like you, Auntie Amy.”

“Thanks.”

“But then she made a decision that would change her life. She fell in love with a pair of shoes. A very
expensive
pair of shoes. And, after passing them in a store window day after day on her way back and forth from her job in a factory during the height of the Great Depression, she decided she just had to have them.”

“But how could she afford—”Grant started to ask.

“She always had to give all her earnings to her father on payday, it's true—”

“So he could drink it!” growled Enid, in disgust, and then swallowed down the rest of the wine in her glass.

Zoë smiled. “That's right. But this one week, she decided
no
. That it was
her
money and that she would spend it the way she wanted to. So…”

“So?” Ava wanted to know.

“So she stopped in the store and bought the shoes.”

A collective gasp came from the group.

“And her father?” asked Clarabelle. “What did she tell her father?”

“She pretended she got mugged,” said Zoë.

“Did he believe her?” asked Amy.

“Oh, no,” said Zoë.

“Then what?” asked Morty.

Zoë looked around before speaking. “Then he beat her, of course.”

Another gasp.

“But it never mattered again, because after that, everything changed,” said Zoë. “Margarita, her real name, went out in the shoes the very next day, and she met Darryl Zanuck
.”

“You mean the big Hollywood producer?” asked Enid.

“The same,” said Zoë. “He offered her a role in his latest film, and she left for Hollywood two weeks later.”

“I heard that story!” said Clarabelle. “I remember that!”

“I don't quite remember it like that,” said Morty, looking a little confused.

There was a moment of silent reflection, but only a moment.

“Are you going to buy the shoes, Amy?” asked Clarabelle.

“They could be the ones!” gushed Enid.

“Buy the shoes, Amy!” urged Ava.

Amy tried to make sense of it all, while trying to pull herself out of the spotlight. “I don't think I knew any of that, Zoë. Thanks. But two hundred fifty dollars for shoes. I mean,
come on
.”

“Some people just don't understand the power of shoes,” Lauren said, catching the end of the conversation.

“Personally, I don't think all that much of it,” said Zoë. “Yet I can't scientifically rule it out.”

Brendan returned with Joshua. Jane, looking annoyed, walked a few steps behind them.

“So who's taking over for Heimlich?” Joshua asked.

“Right now? His classes are being covered by a few of his graduate students and some other members of the department. But going forward—”

“What about you?” Lauren asked. “Are you taking on any of them?”

“Me?” Amy blushed. “Oh, no. I couldn't possible teach his classes.”

“But don't you have a Masters degree in English Lit?” asked Lauren.

“All she has to do is defend her dissertation at this point and then it's PhD all the way.”

“Jane!” said Amy, horrified.

“Well, I'm sorry, Amy. But it's true. She downplays how far she's gotten, and how brilliant her paper was. All she needs to do now is defend it.”

All eyes were now on her. “I have a little, uh, stage fright.”

“Perhaps if you had the shoes…” mused Clarabelle.

“What's that?” asked Joshua.

“Oh nothing, Pappy,” said Zoë. “Don't worry about it.”

##

After dinner everyone moved into the living room for coffee. Jane sat down on the couch next to Amy and tucked her feet under her as she sipped her tea. She reached out and gave Amy a gentle stroke on the arm. “How are you doing?” she asked.

“I'm okay,” said Amy.

“Hey, I'm sorry about before. About your dissertation. I didn't mean to throw you under the bus like that.”

“I think that was the least of my problems at that dinner, honestly.”

“I know,” she said. “But I was serious about what I said, Amy. Not everyone makes it as far as you have, and it kills me sometimes that you don't just go and finish it up already.”

“I've been busy,” said Amy. “I mean, until about a couple of weeks ago or so.”

Jane gave her a gentle hug. “I know, I know. How are you feeling about all that?”

“Dunno,” she replied. “I guess it takes time. Honestly, I still don't believe this thing with Liz is real. And I know in my heart of hearts that he will see that and he
will
come back and—”

“Your heart is lying to you, Amy. It's only holding you back. And has been for some time.”

“I don't think you understand—”

“Don't I? Look, kiddo, sometimes men leave. And sometimes they make shocking choices when they do.”

“We really never saw that coming, with Elliot. Did we?”

“I'm sure there were clues along the way. And hey, stranger things have happened. Right?”

“Even Jabba the Hutt couldn't beat—”

“Let's just say his working at home wasn't the best idea for that marriage and leave it at that.”

“That and running a business that involved daily deliveries.”

“Dirty deliveries,” Jane mused. They looked at each other and laughed. “It's tough, you know. Getting past having a life with someone. But once you start to see the difference between the person who you actually are and the one you were trying to be, it does get easier. Unless you're Grant,” Jane added, watching Grant as he stared out the window onto the street, his mother repeatedly tapping his back and whispering “There, there.”

Amy gave Jane a puzzled look. “I'm not sure what you mean,” she said. “I think I've always been the same person.”

Jane smiled. “You'll get there. It takes time, but you'll get there.” She gave Amy a gentle squeeze. “So what are you going to do about the shoes?”

“Huh?”

“The shoes. Clarabelle told me the story Zoë told you guys.”

Amy shook her head in astonishment. “Tell me, how does that kid know so many things? I mean, how could she possibly have so much information in that little head?”

“God only knows. She comes from a long line of intellectuals is my only guess.”

“Except for Elliot.”

“Oh, definitely not Elliot,” Jane laughed. “Speaking of intellectuals,” joked Jane as Brendan walked by the girls and smiled. Then she got serious. “He likes you, you know,” she told Amy. “Brendan does. He told me. In the kitchen. In front of my parents even,” she smirked. “Sorry you missed it.”

“Sounds like it was a real moment,” Amy teased.

“Oh, you bet,” she chuckled. “Unforgettable. I guess you can have this one.”

“Oh, thanks. But I don't think I'm ready…”

“Then don't
think
,” said Jane “The Universe is offering you a gift. Just take it.”

Now Brendan approached.

“I'll see you later,” said Jane, and she stood up and walked off.

Brendan took Jane's place on the couch next to Amy, and the charge of attraction she felt nearly caused her to faint. “So did you really kill your boss?” he asked, and she was sure starlight shone out of his eyes.

She had to look away. “No, not really.”

“Did you want to?” Brendan asked, flirtingly.

“Sometimes, I guess,” she said, and smiled nervously. “I mean, really. Who doesn't want to kill their boss sometimes?”

“Can I take you to dinner some time?” he asked.

Amy looked over at Lauren, Jane, Clarabelle, and Enid, who were all standing together and nodding her on.

“Give me your address. I'll pick you up on Friday at eight?” he said.

Now Zoë and Ava had joined them and they were all nodding so wildly, she thought their heads might pop off at any moment if they kept it up any longer. (In fact, Zoë did nod her bunny ears right off.) So she turned back to Brendan. “Sure,” she smiled, and reached into her bag, where she rifled around a while for something she couldn't find because, as usual, it wasn't there. “You have a pen?”

##

Very full and slightly drunk, Amy took the long way home so she could pass Smitty's. The shoes were still in the window, majestic on their velvet pedestal, though the eight-track player and the video game had now been replaced by an aquarium with a crack in the frame and an ancient Mr. Coffee, respectively. She didn't see the shopkeeper watching her from inside as she paused before them.

Sure enough, the feeling was still there. It burned and gushed and tingled within her when she looked at the shoes. It was a feeling of euphoria. Of magic. Of falling in love, but more special somehow. More pure. She leaned in hoping the price had changed, but it hadn't. She stood a while longer, admiring, contemplating. And then she walked on, never noticing the other woman's eyes on her, or the shock of coarse, tangled, reddish-silver hair that had escaped the kerchief the shopkeeper wore.

As she cleaned out his office after the weekend, Amy wondered what had happened to all the so-called loved ones who had attended Heimlich's wake and funeral. Not a single soul had volunteered to come in and sort through his personal effects. Perhaps it was all part of an elaborate penance devised for her, she reasoned, as she trudged through mountains of files and books, a lifetime of literature lessons.

Well, if it was a penance, she was glad for it. As she opened each file and read the scrawled, sometimes scathing notes he made about his students, their papers, even the works of some authors she admired and cherished, she felt a small pang of relief that Heimlich wouldn't be scrawling notes anymore. With each file she tossed, the weight of Heimlich's death seemed to lighten for her. And when she found her last employment review, in which he referred to her as “overqualified,” “scattered,” and “underachieving,” with one “well-meaning”, a couple of “earnests”, and even a random “cute” thrown in for no good reason, she felt the smallest pang of remorse that she hadn't played a more active role in his demise.

She was just topping off another blue recycling bin when Hannah barged in. “This looks like fun,” she said, pushing a stack of books aside to sit on a corner of Heimlich's desk.

“Someone has to do it.”

“I guess you're right.” Hannah said. For a second Amy thought Hannah might have come to help, but Hannah continued to sit and watch as Amy pulled open another drawer and began sifting through its contents.

Hannah's hovering presence soon became irritating and Amy looked up at her. “Do you need something?”

“I was just wondering, um, what was the name of the tour company your parents went to the rain forest with?”

“You mean Jungle Jimmy's? Why?”

“No reason. Just making conversation.”

“Huh,” said Amy, and she went back to her task. Hannah didn't leave.

“So you wouldn't happen to know where they were located or anything? You know, like in Brazil, or in—”

“Uh, I don't think so.”

“No, I don't suppose you would.” Hannah continued to sit at on the edge of the desk, now swinging her legs back and forth, kicking the side of the desk every few seconds or so. Amy tried to ignore her.  “So…”

“What?”

“I found out they just hired someone to replace Heimlich.”

“Who?” Amy asked.

Hannah was quiet for a minute, which made Amy incredibly nervous. She was terrified that she may possibly have remembered that at some point a long, long ago, Liz French had been a professor of English…

“You'll see,” said Hannah as she darted out.

Amy took a deep breath and went back to her task. If Liz was her new boss, well, she'd just have to jump off that bridge when she got to it.

She moved the two-drawer filing cabinet she had just emptied to make sure nothing had fallen behind it. Nothing had, but there was something there, strangely enough. A small door—not unlike the first door Alice encountered when she landed in Wonderland, Amy thought.

Amy tried turning the knob and found the door was locked. So she reached up onto the desk for a letter opener, and began prying away at the lock. At last it clicked open and she pulled at the door, only to find another mystery: a small steamer trunk. She pulled it out and, saw that it too was locked, so out came her trusty letter opener again.

As she tried to pick open the lock, the tip of the letter opener slipped and stabbed her in the finger. “Shit,” she said, and opened Heimlich's top drawer, where she knew he kept his stash of Band-Aids. She opened one and wrapped it around her fingertip. “Huh,” she said, realizing she may have just solved the mystery of Heimlich's Band-Aid wrapped fingertips.

She sat back down on the floor and tried the lock again. This time, it clicked open and the lid flipped up, revealing the contents: a sequined Elvis costume, a black Elvis wig, what seemed like hundreds Elvis of CDs, and then, underneath these, a collection of six antique bisque dolls. Under the dolls, there was another locked section that she was just about to start picking when she got interrupted.

“Now that's shocking.”

Amy looked up, shocked herself for a moment to see the hulking bald guy from the funeral parlor standing over her. “You mean the dolls or the secret stash of CDs?” Nothing seemed to make sense anymore.

“Not really either,” he said, joining her on the floor. He pulled a couple of dolls out of the trunk and made them dance with each other. “I just would have thought vinyl. For both.”

“Good point,” she nodded, and then caught herself. “Hey, wait. What are you doing here?”

“Me?” he smiled, his eyes still as warm as the other day. “Oh, I'm just on an errand for my old pal, Detective Franks. He wanted to know if you'd return to the scene of the crime. It seems you…”

Amy froze, and Deck let out a hearty laugh.

“Oh, very funny,” she said, snatching back Heimlich's dolls from him and stuffing everything back into the trunk. She closed it, pushed it back into its hiding spot, and slammed the little door. “Seriously, what are you doing here?”

He stood and offered his hand to help her up. “I work here, actually,” he said. “Turns out, I'm replacing old Heimlich,” he explained, with a glint of mischief in his warm, somewhat wonderful eyes. “Which I guess makes me your boss.”

Amy relaxed slightly, thinking this would have to be better than working for Liz. “Small world,'” she said, and she pushed the filing cabinet back in front of the door.

“Most things are small to me.”

“You are kind of tall, aren't you.”

“Not that tall. Not
freakishly
tall,” he said, and she had to look away on the word “freakishly.”

“Not going to give the trunk to the family?”

“Dunno. It seems too weird, you know? I say let Heimlich have his secrets.”

“If you say so. Oh, which reminds me…” Deck reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. “You're going to need this.”

She took the paper from his enormous hands and began unfolding it. “What is this?” she asked.

“Oh, just a list of things I may be allergic to,” he smiled.

She smirked at him. “Ah,” she said, as she scanned the list. “Well I'll be sure there's always plenty of cantaloupe around here then.”

He smiled. “So all his stuff's still here, huh?”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “No one contacted me about what to do with it and I'm not sure who to call.”

“So you're not tampering with the crime scene then?”

“Are we back to that now?”

He laughed. “If you're going to work for me, you're going to have to lighten up.”

“I don't think I do ‘light' all that well.”

“What do you mean? You must be, what, ninety pounds. Just look at you,” he smiled. “I bet if I blew on you I could make you fly.”

“I don't think anyone should be blowing anyone around here,” she said, embarrassed at the realization that the double meaning she had not intended had indeed been interpreted by Deck as such.

“Too bad,” was all he said with an impish grin. She wanted to die.

“That reminds me of something that came up at Easter Seder,” she blurted out, trying desperately to change the subject.

“Sorry?”

“Easter Seder,” she said, now a little impatient. “Oh, forget it. It's a long story.”

He was intrigued.

“I have time,” he said, and sat in Heimlich's chair, elbows on the desk and leaning forward, his square chin resting in his massive hands. She hadn't noticed he had a dimple on his chin before. Very John Travolta. John Travolta made up to play Daddy Warbucks.

She relaxed. “Okay, well, remember my friend from the wake?”

“Not the tall, frizzy-haired girl?”

Amy shook her head. “No, not her. I'm not exactly sure I'm friends with Hannah. I meant the mother of the girl you were talking to.”

“Oh, right. The little one. The little woman, I mean.”

“She's not that little,” Amy snapped defensively. “She's more than five feet tall. I mean, just over five feet…”

“Everything is small to me, remember?”

“Fair enough,” said Amy. “Anyway, that's Jane. Jane Austen-Rabinowitz, actually.”

“Interesting name.”

“I suppose,” she replied. “Anyway, we've been best friends since we were kids.”

“Okay…”

“Her mother, Lauren, is your classic textbook WASP. The whole Martha Stewart-Connecticut-holiday-traditions-are-sacred type. When she told her family she was marrying Joshua, it was a total scandal. But Joshua—”

“The Rabinowitz?”

“Yes. Well, he's Jewish, as you can imagine. But he was never religious. And before they married, he was fine to go along with whatever Lauren and her family wanted. He would ignore all his traditions and his Judaism and be whatever she wanted him to be. All he asked was that she promise to love him until the day he died,” she trailed off.

“Still in love?”

“So in love. Like my parents were. Joined at the waist really.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“I'm just going to let that one go,” he flashed another mischievous grin.

“Okay,” she smiled in spite of herself. “Anyway, one day he was rushing off to work and he got hit by a bus.”

“Holy shit.”

“Holy shit is right. Because after that, he had what he calls his ‘epiphany.' When he woke up in the hospital, tubes coming out of everywhere, he realized he had forsaken his faith and did a total one-eighty, wearing his tallit and yarmulke around like they were accessories, lighting his menorah on Christmas Eve. You know, crazy stuff like that.”

“A born-again Jew?”

“Exactly,” she said.

“And his wife?”

“Well, you can imagine this didn't sit well with Lauren and her family. It wasn't what she signed up for, you know?”

“Sure.”

“But she loved Joshua, desperately, and she wanted to stay married to him. So she devised a way to make his new overt Jewishness slip right into their lives.”

“I think I'm starting to understand…”

“She created all these new traditions that combine elements of what they each like from each other's holidays, and made the holidays as they thought they should be.”

“Easter Seder.”

“They think they're very progressive about it all.”

“So what exactly do they do on holidays? Sit around and read passages from
The DaVinci Code
?” “They're very really nice people,” she said. “Like second parents to me.” “So what are your own parents? Muslim Wiccans?”

“That's just weird,” she smiled. “Actually, it's not something I like to talk about.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Perhaps another time.”

“Perhaps.”

“So was all that just an elaborate smoke screen or does something in this story remind you of ‘blowing people over'?” he teased. She looked away, annoyed that he wouldn't just let it go.

An uncomfortable silence fermented between them, and Deck opted to make it worse. “What about your fiancé? How did he—”

“You mean my ex-fiancé?”

“Yes. How are you doing with all of that, by the way? I kind of pieced together that—”

“I'm not sure that's any of your business.”

“I guess it isn't. Sorry. I guess I just know how it feels to have your heart ripped out and run over. I didn't mean anything by it.”

Now she felt bad. “Why? What happened to you?” she asked.

“Don't worry about it,” he said, clearing his throat. “So I guess now's a good time to get down to business.”

“Right,” said Amy, surprised at her disappointment in him clamming up. She could swear there were tears cresting his beautiful eyes, but she decided not to press it. “So what do you expect of me.”

The grin returned. “That's a heady statement.”

“Oh God, here we go again,” she said, blushing slightly. “For work, I mean. The job.”

“Uh-huh…”

“
This
job,” she said, now a bit flustered. “Can't you be serious for a minute?”

“Not really,” he said.

She looked away, clearly flustered.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable,” he said, his eyes now sparkling. “Why don't you finish up here?” he said. “I'll grab us a couple of coffees and we can talk when I get back?”

“Okay,” she smiled.

##

Later that evening, on her way home from work, Amy walked by Smitty's and stopped in front of the window yet again. The shoes were still there on their pedestal. They were still magnificent. They were still calling out to her—and, apparently, so was the old woman inside. “For Christ's sake already,” she shouted from the doorway and then hobbled outside. “I'll give them to you for two-twenty-five.”

Amy didn't take her eyes off the shoes even to blink as she replied, “Deal.”