Secrets of a Shoe Addict

by Harbison, Beth

  “Yes,” Sandra said, “but you’re missing the point. Not only did I punch a puppet, but I—” She hesitated, because it was true and it was just too too awful. “I went on a date with a puppet. That’s even worse.”

  Loreen was sympathetic, no small feat given the circumstances. “No, you didn’t,” she said, coming in the room with a big tray of cheeses and crackers. “You went on a date with a guy who turned out to be a wacko. Just because he thought you were on a date with a puppet doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  “What about that other guy?” Tiffany asked. “Mike?”

  “The Adonis?” Loreen supplied.

  “Ah, but is he nice?” Abbey asked. “That’s the important thing.”

  “Mike?” Sandra said. “Oh, he’s a very nice Adonis.” She took a short breath and decided to fess up. “Especially if you’re a blond-haired, blue-eyed, Nordic-looking male about six foot two, give or take.”

  Abbey made a face. “Isn’t that always the way?”

  “Wait a minute.” Tiffany was slow on the uptake with this one. “Are you saying . . . are you saying Mike’s . . . gay?”

  Sandra nodded, amused that the minister’s wife was the one who was quickest to understand and accept. “One hundred percent.”

  “Was he always?” Tiffany asked, and it was difficult to determine if she just didn’t know how homosexuality worked or if she had so little faith in Sandra that she believed she could turn an otherwisehetero male to other men.

  “It seems he was,” Sandra said, a little crisply. “It’s not like I made him turn that way.”

  Tiffany frowned. “I didn’t mean that—”

  “Did you not know at first?” Loreen asked quickly, then added, “Sorry, I always blurt things out when I shouldn’t. But I would just be so glad to find out I’m not the only one who can’t tell who a man really is until it’s too late.”

  “Well, you’re not,” Sandra said. “Believe me, you’re not. It’s a jungle out there. I really envy people who are married, and not just because of the companionship and so on. This dating business stinks. Big time. Especially once you’re past, say, nineteen.”

  “I’m past nineteen,” Loreen said miserably.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, no.” Loreen put up a hand. “It’s okay. I know it sucks to date. It sucks to be getting divorced, too. I think dating’s even harder after you’ve been married. I feel like secondhand goods.”

  “But you haven’t really tried, have you?” Abbey asked in a gentle voice, though Sandra was beginning to think there was more to her than just the quiet preacher’s wife. “It’s not like you can’t get a date; you just haven’t put yourself out there.”

  “I’m not sure I should put myself out there,” she said with a laugh. “Too many sharks, and jellyfish, and other things to be avoided in that ocean. Maybe I should be content to have had a marriage and a child. Maybe that’s all there is for me, romance-wise.”

  “I can see where it’s tempting to think that,” Sandra said. “It’s bad enough to be still dating after all these years, but to have been married—and brought a child into it—and then reenter the dating world . . . Well, that’s rough.” It absolutely sucked to go out on a date with an abusive puppet, no question, but to run the risk of ending up on a date with a puppet after umpteen years watching The Tonight Show in bed with the guy you thought you’d be with forever would be infinitely worse.

  “Too rough for me to think about right now.” Loreen clapped her hands together, clearly dismissing the subject of her private life and, by the same token, Sandra’s, as well. “I have got some questions for you, Ms. Vanderslice.”

  “What?” Tiffany and Sandra asked simultaneously.

  Then Tiffany laughed and said, “Oh, I’m not Ms. Vanderslice anymore. I forgot for a moment.”

  “Interesting,” Sandra said, keeping her eyes on her sister. Then she turned her attention back to Loreen. “What’s up?”

  “Well, I’m having a really hard time getting the hang of this. I just can’t act natural, and I know my callers can tell.” She went on to relate the story of the three callers lost in rapid succession in her first attempt.

  “I think I got your naughty boy,” Abbey said with a shake of the head. “Be glad you hung up on him. I spent half an hour diapering and undiapering him.”

  Everyone listened with rapt attention as Abbey told the whole gruesome story. In fact, all her callers sounded like weirdos, which made Loreen wonder if this was something she’d ever be able to get used to.

  “So what are you guys calling your operation?” Sandra asked.

  “Happy Housewives,” Tiffany said, then upon seeing Sandra’s look, added, “I thought you’d enjoy that.”

  “Are you working set hours, or do you have one phone on at all times?” Sandra asked.

  “So far we have it set to roll over to the company when we’re not logged on so the girls they have on duty get the calls,” Loreen said. “But I’m thinking we lose a lot of revenue that way.”

  “Maybe, but we’re not diapering lunatics over breakfast,” Tiffany pointed out.

  Which was true, Loreen had to concede. But still, the bottom line was bugging her. “If we subcontracted, we’d make a percentage of the calls, instead of giving it all to the relay company.”

  Sandra nodded. “Totally true. You could advertise on Gregslist for a pittance and have people e-mail you their information and application. I answered an ad two years ago and look at me now.” She laughed. “Well, anyway, it worked.”

  “See, I think that’s exactly what we should do,” Loreen said. It would be such a relief to know she wasn’t just dead weight. If she could set it up so they had employees, then even if she continued to choke when it came time to take the calls, she could at least feel good about the fact that they were making profits from other people’s work. “I’ll do the administration.”

  “That could be a lot of work,” Abbey said. “Are you sure you don’t mind? Because, honestly, I like the idea of hiring out. We’d still get priority when we’re logged in, right?”

  “You can set it up however you want,” Sandra said. “As long as the relay company is getting their cut, they don’t care who you want them to send the calls to first.”

  “So we make the full amount every time we’re working,” Tiffany said, “then, what, like half when other people are?”

  Sandra nodded.

  “Isn’t that . . . pimping?”

  “I prefer the term madam,” Loreen said, hoping Tiffany wasn’t seriously going to draw a moral line at hiring out.

  “I like it,” Tiffany said slowly. “Abbey? What do you think?”

  “Are you kidding? I think it’s great.”

  “All right, Loreen. If you really don’t mind—”

  Mind? This was the best contribution Loreen could make to the cause. “I’ll place the ad tonight.”

  When Tiffany got home, it was nine o’clock, and fortunately, Kate went right to sleep. Andy was keyed up, however, so he took some work.

  “Book,” he said, pulling Goodnight Moon off the shelf.

  It seemed like they read it every night, usually more than once. Tiffany never thought she’d get sick of it, but sometimes when she needed just a little alone time, the book felt like an obstacle.

  But she wasn’t about to tell her son that no, she wouldn’t read to him.

  So she got into his bed and put her arm out. He climbed under the covers and leaned into the crook of her arm. They’d done it so often now, it felt like puzzle pieces fitting into place.

  “Who’s going to find the pictures of the little mouse?” she asked. Each color picture had a little mouse hidden in it, and every single time they read it, Andy pointed it out like he’d found it for the first time.

  “Me!” He thumped the book with a pudgy hand. “I find the mouse!”

  “Okay, baby.”

  “Me no baby,” he said. Charlie used to joke that Andy was like
Yoda from Star Wars, saying everything backwards.

  “No, you’re a big boy,” Tiffany agreed, then pulled the small, warm body closer in. “But you’ll always be my baby. Even when you’re bigger and taller than Daddy.”

  Andy beamed. Clearly the idea of being even bigger than Daddy thrilled him, though the truth was Charlie was just under six feet tall, and Tiffany was just two inches shorter than that. Chances that Andy would outgrow Charlie were pretty good.

  “Okay, ready?” she asked, opening the book.

  “Ready!”

  “In the great green room,” she read, “there was a telephone, and a red balloon, and a picture of—”

  “Cow jump over de moon!” Andy cried triumphantly.

  “Yes!” She smiled and kissed his downy soft yellow hair. “And there were three bears. . . .”

  It had taken two Goodnight Moons and a Rolie Polie Olie book to get Andy to simmer down, but finally he’d fallen asleep, and Tiffany had carefully removed herself from the bed, tucked him under the light cotton sheets, and gone back into the darkened, quiet house.

  Despite the two sleeping children in their bedrooms, the house felt empty as Tiffany went back to the kitchen to find something to eat. The cheeses Loreen had set out were too loaded with fat to eat more than a piece or two, though Tiffany had been tempted.

  Eventually, she settled on an apple and went to sit down on the sofa. With Charlie out of town, and nothing on TV except the depressing news, she turned the TV off and took in the silence. The truth was, she enjoyed the Zen of sitting in silence without anyone tugging at her or asking her for anything.

  She used to be afraid to be alone. Actually, all her life she’d been afraid to be alone. It wasn’t ghosts or intruders that she feared, but being alone with her own thoughts.

  She wasn’t afraid anymore.

  Now she knew she needed to reflect. She needed to figure things out. Because, for a while now, Tiffany had been thinking maybe . . . she wasn’t very happy.

  In fact, she was thinking she might be really depressed.

  Best not to examine that thought too closely, though. She was afraid if she looked at it, it would become bigger than it already was. Sort of like prodding a snake. Not that snakes got bigger if prodded, but they certainly were more dangerous.

  Every once in a while she thought about talking to Sandra about it. She knew Sandra had seen a psychologist. And some sort of voodoo acupuncture man who she swore had helped her get over her agoraphobia. Maybe she’d know someone who could help.

  But Tiffany didn’t want to admit to Sandra that things weren’t perfect. For one thing, she could tell Sandra didn’t like Charlie, so it stood to reason that if Tiffany said anything at all about being unhappy, Sandra would probably blame it on him and then things would be even more awkward—between Sandra and Tiffany, and Sandra and Charlie—than they already were.

  Nah, Tiffany could handle this on her own.

  It was probably just postpartum depression, she reasoned. Andy was two now, but people sometimes had lingering postpartum depression. She needed to exercise more, that was all. A lot of people swore by that as a cure for depression and anxiety.

  Half an hour later, she was in her room on the elliptical machine when the phone rang.

  She jumped for it, so it wouldn’t wake up the children, mopped her brow with a towel, and glanced at the caller ID. UNKNOWN, it said.

  It was Charlie.

  “Hey, has anyone from work called?” His voice sounded . . . muffled or . . . something.

  “No. Aren’t you working now?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I just mean, if anyone calls, take a message. This trip is building toward a promotion, and there are people there who would be pissed if they knew about it.”

  “Oh. Okay. So how’s it going?”

  “What?”

  “How is it going?” she enunciated. He was in Cleveland, right? Why was this such a bad connection? For that matter, why did caller ID say UNKNOWN? Why wasn’t he using his cell phone?

  “ ’S aright,” he said. “Lots of work. Lots and lots of work. How are the kids?”

  Not how are you, but she supposed she should be unselfish and be glad he wanted to know about the kids. “Great. The school put the band’s third-place trophy, which is totally ostentatious, in the office window, and Kate waves to it every time she passes.”

  “What trophy is that?”

  “From Las Vegas a few weeks ago? . . .”

  “Oh, oh, oh, right.”

  “And Andy wants to ride that Big Wheel thing all the—”

  “That’s great, but listen, I’ve got to go. It’s a bad connection, and it’s getting late. Time for bed.”

  Tiffany sighed. “I guess I’ll tell you about Andy another time, then.”

  “What?”

  There was a strange noise in the background. It sounded like . . . Well, it sounded like steel drums. But that was crazy.

  “Never mind,” Tiffany said. “Thanks for calling.”

  “See you in a couple of days.”

  “I love you,” she said a little wistfully. She didn’t particularly feel it right now, but boy did she want to hear it back. To feel it again, even if only vaguely.

  It didn’t matter, though, because Charlie had already hung up.

  Tiffany hung up the phone and looked around for something to do with herself. She was agitated now. The call had been disconcerting, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on the exact reason why. Still, there was what sounded like a steel drum, but didn’t every executive hotel lobby across America try to have a manager’s reception with cheap wine, Jimmy Buffett and Jack Johnson songs, and overly enthusiastic employees? She would have felt stupid asking Charlie about it, because she knew that was what he’d say.

  She thought about how Charlie used to be, versus how he was now. Hadn’t he been attentive once? Thoughtful?

  He used to adorn her with jewelry, but nowadays he wouldn’t touch her if she was wearing dish gloves. How had things changed so much, and how had she not noticed it while it was happening?

  She hated to think it was because of the kids. That she was too busy dealing with them to notice. Could he resent that? Could he resent them?

  Could she lessen her devotion to them even if he did?

  She pretended to herself that she’d have to think about that, but she knew the answer was no. If she was married to a man who was jealous of her time and attentions as a mother, she’d rather be alone than shortchange them during these short, precious years to accommodate him.

  Lonely, in a hollow, echoey way, she went and peeked in on Kate. The light from the hallway cut into the room across Kate’s bed, and she shifted. Tiffany withdrew quickly, closing the door as quietly as she could to leave her daughter in the peaceful dark.

  Then she went to Andy’s room.

  It had been hard to get Andy used to having his own room, since he always preferred to snuggle with Tiffany. She didn’t mind that, especially since Kate had always been so independent, but Charlie couldn’t stand having the children come into their bed, even for half an hour, so she’d broken Andy of the habit through a series of bribes and incentives.

  Once in a while, she was ashamed to think, she’d locked the door and pretended not to hear him trying to get in.

  That was why she didn’t mind reading to Andy as she had tonight, even if it was for the thousandth time.

  Now as she looked down at her boy by the light of his Thomas the Tank Engine night-light, his face so soft and cheeks so pink with lingering babyhood, she was overwhelmed with regret for the passing time and how much more she should have been doing with him.

  When she’d first found out she was pregnant, after trying for six years, she’d been overjoyed. Suddenly the baby aisle at the grocery store—which had made her feel melancholy before—seemed to sing with the possibility and promise of the future.

  It was a promise Tiffany should have kept, but so far she hadn’t.

  So far she�
�d spent most of his young life tense and overwhelmed, jumping when Charlie spoke, and putting the best of her energy into quelling her husband’s moods instead of into nurturing her children’s needs.

  If Charlie had been home tonight, he probably would have started calling for her around halfway through the first reading of Goodnight Moon.

  And she would have gone because that would have been the path of least resistance.

  “I’m sorry you don’t have the happy family you deserve,” she whispered, running her knuckle along his cheek and trying to keep the tears from coming. “Mommy loves you.”

  Then she sat down on the floor by his bedside and cried.

  Chapter

  12

  Brian had turned in early, and Abbey couldn’t sleep. After tossing and turning in bed for a couple of hours, she finally gave up and went downstairs to have a cup of tea.

  She turned on the TV to an old rerun of The Dick Van Dyke Show. In it, Laura didn’t want Rob to know she’d lied about her age on their marriage license years back. She didn’t want him to find out the terrible secret of her past, which was that she was a year younger than her husband believed her to be.

  If only Abbey’s problems were so simple.

  She put a cup of water in the microwave and leaned on the counter, watching the show while the water heated. It was a nice little moment of escape, here in the quiet house, with her boy sleeping soundly, safely upstairs.

  The microwave beeped and she dropped a chamomile tea bag into it, and took it over to the sofa with her.

  It was a beautiful balmy night and the windows were open. She could hear the crickets outside, mingling with the laugh track of the TV show. It wasn’t quite heaven, but it was the most peaceful she’d felt in a long time.

  And it stayed that way, through the rest of the show and halfway through The Brady Bunch.

  Then she smelled smoke.

  It wasn’t the house. Nothing was on fire. It was cigarette smoke, and the scent was strong.

  Someone was standing right outside her open window, smoking a cigarette. And she was pretty sure she knew who it was.