The Silver Shoes Page 3

  Clair fingered Aunt June’s cameo pinned to her high lace collar. Clair tried to picture her mama up there in the fluffy clouds like the angels on the brooch playing harps. God had a long beard and hopefully was being nice to her.

  She knew her father had done his best to fill the gap. Whenever she’d start to cry for her mama, he’d hush her and say, “Good girls never cry.” And she would hold back her tears to please him, even though they would drip out the sides of her eyes. She soon learned not to ask about her mother, and to cry only when she was alone.

  “How’s it coming?” Without moving her head, Clair slid her gaze sideways as Mr. LeRue dipped his brush onto the palette and dabbed a few short strokes on the canvas.

  “I’ll be done soon.” His brow furrowed in concentration.

  The hardest time was the dead of night when loneliness came stalking, taking her by the throat and not letting her breathe. That’s when Clair missed her mama the most, the smell of rose water, her smooth skin and soft lullabies. It had been years since she’d been gone, but the memories continued to haunt Clair when all was quiet but the ticking of the mantle clock, and she wondered how different her life would be if her mama were still alive.

  “Okay. You can relax.” Mr. LeRue put his paintbrush down.

  Clair rolled her shoulders and stood. “May I see it?”

  “Not until the ball.” He shook out a cloth to cover it as she rushed over.

  “Okay. Just a peek.” The artist raised his head proudly and stepped back.

  Her hand flew to her face to disguise her horror. Genius, my foot!

  “Do I really look like that?”

  “To me you do. Isn’t it marvelous?”

  It was ghastly! She didn’t dare hurt his feelings, so she held back tears and tried to sound enthusiastic. “It’s colorful.”

  Her body appeared elongated like Alice in the Adventures in Wonderland after she tasted the “EAT ME” cake. In the painting, Clair’s head touched the top of the canvas and appeared humongous. Worst of all were her arms, a tangled mess of string.

  How horrible. And the ball was next week! She would be humiliated when her father unveiled this portrait.

  6

  Their suite on the ninth floor of the Waldorf had two bedrooms, one on either side of the parlor. A fire warmed the book-filled parlor where Clair sat near her father’s desk.

  “Goodbye, Clair. See you tonight.” He patted her head and left for the office.

  She tried to find his newspaper, but he must have taken it with him. He had no idea that each day, as soon as he left for Wall Street, she took his newspaper from the receptacle and read it front to back. She perused fashion magazines, but she found current events and business concepts intriguing, too, and tried to learn as much as possible about market trends.

  She opened the sash and perched on the window seat. A morning breeze drifted into the suite. Below, autos drove by and people pounded the pavement on their way to hustle-bustle lives. A nursemaid pushing a pram walked slowly.

  Unless suitors came to call after her upcoming ball, the summer would tick on endlessly, like the hands of her metronome—back and forth, with no purpose or end in sight. She looked forward to school starting in the fall but had no idea what she would do with her life once she graduated. She longed to do more than go to church bazaars, teas, and balls. At her age, Aunt June had been teaching and working to get women the right to vote. Clair knew she would not have been brave enough to be a suffragette. But what could she do? She knew what she dreamed of was impossible.

  Clair drifted to the piano. Her fingers touched the keys. Melancholy slow, like the beat of her heart. She longed to pick up the pace. The remnants of Victorian constraints felt corset-tight.

  When Clair once mentioned to her father that she wanted to work after college, he scoffed, “What would you do?”

  “I could teach piano to children, help with the church choir, maybe even direct a choir someday.”

  “No need. I’ll take care of you until you get married, then it will be your husband’s responsibility.” As if she were a doll to pass on. “Only hussies work! I knew this would happen when ladies got the vote. What’s next? A woman stockbroker?”

  “But Aunt June works.”

  He frowned. “She’s different.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He looked down. “Oh, nothing. She’s always been industrious.”

  Hearing Winnie’s dream of being a performer had stirred up Clair’s own childhood desire, the one she hadn’t dared tell anyone about. More than anything in the world, she yearned to be a dancer. Dancing was similar to playing the piano, but with her whole body. Her mama had once held her while she danced around the suite, singing. Clair remembered her voice as captivating.

  Clair would never forget her tenth birthday when Aunt June took her to see the Russian Ballet Company, agile in their pointe shoes and frilly costumes. Clair’s heart had reeled when the tutu-wearing dancers turned around and around, spinning and spinning. She craved being up there on the stage. One tall dancer, the Sugar Plum Fairy, had been quite stunning, and as graceful as a leaf floating from a tree.

  Later that night, alone in her room, Tchaikovsky still resonated in Clair’s chest. In front of the mirror, she tilted her head up and lifted one arm, then the other. Pointing her toes, she raised each leg as high as it would go, picturing the tall dancer who had raised one leg very high above her head. Clair’s body tingled. She could grow up to be a dancer.

  That same year, her father had taken her to the circus. Clair had also fantasized about performing under the big top: the beat of the drums, the high-stepping ponies, their shiny manes braided with pink ribbons. When the girl rode in standing on the back of a big horse, she looked as tall as a skyscraper. Her silver-sequined costume shone in the lights, and the feather on her head bounced to the music.

  As the rider let go of the reins and raised both hands above her head, Clair’s heart galloped, frightened the girl would fall. Clair looked to her father for reassurance, but his eyes were wide, too. After a few more circuits, the horse slowed to kneel and the girl gracefully stepped to the ground, curtsying to the crowd. Clair wondered how it would feel to perform in front of a crowd and make their hearts beat fast.

  That girl Winnie wanted to be a performer, too, and she shouted it to the world. Clair knew she never would be able to tell anyone about her dream. First of all, her father would be mortified. Besides, Clair didn’t have Winnie’s pizzazz.

  Clair wished she had someone to talk to, a friend who would understand. Perhaps Winnie would lend a kind ear. Her bubbly, uninhibited personality made her seem as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

  Hurriedly dressing, Clair resolved to go back to Macy’s and find Winnie. She rode the Otis down and slipped out of the hotel. She tossed a penny to the little newsboy on the sidewalk. He jumped up and pecked her on the cheek.

  “Oh, my!” She rubbed her face with a suede-gloved hand. “That wasn’t necessary. I only wanted a paper.

  “Sorry, miss. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.” He twitched his nose like a rabbit’s.

  “A kiss should be saved for someone special,” she scolded, trying not to smile. It was impossible to resist his freckled face, despite it being smudged with dirt. He looked to be about eight years old.

  “I’m Clair. Now shake like a gentleman.” She held out her hand.

  He reached out and jiggled it. “Nook.”

  “Nook? How did you get a name like that?”

  “The police call me that cuz I hide from them in nooks and holes.” He glanced up the busy street.

  She frowned. “Why do you hide?”

  “Tried to put me back in that nasty orphanage with stinky food and whippins. I’s never going back there.” He nodded his head once.

  “What about school?”

  “What do I need that for? I ken read.”

  “Really?” She doubted it.

  He flipped a newspaper to the fr
ont page and read it aloud. “Man falls off building to his death.” Nook looked up with a smug, missing-tooth grin until his eyes gaped at something behind her.

  “Here comes a copper!” He dropped his papers, rushed down the street, dodged a truck, and climbed up a fire escape on the side of a building. At the top he did a handstand, holding on to the metal rails.

  Clair hoped he would get away.

  She strolled down the street and studied the silver shoes again in the small shop window with a sigh. The rhinestones sparkled in the morning light.

  Macy’s bustled with afternoon shoppers as Clair bought a bag of nonpareils. Walking the perimeter of the ground floor looking for Winnie, she scanned the shoe, handbag, and dry good sections. Disappointed, Clair nibbled a candy and rode the wooden elevator up to the second floor. In the dress department, she spotted Winnie’s blonde curls.

  Winnie caught sight of Clair and her face brightened. “Hiya, toots!”

  Clair handed her the bag of sweets. “In thanks for helping me find those gloves.”

  Winnie opened the bag with a squeal, “You’re the bee’s knees, the cat’s pajamas, the glitter to my gold!”

  Her expression shifted to a frown, and she hid the bag behind her back. “Good afternoon, Mr. Smithers.”

  “Is everything okay here?” The manager moved toward them, staring through his owlish glasses.

  “Just grand.” Clair smiled at him. “This salesgirl is most helpful.”

  “I’m just going to show her the corsets.”

  Clair blushed. She couldn’t believe Winnie would mention personal undergarments in front of a man.

  “All right, Winifred. Get to it.” He nodded at Clair and walked on.

  Winnie reopened the bag. “That was a close one.” She popped a candy in her mouth and munched on it as she led Clair behind a screen to the lingerie section. She picked up a small corset and started giggling. “This one would fit a baby.”

  “Do babies wear corsets?” Clair asked, putting on her best straight face.

  Winnie pursed her heart-shaped lips. “I was only teasing.”

  Clair paused. “Me, too!”

  Winnie’s blue eyes opened wide. She giggled infectiously, and Clair joined in. It had been a long time since she’d made someone laugh.

  Winnie held up another corset, in Clair’s favorite rose pink, with lace trimmings.

  “This would fit you perfectly.” Winnie held it up to Clair for size.

  “I couldn’t.” She shook her head. It was much too fancy.

  “It would be beautiful on you. Try it. No one will see you behind the screen.”

  “No, but thank you.” Clair couldn’t imagine undressing in such a public place.

  “Then take it home. You’ll be glad you did.”

  Clair fingered the smooth silk. It would be much more comfortable than the scratchy white one she usually wore. “I’ll take it.”

  Winnie nodded and started to wrap it up. “Hey, what are you doing tonight—want to come hear some music with me?”

  Spending an evening with Winnie sounded terrific. “Carnegie Hall? I love the philharmonic.” Clair had read that Toscanini would be conducting Boléro.

  “Something like that.”

  “Who will escort us?”

  “No one.” Winnie shrugged. “We’ll go by ourselves.”

  Clair frowned. Her father would never allow her to go out at night without a chaperone. “But isn’t that dangerous?”

  “Aw. Nothing’ll happen. Please come.” Winnie grabbed Clair’s hand. “We’d have such fun.”

  Clair’s father had an Odd Fellows lodge meeting tonight and wouldn’t be home until late. “What time would we be back?”

  “Early.” Winnie smiled, handing her the box.

  “Okay.” Clair nodded slowly.

  “Goody!” Winnie clapped her hands. “Where shall we meet?”

  “How about the clock at the Waldorf?” Clair spied Mr. Smithers approaching and stepped away with her package.

  “I’ve had a hankering to see the inside.” Winnie smiled. “Seven thirty.”

  As Clair rode the wooden escalator down, she was tempted to return and tell Winnie she couldn’t go after all. If Clair’s father found out, he’d be livid.

  7

  The milky morning fog was so thick, Anne’s plane circled San Francisco International Airport several times. After half an hour it descended, bumped along the runway, and finally came to a stop. Red-eyed and jetlagged, Anne pulled her suitcase through the terminal and climbed onto the shuttle into the city. This back and forth had been getting to her.

  By the time she arrived at her stop at the corner of California and Polk, the morning sky had cleared to a gray wash. She hopped off and walked uphill toward her apartment, passing Lady Goldfinger’s Complete Nail Care and Waxing Salon, Hair Future, and Creative Custom Tailoring. Below her apartment building, Pizza Pino’s first offering of the day smelled enticing.

  Anne unlocked the wrought iron security gate, stepped into the foyer, and froze as Mrs. Landenheim’s apartment door opened and her Siamese cat skittered out.

  Mrs. Landenheim poked her curler-covered head out the door. “Rent’s due.”

  “I’ll get right to it.” Anne kept going up the stairs and almost tripped on the torn carpet.

  For years they’d played the same game. The landlady reminded her the rent was due, and a few days later Anne would finally slip it under the mat, the last of it in cash tips. It used to be because Anne didn’t have the money, but lately, what with all her travel and distractions, she would lose track and forget. According to Mrs. Landenheim, she couldn’t do anything right. She complained about Anne’s tardiness with the rent, her clomping up and down the stairs, and had even recently accused her of feeding her cat. Anne couldn’t wait to move out of the place.

  She trudged up the stairs to her third-floor studio apartment. It was its usual cyclonic mess—clothes tossed on the floor, dishes in the sink, newspapers strewn throughout. With no more space in her tiny closet, shoes lined the edges of the room.

  Setting down her suitcase, she dropped her backpack on the daybed. On her wealth and prosperity altar, she lit a gardenia candle, rubbed the Buddha’s tummy, and fingered the amber pendant hanging over it, bequeathed to her by Sylvia. Anne smiled as she touched her father’s dog tags and heard Aunt Tootie’s voice saying, “These are for you. They symbolize bravery. You’re courageous like him— you followed your dreams all the way to California.”

  From the cupboard Anne grabbed a bag of Chips Ahoy!, got a Diet Coke from the fridge, and with a yawn, sat on her dinky daybed, already missing Sergio’s luxurious king. She couldn’t wait to be there full-time.

  She had loved big-city living in San Francisco, and New York would be even better. Cities were as different as people. When she first drove cross-country to California in Tweety, her yellow Karmann Ghia, she’d stopped in Los Angeles first. She’d bought a map to the stars’ homes and drove around looking for famous actors, but the only ones she saw were in the wax museum. Everything was so spread out, the freeways were ghastly, and public transportation was practically nonexistent. With all that traffic, the Botoxed lips, and its high prices, LA felt more like the city of devils than angels.

  After that, San Francisco felt like a breath of fresh air. Strong winds blew out any semblance of smog, and she could get anywhere by walking or taking the bus.

  If she moved to New York, what would she do with Tweety? Nobody in the Big Apple owned cars, not even Sergio. With the price of gas she didn’t drive the Karmann Ghia often, but it had sentimental value. To earn money to buy it, in high school she had sold collaged boxes at Oscoda’s Annual Souper Bowl Supper & Art Show and also set up a table on Route 23 during Paul Bunyan Days for the passing tourists. It took her two years to save up enough, but she’d done it.

  What would she take with her to New York? Sergio’s place was completely furnished, so she wouldn’t need to take much. Her kitchenette certa
inly wasn’t his style. She had traded three of her paintings for the red Formica table and pleather chairs at the flea market. The seats were torn, but fortunately they made red duct tape. She’d stuffed the table and chairs in the back of Tweety and lugged them upstairs one at a time. The coffee table came from her mother’s house. The cigarette burns gave it a “vintage” look. With her Avon business going well, her mother had been happy to let it go to California and buy a new one.

  It would take her a while to sort through her art supplies. She pulled her journal from her backpack and started a list.

  Sort through:

  • ceramic figurines

  • vintage magazines

  • lace remnants

  • postcard collection

  • paints and brushes

  At Sergio’s, where would she do her art? No way could she take over a corner of his pristine living room or set up in his gourmet kitchen. Maybe she could use his guest room. Renting a loft studio with such astronomical rents would be out of the question.

  She pushed a pile of newspapers aside on the coffee table, pulled the shoebox from her backpack, and set it down. Carefully lifting the shoes from the box, she caressed the rhinestones. If these shoes could speak, what stories would they tell? Who had been the dancer that owned them? And what about those pearls? Were they hers, too?

  Anne’s phone buzzed. “’Lo.”

  “Hiya, love.” Fay’s British accent was bawdy.

  “How’re you doing?” Anne sat on the daybed.

  “Hunky-dory. In town?”

  “Just got in.” Anne slipped on the shoes, lifting her feet to admire them. “I bought some very cool shoes at an antique shop. Sergio says they’re from the 1920s.”

  “Were they expensive?”

  “Naw. Thirty bucks.”

  “Have you checked ebay and Pinterest for comparisons?”

  “No, but that’s a great idea.” Anne took off the shoes and displayed them on the counter. “How’s Gallery Noir?”

  “Things have picked up.”

  “It’s paid off for Freddy to have you curate.” Anne sipped her Diet Coke.