Strut

by Susan Diplacido

  When we get to the Smithton-Moore estate, I strap my tool bag with the shoes across my back and pull my bike from the trunk and then send Mom on her way to her daily routine.

  Herman greets me at the door, and though my heart is pitter-pattering inside my chest, I’m relieved to see him instead of Mrs. Moore. But instead of allowing me in and then showing me out back, he leads the way and accompanies me all the way to the pool area, so I don’t have an opportunity to replace the shoes. I figure he’ll disappear once I’m at the pool shed, but instead he hovers close. Saying, “You’d better show me what to do in case you run late again.”

  So I start the pump and then kick on the heater, and it ignites without incident. Once it’s running, I explain that all he has to do is turn off the heater and then the pump if I’m not back in two hours. And then I’ll restart it again when I return.

  “It’s very important that you return.”

  “I know. The dogs need their swim.”

  “Precisely,” he agrees, without the faintest hint of irony or absurdity.

  With him still hovering, I get a phone call, and it’s from Mrs. Farris. I have hopes that he’ll disappear as I excuse myself to speak to her, but he stays close and I protectively put a hand around my guilty tool bag.

  “Is there still water leaking out, Mrs. Farris?” I ask.

  “No, that seems all fixed, Lisa. Thank you. But the water seems to have gone a little cloudy. Could you come check it when you get a chance?”

  “I’ll be right there,” I assure her.

  I stare at Herman for a few seconds after I hang up, my pulse still ticking away, but then he gestures for me to lead and I can feel him close on my heels all through the living room. Once I’m inside the foyer, the dogs charge me, barking and nipping at my ankles, and I’m certain that it’s because they sense their master’s property stowed in my bag. I freeze.

  “Chelsea! Chester!” Herman snaps at them. They calm enough for him to get the door opened to let me leave, but their little bug eyes never once stop glaring at me, accusing.

  At Mrs. Farris’s house, she also follows me out to the pool. But she, unlike Herman, greets me warmly, thanks me for coming, and offers me a beverage, which I decline. The water is a bit cloudy, and it shouldn’t be if we got the chemicals right yesterday. She’s close by me, and I guess it’s because of my guilty conscience that I don’t want to take the chance of her seeing the shoes in my bag, so I keep it slung over one shoulder and unzip it carefully to remove the test strips. I push aside the shoes, until I find the bottle I’m looking for, and then, once I have it pulled out, I relax my grip enough and that’s when it happens. From behind me, a sharp grunt, and then a forceful push, and next thing I know, I’m off balance and pinwheeling my arms, but before I can get control, I tumble and I’m in the pool.

  I come up and spit water and see Mrs. Farris cracking up along with Rick, standing next to her.

  “Why?” I ask him.

  “Payback for yesterday, Boss,” he says.

  “I did see that yesterday, Lisa,” Mrs. Farris says. “It was amusing when you pulled him in, but this was much funnier. The look on your face!”

  I’m not the least concerned about looking unprofessional, because Mrs. Farris is a good sport. And I don’t mind being wet. But I am freaking out. I dropped the bag when I lost my balance and I look at it now, and sure enough, one of the shoes tumbled out and is sitting precariously close to the edge of the pool. And the other one, God help me, it’s fallen in. I quickly dive under and am thankful I’m not at the deepest part of the pool. It’s only about eight feet here and I’m able to retrieve it on the first go. I come up and immediately place it on the deck, but I’m terrified that the damage is done with it having been completely submerged.

  “Look at those,” Mrs. Farris remarks.

  “Yeah. Look at those,” Rick says and glares at me.

  “Those are really unique,” Mrs. Farris says and picks up the one that had landed outside the bag but not in the pool. She turns it over once in her hand, looks at the bottom and then inside. “I don’t see a label. Are these Louboutins?”

  I pull myself out of the pool and reach inside the bag for a towel. “No,” I answer her. “They aren’t designer, exactly. My mom has a friend whose cousin’s fiancée works in a props department or something and she made them.”

  “Well, she should go in business. If they were my size I’d force you to sell them to me.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. They’re just a loan.”

  “Oh? Got a hot date tonight?”

  “Yeah, something like that,” I say.

  “She’s coming to see my band play,” Rick says, still burning holes through my skull with his stare.

  Mrs. Farris’s eyes flash between us and then she says, “Oh, you two. I always wondered!”

  “It’s not like that,” I tell her.

  “With shoes like this, it’s going to be like that,” she answers me as she sets the shoe back down. “Besides, he already got you all wet!”

  I’m scandalized by her comment, and so is Rick. It breaks his glare on me as his mouth drops and he chokes back a laugh.

  I try to ignore it and change the subject, saying, “I’ll get these levels checked for you and straightened out.”

  With that, Mrs. Farris coyly smiles and then turns and goes back inside.

  “Seriously,” I ask Rick as I grab the test strips, which have also sprawled out on the pool deck. “What are you doing here?”

  “We need you at the Sorensens. They want to make some changes and you’ll have to talk to them.”

  “Dammit. I need to get back to the Smithton-Moore place before long.”

  “For what? Returning to the scene of the crime?”

  “Oh, hush.”

  “Seriously, Boss.” He looks disappointed as he says, “You always seemed so...stable to me. I can’t believe you stole her shoes!”

  “I didn’t steal them!” I shout too loudly and then look around to make sure Mrs. Farris is out of earshot.

  Then, as I check the levels and realize that Mrs. Farris has a slight phosphate problem, I tell Rick what happened last night with Erica. Rick, he laughs. Says, “You must be dying!”

  “I have to get them returned!”

  “You have to stop at the Sorensens.”

  “After we stop again at the Smithton-Moore place,” I promise him.

  When we get there, Rick wants to wait in the car. I try to float the idea by him that it’d be better if he came in because one of us could act as a decoy while the other sneaks and returns the shoes, but I can tell he’s not in love with that idea at all. And since none of this mess is his fault, it’s not fair to drag him into it, so I let him hang back.

  Rick, he says, “Besides, I’ve got some reading to catch up on.” And he pulls out a script, my script, from next to his seat and thumbs through it to the middle. And for whatever reason, that adds another layer of anxiety to my already burdened conscience.

  It gets worse at the front door. Herman greets me, but almost immediately, Mrs. Moore is by my side. I force myself to keep looking at her face while my eyes are fighting me, wanting to sneak a peak down at her feet to see what she’s wearing. But I win the battle of wills with myself and start babbling like a guilty person, telling her all about the pump and the heater and that’s why I’m back, to make sure the heater keeps running smoothly so that the water stays warm enough. When I get to the pool shed, I place the tool bag on top of the heater and that’s when Mrs. Moore comes out with a flanking attack.

  She says, “Herman says you had a friend here with you last night.”

  “A new associate, yes.”

  She just nods. I know she knows. She knows I know that she knows. I could die. On the spot, I could just die.

  She goes, “Was she with you the whole time?”

  I have no choice but to do it. It’s not noble, but it’s my only chance to back her off. So I do it. I say, “Most of the time
. Except when she was with your husband.”

  Mrs. Moore’s eyes narrow and I swear I can see her nostrils flare. Something in me can’t resist. It’s a protective urge, and my hand lands on top of the tool bag where the shoes are nestled. I never before considered myself a rat, but throwing Mr. Smithton to the wolves didn’t faze me. I guess if I’m going down, I’m going to take everyone with me. And I then soothe the sting and say, “She’s a very big fan of his. He showed her his Oscar.”

  “I bet he did.”

  “It was very quick,” I say with a nod, almost conspiratorially. “She saw the Oscar and then met me outside again.” I refrain from saying something along the lines of so no worries about any funny business, because I know that’d be too blatant. She keeps looking at me, so I turn and say brightly, “Well, let’s make sure this is still running.”

  She never leaves my side as I bump the pump and then restart it and the heater, this time having to reach in and force the bi-metal wire connection on the thermometer again. I get it quickly before too much gas escapes, and it’s a controlled ignition. “Should be good for another couple hours,” I tell her.

  She turns and heads inside, so I grab my bag and follow. Naturally, she doesn’t give me even a second alone, instead herding me out the door as I tell her I’ll be back in a few hours.

  In the van, Rick asks, “Well?”

  “I couldn’t get rid of them.”

  “I can’t believe you’re making me transport stolen merchandise.”

  “Just go to the Sorensen’s,” I snap.

  Over at their place, things go well. I wave to the rest of the crew and then meet with the wife, because they’ve decided they want to add not only a hot tub, but also a fountain. It’s fine by me. We’ll have to do more digging and reconfiguring, and I tell her it’ll take me a couple days to come up with an estimate for the added cost. She seems happy, and it pleases the heck out of me, because it’s more business. I have to let the crew go for the day, though, because there’s no point in continuing until I have the plans finalized. None of them seem to mind, and Rick offers to take me back to the Smithton-Moore place.

  This time, he follows me inside, agreeing to help run interference if it’ll help. He refuses to touch the shoes, and I don’t blame him. But he says he will try to keep Mrs. Moore occupied if possible. It’s a good plan, but unfortunately, Mrs. Moore has contingency plans of her own, and when two of us arrive at the door, Herman shepherds us both outside, this time with the dogs circling excitedly around Rick’s feet. While Herman leads me to the shed, Rick hangs back and I see him pull out my script from his bag and keep reading. I make a mental note that if I ever do decide to pull a serious crime, Rick will not be on my shortlist of accomplices.

  This time, the heater is already off and I can again smell gas. Once I get the pump restarted, I call to Rick to give me a hand. Herman steps back, but not away, as I make Rick hold the thermometer in place and I manually light the heater to avoid more gas seepage.

  When we make it back inside, Mrs. Moore is there, and Rick, bless his heart, he goes, “Hey! I hear your husband has an Oscar. I’d love to see it!”

  “Get out,” is all Mrs. Moore coolly says.

  Outside, Rick, he says, “I gave it a shot.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m not giving up. Sooner or later they’ll leave me for a minute or two and I’ll have to take any opening I get.”

  “You know, the longer that they’re missing, it’ll be even more obvious when they show up as soon as you’ve been there.”

  “I don’t care,” I tell him. “I can’t keep them and forget about it. That wouldn’t be right. I’ll go a few more times tonight. Maybe later they’ll be asleep or something.”

  Rick changes the subject. Says, “Your script was really good.”

  “What? You finished it?”

  “Just back there. I’m serious. I really liked it.”

  I look over at him to see if he’s mocking me, but he seems sincere. For some reason, that makes me feel lighter. Almost...happy.

  “Well. Thank you. Thank you for reading it.”

  “I enjoyed it,” he says. “Just like you’re going to enjoy my show tonight.”

  I laugh at that.

  Then, “Oh. SHIT!”

  “What?” I ask.

  “I left it there.”

  “Left what where?”

  “The script. I’d just finished it when you called me to help you with the heater. I set it down on a chaise lounge and forgot to pick it up when we were leaving.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Boss. I’m sorry.”

  “This is ridiculous. They’re going to think I’m treating their place like the lost and found. I take stuff when I want and then drop things off. Dammit, they’re going to think I’m angling for Smithton to read it. They’ll hate that.”

  “I don’t know,” Rick says. “It really is great. If he does read it....”

  “He won’t actually read it, Rick. They’ll think it’s just...presumptuous. It’ll offend them.”

  “Boss,” is all Rick says.

  “Don’t worry about it. You know what? They’ll never see it. I’ll go home and get changed and then stop there before even going out tonight. I’ll pick it up then. No harm, no foul.”

  Chapter Five

  I go home and get ready to go to the club. Mom is, naturally, already prepared. She looks gorgeous. My mom is nearly sixty, but she’s not the sort of woman that people say, “She’s still quite attractive. You can tell she was a real beauty.” She’s the sort of woman where people say, “She’s a real beauty.”

  In her car, I thread my way through the streets to get to Beverly Hills again. This time, it’s Mr. Smithton who lets me in. My face goes hot when we reach the living room and I see my script on the coffee table. I don’t know if I should immediately apologize, or lunge for it, or ignore it. So I just try to control my breath to keep from hyperventilating. Next thing I know, Herman is behind me. Saying, “You left something behind.” There’s more than a note of accusation in his voice.

  “I’m so sorry,” I stammer.

  “I read it,” Mr. Smithton says. My heart hitches, but before I can say anything, his phone goes off and he answers it, walking out of the room.

  “I know everyone has Hollywood aspirations. But it is completely inappropriate for the help to be so imposing,” Herman says with a frosty edge in his voice.

  “I agree. I’m so sorry. I know you won’t believe this, but it was an accident.” With that, I reach for the script. As I pick it up, I hear Mrs. Moore’s voice from another room calling to Herman.

  To me, it’s as if the heavens opened. Yes, I got busted for the script. But when Herman quickly turns to follow her request, I finally have my opening. Still breathing hard, I feel the adrenaline spike through my veins. I clutch the script and hurriedly unzip my tool bag, stuffing the offending screenplay inside and then feeling around for the shoes. I glance around the room. I know Erica got the shoes from the bedroom, but I’m not sure where the bedroom is, and I don’t want to risk getting caught in another area of their home. I grab one of the heels and lick my lips and check out the couch. They’ll fit under it. It’s not the perfect solution, but it’ll work. Maybe Mrs. Moore will believe they got misplaced under there for a day. Even if she suspects, or even if she outright knows it was me, she’ll at least have her shoes back.

  I drop to my knees and pull the first shoe from the bag, and as I’m hurriedly sliding it under the couch, I hear Mr. Smithton above me again. Saying, “I guess I should show you to the pool.”

  Busted! Panic!

  I don’t, I don’t know what to do.

  “Uh huh,” I answer. Then, quickly, “Just grabbing the script. I dropped it.” I keep my one hand with the shoe surreptitiously hidden under the couch as I let my tool bag drop from my shoulder to the floor and slide it also under the couch. Then
I push the shoe back inside, hopefully all of this happening out of Smithton’s line of sight. Once it’s in there, I make sure the script is on top of them, covering them, hiding the evidence.

  Hollywood magic shoes my ass! These things are nothing but torture for me!

  I rise and apologize again, my voice shaky and nerves jangled, but I notice that Smithton is simply staring intently at my ass. Frankly, I should be offended, but instead I’m flattered.

  He follows me outside to the pool, and once I have everything turned off and am heading back inside, Herman, of course, cuts me off. When I tell him that it’s all shut down for the evening, he says, “No.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s still two degrees too cold. It needs to run longer.”

  “I have plans, Herman. I can’t come back again.”

  “You must,” is all he says, as though that settles it.

  And, well, I guess it does. I check my watch and warn him, though. Say, “If I’m not here within two hours, you have to shut it all down.” He sniffs. So I turn around and flip everything on again, not lucky enough to find a moment alone to try and deposit the shoes back inside the house. But I do hold out hope that it’ll be late enough upon my next visit to get something accomplished.

  Outside, Mom is holding one of the Chihuahuas in her lap. I don’t know if it’s Chelsea or Chester, but it’s licking her face as she scratches under its diamond collar. “Put him down,” I tell her.

  “Did you get the shoes returned?”

  “No,” I say, sullen.

  “Then I’m wearing them tonight.”

  “Mom!”

  “Either you’re letting me put those shoes on my feet for one night or this dog is coming with us.”

  I exhale roughly and wonder what my father would do in this situation.

  ***

  By the time we get to the club, evening has fallen, and as I’m finding parking, Mom is wiggling her feet into the shoes. They fit her perfectly. And she doesn’t have the slightest bit of trouble keeping herself perfectly balanced in them. At the club entrance, there’s a formidable line, but Mom doesn’t hesitate. She struts right to the front, full of confidence, and tells them her name. Sure enough, Rick put us on the list.