by Alex Witchel
“You know, Frog,” the maiden said, “I must trade in these shoes for a much nicer pair, if I’m to appear before the Wizard. These are too worn from the road.”
“Well, here, look at this,” the frog said, showing her a flyer. “Prince seeks SWF for bride. If glass slipper fits, my 401(K) is yours. Call 1-800-SAVE ME for appointment.”
“Hmmm,” the maiden mused. “The only problem is, I have no address here.”
“I know what to do,” the frog said. “Let’s go to the shoemaker so he can make you a new pair of traveling shoes, just in case you end up needing them. But in the meantime, call in and give the shoemaker’s address as your own. That way, the Prince can meet you there.”
So the pair set off to the shoemaker, who was a very nice man who sat at his desk reading books when he wasn’t working.
“Excuse us, sir,” the frog said. “We are sorry to interrupt your studies, but this maiden needs a pair of shoes in case the glass slipper does not fit.”
The shoemaker stood up and shook hands, and his eyes were very blue. “May I offer you some wine?” he asked, pouring some Havens Merlot all around. He then measured the maiden’s foot.
“Kind sir,” she said, “I would not want to trouble you to make me the shoes if I’m lucky enough to fit the glass slipper. Would you let us wait here until the prince comes, and then, if it doesn’t work out, you can make the shoes afterward?”
“But of course,” the shoemaker said solicitously, and he returned to his books while the frog and the maiden waited for the prince to appear. Which he did, a few days later.
“Here he comes,” the villagers said in awe as they watched the white horse pull up in front of the shoemaker’s house. The prince alighted, wearing Weejuns, plaid pants, and a Lacoste polo shirt with a grinning alligator at its heart.
“Your Highness,” the maiden said, bowing low before him.
“Hey,” he answered, getting down on one knee. “Your legs aren’t bad. Let’s check out your feet.”
But first, the maiden looked at the glass slipper. “Wait. I’m having second thoughts,” she said, holding the shoe up to the light. It was glass on the outside and glass on the inside, and it had no give at all. Now that she stopped to look at them, she realized these shoes would cripple her. You couldn’t go anywhere in them. You would have to stay in the very same spot for the rest of your life.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness, but I don’t wear glass,” she said finally.
“Okay,” the prince said, turning toward his briefcase. “How about black peau de soie pumps? I have another fiancée with the same problem.”
The maiden considered. “You know, I love peau de soie, but I need shoes that are sturdier, that will take me farther on my journey—especially if you have another fiancée.”
“May I offer a suggestion?” the shoemaker asked. “I can make you some sensible shoes, crafted from fine leather, with low heels and excellent support. They may not be as magical as the glass slipper or as sophisticated as the peau de soie pump, but they will feel good and last a lifetime.”
The maiden looked at the frog questioningly. “You don’t need my advice,” he said. “You always pick things like that anyway. You’ve never been fun to shop with.”
“Paul, is that you?” the maiden asked, looking again at the frog. “I should have known.”
The frog sighed. “I haven’t been myself lately, Sandra,” he said. “But I gave you my word that I would stay on this journey with you, and I have.”
The maiden turned to the shoemaker. “Please make me your shoes,” she said, and, bowing, he returned to his workshop. She turned back to the prince. “No hard feelings, I hope,” she said as he remounted his horse.
“Not at all,” he said magnanimously. “Actually, I have my hands full. You’d be amazed at how many women fit either this shoe or the pump.” And off he galloped into the sunset.
“Well, fair maiden,” the frog asked, “are you disappointed now that you’ve lost your prince and your three wishes?”
“Well, sort of,” she said. “But we still haven’t made it to the Wizard. I think I’ll wait and see what happens next.”
The shoemaker appeared then with the maiden’s new shoes. She tried them on, and they fit like magic! They were beautiful, they were comfortable, they made her feel as if she were walking on air. “Oh, dear sir, I can’t thank you enough,” she said. “How much do they cost?”
“Well, fair maiden,” the shoemaker said, “I thought I would ask for the privilege of your being my bride, which is all the payment I require. Just the pleasure of your company, day in and day out.”
The maiden considered. “Okay, I get it,” she said. “The shoes fit like magic, so that means every time I put them on I get three wishes, right?”
The shoemaker shook his head. “No. They are only shoes. They don’t come with wishes. Actually, after you’ve worn them another hour or so, you may feel some tightness in the toe or the heel. You need to break them in gradually.”
The maiden crossed her arms. “So what is it you’re offering me exactly? A lifetime as a shoemaker’s wife, no access to wishes, and a bunch of books for entertainment?”
The shoemaker nodded. “Yes, fair maiden, I’m afraid so. You know, I’ve been married once before. And I would say that beyond a pair of shoes with good support, there aren’t many guarantees in a marriage. Though you can certainly wish all you want.”
“Well, harumph!” said the maiden. She had waited her whole life to say that. “Can you believe the nerve of this guy, Frog?”
But the frog did not answer, nor was he anywhere in sight.
“Frog, where are you?” the maiden called. “My journey to the Emerald City is still in progress, and you promised to stay with me until its end.”
She looked everywhere, but still could not find the frog. Finally, she saw a note on a stone next to a nearby stream.
“Fair maiden,” it said. “Sorry I couldn’t make it to the Emerald City. But wherever your journey should lead, always remember my money’s on you. Gone dancin’—The Frog.”
She walked slowly back to the shoemaker’s house.
“Have you made a decision?” he asked.
“No,” the maiden said. “I’m actually not sure what to do now. I think I’ll continue on my road in my new shoes and see what life is like without waiting for wishes.”
The shoemaker brightened. “Sometimes it can be lovely,” he confided. “So many things—the sun in the sky, the flowers in the field, the bread in the oven—are so beautiful that they are like wishes already come true.”
“I’ll try and remember that,” the maiden said, stepping forward to shake his hand. “And please don’t think I’m a deadbeat. I’m broke now, but I shall repay you, no matter how long it takes.”
“No rush,” the shoemaker said. “After that peau de soie craze, I’m set for life.”
And the maiden bade him farewell as she started walking toward the road. When she turned to wave goodbye, the shoemaker pointed to the door of his house.
“I usually leave this open for my son, Benjamin,” he said. “But I will leave it open for you now, too. When your journey is finished, you will be welcome here.”
“But will we live happily ever after?” she asked.
“I can’t say for sure,” the shoemaker answered. “But the frog said his money was on you, which means you’ll figure out the right thing to do—probably sooner rather than later. In the meantime, take this. It may come in handy once you get to the Emerald City.”
He handed her a card that read: “Storytellers Anonymous. Twelve steps to realizing that ‘happily ever after’ is a pat tag line with no lasting emotional resonance.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Even though I have a master’s degree, there are definitely holes in my education. And I think this one may be the biggest.”
This time, when she set out on the road, she did not look back. She kept the note from the frog close to her heart, and sh
e walked and she searched and she looked and she dreamed, and while she debated the validity of “happily ever after” as both a literary and lifestyle device, she thought every day about the open door at the shoemaker’s house. And still, she moved on.
The End
16
Sunday, I waited until noon before calling Mark. The machine picked up.
“Mark, this is Sandy,” I said. “I realize that I was certifiably insane the other night, and I hope you’ll let me make amends. If you’re free this week, I’d love to cook dinner for you. I do have this sort of spooky roommate, but she tends to stay in her room, so if you’re willing to venture to the wilds of the Village, I’d love to have you. Talk to you soon, I hope.”
By four o’clock he hadn’t called. By five, I was deep in my closet, vacuuming behind the shoes. By seven, I was pouring myself a drink to calm down, though I did allow myself a toast and a giggle at how I had ended my evening the night before.
At nine-thirty the phone rang.
“Sandy?” It was Mark, thank you, God.
“Yes, it’s me, second only to Sylvia Plath in mental stability. Listen, I have got to apologize to you. I was awful the other night. I should have called the very next day, but, well, I’ve had a few things to work out and I seem to have made quite a mess doing it. But hopefully, it’s one I can fix. I so want to.”
“You were awful!” he exclaimed. I could hear the smile in his voice. “It was like that scene in The Manchurian Candidate with all the hypnotized garden-party ladies. I wanted to shake you, but I don’t know you well enough.”
“Well, can we rectify that situation, please?” I asked. “At least let me cook dinner, for starters.”
“That sounds great,” he said, “though I could live without the roommate. How about this? Why don’t you cook at my apartment? Then we won’t have a problem.”
I can’t say I blamed him. By this point, we were both headed for the Blue Balls Hall of Fame.
We decided on Wednesday. He would order the meat from his butcher, and then we would rendezvous at Fairway, which was right near his apartment, and choose things together like salad and cheese. “I have plenty of wine,” he said.
I laughed. “All stocked up on Havens Merlot?”
“Absolutely.”
For the next two days, time seemed to drag itself on purpose. I checked the tabloids, hoping to read NUDE DERANGED MAN NABBED AT ESSEX HOUSE, but there was nothing. He didn’t call, either. I told Pimm and Coco over lunch what had happened, and we all just howled with laughter. “Next!” Coco declared.
On Wednesday, I got to Fairway first. Or thought I did. “Sandy?” I heard Mark’s voice behind me. He was holding a head of Boston lettuce. I looked into his welcoming blue eyes and thought that maybe up until now someone had been holding me prisoner. Would Midori respect you in the morning if you shut a man like this out of your life?, I asked myself.
We stood on line at the cheese counter and talked about how both our days had been, and nothing felt cozier than walking next to this man toting a can of walnut oil and a basketful of vegetables up and down the aisles. The idea of going home with him seemed completely natural.
We walked to his apartment, talking nonstop. As we entered the lobby, I saw the doorman take me in with great interest, hurrying to the elevator to press the right button.
Inside the apartment, the paint still smelled new, and a beautiful Oriental rug covered the living room floor (he must have just bought it, I figured; the edges didn’t lay flat yet). All the walls had bookshelves on them, half-filled, and boxes of more books were piled everywhere. He led me through the tiny dining room, with its handsome wooden farmhouse table and chairs, into the kitchen, where, after he poured us some wine, he encouraged me to sit while he made the salad. I watched him, and we talked in a rush, as if we hadn’t seen each other in a year—though it had barely been a week.
I offered to season the roast beef, but he insisted on doing it himself. “I thought I was cooking you dinner,” I said.
“All it needs is some salt and pepper and it will take care of itself,” he answered, putting it in the oven.
I looked at the garlic and the bay leaves I had bought. “Are you sure?” I asked, but he was already making the dressing.
“Just keep talking to me,” he said, so I did, and we were through the wine in no time.
“Why don’t we open a second bottle?” I asked.
He seemed momentarily startled. “You know, my ex-wife never liked drinking wine, and if we didn’t finish a bottle she thought it was a terrible waste to leave it—”
“Well, the good news is she’s gone now,” I said. “And I’ll bet there won’t be leftovers.”
He opened the next bottle, and I came over with my glass so that he could pour me more. He kissed me, and we left the glasses and the salad dressing where they were, making our way through the living room, where I saw cans of Play-Doh and a box of Pampers, on into the bedroom. At last! The kissable throat was mine, and nothing in the world was going to stop me now. We both seemed torn between rushing and savoring, so we did both.
Sometime later, we lay in his bed just grinning at each other.
“The roast beef!” I yelled, abruptly sitting up, and we charged into the kitchen, which was filled with smoke. Mark pulled the pan out of the oven and dumped it in the sink, and we opened all the windows. I started to open the door to the service entrance until I realized that neither one of us had any clothes on.
“The only problem now, of course, is that I’m starving to death,” I said, pulling on his discarded shirt while surveying the soaked piece of char.
“Well, we do have salad and cheese,” he said.
I hunted through his cabinets. “How about some tuna fish sandwiches?”
“Great,” he said, while I pulled out a bowl.
“See, this extra wine came in handy,” I said, “and look at all the air it’s had.” I poured us both some, and this time I made him sit down and talk to me while I toasted the bread and found some pickle chips in the fridge.
We ate and we drank and we kissed and we talked, and I hadn’t felt as right anywhere in the longest time. And when we were done, we went back to the bedroom, where I traced the outline of his lips with my fingers and listened to the jazz he was playing and thought that I might never go to the office again. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I would stay right here, in this bed. Forever.
It was getting light outside when I fell asleep, and when I woke up I heard Mark padding across the thick carpet toward the kitchen. Soon I smelled coffee, and I was so glad to be here, to wake up someplace where I didn’t belong—and belong.
“Good morning,” he said, coming back into the room, looking happy and a little bit shy.
“Good morning,” I said, feeling pretty much the same way. I got up, got dressed, and thought about leaving and going back to my apartment to change—not only were my clothes wrecked, but they smelled like burned meat. But the music was back on, and the coffee was ready, and the papers had come, so I said the hell with the clothes and stayed as long as I could.
When it was finally time to go, we kissed goodbye, and he hugged me and I hugged him back, and when I pulled away, after the longest time, I realized that whether he was holding me in Philadelphia or all through last night, he never let go first, I did.
“I am sorry to say that Susie Schein awaits,” I said, gathering my bag.
“Will you call me later?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said.
I swept past the doorman in the lobby, a different one this morning. He took in my wrinkled clothes and tossed hair and, standing at attention, touched the brim of his cap.
“Good morning, lady,” he said energetically. “Have a wonderful day.”
“Thank you,” I answered. “I think I will.”
I was almost surprised to find the office the same as when I’d left it the day before. I felt so different, so transported, I was sure that the rest of the w
orld had transported along with me. Well, two things had happened, it turned out: The assistant who’d been helping me had quit, and the new beauty writer had started, an elfin little thing with severely plucked eyebrows whose jokes made no sense to me at all. Susie was ecstatic.
I fought against calling Mark all day, saving it as a treat for the late afternoon. When the phone rang around five, though, I was convinced it was him. I picked up the phone, breathless, eager to hear his voice. “Hello?”
“Sandy, it’s Sally.” Her tone was somber.
My stomach clenched with fear. I hadn’t heard from her in days. “What’s happening?”
“Well, Sandy, I want to tell you that Paul passed away this afternoon.” Her voice was gentle, a bit formal.
I found it hard to catch my breath.
“When?”
“About an hour ago. His parents were here with him, and so was I. He had really been failing these past few days, he was on oxygen almost all the time, and finally, this morning, we went back to the hospital. He was awake for a while, and I sat with him and told him it was okay to let go. That he had fought as hard as he could, and we all loved him so much, and we really wanted him to go now, to find his peace. He died a few hours later.”
“Sally, I’m so sorry. You have done the most amazing job of taking care of him. Without you, he would never have lasted this long, or been as happy as he was.”
“Thank you,” she said. Her voice was soft and I could hear her tears.
We sat a moment, stunned by the words on both ends, having dreaded their coming for so long. They seemed both expected and strange.
“When is the funeral?” I asked.
“Sunday afternoon,” she said. “At five. That will give people time to fly in. You should let me know when you’ll get here and I’ll have Phil pick you up at the airport. I wish I had room for you to stay in my apartment, but with so much family here, I can’t. There are some nice hotels nearby, though, and—”
“Sally, wait. I mean, I have to think about it. It’s just. I … I didn’t believe this would really happen.”
“I know,” she said.