The Silver Shoes

by Jill G. Hall

  Soon the barber unwound the towel, put tonic on the man’s blond hair, and slicked it back. The dapper man paid and nodded at her as he left the shop.

  “Next?” The barber pointed to the empty chair with a smile.

  She wished Farley’s smile was that kind. Her heart started to beat fast and she contemplated running for the door, but instead she made her way to the vacated chair. She removed her cloche hat and the barber took it from her, hanging it up. He whipped out a cloth like a sail and draped it over her. In the mirror, she watched him take the pins from her hair and set them on the counter. There was no ring on his finger. It felt odd to have a man touch her hair.

  “Unusual color, autunno leaves. Bellissimo.” He continued to remove the pins until her hair tumbled down the back of the chair.

  “A little trim? Even up the ends, no?” he asked.

  She stared at herself in the mirror. It was her hair, not her father’s! “A bob, please.”

  “Are you certain?” Their eyes met. A tingle sputtered in her belly. She yearned to run her hands over his smooth face.

  “Yes, thank you.” She nodded, closed her eyes tightly, and listened to the snip, snip, snip of the scissors. Titillated and terrified at the same time, she tried to breathe and hoped she wouldn’t be sorry.

  He began to sing “O Sole Mio,” one of Clair’s favorite Italian arias. She yearned to sing along, but instead simply let herself relax into the music.

  It seemed like hours until he said, “Perfetto!”

  Opening her eyes, she barely recognized the girl in the mirror. The barber dropped Brilliantine on his hands and gently ran his fingers through her locks, wavy now that the weight had been lifted. She turned her head back and forth. Her eyes seemed a lighter brown, her cheekbones more pronounced, her lips brighter.

  The barber kissed his fingers. “Splendido!”

  His voice and manner were so alluring, she wished she could ask him to call. But her father would never approve of her seeing an Italian, let alone a barber.

  She checked her watch. “I’ve got to go!”

  “Here, you’ll need this. Complimenti della casa.” He slipped a bottle of hair oil into a paper bag.

  “Grazie.” She took it, paid him, and rushed out the door. The air on the back of her neck was cool, the lightness of her head felt fancy-free. She had to get to Rudy’s tonight. She couldn’t wait to dance in her new hairdo. She hadn’t had time to buy a new outfit, but this was even better!

  Clair pulled her cloche down over her head and tried to walk nonchalantly into the parlor. Her father worked at his desk.

  “Where have you been?” He eyed her.

  “Purchasing music.” She pointed to the bag.

  “Did you do something to your hair? Take off your hat.”

  She doffed it slowly.

  He jumped up and dropped the account book with a gasp. “You’ve cut your glory! How could you?”

  “It’s simpler this way.”

  He stared at her. “But what will Farley say?”

  “Farley? Father, I’ve tried, but he’s not for me.”

  “I disagree.” He pulled a handkerchief from his smoking jacket pocket and wiped his brow.

  To change the subject she said, “Aren’t you home early?”

  “I’m not well,” he said slowly.

  “I’m sorry. Maybe you should lie down for a while?” There was a knock. “I’ll get it.” Clair walked into the foyer and opened the door.

  Mr. O’Shaughnessy stood there, holding a dress box. “Special delivery, Miss Clair.”

  She took it. “Thank you.”

  “Good day.” He blinked at her new do with a stern face and closed the door.

  She lifted the box lid and peeked at the note card resting on tissue paper:

  Gal pal,

  Made it myself, just for you. Wear it tonight.

  There’s big doings.

  Winnie

  “Who was that?”

  “Something from the tailor, Father.” Clair couldn’t wait to see what it was.

  “More clothes. Don’t you have enough?”

  “A girl can never have too many dresses.”

  He shook his head with a frown. “I don’t have the energy to argue with you now. Anyway, what’s done is done. I’m skipping dinner and going to bed.”

  “May I at least order you some tea and toast?”

  “No.” He coughed and ambled to his room.

  Clair was surprised he didn’t give her a harder time about her hair. She hurried to her bedroom, opened the box, and pulled out a fringed dress in her favorite color—a deep rose with a sequined headband to match, with feathers, of course. Winnie knew just what she needed. Clair put it all on and studied herself in the mirror. She sure looked the bee’s knees.

  That night as Clair stepped out of the elevator, she tugged her coat closely about her, but Mr. O’Shaughnessy stood in her path.

  “Miss Devereaux, your father called down. You must return to the suite.”

  She had knocked on his bedroom door before leaving, but he didn’t answer. She had been certain the coast was clear. But no such luck.

  Clenching her fists, she rode the elevator back up. She would tell her father she wasn’t a baby anymore. Before opening the door, she straightened up to her full height, and then stomped inside the suite.

  He stood in the foyer with arms crossed. “And where did you think you were going, young lady?” His hoarse voice rasped just above a whisper.

  She followed him into the parlor. “To a concert.”

  “With whom?” He sat in his chair.

  “Friends.”

  The line between his eyes deepened to a crease. “Take off your coat.”

  She hesitated. The tangled knots in her stomach twisted tighter. Her heart beat so loudly she believed he might hear it.

  “Remove it.” He kept his voice calm, but she could tell he was ready to explode.

  With her head down, she took off her coat and laid it on the back of the divan, exposing her new dress.

  “Stand there.” He pointed.

  As she walked backward away from him, the fringe tickled the back of her knees.

  “You’re going out in that? Where did you get such a horrendous outfit?”

  “I bought it.”

  “Go to your room and take it off. That blasted headpiece, too.”

  Clair looked him in the eye and put a hand on her hip. “Why?”

  He raised his voice. “Because you look like a floozy.”

  “But it’s all the rage.” She pursed her lips.

  “Not for you, it isn’t. Go to your room!”

  “But my friends are waiting.”

  “Who? That shopgirl you’ve been gadabouting with? I know what you’ve been up to.”

  Clair shook her head in disbelief. Who had alerted her father? Had it been Mr. LeRue, or perhaps Mr. O’Shaughnessy?

  “You’re not to associate with her type.”

  “What type?”

  He raised his voice. “Full of shenanigans! Up to no good.”

  Clair rolled her eyes. Frustration seethed below her placid surface. “Winifred is a sweet girl.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Nearby.” Clair couldn’t tell him Winnie lived in a boardinghouse. She put her coat back on and moved to the window seat. The street had filled with folks who had the freedom to come and go as they pleased.

  “Girls these days think they can do whatever they want,” he growled.

  She turned toward him. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but it’s 1929, and girls get to do what they want now.”

  “You don’t mean that, dear.” Her father gave a grunt. “Go change.”

  “But it’s the fashion!”

  Suddenly he jumped up, raised his hand, and stepped toward her. “No sass, missy, or I’ll—!”

  Frightened, Clair pulled back. He had never threatened to harm her. His voice was so loud, everyone in the building might hear.
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br />   He put his hands in his pockets. “You’re acting just like your mother.”

  “My mother? What do you mean?”

  “A tramp, that’s all.” Then his eyes clouded over. He slowly returned to his chair and put his head in his hands.

  “What about Mama?”

  “I’m not going to say anything else, except don’t follow in her footsteps.”

  “What footsteps?” Clair moved to him.

  “Darling, you’re not a hussy. So don’t act like one.” He shook his head slowly and gazed into her eyes. “You need to keep your reputation intact. We need to hold onto Farley. If he finds out you’ve been gallivanting about . . .”

  “Farley!” She stamped her foot. “Is he all you can think about?”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “I don’t love him.”

  “Love? What do you know about love?”

  “Not much, but I’d like to learn.” She wanted to remind him he’d married for love, but now she was confused.

  “Go change, bring that monstrosity to me, and I’ll throw it in the trash can where it belongs. You’re no tramp.”

  “First tell me what you meant about Mama.”

  “I’ll speak of her no more. You are no tramp, that’s all.”

  “Maybe I am!” She ran to her room, slammed the door, dropped onto the bed, and sobbed into her pillow. She had really wanted to go to Rudy’s.

  A reputation wasn’t so important in this day and age. Many girls from the speakeasy had been known to be out dancing with a man, and that didn’t seem to harm them. Winnie wasn’t like that. Clair wouldn’t even consider having relations before marriage. As a good girl, all she did was dance. And maybe sip a little hooch.

  She cried again, perplexed by his comment about her mother. Had she really been a tramp? Clair had always been certain her father had loved her mother, but now she wasn’t so sure.

  The next morning, Clair begged her father to tell her what he had meant by his harsh words about her mother, but he refused to talk about it. As soon as he left for work, Clair snatched her wadded dress out of the trash can by his desk and hid it in the bottom of the trunk in her bedroom.

  That afternoon she called Aunt June, hoping she would shed some light. “Father accused me of being a tramp like my mother. I don’t understand. I thought he loved her.”

  Aunt June paused. “My sister was a handful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She had a wild streak.”

  Clair sat up straight. “No one ever told me that.” She probed Aunt June for more details, but she was tightlipped and hung up quickly, pleading a headache.

  Her mother had been wild. No wonder Clair’s father had been so angry.

  25

  That evening, Anne resolved to bring up the topic of commitment with Sergio. Writing on a sticky note, she wrote a new affirmation: I am worthy. She stuck it on the bathroom mirror and closed the bathroom door to practice in the full-length mirror.

  Hand on her head, she leaned in a bit and raised her eyebrows. “Hey, big boy, how about a proposal?”

  She clasped her hands in front of her. “Please ask me to marry you?”

  Too blatant, better to start more subtly. “Are we in a committed relationship?”

  That sounded about right. When they FaceTimed later, she’d ask him.

  She filled the tub, tossed in a pink bubble bath bomb, stripped, and climbed in. On the edge of the tub, she lit two candles, one for herself and one for Sergio, and practiced her line, “Are we in a committed relationship?”

  Where they would get married would be a challenge. With his family in Italy, hers in Michigan, and friends in San Francisco and New York, it could get quite complicated. Anne didn’t crave a giant Bridezilla affair. She imagined herself in a vintage lace minidress and a short flyaway veil. Pootie, of course, would be her maid of honor, and Baby Brian could hold the pillow with the rings on it. He’d look so cute in a tux. Ha! Here was Anne planning her wedding and they weren’t even engaged yet.

  Out of the tub, she dolled up—in a lace nightgown with her hair zhuzhed. She sent Sergio a photo of Waiting for a Ring and tried to relax.

  He called ten minutes later. “Buona sera.” He smiled, handsome in his tank top, his hair pulled into a sleek ponytail.

  “Si. Buona sera.” She tried a sexy voice and shimmied her shoulders.

  “Sei bellissima.”

  “Grazie.”

  He held his hands up toward the screen. “I wish I could jump through the phone and be there with you.”

  “Me, too. Thanks again for coming to Michigan. I feel bad you didn’t have a better time.”

  He nodded. “I did learn a lot about you.”

  “Good or bad?”

  “Both.” He laughed.

  She decided to change the subject. “What do you think of my new piece?”

  “It’s hard to see the details in the photo. But from what I could tell, I like it. What are you calling it?”

  “Waiting for a Ring.” Hint, hint.

  “Do you mean ring as in call or ring as in diamond?”

  “Either or both.”

  “Magnifico. Double meaning.” He nodded his head.

  Anne inhaled and let it out. “Sergio, are we in a committed relationship?”

  He frowned. “Of course.”

  “We are? But we never discussed it.”

  “I told you I love you.”

  “But does that mean commitment? Since we live so far from each other, how can we have a commitment until I move there?”

  He frowned. “Do you mean you want to go out with other guys?”

  “No, not at all!” She shook her head.

  “What is it, then?”

  She hesitated. “Well . . . a ring.” There went her subtle hint.

  His eyes opened wide. “An engagement ring?”

  “Yes. I think—”

  “I’ll be there next month. We’ll talk about it in person then.”

  “I can’t wait!”

  They said good night, and she hung up and did a fist pump. “Yes!” He had heard her, and he would propose.

  Too excited to sleep, she tossed an old paint shirt on over her nightie, turned on some Enya, and started another piece. When you’re on a roll, you’re on a roll. From her found-object shelf she grabbed a ceramic bust of a girl wearing a pink dress with a lace-embroidered collar, hair in an updo. For some reason it reminded Anne of the tall girl in the photo. The figurine’s eyes were closed, hands in prayer position. As Anne held the piece in her hand, she ran her fingers over the details, and a fresh rose scent filled the air. The intoxicating aroma drifted through the room, and the girl seemed to wink at her. Dizzy, Anne sat on the daybed until the scent diminished. She rubbed the figurine, but the scent didn’t come alive again and neither did the girl.

  I must have imagined it.

  She located a silver tray with ornate edges and fancy handles in her goody cupboard, put it on the table, and set the girl in the middle. Then she rifled though a shoebox full of random objects, picking out items and placing them on the tray: a rusty key, a plastic rose, a tram token, a rhinestone star from a hair clip, a pair of doll-sized sunglasses, a refrigerator magnet with a vintage pair of robins, an old wristwatch, dance shoes from a charm bracelet, and a compass.

  Anne’s chest began to hum, and she held her breath as she manipulated the objects surrounding the girl. Losing track of time and space, it was all about making art. She found a pair of milagro wings almost two inches across and put them behind the girl. She added a tiny plate from a miniature tea set behind the girl’s head for a halo. Now the girl resembled an angel. Anne’s hands moved fast as she glued down the pieces.

  She pulled jars out of boxes until she found black tiles and periwinkle-blue florist gems, then glued them to the tray’s border for a finishing edge. To fill the gaps between them she took up a chipped floral plate, put it in a paper bag on her cutting board, broke it with a hammer,
and glued the pieces in between the tiles and the colorful gems.

  Even though Anne had taken a mosaic course in college, mosaics had never been her thing. At least not until now! She was handling the pieces gently, but one moved under her finger. She’d better let them dry before filling in the space between pieces.

  The class had used grout, the same kind used in kitchen and bathrooms, but she hated the gritty texture, so she searched for a neater solution. She squished glue between the spaces and used a teeny paintbrush to fill in the gaps. Dumping faux pearls from a Michael’s sale into a bowl, she added the pearls to the edge one at a time using needle-nose pliers. After a while she got into a meditative rhythm. Time flew by until she finished, and she stepped back and studied it. The pearls gave it an exquisite unifying effect.

  Finding Her Way, that’s what she’d call it! She clapped her hands. In the 1920s, girls certainly didn’t have a lot of decisions to make in life. They were probably all virgins when they got married, too. Anne wished her life could be so simple.

  26

  Since the day of Clair’s haircut, her father had kept an eagle eye on her, and boring Farley had continued to come over. To lull them into complacency, she had put every effort into appearing demure and sweet. Three weeks later to the day, she couldn’t stand it any longer. After her father left for a meeting, she slipped on the fringed dress, threw on her pearls, put a dab of rose water behind each ear, and snuck out through the kitchen.

  By the time the cab dropped her off, the band had already struck up and the dance floor was filled with revelers. Rudy hadn’t greeted her at the door, so she looked around on her own. She spotted Bea shimmying, but fortunately Mr. LeRue wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

  The energy of the speakeasy ignited Clair’s senses. Readjusting the beaded headband, she wiggled the fringe on her dress and stood up tall. This was where she truly belonged.

  She tracked Winnie down at their usual table. Her rhinestone-studded headpiece was stunning, reminding Clair of the shoes in the shop window. She slid into a seat beside her friend and asked, “Is that your newest creation?”