Red Shoes
Shirley Sullivan
They were the sort of shoes worn by women in Manhattan who walk short dogs on long leashes down Lexington Avenue. Red silk with five-inch heels. Marianne found them in the closet of her hotel room. When she saw that they were her size her spirits soared - the trip to Italy had so far been a disaster.
Though her hair was a mess and her face pale with sleep, she slipped on the shoes and studied her reflection in the mirror. Oh yes. She would wear them to dinner that night and she would dazzle. When Joseph stepped out of the bathroom to ask if she’d seen the Zoloft, she told him to check the pocket of his robe.
She walked onto the balcony, leaning against the railing to look out at a pool filled with leaves and gravel walks choked with grass. A man in overalls chipped away at a fountain and beneath her, two cooks in chef’s hats slouched against a wall, having a smoke and speaking in a language she didn’t understand. It was off-season with only a handful of guests and not much staff.
“What do you think? Feel like going up the coast today?” she called. “Take the bus to Ravello?”
He cleared his throat. “We probably shouldn’t leave the hotel since Walter said he’d try and make it here today from Naples.”
Marianne stepped back into the room. “Walter?”
Joseph stood before the mirror examining the flesh beneath his eyes. Even from where she stood, she saw the weariness in his face.
“Sorry,” he said, “I meant to tell you he’d be in Italy this week.”
Walter. He’d grown up in the South and had that Southern way, charming, with a heartbreaker smile, but not a lot of money. People said he got by on his looks, that his novels sold because of the photo on the back cover. Women hung on him - women of wealth with homes in the Bahamas. He and Joseph had been roommates at prep school, and before college the two of them traveled through southern Spain where they both fell in love with flamenco guitar.
Very deliberately, Marianne stepped out of the shoes and placed them back in the closet and waited in the warmth of the room for Joseph to finish in the bathroom.
She broke off a piece of leftover cake from a plate on the bedside table and stuffed it into her mouth.
It was two months ago, a Sunday morning, with sprinklers throwing water over the lawn, when Joseph told her that he was thinking of moving out. He said it without looking at her. There was an apartment by the park.
His words filtered through her mind, her expression passing from confusion to incredulity to a somber calm.
He continued. “I don’t want to hurt you. I care about you.”
Strangely composed, she asked, “Who is it?”
“What? No one.”
“There has to be someone. People don’t leave unless there’s a someone.”
There was no one, he just didn’t love her in that way. He never had. After a long pause, she’d asked why he married her. His head in his hands, he explained he’d always liked her. And his mother thought it was a good match.
She felt her cheeks heat up. She told him her mother had warned against him, citing an inability to look her in the eye.
“I tried. I never cheated on you. I gave you everything you wanted. I bragged on you to our friends.”
“Yes, you were always nice.” She said the word as if it were a condemnation. “But why did we bother moving to a neighborhood next to a private school, if all along you knew that you were leaving, that we’d never have children?”
A long silence ensued. The sprinklers changed stations and the water reached onto the patio where they sat, wetting their feet. A breeze came up and stirred the leaves of the oak trees. It lifted her skirt. Neither moved. In a quieter voice, she said, “Tell me what to do.”
For the first time he looked directly at her.
Joseph, quiet and thoughtful, with flawless manners and long-legged as a crane, had gone to law school at a small university in upstate New York. He lived as his father had lived, surrounded by books and family photos and soft chairs. In some ways a man out of his element in the present times. In his practice, an entrenched, conservative, buttoned-up firm, he gained a reputation for negotiating settlements. He was eloquent with some, but not with her. He often left his sentences midway, as if his mind departed ahead of the words. Marianne wanted him from the first. She was drawn to his lanky good looks, his tweed jackets, his distracted air. She interpreted his reserve as intellect and in his lengthy silences, she simply talked. Her words filled the spaces between them. Sometimes, at gatherings, she would answer for him, for which he seemed grateful.
In their early years he often came home from the train station with flowers wrapped in brown paper, sometimes a bottle of brandy. She was always ready, bathed and dressed, with drinks waiting on the sideboard. They would cook together, often for members of his firm. He was content in the kitchen, wrapped in an apron and surrounded by cookbooks and home-grown herbs. They tried recipes from different countries. He shared his cases with her, asked her advice. They’d been together long enough to know one another’s histories. She believed in herself, in their future. She’d been happy.
After Joseph’s declaration Marianne had veered off course - a fatal weariness took hold. When she went to the market, selecting lettuce as if it mattered. At Mass, in line for her wafer. Lighting candles at the altar, offering small prayers. She bought a rosary, tiny pale beads that caught the light, and took it with her when she spoke with Father Leo, telling him that her life meant nothing. Father Leo, who had kind eyes and soothing words, couldn’t make it right.
She told herself she was clinging to God, then started using the word fuck a lot. She left clothes flung over furniture. In spite of the warm weather outside, she felt chilled, started wearing her fur. Sometimes when fear scattered her grief, she would find herself driving in the wrong lane, street signs floating in the headlights. She found the vodka and before long the highway patrol found her.
She joined AA in hopes Joseph would feel humiliated. Repeated the twelve steps every morning in a loud voice. Found a sponsor, then slept with him. Eventually she dropped out, she wasn’t, after all, a true alcoholic.
Nothing she did dissuaded Joseph. She had watched as he searched the closets and drawers, gathering his things, pulling forth shirts, underwear, family photographs. His father with a felt hat and veins in his nose, the two of them, waving from a bridge in Budapest. There were certain leather-bound books he asked for, the Russian authors. She didn’t care.
It was her suggestion that they visit Italy. Lie in the sun - perhaps see the world afresh. She had long heard stories about the healing effects of the Italian seaside - a turn-around was not unheard of. All those British novels of rekindled love. After much thought, Joseph agreed. Even though he didn’t like flying, he said he owed her that. He would take time off from his law practice. They booked their flight.
The first days seemed restorative. They slept late, ate continuously and drank lots. He let her remove his clothes and make love to him and after, they sat against the pillows and talked, something that had been missing for months.
“Remember our first dinner party?” she asked.
“We were going to impress our friends by making paella.”
“Only it stuck to the pan. So we kept filling the wine glasses until everyone’s face was in their plate.”
“Harvey went out for pizza.”
“We got pretty good at cooking together.”
“I thought we were pretty damn good at a lot of things,” she added.
He cleared his throat. “We’ve always been friends.”
“I don’t need any more friends.”
She noticed Joseph stopped by the desk each morning, spoke with the day manager, and even though she tried, she couldn’t hear their conversation.
Walter arrived during breakfast. In open sandals, green flowered shirt and small leather bag, he stepped off an excursion boat and strolled toward them.
“Walter!” Joseph stood up from the table where they’d had breakfast, knocking over his water glass. “Over here!”
The two men embraced, slapping one another on the back. They laughed, then embraced again, creating a stir, attracting attention with their dark good looks.
Marianne used her napkin to mop up Joseph’s spilled water, then balled it up in her fist. She rearranged the silverware, brushed crumbs back and forth, nibbled at a roll. She muttered the word fuck, but soft enough that no one would hear.
Walter caught the eye of a girl at the next table, her youth almost a declaration of war, wearing a bikini made of what looked to be seaweed. She had arrived the day before by motor launch, accompanied by an older man in huge dark glasses and a younger man with a tripod and bags of equipment. As Walter glanced her way, she obliged the photographer by dropping her top and exposing her breasts. At that point Marianne pushed away from the table and stood. Walter, joining her, took her in his arms, placing the curve of her cheek against his. She felt his erection and moved closer.
After he checked into their hotel, the three of them passed the day sitting in deck chairs on a rocky ledge by the sea.
“You see the spread in Town and Country about Edward Messing?” Joseph said.
“Bought a home in the Hamptons,” Walter replied. “Eighteen mil.”
“Remember, in school, how we thought he was such a loser. We called him Hooknose.”
Marianne played with an amulet on a chain that hung around her neck.
“Yeah, old Edward,” Joseph remembered.
“Old Edward.”
They laughed. “You bring the chess set?”
Marianne drank rum and coke and listened as Joseph spoke intently to Walter. Stocks that were gaining, those that were falling. Things he never discussed with her. When she’d had enough she rose from her chair, tugged her bathing suit over her bottom, and descended a ladder into the still-warm Mediterranean water. She floated on her back, watching Joseph and Walter move the chess pieces around and drink gin and tonic from plastic cups, wondering if Walter knew what Joseph was planning.
With her snorkeling mask in place, Marianne dove beneath the surface, kicking her way into an underwater cave. She swam slowly in the emerald light, trailed by a school of parrotfish. Propelling her way along the rocks, she searched for any kind of life that might cling there, but the crevices were long abandoned. She stayed under a long time.
When she ran out of breath, she surfaced and swam back to the ladder.
Walter stood above her, reached for her hand and helped her out.
“There’re big bad wolf undertows that could have carried you to Algeria.”
“I thought about it.”
“I was afraid you’d left me standing here holding your towel forever.”
“How is it that you ended up here at the same time as we did?”
“It was Joseph’s idea.”
As gulls cried and circled overhead, Marianne glanced over at Joseph, who was watching them carefully. She stood on her toes and kissed Walter full on the mouth. She tasted the gin.
It was late when the three of them, in a rented Fiat, drove a winding road down the coast to have dinner at a restaurant of plain rooms. Bougainvillea grew up the walls and an orange tabby was parked by the cash register. Marianne wore a floral print dress with her new red shoes. The proprietor, a ruddy-faced woman in a white apron, worked with ice and lemons, fixing and pouring drinks, then went to the kitchen to prepare dinner. They ate roast chicken and drank the better part of two bottles of wine.
Afterward, they walked the beach, fairly drunk, shoes in hand. They could taste salt on the wind. The color in the sky slipped away, leaving them in a darkened world. Conversations from people on passing boats with lighted masts drifted across the water.
Marianne turned toward Joseph. “Does Walter know?” she asked. “Did you tell him that you were leaving? That you were taking an apartment? Was he part of it?”
“Say what?” Walter asked.
Joseph plunged his hands into his pockets and turned away.
She took hold of Joseph’s jacket and gave it a yank. “I was so scared. Waiting to see what you were going to do was like waiting at a red light that never turned green.”
From somewhere up the beach, a dog with a fuzzy coat trotted toward them, and when he was close, Marianne kneeled and buried her face in his fur. “There’s a good boy. Want to come home with me?” She straightened and the dog wandered off. She wrapped her arms around herself. “We never had a puppy. Not even a cat. You were allergic. Come to think of it, wasn’t your mother allergic to animal hair?” She burst out laughing.
“What are you talking about?” Walter asked.
“We lived by Joseph’s script, isn’t that right? You turned the pages and when you got to the end, you closed the book.”
“Stop talking.”
Walter drove home. On the road they passed a car with a flat tire, two people sitting on the hood, looking sad and desperate. Joseph, from his seat in the back, rolled up the window. "Just keep going."
The next morning was cool and misty, with the sun trying to push through the clouds. Outside the window the juniper trees stood gray.
They were both hungover. “I am sorry I’ve made you so unhappy. I never meant to.” Joseph sat in a chair by the foot of the bed, wearing a jacket over his pajamas. “I thought I could hold up my end.”
“That would take a car jack.”
“I know we thought it would help to come here but it’s not working. Europe is depressing.”
“In spite of Walter?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” she said.
“Why did you say those things in front of him?”
“Don’t know.”
“You’ll never forgive me,” he said. “We might as well go home. My heart is on the verge of giving up and I don’t want to die in this place.” His hair had that opposite direction look that happens when a person sweeps both his hands through it.
Flat on her back, Marianne studied the cherubs painted on the ceiling.
“You’d never get my body shipped back,” he said. “I’d end up buried on the side of a hill.”
“You’re serious.”
“Damn right. We might as well get out of here. Like tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
“Thank you.”
“I hope at some point you begin to question yourself,” she said.
“Say again?”
“That you feel your own failures, that your hopes will be denied.”
“What are you saying?”
“Searching for proof that you had some talents. That you were even as good as the others.”
“When did you turn so mean?”
“Oh, baby.”
Later, she decided that she wanted to travel up the coast to where the gardens were. She would take Walter. He loved crowds, mingling with tourists. Possibly someone might recognize him. Ask for his autograph.
Showering, she heard Joseph on the phone. He came to the doorway of the bathroom, watching as she toweled herself dry. “He’s agreed,” he said. “There’s a bus that passes by in half an hour.” He continued to watch as she brushed her hair and slipped into the five-star shoes. He tried to hug her as she left.
It was an old rural bus with small wheels and uncomfortable seats and windows that would not close. There was an odor of cigarette smoke. Other than Walter and Marianne, there were only a handful of other passengers. Walter removed his backpack and stuffed it in the overhead compartment. “It's clouding up," he said.
The bus shuddered as the driver downshifted and let the wheels roll. They picked up speed, passing through a large stand of cypress. Walter had sleep creases on the left side of his face and he smelled good. Marianne could not remember being alone with him before.
"When I was in school, I went all through Morocco in buses with a group of friends," she said. The trees sliced the morning light, creating patterns on the road. "Back then they said I showed a lot of promise." She was a little breathless. "My dream was to be a journalist."
He leaned back in the seat.
“What’s it like to be a published author? People asking you to sign their books?” Before he could answer, she went on. “Of course we read your latest novel.”
“And?”
“Just wonderful.”
They both burst into laughter.
“Okay, I’m no John Updike.”
“How many John Updikes can we handle?” she asked.
A slight breeze through the window picked up her hair, fanning it out. “Anyway, after Morocco we went to Spain. The Moroccans look a lot like the Spaniards, except they have more hair. We drank tea in cafes next to huge fountains and spent our money on beaded anklets we found in the marketplace. We crossed the mountains on camels."
"Did you know camels never get lost?” she continued. She looked over to see if he believed her. “They're like cats, they know their way home. We didn't have to hire a guide." She was enjoying herself. "Bet you didn’t know that camels have lovely dispositions."
“There're camels in Spain?”
“They’re trucked in from Algiers.”
Walter snorted a laugh and she was purely happy.
“Nights we got so drunk, even our hair felt drunk. Sometimes we slept three, four in a bed.” Her eyes were wide and guileless. “Think about what I could have picked up.”
“I wish I’d known you then.”
Trucks passed going in the opposite direction. Aside from that, there was little traffic. The light outside had darkened and they heard thunder in the distance.
“About the time you were in Spain, I got engaged,” Walter said.
“I don’t remember that.”
“I was twenty-four.” He cracked his knuckles. “She was nice. A nice girl.” He adjusted himself to the seat. “When we split up, I thought it was a good idea. I thought she'd hold me back.”
It seemed natural to Marianne to have such a close conversation. She liked listening to his voice, felt she could talk to him all through the evening until dawn. Then go for breakfast and keep talking.
“Actually, I live as I like, staying up until all hours, sleeping late. And I’m messy. I don’t like doing laundry so I’m always out of socks.”
That was the moment when Marianne knew she wanted to see Walter without his clothes.
“Anyhow, I ran into her about four years ago in the city. She'd won an award for a documentary she produced in L.A."
“Wow.”
“Yeah.” Walter smiled his slow smile. His gray eyes, fixed on her without haste. “Talking to her, I started laughing. I didn't mean to but once I started I couldn't stop. I mean, she was so successful, I felt ridiculous. I couldn't think of anything to say. She finally walked off.”
“But you’re famous. Women want you.”
“They just think they do.”
For a while neither of them spoke.
“Just so you know, I knew about Joseph’s plans to leave. But it wasn’t because of me. It’s about some guy he knew in law school.”
That’s when the storm came up from the north. Winds swept the coast. Waves exploded in clouds of spray and the sound on the metal roof forced them to stop talking. Ten minutes later the hills on either side turned dark and wind blew rain through the windows. In one moment, Marianne saw the windshield wipers labor to clear the glass, and in the next a pair of blazing headlights. The lorry came at them head-on, causing their bus to swerve off the road, as if the vehicle had been seized by all four corners and forced headlong down a narrow gorge toward the waiting water. Marianne was flung out of her seat and showered with glass from the exploding windows. She tried to shield her face with her hands as the bus plummeted forward, hauling brushwood along as it crashed its way into the sea. It felt as if it was coming apart.
When the tumbling finally stopped, Marianne came to in a fog of disorientation. She heard Walter’s voice. “We need to get the hell out of here.”
The passengers helped one another out. They stumbled through the waves until they found the shore. Some were sobbing, others seemed dazed. They somehow dragged their way up the hillside to gather in the middle of the road. Drenched, confused. Shivering with the cold and holding one another up. A truck stopped, then another. People emerged from a nearby village. There was a sound of sirens and two cars marked Polizia pulled up, followed by an ambulance. There were revolving lights. And blankets handed out.
The injured were taken off, the rest were transported down narrow streets in cars that rattled - past shops with darkening windows. The last hour of light. Schoolgirls in dark skirts hurried across the road. They arrived at a plain hotel on the edge of the next small town where they were served cups of strong coffee with too much sugar and questioned by the local police. Assurances were given and reports would be filed. It was early evening when it finally ended. The police left and Marianne and Walter sat quietly in the hotel lobby. She realized for the first time that her shoes were missing.
“I’m going to tell the members of Joseph’s firm. That he’s gay. I want to hand him back the hurt he’s handed me.”
“Don’t do that.”
“No?” Perhaps in the entire hotel, her voice was the only sound, low and muted, like the soft stroke of someone sweeping.
“I’ll buy a dog then. No, two - Sam and Maggie. Lie about them and say they’re service dogs. I’ll take them everywhere, even into restaurants. Seat them at the table, napkins tucked into their collars. They can eat off the plates.” Her cheeks were wet.
Walter rose from his chair and walked to the reception desk. He paid for a bottle of whiskey and a room that looked out on a courtyard hung with paper lanterns sogged by rain. A room that looked as if it were stolen from an old painting. In the soft grainy light, one could see that the wall beneath the window was streaked by years of water leaking in.
