Shoes

The once sparkly sandals are still my favorites. Rhinestones rippling across the tops of my feet caught the light and glimmered each time I took a step. Even though the slim leather thongs rubbed my skin raw, I wore them anyway, enduring the pain because they were beautiful. They made me happy. Now, dust covers them, and, like me, the sparkles are dull, devoid of liveliness.

They sit lined up across the bedroom closet floor with the rest of my footwear collection. Among them are gold wedges, crystal butterfly flats, fabric slides with perky side bows, and, ah yes, the practical walking clogs, a spur-of-the-moment purchase. On a trip not so long ago, they saved my feet after nights of dancing in four-inch heels when Douglas held me close. “I love you, my darling,” he said, looking straight into my eyes, his hands holding my face. That moment and all of these shoes are reminders of happy memories . . . happy memories.

Douglas is gone now. To fill the hours, I walk around my neighborhood in sneakers with thick, squishy soles. They feel cloudlike but scream old age. I am old at 60. A new decade fraught with innuendo. Whether this bothers me depends on my mood on a given day. Today I’m feeling all right—healthy and spry with few negative thoughts. One of my better mornings.

I approach Albert’s house. Albert is the only neighbor I know well. Or even a little, truth told. He has befriended me and always seems to be around while the others, well, they keep their distance. Their behavior used to be bothersome. But worrying about such things now is of no matter.

Albert’s house sits on the corner, a bit ramshackle from neglect. Ragged hedges, weed clumps, and a snapped off pine litter the side yard. Even birds and squirrels sidestep the property. His son rarely stops by these days to visit or make improvements, but Albert stays cheerful. He greets me every morning from his lawn chair in the driveway, feet propped on a wooden crate. His crossed ankles are puffy from edema. He wears old, sturdy walking shoes, a misnomer for them these days. A substantial cane at rest by his side helps him keep his balance as he ambles to and from the front door.

I wave and he waves back. He is my link to calm and sanity, so guilt worms its way inside me when I don’t stop today to chat. The sun is already burning my shoulders, and I’ve forgotten to apply sunscreen. I keep moving.

***

I referred to Douglas before as if he were dead. But he isn’t dead. Merely disappeared. After thirty years of marriage, he left me for a younger woman. A dancer—ballerina, specifically. I’ve heard that dancers have ugly feet, not that Douglas would care. Ugly feet, maybe, but transformed by beautiful, pink satin toe shoes. The kind I dreamed of wearing when I was a child. A dream my mother stifled. I was awkward, too heavy, unable to hold pose. No number of lessons, she assured me, would change that.

I discovered her identity—this ballerina’s—with determined digging. One night I drove to the city to secretly watch her dance. Morbid curiosity. To whom was my husband attracted? Who was attracted to him? I ached to know. I could see straight away that she was driven to be the best. To get exactly what she wanted. She performed a solo in an avant garde piece, the ribbons of those pink shoes crisscrossed perfectly over her slim ankles, the ends tucked away invisibly. Oh, those effortless moves, suspended jumps, contorted mesmerizing poses. Lighter than air. A sylph. So, it was youth, beauty, grace, achievement that lured him away from me. But not only that.

So much of this woman’s image is attached to those shoes. They define her. Only a select few belong to her inner circle. Douglas must delight in that. I am attached to nothing. Not to purposeful shoes and certainly not to a person since Douglas abandoned me. She stole my identifier, and she is his new one.

And yet, I made a supreme effort that night with my appearance, thinking I could tick down a list and convince myself of having more positives than she. I was sorely mistaken. Instead, I imagined that a bright light shone down on me, exposing all my flaws; that she could see me watching her, loathing her. And that she was laughing back at me, haughty in her secure position. Imagination or not, I scrunched down in my seat, seeking anonymity.

***

I am glad for Albert’s friendship, especially after I confess the result of my foolish scouting expedition. He reaches out to squeeze my hand and then tells me about his wife, Estelle. They stayed together, even though she ran off frequently. One time she came back pregnant, he confides. He chose to raise the child with her, but the son knows Albert is not really his father. He theorizes this is the reason for the son’s infrequent visits and lack of help since Estelle passed. Albert understands and forgives. He is a loving person.

I tell myself that I am a loving person. I loved Douglas. Sorry, love. Present tense. Something happened, though. Something I missed.

Albert has me thinking that perhaps the answer is children. Or lack thereof. I can’t remember who made the decision. It was foolish. No baby shoes dangled from our car’s rearview mirror. No toys, or pets, or teachable moments ever existed. Douglas is five years younger than I. Does he yearn for children now? With her? Discomforting questions.

In the meantime, I cannot have photos in the house anymore. Of him, of me, of any memorable events. I sweep them away, frames and all. They don’t allow me to think properly. The mirrors go, too. Every one of them. I can’t bear to see myself as he saw me. It hurts less this way.

I think the purge is complete, and then I spy yet another reminder—his moccasins. He left them behind in his swift departure; they stare at me from his empty closet. I inspect them. The outer heels are worn down just a bit. I should give them away or throw them out along with the photos. Or maybe slice them to pieces with a razor blade. Instead, I sleep with them beside me that night. My dreams take a sinister turn.

***

The days come and go. I haven’t been walking lately. No walk for me today, either, I’ve decided. It’s getting harder to leave the house. The phone is silent. The doorbell never rings. I miss Albert but console myself thinking he will be there the next day and the day after that, whenever my walks continue. He is a fixture. He won’t desert me like Douglas.

I eat an egg for breakfast and make tea before opening the paper. When my cup hits the floor and smashes, the tea splatters and burns my leg. I don’t care. I’m looking at a photo beside a small obit. I stare at the page, hoping the image will change or that I’m mistaken. But it does not, and I am not. Albert has died. Heart failure. So suddenly, without saying goodbye. I feel betrayed again. I am crumbling. I waver before deciding a walk is indeed necessary, past Albert’s to pay my respects, if only with a nod and a glance toward his empty house.

As I round the corner, I see Albert’s shoes poking out from the top of an overfilled trash can. Of course, the son is cleaning up and throwing out, not wasting any time. Although some tread remains, the shoes are tired, misshapen, of use to no one now that Albert’s gone, but it seems callous to toss them in the garbage. I see that his half-buried cane is another victim. No one is watching. I pluck out the shoes and dig the cane free. They belong together. The shoes are smaller than I thought, maybe size 10. I don’t know what I’ll do with them, but their buttery smooth leather comforts me. I hold them and the cane close while I finish my walk.

All day I pace around the house, back and forth, room to room, mumbling, thinking. What to do, what to do? Fear grips me when my direction suddenly becomes clear. I run to the bathroom and vomit sour bile. As I slide to the floor, the sobs come freely for Albert and for myself.

***

The drive downtown is a blur. I must hurry if I’m to make it to the theater as practice ends. Ambitious people practice longer. I speed past vehicles, disregarding angry stares, anxious to get on with my task. My hands shake, but I remain steadfast in my resolve. Upon arrival, I accomplish my mission with relative ease. Physical strength has never been an issue for me.

The trip home leaves me exhausted but also energized. A glass of wine in celebration of this very special occasion seems appropriate. I end up emptying the bottle. The depression that follows blunts any notion of victory as night bleeds into dawn. It’s plain to see what’s left of my future. Nothing good, I’m afraid.

I hope daylight will lift my spirits, but no sun shines in the morning. Storm clouds bruise the sky. All afternoon, I sit immobile on a sofa made for two, watching the rain splash down. When only a black and starless night stares back at me, I lower the shades to block out the world.

A small brightness returns when I focus on Albert’s cane leaning against the foyer wall, and on his shoes slouched by the front door. I left them there after my trip, the toes stuffed with paper. They were easier for me to walk in that way. And they hold the telltale signs of a man in their prints. Useful after all. I carry them into the bedroom and set them with much tenderness behind my line of happy memories footwear. The severely cracked cane joins them. It proved to be a powerful weapon. In the darkest corner of the closet sit the blood-spattered, pink satin toe shoes.

Her name is Angelea. Sorry, was. Past tense.