The Silver Shoes

by Jill G. Hall

  In dress slacks and men’s resale wing tips, sporting Austin Powers ruffles on her work uniform blouse, Anne sprinted into the parking garage and clocked in. She applied lipstick by looking in a truck mirror and stuck the beefeater-style hat on her head. She feared it was because of her frizzy, out-of-control hair that management had recently added the odd toppers to their outfits.

  Howard pulled up and hopped out of a BMW. He managed to look cute in the uniform; his wisps of blond curly hair escaping the hat reminded her of Little Lord Fauntleroy.

  “Girlfriend!” His eyes lit up when he saw her. “How was the Big Apple and that scrumptious Sergio?”

  “Great! I found some killer shoes.”

  “Of course you did.”

  A customer exited the hotel. Howard accepted the ticket and opened the BMW’s door. “Thank you, Mr. Hoffman.”

  The man handed Howard a tip and drove off.

  “Check these out.” Anne showed Howard the shoe photo on her cell.

  “Ooooh. You’ll need to wear them to Disco Night at Rhinestone Ruby’s.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure.” Last time she had joined him, she couldn’t even follow the crowd doing the Electric Slide. “Also, look at this!” Scrolling through her phone, she showed him the flappers’ photo and the beginnings of her collage.

  “Nice.”

  A yellow Hummer’s horn blasted. “Hello!” The driver’s voice boomed as big as his vehicle. “Does anyone work here?”

  Howard waved with a smile and said under his breath to Anne, “Busy today. The National Association of Donut Makers is in town. They all drive big fat cars.” He moved toward the Hummer.

  Anne and Howard parked cars for the next hour or so. After pulling into a nearby spot, Howard shook his head. “Lot’s full.”

  Anne groaned. She hated when they had to park on the street. “And it’s trash day, too!”

  A Mercedes SUV rolled in. The buxom blonde carrying her fluffy, diminutive dog got out. “I’ll be here a few days.”

  Anne gave her a ticket, then drove the Mercedes up the hill and around several blocks until she spotted an open space. It would work if that trash barrel weren’t in the way. She turned on the blinkers, put the car in park, jumped out, and moved the can as far over as possible, next to a turquoise T-bird. She slowly backed into the space but couldn’t get close enough to the curb.

  Honking their horns, a parade of cars lined up behind her. She pulled back in, closer this time, and nudged the rear bumper gently onto the bin. She tried again, and this time, the wheels made contact with the curb, but not without tipping the bin over onto its side, spewing garbage onto the road.

  She waved at the still-honking motorists with an embarrassed smile. Not her most shining hour. She rolled the barrel sideways back to the curb. Before she could decide whether to try and clean up the garbage, a truck sped up the hill, mashing the trash onto the road. She jogged back down the hill to the parking garage, a good mile away.

  After work that night, hiking up California Street, Anne huddled against the wind in her coat and tugged a knit cap down over her head. At the top of Nob Hill, the last cable car rumbled by. Behind the Mark Hopkins Hotel, an Ansel Adams moon had begun to rise. Across the street, limos lined the Fairmont’s entrance. A valet opened a shiny Cadillac’s door. A woman in a sequined formal stepped out as her date in black tie accepted the receipt. Anne identified with the valet; he must be as bone-tired as she was.

  Illuminated from within, Grace Cathedral’s rose window romanced vivid colors. At the bottom of the hill, she spied Mata Hari huddled in a doorway.

  The homeless woman sat up. “Hey, girlie. Long time no see.” Her voice squeaked like a rusty chain.

  “Hello! How’ve you been?”

  “Can’t complain.” Mata tugged on the gold cap Anne had knitted for her last year. “It’s late. Where’ve you been?”

  “Working.”

  “You’re an artist. Don’t you do that at home?”

  “I am, but I also park cars to pay the bills.”

  “I don’t have bills. All I’ve got is right here.” Her hand swept over her bedroll as if it were a divan in a maharaja’s tent. “Do you love parking cars?”

  “I hate it.”

  “Then quit! Life’s too short.”

  “How do I live?”

  “Trust the universe.” Mata Hari raised her arms to the heavens and licked her chapped lips. “Everything will work out.”

  Anne said good night and strode on, mulling over whether to really quit. At home, she threw the danged beefeater hat on the floor and jumped on it.

  She called Howard. “I can’t do it anymore. I’m not cut out for this.”

  “I was waiting for that.”

  “You were?”

  “Yes, you’re too good for this job.”

  “But how am I going to pay my bills?”

  “Trust the universe,” he said.

  Hadn’t she just heard that? If only it could be so easy.

  14

  As usual, Fay was looking hip. She wore a tunic over leggings, with tall boots to finish off her ensemble. “’Lo, mate. Nab a table. I’ll buy us drinks.”

  Diana Krall’s version of “Fly Me to the Moon” played in the background as Anne wove through the packed Coffee Cup Café looking for a spot to sit. A young couple rose to go. Anne quickly snagged their bay window table overlooking Sutter Street, settled into her chair, and watched the fog ooze by.

  Fay soon joined her with their drinks.

  Anne licked whipped cream off her mocha. “Guess what? I quit my job.”

  “Bloody good. It’s about time.”

  “I’m not sure how I’ll be able to pay the rent, not to mention buy food. I don’t want to go back to selling art at the farmers market.”

  “How about sitting the gallery again when I need you?” Fay dunked her tea bag up and down.

  That wouldn’t be so bad, though it could be boring. “I appreciate that, thanks.”

  “There’s an instructor opening at the SFMOMA coming up.”

  “But I’m not a teacher.” Anne shrugged and drank some of her mocha.

  “You could try. It would be consistent income for you.”

  A baby started to cry, and its mother picked it up and made her way out the door trying to juggle her coffee, too.

  Fay glanced at Anne’s paint-splattered sweatshirt. “You’ve been working.”

  “Yep.” Anne looked at her phone, scrolling down to show Fay the beginning of her flapper piece. Anne had added more color to it that morning.

  Fay put on her glasses. “Blimey! That’s going to be marvelous. Can’t you finish it soon? I’m hanging another show next week and would love to include it.”

  “I’ll let you know. I’m also doing a painting of the rhinestone shoes.”

  “Do you have it on your phone? Show me.”

  “No. It’s not very far along.” Still too raw to share.

  “You’re back, then. I’m proud of you!” Fay took the tea bag out of her cup and set it on a napkin.

  “I’ve been trying to use my intuition and not my head like you recommended.”

  “Glad I could be of help. Did Sergio return the pearls?”

  “Nope. The shop is still closed.” Anne peered at Fay. “I have something else to talk to you about. I’m thinking of moving to New York.”

  Fay raised her voice. “Are you daft? Last year you told me you loved it here and San Francisco is where you belong. Why can’t he just move here?”

  “Because of his job.”

  “Can’t you keep commuting back and forth?”

  “I miss him too much.”

  Fay frowned. “I can appreciate that, but your career has recently started going gangbusters here.”

  “You do such a good job selling. I’ll send my work out to you.”

  Fay shook her head, blew on her tea, and took a sip. “Freddie has decided to only represent local artists.”

  Anne’s chest felt tight. �
�Are you kidding me? Why?”

  “Several reasons.” Fay counted on her fingers. “Freddie feels we should be more specialized. Our clients and tourists love to buy local artists’ work. And shipping costs are horrendous.”

  That plan just went down the drain.

  Fay studied Anne. “Sergio and you are serious, then.”

  Anne nodded with a smile. “Yep.”

  “Has he asked you to marry him?”

  “No, we’ve talked about it in general.”

  Fay frowned. “That’s tosh. So you’ll move all that way without a commitment?”

  “Sure! People live together all the time without being married. Look at you and George.”

  “But isn’t it risky? What if things don’t work out between you?”

  Of course things will work out. “I’m willing to take that chance.”

  “Do you get along with his family?”

  “I’m meeting them in Italy this summer, remember?”

  “That’s right.” Fay nodded. “How does he get along with yours?”

  “He’s going with me to Michigan next month. Which will really be a test.”

  Fay sighed. “I’ll support you no matter what, but I’ll miss you— and miss representing your work.”

  The words tugged at Anne’s heart.

  They left the café together, but then Fay stepped into the gallery next door as Anne walked up the hill toward her apartment.

  Later at home, Anne rolled out a yoga mat, started the Rodney Yee CD, and lay on her back. She took deep breaths, and soon her body felt as if it were floating in blue skies. Swirls of clouds caressed her. She sank into one and it supported her like God’s hands. Soon the crashing waves on the beach and Yee’s calm voice made her sleepy, and she began to nod off. A trolley clanged by, waking her up.

  She turned over and gazed at the flapper collage—using her heart, she sensed what to do next. Mixing red and orange hues together, she lightly painted the tall girl’s hair and used zinc white to color in the feather.

  Romance must have been much simpler then: no cell phones, e-mail, or Facebook. No airplane travel, long-distance relationships, or living together before marriage. Anything goes now. Fay was ridiculous to think Anne needed a commitment before moving to New York.

  15

  As the last glimpse of sun disappeared behind a skyscraper, Clair opened a parlor window and tried to catch an evening breeze. Automobiles, taxis, and pedestrians crowded the street below. There had been no relief from the heat. If only those small clouds overhead would produce rain and clear the air.

  Someone rapped on the suite’s door. “I’ll get it,” her father called from his bedroom, and hurried to the foyer.

  “Evening, Leland,” Farley’s voice boomed.

  A dull ache filled Clair’s stomach. Lordy, not again! This was the third evening he had come to call since the ball the previous week. Every time he had talked nonstop, stared at her moon-eyed, and never sensed when he should leave. His greasy hair had permanently stained the sofa doilies.

  Clair wondered why Farley was such a good match, but she couldn’t figure out how to ask her father without being disrespectful. And what had happened to the other boys at the ball? Hadn’t any of them been interested in her? She suspected her father had told them to stay away.

  Her father escorted Farley into the parlor. As he removed his bowler hat, a cowlick sprung up from the back of his head. “You look handsome this evening, Miss Clair.” He handed her a nosegay of daisies.

  She sat on the damask-covered divan and sniffed the bouquet. The flowers brought on a sneeze.

  “Gesundheit!” Her father offered Farley a cigar. “Here, son.”

  He stuffed it between his sow-like lips, parked himself across from her in a chair, and lit a match. “I hear the market did well today.”

  Puffing, he lit the cigar, and Clair imagined his mustache catching fire. “Did it?”

  Her father sat in his easy chair and frowned at her. “Yes, AT&T is up. Glad I bought you all those shares.”

  Farley handed her father a fat envelope. “How about buying me more?”

  He opened the envelope and peeked inside with a smile. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, is investing all your funds in the stock market prudent?” Clair couldn’t help herself. Aunt June had been wary of it.

  Farley squinted. “What do you know about it?”

  She shrugged and batted her eyes demurely. Her father had warned her not to appear too intellectual. Setting the flowers on the end table, she picked up her fan and waved it back and forth, staring at the striped wallpaper.

  Farley smiled at her father. “Leland, you always pick winners. What about Ford?”

  “Yes, it’s definitely slated to go up, too.” The men continued to converse, and the room filled with smoke.

  She wished she could go to her room, strip down to her slip, and read Sense and Sensibility.

  She picked up a Vogue and thumbed through it as the men continued to talk. A tall model in a beaded dress had been posed with dramatic flair, one long arm outstretched. Clair wished she could wear something that au courant, maybe even to Rudy’s. Too afraid her father would find out, she had so far resisted the urge to return, though she yearned to move to those jazz rhythms again.

  She couldn’t take it anymore and stood up. “Good night. I’ll leave you men to your important business.”

  “Don’t go.” Her father raised his eyebrows at her.

  She reluctantly sat back down and flapped her fan.

  Farley moved near her on the divan. “Please continue to grace us with your presence.”

  Her father tried, too. “Let’s talk about something you’re interested in.”

  “Isn’t my bow tie keen? I bought it this afternoon.” Farley moved closer to her so she could inspect it.

  She scooted back away from him. “Jolly.” The yellow with red polka dots resembled a circus clown’s tie.

  “It cost me an arm and a leg. My haberdasher tells me I’m quite the dapper dresser.”

  She nodded. That’s the last thing he was.

  “Clair. Why don’t you play the piano for Farley?”

  “Please do.” He grinned at her.

  Glad of any diversion, she leaped up, strode to the baby grand, and slid onto the bench. She lifted the cover and began to play Chopin’s “Raindrop” prelude. Maybe it would bring the much-needed rain showers. She kept the tempo slow as the maestro had insisted. Soon, the music carried Clair far away, and she closed her eyes and began to sway back and forth.

  “Clair, you play divinely.” Farley broke the spell. “Can you play something a little more snappy?”

  “How about ‘The Man on the Flying Trapeze’?” her father suggested.

  Clair ran her fingers over the piano keys and picked out the notes to the familiar song. It had been a while. She had forgotten the lyrics, but as she played, they came back to her. Her father moved and stood beside her. His tenor voice blended smoothly with her soprano. Singing duets with him had always been one of her life’s pleasures.

  “He floats through the air with the greatest of ease,

  the daring young man on the flying trapeze.”

  Farley slid next to her on the piano bench and joined in, croaking like a bullfrog, destroying the father-daughter harmonies. Her fingers continued to hit the keys, but she had stopped singing and soon her father did, too. Farley continued with gusto. She would never care to play that song again.

  At the conclusion, her father applauded. “Bravo!”

  Farley grinned. “Didn’t we sound fine together?”

  Clair stared at him in amazement.

  “Oh, yes.” Her father rose and shook Farley’s hand. “I’m going to turn in. You two sit awhile and converse.”

  “Without a chaperone?” She was as stunned as a bird that had flown into a window. “But, Father!”

  “You kids will be fine.” He kissed her forehead, went down the hall to his bedroom, and closed
the door.

  Farley was no kid. It hurt that her father had left her alone with this odious man. He didn’t feel she was worthy of someone more cultured. She started to play the “Raindrop” prelude again. Farley lumbered over to the desk and helped himself to another cigar.

  She yawned. “I’d better turn in, too.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “I have to prepare early for the church bazaar.”

  Sticking his cigar in an ashtray, he sat next to her on the piano bench again. “Only a while longer.” He enclosed her in his arms.

  She jumped up. “Mr. Parker!”

  “What? You know you want to kiss me.” Farley stood and reached for her again. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell your father.”

  She pushed Farley back and raised her voice. “You’d better go.”

  “Shhh!” He looked toward her father’s bedroom.

  She strode to the foyer and opened the front door. “Goodbye.”

  “Well, I can take a hint.”

  “Can you?”

  “May I call on you tomorrow?”

  She shook her head. “I’m busy.”

  “How about Sunday?”

  “Then, too.” Even with those big ears, he didn’t seem to grasp what she was saying.

  “When, then?” He stood there.

  They stared at each other. She wouldn’t give in. “I’m not sure.” She pushed him out the door and swiftly closed it behind him.

  She should have told him to drop dead. But young ladies of her standing always had to be polite. Next time she would shove him like Winnie did to that bum and say, “Scram. And don’t ever come back!”

  16

  The morning after Farley’s visit, Clair sat at the table, running her fingers in a hidden rhythm over the folds of her dressing gown. Room service had delivered and laid out poached eggs, bacon, and toast, but she couldn’t eat a thing. She hated to be disrespectful but had to confront her father.

  Her father put down his newspaper, cracked open an egg, and took a bite. He had slicked back his hair neatly, and a striped tie lay knotted over his white shirt.