The Silver Shoes

by Jill G. Hall

  “Now this is some tiara.” She thought of the one the jeweler had offered to make her. Wonder what her father would say about this one! She loved the heavy weight of it, making her feel like royalty. The chinstrap would keep it snug.

  Everyone applauded, Andre the loudest. “Marvelous! As if it were made for you.”

  Surprised, Clair smiled at him.

  He gave her a hug, careful not to bump the tiara. “Good luck.”

  Clair paused. “And all this time I thought you hated me.”

  “Hate you? No.” He whispered, “You’ve always been my favorite, but I couldn’t let the others catch on.”

  “But weren’t you angry about the painting?”

  “That was ages ago. Besides, your father’s extra cash paid for my toupee.” He patted his pompadour.

  “What about the torn sash, the lost sheet music, and the missing hoop?”

  “That wasn’t me.” He shook his head.

  “Well then, who?” Clair asked.

  “Not me. I have a hunch, though.” He stared at Bea.

  Bea squinted her beady eyes. Her voice squawked higher than ever. “You always thought you were better than me. Even before our debutante debuts. When you were in the room, all eyes would be on you, not me.”

  “But I thought we were friends.” Tears floated in Clair’s eyes.

  “It was all an act. When you joined us here I knew you had it, even when you were only hanging up costumes. I feared you’d become a star and I wouldn’t.”

  “That’s pure green envy.” Winnie put her hands on her hips.

  Dominique scowled. “Bea, you are such a mean vixen.”

  The others shook their heads and grumbled.

  “After the show we’ll discuss this further with Rudy.” Andre looked at his watch and picked up the hoops. “For now the show must go on. Places!”

  Everyone scurried up the stairs. “Clair and Winnie, come along,” Andre called.

  “In a moment.” Winnie wiped Clair’s tears, touched up the smudged makeup, and tested the tiara on Clair’s head again.

  Varinska stood and nodded approvingly.

  “Thank you both for believing in me.” Clair managed a smile. “Varinska, I hope you recover from your illness soon.”

  “Not sick.” Varinska raised an eyebrow.

  “You’re not?” Clair asked.

  “Your turn. Besides, Josephine has invited me to Paris, darlinks. Adieu!” Varinska waved her cigarette and sauntered out the back door.

  Clair ran up the stairs with Winnie behind her.

  “Where are you going?” Her father stood on the stairs above her.

  “What are you doing here?” Clair tried to push past him as Mordecai began playing the Sallies’ introduction.

  Winnie put her hand on Clair’s shoulder.

  “If you go out there, he’ll disown you.” Farley stood behind her father, arms akimbo.

  Clair lost her cool and looked into her father’s eyes. “Disown me from what? From gambling away all your money in the stock market, from breaking Aunt June’s heart, for lying to me all these years about my mother?”

  “Don’t talk to your father that way!” Farley roared.

  “And Father, after what I told you about what an imposter he is, you’re still encouraging him.” Clair pointed at Farley.

  Her father stared at her stone-faced, but his hands shook.

  “And you, Farley, you big phony. Acting all religiously high and mighty, as if you were so pure, when all the time you were drinking and carousing.”

  “You tell ’em, sister!” Winnie shouted.

  Rudy closed the stage door and came down the stairs behind the men. “Quiet. The show’s started. Clear the stairs! You two out of here.” He pointed toward the alley.

  Just then, a group of blue-clad policemen bounded in with their guns drawn.

  “Hands up. Nobody move!” a tall policeman bellowed.

  Clair raised her arms. Oh, no. They must have found out about Rudy’s warehouse filled with booze.

  The officer stepped forward. “Farley Parker?”

  Farley hid behind Clair’s father.

  Leland pulled Farley out from behind his back and called, “Here he is, officer!”

  Farley tried to break free and run up the stairs, but Clair’s father held him tight until two policemen grabbed Farley’s arms and handcuffed him.

  “Farley ‘The Fingers’ Parker. You are under arrest for murder in the first . . .”

  “I didn’t do it!” he shouted as they dragged him down the stairs and out the door.

  Clair stood with her mouth open.

  The tall officer shook Clair’s father’s hand. “Thank you for the call, Mr. Devereaux.”

  “It’s the least I could do. When I learned he had lied to us, I wondered what else he might have been deceiving us about and felt it best to check in with you.”

  “Glad you did. We’ve been searching for the owner of that Lincoln left on the bridge. You’ll never believe what was in the trunk.”

  “What?” Clair asked.

  “A body, strangled.” The officer bunched his lips together. “Turns out he worked for the mob. Has been linked to a string of other murders.”

  “Oh my God!” Clair shivered, recalling what Farley said on the bridge. “He might have been planning to kill me, too.”

  Her father gave her a hug. “I’m so sorry. You’ll never be able to forgive me.”

  Loud applause could be heard from above as the Sallies took their curtain call.

  Rudy called. “Clair. You’re on. Get on up there. It’s your turn to show them what you’ve got!”

  Her father smiled at her. “You’d better get up there. Good luck.”

  Clair nodded, passed by him, and started up the stairs but returned and kissed him on the cheek.

  Winnie took her hand. “Let’s go, doll. I’ll be there watching you in the wings.”

  56

  Her heart pounding, Clair waited for her cue. All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. Well, she’d played for others all her life: the perfect daughter, the debutante, the downtrodden. Now it was time to do what she’d always wanted. But what if everyone laughed at her, or worse yet, booed her offstage? They’d almost done it to Winnie the first time she’d performed her solo. Feathered wings soft on Clair’s arms, pearl headdress secure on her head, she closed her eyes and imagined embodying a white dove empowered with the voice of peace.

  The stage was pitch-black, and Rudy’s voice boomed over the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen. We have an unexpected pleasure for you this evening. The debut of the Songbird of Broadway.”

  In silence, with outstretched arms Clair glided onstage in her rhinestone shoes. The spotlight lit up and followed her as she gracefully circled the wooden floor. On a diagonal with a figure-eight pattern, she swept forward, floating her arms up and down. She stopped center stage, spotlight hot on her body, sequins sparkling and pearls glimmering. She wore a wide-eyed look of innocence.

  Fragments of audience members could be made out, a glint off a bald head here, a reflection of eyeglasses there. In the heat of the moment, thoughts of Farley disappeared from her mind.

  Clair nodded to Mordecai, who had received Rudy’s message to play the “Man on the Flying Trapeze.” Slowly Mordecai began to play the melody. In perfect pitch the made-up lyrics soared out of her, like a rainbow of colored sequins arcing all the way to the back of the theater.

  “I fly through the air with the greatest of ease.

  Free as a bird, I can do as I please.

  They tried to cage me, but I got away.

  I’ll be free as a bird

  for the rest of my days.”

  She sang as if taken over by an otherworldly spirit. She was no longer herself, or even a bird, but a winged immortal being with a voice from the heavens, Nike the strong, winged goddess of Victory.

  Clair’s arms swirled in a windmill motion, slowly at first, then gradually
picking up speed. She imagined flying up and above the audience. She struck poses—curved, smooth, graceful. Holding each, she counted to ten in her mind. The moves were innocent at first, then with a dip of her shoulder sensual, until finally they became sexual in nature with a rotation of her hips in a circular fashion, one way and then the other. She could sense the crowd’s eyes gazing at her with desire.

  If it hadn’t been for that one night with Mr. X, she’d never have known how to move her body this way. And she was grateful to him for opening up her seductive passions.

  She circled the stage several more times and trilled her finale, arms wide, holding the last note for what seemed like an eternity. Bright lights cast a shadow of her wings behind her, making her appear fifteen feet tall. Before she exited, she soared downstage, put her fingers to her lips, and blew a kiss to the crowd.

  In her fantasies she never had imagined performing in front of a crowd that insisted on multiple encores. With pride and a desire to do it all again, she felt what it was like to captivate an audience and be a star.

  After the show ended, after the cast gathered round with congratulations, after she thought she couldn’t feel any higher, she stepped out into the alley, where the crescent moon vibrated.

  “Hello,” a deep voice said.

  Her gloved hands flew to her pounding chest. Had Farley escaped from the police?

  A man wearing a fedora and an overcoat walked toward her from the shadows.

  “You scared me.” Clair breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I’m sorry.” His blue eyes shone as he came closer. “I’ve been hoping to see you again.”

  Mr. X!

  “Me, too.” Her voice trembled as she looked up at him. He was more handsome than she had remembered.

  “Can we go somewhere to talk?”

  Still shaken up from revelations of Farley’s crimes, she couldn’t talk of that now and would probably be wary of any man for a long time. However, she still wanted to say yes to Mr. X. She had so many questions to ask him but paused. “No. You’re a married man.”

  “Married? I’m not married. What gave you that idea?”

  “I noticed a ring on your finger that night. Afterward.”

  He frowned. “Is that why you ran off?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “I had been widowed for two years. I still hadn’t been able to take off my ring.”

  “I’m sorry.” Clair couldn’t believe how foolish she’d been.

  “If it’s any consolation, I took it off the next morning. With you I realized it would be possible to find someone else to love. Please, I’d really like to talk with you. How about a cup of coffee?”

  “But I don’t know you.”

  He gave her a sideways smile. “You didn’t know me that night either.”

  She laughed and held out her hand. “I’m Clair Devereaux.”

  “Yes, the Songbird of Broadway. What a performance!” He clasped her hand. “I’m Clifton Marshall.”

  She stepped back in surprise.

  “The Clifton Marshall? From Hollywood?”

  He chuckled a deep-throated laugh. “Yes. Every few months when I’ve come to New York in search of talent, I’ve kept my eyes out for you.”

  “You have?”

  “Your act tonight was the best I’ve witnessed in years.”

  “You’re only being kind.” She shrugged nonchalantly to hide her elation.

  “I mean it. Please have that coffee with me, or maybe even breakfast?”

  Lots of breakfasts, she thought. “Thank you for keeping me safe from the police that night. And for . . .” She paused.

  “For what?”

  She grinned at him. They both laughed. With a questioning look, he held out his arm.

  She took it. “Let’s go! We have a lot of catching up to do.”

  57

  Anne gazed out the window of Sergio’s co-op. So high up, she felt removed from it all. The snow had stopped. The bare maple trees in Central Park below resembled stick figures. Back in her San Francisco apartment, her body had been immersed in life. She had been here for a month and had figured by now she’d be into a rhythm of some sort, but instead her mind remained discombobulated.

  Tomorrow she’d fly back to San Francisco, finish packing up, clean the apartment, and give the keys back to Mrs. Landenheim. All her furnishings were sold, and a buyer was lined up for Tweety. Anne would cram a U-Haul truck with her “keepers” and begin the long cross-country drive. In New York she’d look for a job and start her new life.

  Her first week staying in New York had been exciting. Sergio had taken the week off, and they visited her favorite museums: the Met, the Frick, and the new Whitney. On days when the weather allowed, they walked through the park. They’d gone to see Hamilton and the Alvin Ailey Dance Theater. Every night he had taken her to a different restaurant or cooked a gourmet meal at home.

  Week two, Sergio returned to work and his hours were long. Many nights he had late client dinners. Occasionally she joined him in these meetings, dining alongside strangers she didn’t have anything in common with—corporate buyers wearing stylish, tony black fashions.

  She found she preferred to stay home and binge-watch Orange Is the New Black.

  She might do that tonight because he wouldn’t be home until late.

  In the last few days, a freak autumn snowstorm had taken over the city, and she felt like a prisoner. It was so quiet in his apartment.

  A blank canvas sat in the corner of the living room—Sergio had bought her brushes and new paints, but she hadn’t even opened the packages. Nothing had inspired her.

  She’d tried. She had doodled in her journal, flipped through old magazines, and even sat on a bench and sketched in the park. Even though they’d put down a tarp, she was still afraid to sully his pristine penthouse.

  Her muse wasn’t here!

  She picked up her journal and wrote:

  I miss –

  My cozy apartment.

  The trolley running by.

  Mrs. Landenheim’s cat hissing at me when I go to pet it.

  Looking for Mata Hari on every doorstep.

  Being able to visit Paul.

  Anne sighed. She’d get used to it here. The sun shone on her through the window as a break in the weather appeared. She slipped on boots, grabbed a parka, and headed out the door. On the street she exhaled puffs of steam. The geraniums in the building’s window boxes had died. The snow had begun to melt to an icy slush. Little streams ran in the gutters.

  Hurrying along the sidewalk, huddled deep in her parka, she pulled the hood down over her head. She slipped and slid on the icy sidewalk, catching herself on a trash barrel before she fell. Ugh! This was one of the reasons she had moved from Michigan.

  She hopped on a bus and headed toward Timely Treasures. Last week when she went by, it still hadn’t reopened. She stepped off the bus, turned the corner, and her heart sprinted. The shop’s curtains had been raised and the lights were on. In the front window a man struggled, trying to dress a mannequin.

  Anne rushed across the street. The bell announced her entrance, and the scent of beeswax and lemons greeted her like it had over six months before.

  “May I help you?”

  Anne hurried to the window.

  It was the same man who had sold her the shoes—his hair slicked back, wearing a white shirt with a vest over it.

  Huffing, he smiled. “Please.”

  She held the mannequin while he tugged the beaded sheath down over the mannequin’s slim hips. Together they turned it to face the sidewalk.

  “Thanks! I couldn’t have done it without you. Wait a second.” He held up his finger, ran out onto the sidewalk, and raised an arm. Anne followed his instruction and reset the mannequin’s arm. The man gave her a thumbs-up.

  The shop had been transformed. Man Ray photographs hung on the walls, plush pillows adorned a brocade sofa, a furry white rug covered the floor.

  “Remember me?” A
nne smiled at the man as he came back through the door.

  He studied her. “Of course! You’re the one with the black velvet coat. How did the shoes work out for you?”

  “Perfectly. I love them. Where have you been? I’ve come looking for you.” She tried to keep from sounding irritated. “Didn’t you get my note?”

  “Sorry about that. I had a family emergency.”

  Now she was the one who was sorry. “Oh, I’m sorry to—”

  He cut her off. “Did you find my surprise?”

  “The pearls? You put them in there on purpose? Why?” She wished she had them with her. They still sat in the bowl on Sergio’s counter.

  “I knew they’d look lovely on you. Your tall frame and large feet reminded me of my godmother who owned them.”

  “Winnie or Clair?”

  “How do you know about them?” An antique chair crackled as he dropped into it.

  “From the picture you left in the bottom of the box.”

  “What picture?”

  “The one under the tissue paper.”

  He frowned, clearly bewildered.

  “You mean you didn’t leave it in there?”

  “No.” He shook his head.

  She sat on a chair next to him, searched through the photos on her phone, and showed him the picture. “It’s a bit grainy.”

  “I wonder how that got in there.” He squinted and pointed. “That’s my grandmother Winnie and my godmother, Clair. They were great pals. Performed burlesque together. Boy, the stories they told. What a hoot.” He shook his head.

  “At Rudy’s, right? It says so on the back of the photo.” Anne showed him the photo of the writing on the back of the picture.

  “Rudy’s was a speakeasy run by my grandfather. After it got raided, he opened a theater—later he married Winnie. I lost them both a while back. Clair quite recently.” He sighed.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s why I closed the shop. Her house sold, and I had to clear everything out. Fortunately, I had a place to move the best things to.” Tears filled his eyes.

  Anne handed him a Kleenex from her backpack. “That’s sad.”

  “It was time. She was over a hundred. Quite a performer in her day. The rhinestone shoes were hers, too.”