by Mae Wood
There’s a knock on their door and Alice opens it.
“Hello, Lottie,” says Alice, in the friendliest, breeziest tone she can muster. Lottie is far from being on a list of Alice’s favorite people. She’s five years younger than Alice, a complete snob about how her university training makes her classroom far superior to everyone else’s, and unabashedly husband hunting. If she lasts another year teaching, Alice will be surprised. She’ll either be married or will have moved on to bigger things than their frontier grammar school.
“There’s a man with a delivery downstairs for you in the sitting room. I told him it was allowable for delivery boys to carry things to boarders’ rooms, but he said he would appreciate it if I asked you to come down to him, rather than him coming up to you.”
“I’m not expecting a delivery,” says Alice, confused by the statement, but her heart leaps at the idea of another bouquet from Elliott.
“Well, he has a delivery, whether you were expecting one or not. Several boxes.”
“I’ll be right down,” says Alice, wondering what boxes Elliott could have sent.
“You tell him yourself,” says Lottie, turning on her heel.
“Want me to come with you?” halfheartedly offers Frankie from the settee where she’s curled up in a ball.
“No. I’ll be back in a jiffy,” says Alice, slipping into her worn boots. She unties the apron she is wearing and pats at her chignon to check that it is in place. It will be nice to have new boots, even if the leather might be stiff for a few days. She hopes the cobbler made the adjustment appropriately, so that she doesn’t limp.
Downstairs in the sitting room, the handsome shopman stands by the fireplace, a few boxes tied together with string at his feet. The electric lamplight is golden and it dances in his eyes.
“Miss Hirshhorn.” He straightens and greets her.
“Mr.—I’m sorry, but I didn’t get your name.”
“Wertheimer. Frederick Wertheimer.”
“Mr. Wertheimer, nice to see you again,” she greets him, entirely confused by his presence in the sitting room.
“You as well, Miss Hirshhorn. Your shoes were ready, so I thought I’d bring them to you.”
“Thank you,” she says, truly appreciative.
“Care to see if we made them correctly?”
Alice looks around the room. They are alone, but the double doors are open. She should get Frankie.
“You’re safe, I assure you,” he says, anticipating her worry and assuaging it. He extends a hand and gestures for her to take a seat in a nearby chair.
“I haven’t paid for them yet,” she reminds him. “I owe the store five dollars for the shoes and cobbler’s work.”
“We’ll deal with that later,” he says, kneeling in front of her as he’d done a few days before. He unties the boxes.
“Do you have other deliveries to make? It’s getting late and I don’t want to keep you. I can bring the boots back to the store if they need adjustment,” she says. The words rush out in a wild stream from her nerves at his nearness in this quiet room.
“No other deliveries,” he says calmly, opening the first box, and she watches carefully as his fingers push through the delicate tissue paper. The black boots with the tall white uppers she selected appear. She smiles, happy with her decision. They are the first boots she has ever owned that aren’t entirely black, but with her long skirts, while she’s at school only the black will be visible and therefore entirely acceptable. And in the spring and summer, with the shiny buttons contrasting against the white, she’ll feel more fashionable. She congratulates herself on the smart compromise.
She unties her boots and slips her stocking feet into the new ones. The leather is sturdy and stiff. Yes, these will do fine, she thinks with a smile. They will hold up. They will last. She looks up and finds him ready with a buttonhook. She extends a foot and in a flash, he’s twisting the buttons into place.
“Quite the service,” she says, smiling at him, thankful that he didn’t make a production out of her need to have the shoes altered specifically for her. She hadn’t been looking forward to trying the shoes in the store in front of strangers who might pity her. She didn’t want anyone’s pity.
“We do our best,” he says, patting her ankles and indicating that she should stand.
“Proof is in the pudding,” she says, rising to her feet as he rises to his. She slowly circles the room, trying to determine if her gait is steady. If her slight discomfort is from the newness of the boots or something more critical. The doctors had cautioned her to take care with her shoes unless she wanted to end up with an even more pronounced limp, or be confined to a chair.
“Looks good,” he says, breaking the quiet.
“Yes,” she says, her smile pulling from ear to ear as her steps become more assured.
“If they need adjustment, stop by the store and we’ll fix you right up.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wertheimer.”
“You’re very welcome, Miss Hirshhorn. Now, on to the next?”
Alice’s eyes shift from side to side in confusion. “I only bought one pair.”
“No woman has ever complained about having too many shoes,” he says, motioning for her to sit in the chair again.
“Mr. Wertheimer.” Alice exhales in frustration. “I thank you for your thoughtfulness, but I’m a school teacher. I can only really afford one new pair of shoes.”
“That kind of thinking will put me out of business.” He clasps his hands behind his back and nods at the chair.
Alice tilts her head, trying to figure out how to get away from the aggressive salesman who doesn’t seem to know how to listen. “And the kind of thinking that involves you giving away shoes won’t put you out of business more quickly?”
“Miss Hirshhorn, you misunderstand. This is my shoe company, The Wertheimer Shoe Company. And these,” he says, gesturing to the two closed boxes on the floor, “are a present for you.”
“But why?” she asks, not giving an inch, and being careful not to telegraph her surprise at mistaking the shop owner for a clerk.
“Because women like shoes,” he says in explanation, his hands held out, palms up, as if an explanation is entirely unwarranted. “Really, I’ve never had to work so hard to give a woman a pair of shoes before,” he says under his breath.
“You regularly give women shoes?” Alice asks in puzzlement, now questioning his sanity.
“No, of course not,” he says, a hand raking through his hair, the strands of silver at his temples shining in the warm electric lights. “What kind of businessman would I be?”
“I’m not sure you want me to answer that,” says Alice, folding her arms across her chest, “seeing as how I ordered one pair of shoes and you’ve appeared with three.”
“Miss Hirshhorn,” he says, hands coming to rest on his hips. “Are you always this difficult?”
“This isn’t me being difficult, I assure you. This is me being rational. Really. Three shoes for the price of one? What sort of sales tactic is this?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he says, his hands flying out from his sides. “Oh, Mr. Wertheimer,” he says in a falsetto, “The shoes are lovely. Yes, you may take me to the theater.”
“Why would you take me to the theater?” asks Alice, confused by the entire situation.
“Because I’d like to take you to the theater. If you like the theater, that is.”
“I do.”
“Good,” he says, his open hands resting on his hips as he rocks back on his heels. “Saturday, then?”
Alice’s brain suddenly organizes the conversation in a way that it makes sense. “You want to take me to the theater?”
“And to dinner, if you also eat,” he answers with a nod.
“Yes.”
“Yes, you eat or yes you’ll go to dinner and the theater with me?”
“Yes, to both, I suppose.” The words slip from her lips before she can think them through, before she can reca
ll the handmade card sitting on her desk, waiting to be posted.
“I suppose I should stop while I’m ahead,” he says with a smile.
“Does this mean that there really are other shoes for me in the boxes?”
“Ah, so you are in fact a woman. Yes. Sit. Let’s see what we find.”
She sits and he quickly dispatches the new button-on boots from her feet. The second box reveals a pair of short, cream leather pumps with a set of thin straps across the open top.
“These were some of our top sellers last summer. And I’ve reordered them for this spring, as well, but this time with the two straps across, rather than a single strap.” His eyes move from where she’s slid her feet into the pumps to her face. “These aren’t leftovers that I’m trying to get rid of, Miss Hirshhorn. And the cobbler made your adjustments, so you can’t send them back even if you tried.”
She covers her face with embarrassment.
“I’m sorry,” she apologizes through her fingers. “I’ve never had a man give me shoes before and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. What to make of you. I thought you were a clerk. I didn’t know you were the owner.”
“On to the next?” he asks, ignoring her apologies. She slips out of the pumps with a nod.
“Thank you,” she answers. “Forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive, Miss Hirshhorn.”
“Alice,” she corrects him, once again scanning the room to ensure they are alone.
“Alice,” he says when her gaze returns to meet his. “Call me Fred.”
He settles the pumps back in their box and cuts the string off the third box.
“This feels like Christmas,” she says, embracing the joy.
“In so many ways, it does. Merry Christmas in February, Alice.” He hands her the box and she places it in her lap. She opens the lid and pulls back the tissue.
“Oh my!”
“Are they good enough?”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. I can see your delight.”
A giggle rises from her. “It’s too much. Really too much,” she politely protests.
“It’s a done deal, Alice. They are yours.”
Overwhelmed by him, but not a bit cowed, she pulls the shoes from the box and admires how the red and orange satin stitching glows in the warm light.
Seventeen
Ali
September
“Sweetheart, how was California?” Mom asked over the phone around lunchtime. I heard the worry-tinged hope in her voice and I was certain my sister Jess had told her that Scott and I were over.
I’d been home a few days and had been sending my mom’s calls to voicemail. Our texts were short and informative. Mainly about what I wanted to do for my birthday next week. I hadn’t breathed a word to her or anyone else other than Jess about my breakup with Scott. Jess had put me on speaker in the car while she sat in line for after-school pickup and listened patiently while I huffed and sniffled. I hadn’t even told Caroline. Talking to Jess was easier because I couldn’t see the sorrow and concern etched on her face. If I told Caroline, she’d want to talk about it and I didn’t have words. It was too fresh. The wound had stopped bleeding but the scab was only beginning to form.
“Fine,” I said, again punting on having this conversation, but it was far from fine. It wasn’t fine and it wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad. It wasn’t anything anymore, other than over.
“Can you go over to Grammie’s? The move is coming up and she’s a little low. Patrick’s going to visit tomorrow and Jess spoke with her this morning. Having you kids around her really keeps her mood up, but she’s just very sad right now.”
“Understandable.” Our moods would match in that respect. And while we were both setting aside parts of our lives to be in the past, her move was the scary one. We all knew where it led, even if we didn’t say the words.
At dinnertime I arrived at Grammie’s house empty-handed. I’d meant to pick up dinner for us, but the steam I’d been running on for the last few days had given out. I had nothing left. She greeted me at the door with a glass of wine in hand. One glass of red wine a day. She’d negotiated a hard bargain with her doctors—those who treated her and those who loved her.
“Ali,” she said with a smile.
“Good to see you moving pretty well.”
“I’m not dead yet,” she said with a rueful smile as she passed me the glass of wine. “Looks like you could use this more than I could.”
I shook my head no. “Keep your wine. Bar cart still stocked?”
“Whose house do you think you’re in, sweet pea?”
I followed her to the formal living room. The big space looked even bigger with only two wingback chairs, a coffee table, and the brass and glass bar cart that I’d known all of my life. She prided herself on her hostessing skills. Taught me how to make a Scotch and soda for my grandpa when I was about eight. Just a splash to open it up. You don’t want to drown it, sweetie. The small dish that always held a fresh lime and lemon was empty, but the ice bucket was stocked. I reached for the decanted Scotch and fixed my grandfather’s signature drink for myself.
“You should take the bar cart,” she said, making herself comfortable in a chair.
“Grammie,” I exhaled. “I mean, I love it, but I don’t have room.”
“And it’s probably not your California style.”
I swirled the amber drink in my glass, the two ice cubes clinking, and sat in the other chair, the exhaustion I’d been keeping at bay overtaking me.
“Oh, sweetie.” She sighed.
“Yeah,” I said, taking a sip of the fiery drink and hoping the burn would help tamp down the tears. I blinked against them. “Yeah,” I repeated, pursing my lips together and nodding my head. “Yeah.”
“He’ll come around,” she said, reaching over to pat my knee.
“That’s the thing,” I said, scrubbing my face with my free hand and deciding to come clean. “I don’t think he’ll come around. And I won’t come around and it’s just—” I waved my hand in the air, letting the motion supply the words I couldn’t say.
“You’re young, Ali. I’m sure it doesn’t feel like it, but this isn’t the end of the world.”
“I know. It’s not. But—”
“But nothing. Life is too short to be married to someone who you don’t want to be married to. Or, even worse, being married to someone who doesn’t want to be married to you.”
“Yeah, but it still sucks.”
“Language,” she corrected me.
“Sorry,” my ten-year-old self squeaked.
She accepted my apology with a nod. “Even if you don’t take that bar cart, the decanter would look lovely on the top of the buffet.”
“It would,” I said, eager to agree to take more of her things if it only meant that we could stop talking about Scott. “You ready for the move?”
“I won’t ask about Scott, and you won’t talk about my move, deal? Honestly, anything else is fine—your birthday. How anxious your mom gets about Thanksgiving dinner. Strange patients. Something awful that Patrick or Jessica did to you when you were children. The weather.”
“Definitely not my birthday. How about Alice?” Before she could answer, I continued because Grammie wasn’t just having a good day. She was having a great day. If only I knew how to bottle the magic of a great day, I’d never be sad again. “I read those letters.”
Her head tilted slightly to the left. I was wrong about her having a good day. She doesn’t remember.
“In the buffet you gave me. In the bottom drawer. There were a bunch of love letters to Alice from the guy in the Philippines,” I explained, hoping to trigger her memory.
“Sweetie, I have bad days, but not that bad. I remember. And I’m not sure I want to know about the letters. They must have meant a lot to my mother to keep them all those years.”
“They are so romantic. And it’s heartbreaking because they were going to get marr
ied, but the First World War ruined things.”
“That is sad,” she agreed, taking a drink from her glass. “I knew there was someone else. When she was happy with my father, he’d gloat about how right she was that she’d ‘picked this fella.’ In all honesty, I thought there was a chance she’d been married before, and I thought there was more than a chance it was this man with the letters from the Philippines.”
“No. No secret marriage,” I assured her. “He constantly wrote her about them getting married one day. The letters are all about his plans for their life together and he even talks about them taking a honeymoon trip to Japan. I hope you don’t mind that I read them.”
“I don’t, and I don’t think she’d mind that a bit, Ali. I didn’t read them because everyone is entitled to their secrets, but I couldn’t throw them away either.”
“Was she happy?”
“I suppose I should say that I don’t really know, that no one can really know how someone else feels. But I can tell you what I think, and I think she was happy. When I think of my mother, I see her smiling and laughing. And, as long as I’m being honest, I remember some screaming matches between my parents—they were both very hardheaded—but I never remember her saying that she wished she’d chosen that other fella or that she regretted marrying my father. She might have felt that, but I don’t remember her saying it and I don’t remember her acting like my father was anything but her love.”
“So she loved Fred?”
“I’d say very much. When he died, she was heartbroken. This was well before you came along. They lived in the house I grew up in on Volunteer Park until my father couldn’t handle the stairs, and then they moved to a high-rise condo near the floating bridge. They had the most terrific view across the lake to Mount Rainer.”
“Heartbroken but with a terrific view of the mountain? Doesn’t sound so bad,” I quipped, the liquor warming me from inside out. “Beats my view of the hospital.”
“You’ll be fine. I promise. My mother became less than herself after my father died. I can’t explain it well. But that’s how I know you’ll be fine. You look tired, but you don’t seem distraught.”