The Silver Shoes

by Jill G. Hall

  A stocky man, his hair parted off-center and sporting a dark double-breasted suit, came toward them, a white carnation in his lapel. “Hey, Win!” His flat nose looked as if it’d been broken in a fight. He pointed to his cheek. “Put one here.”

  “No, Rudy.” Winnie shook her head but batted her eyelashes at him.

  He leaned closer to her. “Come on!”

  She pecked his pockmarked cheek and smiled as if he were a nonpareil.

  “’Atta girl.” He gazed at her. “What a getup!”

  She stood back and wiggled her hips. “Made it myself, and the hat, too.”

  Rudy nodded. “Swanky! And that feather.”

  “Merci beaucoup!” Winnie’s perfect French accent surprised Clair.

  Rudy smiled. “Who’s your gal pal?”

  “This is Clair. She’s a lot of fun.”

  No one had ever described her as fun before. “Charmed.” Clair resisted the urge to curtsy.

  “Welcome!” Rudy didn’t seem moody at all, only a bit gruff. “Glad you made it tonight. The joint’s really gonna jump.”

  That sounded enthralling and maybe even dangerous. He led them to a table next to the dance floor. The small stage held a piano.

  “Be right back.” On his way to the carved wooden bar, Rudy clapped one man on the back and nodded at another. The room was filling up.

  “Isn’t he dreamy?” Winnie twisted a curl sticking out from under her hat.

  She must consider him handsome in a rugged sort of way. Clair nodded. “What exactly is this place?” It felt as foreign as the moon.

  “Rudy’s Roost. It is the place! Last week a talent agent from Hollywood came in with Gary Cooper.”

  Clair couldn’t believe it. She had seen him in Wings. How divine it would have been to see him in person!

  Rudy wove back through the crowd toward them carrying glasses.

  “And look at that Rudy. He’s my Cooper.” Winnie stared at him. “He seems rough on the outside, but inside he’s a marshmallow.”

  Winnie removed her gloves and lit a cigarette. “Want one?”

  Clair shook her head.

  Rudy pulled up a chair and set down their drinks. “Here you go. Wet your whistles.”

  “I’m parched.” Clair peered into the dark liquid. “Oh, good. Sarsaparilla.” She took a sip, swallowed, and banged her glass down, then started to cough. It burned her throat. Probably that was what turpentine tasted like. “It must have gone bad.”

  Winnie and Rudy stared at her, then each other, and laughed.

  He put his hand on Clair’s shoulder. “No, doll, it’s hootch.”

  “I’m not familiar with that brand.” She shook her head.

  Rudy explained. “Booze, rotgut.”

  “Moonshine.” Winnie giggled.

  Clair couldn’t breathe. “You mean alcohol?”

  Winnie nodded with a smile.

  Clair’s body grew hot. This must be a speakeasy! Her father would be devastated if he found out. The other night he’d railed against them. How they were ruining the country and should be destroyed. She might now be considered a wanton woman.

  Winnie chugged down her whole glass, smacked her lips and burped.

  “You slay me, Win.” Rudy opened his mouth and tried to burp, too.

  Clair stood. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Why not?” Winnie frowned.

  “Isn’t this place illegal?”

  Winnie and Rudy guffawed.

  Tuxedoed musicians jumped onto the stage and began to play a lively jazz tune on piano, bass, and saxophone. Whenever this type of music came from the radio, her father made her turn it off. He called it “the devil’s music.”

  “I need to go home,” Clair whispered into Winnie’s ear.

  Winnie took Clair’s arm and pulled her back down. “Give it a chance.”

  “What?” Clair couldn’t hear Winnie because the trumpet blared so loudly.

  A lone woman in a short red dress appeared on the dance floor and began kicking her legs out sideways, spinning and wiggling her body. A skinny man soon joined her, leaping back and forth. That was no Foxtrot! Clair couldn’t take her eyes off them and realized they must be doing the Charleston, or maybe even the Black Bottom. She’d read about these scandalous dances in the newspapers. Soon, other dancers joined in. Winnie and Rudy ran onto the dance floor, too. Clair understood what he’d meant when he said the joint would be jumping. It literally was.

  She grew hot and cautiously took another sip of the drink. It went down a smidge easier this time. She closed her eyes to get her bearings. The “devil” music was jarring but irresistible. The sounds engulfed her, and soon she began to nod her head in rhythm. Holding the sides of her chair, she resisted the urge to get up and dance.

  She hoped her father was wrong, because if the devil liked it and she did, too, that meant she was evil. The music penetrated her whole body. She couldn’t help herself—she leaped up onto the dance floor. Copying Winnie, Clair crisscrossed her hands above her knees. Her arms flew and her Mary Janes stepped back and forth, and forth and back. Somehow she knew exactly how to do this.

  Rudy shouted at Clair, “Hey gal pal! You’ve got great rhythm!”

  Her long legs soon mastered the dance. Out of breath, she ran back to the table, took another sip of the magic potion, and danced back onto the floor.

  Winnie leaned over and yelled into her friend’s ear, “Glad you stayed?”

  Clair smiled and nodded. This was fun. She felt as if she’d been friends with Winnie forever.

  A loud blast from the trumpet surprised her. What would happen if her father ever found out? But as the trumpet note slid down the scale and she spun around again, she really didn’t care.

  10

  Anne’s phone woke her with a buzz. She yawned, tired from a late night valeting at the St. Francis. Eyes closed, assuming it was Sergio, she answered, “Ciao, grande uomo.”

  “What?”

  Anne didn’t want to tell her mom it meant “Hello, big man.” Instead she said, “Hello, in Italian.”

  “You are so clever.”

  “Hi, Mom.” Anne sat up envisioning her mother in Oscoda, in their yellow Craftsman cottage, sitting at her vanity as she smoothed her auburn hair, a shade lighter than Anne’s own, and applied Lava Love Glimmersticks Lip Liner by Avon.

  Her mom constantly experimented with her beauty wares. “I’ve got to be familiar with what I’m selling,” she’d say.

  “At a yard sale I bought you that collection of thimbles of women’s heads you admired in the Avon catalog.”

  One of the heads reminded Anne of the tall girl in the shoebox photo. “The ones from the ’20s and ’30s? You are the best mom in the whole world.”

  “I know! You can get them at the christening. I hear Sergio’s coming.”

  “I’m not sure. Is all of Oscoda gossiping about us now?”

  “Not me. I can’t wait to meet him. Has he popped the question yet?”

  “You’ll be the first person I tell.” Anne rolled her eyes. “If I bring him, promise not to tease me about being an old maid.” Since her thirtieth birthday, her mom and Aunt Tootie brought it up every chance they got. Anne had read in a recent copy of The Sun that the average age of marriage had recently trended upward. Even if a woman reached forty without a husband, she likely would still get married during her lifetime.

  “Cross my heart. Okay, I’ve got to get to my next appointment. More than a pretty face.” Her mom practiced one of the Avon sales slogans.

  Anne brushed her teeth, put her bountiful hair in a scrunchie, and made coffee. She lit the altar candle, then stood back and studied the shoes on the counter, shining even in the dim morning light. She twisted them from side to side to get the right angle.

  Drawing a quick sketch in her journal, she copied it onto her canvas with charcoal. Darn! The proportions weren’t quite right. She dampened a paper towel, wiped off the charcoal, and restarted. This time she worked extra slow
, constantly glancing at the shoes. The second try seemed pretty good, and she decided to let it sit before painting it.

  She reexamined the photo of the girls, wanting to make a transfer. It was definitely too fragile to put in the scanner. Instead she took a picture of the photo with her cell phone. It was pretty faded, but she texted it to Sergio anyway.

  Look what else was in the shoebox!

  She e-mailed the photo to her computer, enlarged it as much as possible, and printed it. Too blurry. She pressed a few editing buttons, and a more detailed image appeared. She printed it out on thick watercolor paper.

  At her kitchen table, she traced the girls’ outlines with a fine-tip marker. Using a teeny brush, she mixed a bit of red and white together. She held her breath as she daubed pink paint on each of the girls’ lips. The scent of roses wafted in the air. Anne sniffed the paintbrush and the paper but couldn’t smell anything.

  To work on more details, she carefully picked up the original photo from the coffee table and started to prop it onto the table, but it slipped from her fingers and flew to the ground facedown. On the back was extremely faded writing she hadn’t noticed before. She picked up the photo and squinted at it.

  Clair & Winnie at Rudy’s, 1929.

  Wow! Those were the girls’ names, Clair and Winnie, 1929. They must really have been flappers. Where was Rudy’s?

  At her computer, Anne googled “Rudy’s” and added “New York.”

  A long list of pizza joints and even several Mexican restaurants across the country appeared. Scrolling through the list, she spotted a Rudy’s Bar & Grill located in Hell’s Kitchen. The site even had a dropdown tab that provided details about its history.

  Dive into New York’s most famous dive bar, right through the original wood door. Feels like you’ve stepped back in time, doesn’t it? Maybe even as far back as the rumor that this joint was first a speakeasy in 1919, frequented by the likes of Al Capone.

  One of their slogans was “Less talkin’ and more drinkin’!” The article included pictures of other famous people besides Capone who’d partied there: Frank Sinatra, Sir Paul McCartney, Julia Roberts, and others. Drew Barrymore had even been kicked out once for being underage. Anne scrolled down further and found a critique by Peter Landau in “New York Nightlife.” He highly recommended it as a Critic’s Pick. It has dirt-cheap booze, red leather booths, and free hot dogs.

  Cool! It could be the same Rudy’s where the photo had been taken.

  She texted Sergio: What do you think of the photo?

  He got right back to her: Yes. Lovely.

  Anne: Do you know Rudy’s?

  Sergio: Rudy who?

  Anne: Rudy’s Bar & Grill in Manhattan.

  Sergio: In Hell’s Kitchen? Hell, yes!

  Anne: The photo was taken at Rudy’s. Could it be the same one?

  Sergio: Sure.

  She shook her head in disbelief. Could Clair be the one who owned the pearls and the shoes, or was it Winnie? How wild! This must be a sign Anne really was supposed to move to New York. In order for that to happen, she needed to take Sergio home.

  This time, she called him. “Hi. Want to meet me in Michigan in May?”

  “Ovviamente. I can’t wait.”

  She hoped she’d be ready by then to expose him to her family. “I’m warning you. It will be an experience you’ll never forget.”

  11

  Anne smelled freshly mown grass as the Lyft driver pulled into Bay Breeze’s circular drive. The rose garden was filled with blooms. A blue jay doused himself in the birdbath, his blue Mohawk waving. The birch tree had begun to sprout green leaves.

  In the rhinestone shoes, Anne carefully navigated the steep front steps, and stopped on the top landing to admire the sun as it began to dip into the bay, releasing an explosion of violet, fuchsia, and orange on feathery clouds. The effect was humbling, more stunning than any painting she could ever create.

  She looked forward to spending time with Paul but didn’t want to see his face when she told him she was moving to New York. She pushed the doorbell, and the Westminster chimes rang. Last time she stepped inside Bay Breeze, Lucky had dashed out the door and it had taken forever to get him back inside. This evening though, Anne had come prepared. She slowly opened the door as the roly-poly hot dog of a beagle-basset skidded toward her on the marble floor and lunged between her feet. She blocked his way, quickly pushed him back inside, and closed the door behind her.

  Anne grabbed a bit of Bacon Bark from her coat pocket and bent over. “Lucky, sit!”

  He wiggled his fanny.

  “Lucky, sit.”

  He sat down, and Anne gave him the treat. “Good boy.” She patted his smooth head.

  Anne stood and her breath caught in her throat. The foyer smelled of gardenias, Sylvia’s scent, and a wave of longing swept over her.

  Paul, leaning on his cane, ambled toward her. “Look who’s here. The prodigal artist!” The light from the chandelier above revealed his welcoming smile.

  Anne half expected to see Sylvia there beside her husband, but of course she wasn’t. It had only been a few months since she had last seen Paul, but he had aged. He was more stooped over, his bald head appeared to have more spots on it, his once sky-blue eyes seemed filmier. Anne hugged him, blinking back tears as Lucky nipped at her heels.

  “Sorry! Hi! Long time no see.” Smoothing down his pompadour, Paul’s caregiver, George, rushed in from the kitchen, slipped the leash on Lucky, and led him out the door. Or perhaps Lucky led him?

  Anne took Paul’s elbow, and they made their way into the library. Helping him into his chair, she sat across from him on the couch and fingered the key in her pocket. The first time she visited Bay Breeze, it had been to deliver the portrait collage she’d made of Sylvia that still hung above the desk. The same Asian rug graced the floor beside the blazing hearth, and the couch was just as cozy. The floor-to-ceiling bookcases, filled with more volumes than one could ever read in a lifetime, surrounded the room.

  “Paul. Sergio has . . .”

  Fay entered the room, her multicolored caftan billowing. “Blimey! It’s been ages,” Fay said in her broad London accent.

  Anne jumped up and gave the Gallery Noir curator a hug. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m living with George.” Fay smoothed down her blonde bob. Last time Anne had met with her, it had been short with red spikes.

  “Here in Bay Breeze?”

  “Where else? Alcatraz?” Fay guffawed and dropped onto the couch.

  “But we talked the other day. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “I am surprised!” Anne couldn’t believe it. George, a widower, had always been a grump-meister. George and Fay had met at Anne’s gallery reception last year, too, and within minutes Fay literally had him eating grapes right out of her hand. She’d been with Sergio longer. How’d Fay make that happen so fast?

  “I’m happy for you.” Anne looked at Paul. “How do you feel about this?”

  “The more the merrier. George can use the extra help, anyway. I’m so hard to take care of.” Paul chuckled.

  “That’s for sure!” Fay checked out Anne. “Don’t you look fancy.”

  Anne jumped up and posed. She had worn her hair in an updo for a dramatic effect and of course had on the black velvet coat with the snowflake pin, too.

  “Crikey!” Fay hooted. “Those must be your new shoes.”

  Anne pointed each foot. “I looked them up on Pinterest as you suggested. They’re museum quality, from the Met Collection.” She sashayed across the library, did a few klutzy turns, some phony tap steps, and demurely curtsied.

  Fay laughed, snorting through her nose. “You’re a nutter!”

  “There are tiny holes here where taps used to be.” Anne sat and pulled up a foot and pointed to the heels.

  Fay squinted with a nod.

  “Sylvia and I loved to watch tap dancers in Broadway shows.” Paul sighed.

/>   Lucky ran into the room as fast as his little legs would carry him. He leaped up onto the hassock, jumped onto the sofa, and walked along it toward Paul’s chair.

  “What a circus dog!” Anne laughed.

  Paul picked up Lucky, let him lick his chin, and set him on his lap.

  George set a tray on the desk.

  “I want mine shaken, not stirred.” Fay said with a deep voice.

  “Of course.” George prepared martinis and handed one to each. Then he sat beside Fay, on the couch’s arm, and kissed her on her cheek.

  Paul raised his glass. “To our gorgeous artiste.”

  “Cheers!” Fay clinked her glass to Anne’s, and everyone took a sip.

  Anne told the group about finding the shoes in the antique shop, and the man insisting she keep the box with the pearls in the bottom.

  Paul blinked. “Are they real?”

  “They sure are. I checked them with my teeth like Sylvia taught me.”

  Paul laughed. “Women love their pearls.”

  “I asked Sergio to return them to the shop for me. But when he got there, the curtains were closed and a sign in the window said: Closed until further notice.”

  George offered a plate of canapés to Anne, and she took a baby quiche.

  “Look what else I found in the bottom of the box! I’m making a collage with it.” She handed her phone with the flapper photo to Fay and popped the quiche in her mouth.

  Fay put on her cat-eye glasses. “Quite the lookers!”

  “Writing on the back said they were at Rudy’s. I googled it. It was a speakeasy, and it’s still there.”

  Paul smiled wistfully. “Sylvia and I went there once. It was dark and romantic.”

  “I’ll go there next time I visit Sergio.”

  “What did you want to tell me about him?” Paul asked.

  “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.” She didn’t want to spoil the evening and would wait and share her moving plans right before she left tonight.

  “How’s it going with him?” Fay blinked dramatically at Anne.