Soles

by Kay Brandt

  Her smile held steady seeing how trashed I was. Self-consciousness overcame me.

  “Can I help you?” I don't even recognize my own voice, sounding like a bigger insecure dork than I already was.

  “Perhaps not,” she said with a pout. “I was looking for the owner of the store.”

  “That's me.” This doesn't make her happy, and I fight the urge to crawl away.

  “You must be joking,” she purred with a surly edge.

  “No, I own this place. Inherited it. Are you looking for something specific?” I swallowed back my stale, alcohol-infused breath.

  She scanned the sneakers and racks of packaged socks. “I'm here to handle unfinished business. A promise I made to my mother when she was still alive, needs to be fulfilled.”

  “And that has something to do with me?” I asked, feeling my insides shake with nerves and hunger. “I can't imagine what it could be.”

  From a silky pink purse, she revealed a dainty pair of shoes―handmade slippers clearly from a different decade. “Do you recognize these?”

  I felt a sudden soul invasion, reduced to the scared child I was, face to face with my father's work. Identifying the details as Jonathan's without second-guessing―his style of shoe-making was imprinted on my psyche.

  “No, not at all.” Bowing my head, I projected zero knowledge, and lied.

  “I feel sad, then,” she said with a teary voice. “I've come so far to meet the man who made these. They were created as a gift for my mother―a statement of love that could only come from a master craftsman.”

  I'm transfixed by the echo in the room, the strange way her voice bounced on the walls, as if she was talking in a wind tunnel. “Put them away. I don't want those shoes near me.” My spine suddenly hit the wall with a thud, as if invisible hands had pushed me. The wind knocked from my lungs, I gasped, “Please, back in the purse.”

  “What?” she questioned. “Are you ill?” She looked confused, mirroring the expression on my face. “Perhaps I'm in the wrong place? It seems likely considering the strange way you're behaving, but I'm quite positive I have the right address. See?” She flipped the shoes over, pointing to the etchings on the soles. “He wrote it right here.”

  I lost my breath again, like her words were fists punching me in the stomach. Choking a response, I repeated, “Back in the purse!”

  She didn't care what I demanded, wanting more information. “I have pictures of the two of them together. You look so much like him.”

  “Actually I've been told I look more like my mother,” I clarified. “What does it matter? I'm not him and not who you're looking for.” Not convinced, she continued her bizarre probe. “But you're the owner. Where is he, the man who made my mother's wedding shoes?”

  “Okay, that's enough,” I said, taking control of the conversation. “I'm not playing this weird game with you. Did Aunt Grace set you up? If this is her way of testing me, you can tell her she failed.”

  “Who is she?” she implored as her face twitched with jealousy. “Will you tell me the master's name?”

  “Master?” I asked. “You mean, Jonathan or my grandfather, William?”

  “No, Roland,” she brightly replied, as if saying my name would have no effect on me. “His name was signed at the bottom of a note my mother kept locked with these shoes. He wrote that my mother's feet were the most precious he'd ever touched. The shoes were designed to accentuate how delicate, beautiful, and worthy of being worshiped they were.”

  I want to burst out laughing, or vomit, I couldn't decide which to do. The terrified hum in my gut kept me serious. “Bullshit. I never wrote a note like that.”

  Her eyes went dark, and the sunlit glimmer on her face grayed. “Oh yes, you did.”

  “Where's the note, then?” I asked with a tremble. “When did I write it?”

  She smiled. “Three days from now.”

  The room was silent and cold. My back still plastered to the wall, I felt sweat pour down my spine and fill my jeans. I wanted her to say something, but she didn't.

  “It's been more than twenty years since my grandfather's death,” I stammered, desperate to change the direction of the conversation. “And I'm sure it was him who signed the note, not me.”

  She shook her head like a machine jolting with electricity.

  I continued, “Hate to tell you this, but, William had many, uh, love interests when he was married to my grandmother and selling his designs. From what I was told, and from what I've learned, your mother wasn't the only woman to get a note like the one you say you have.”

  The information's like a bullet to her heart, yet her eyes were cold.

  “He's dead. They all are!” I lost it. “I'm the only one left, and I'm not following in their footsteps!” Screaming with what little air I had to give, I told her, “I'm not making any shoes! Not EVER!”

  And then her mouth twisted into an ugly grin. “Not true,” she insisted, “I know these things. I know because I'm Jonathan's lineage, too.” Her face turned into a familiar one, yet I couldn't place it, and I shut my eyes tightly.

  “Go away,” I cried, “GO AWAY!”

  The loud and sudden boom of boxes crashing in the stockroom put an end to the bizarre and upsetting conversation. Without opening my eyes, I slid across the wall. “Excuse me,” I said. “I have to go see what that noise was about.”

  She didn't answer, and I didn't look. I grasped the stockroom door and flung it open.

  To my pleasant surprise, Stephanie stood in the back, clean and in different clothes, rubbing a sore spot on her head. “I accidentally walked into the rack.” She pointed to a high shelf. “Thanks for letting me go home. I brought you a sandwich, in case you were hungry.”

  “You made me food?”

  “I didn't, but my grandmother did. She wanted to make a special ham and cheese for the nice boy who gave me a job.” Stephanie dropped a brown paper bag on the workbench. “She got the last pin out, too.”

  “Good. I'm grateful. Thanks.” I peeked inside the bag. The thin sandwich looked like a feast, my stomach totally empty and sloshing with wine. “I'll eat after I finish dealing with this chick out front.”

  “You have a customer?” she asked bewildered. “What's her problem? Was she stealing, too?”

  “Not stealing,” I replied, “but making up a bunch of lame stories. She's a joker, sent by my aunt, I'm sure.”

  Stephanie shrugged, stopping herself from sitting on the cement. “What should I do then? I need to stay standing. My butt cheeks are raw.”

  I giggled and hated myself for it.

  “It's not funny, ass.”

  “No, it's not,” I agreed, sniffing the sandwich. “Just hang out. I'll be right back.” And then I remembered, “The back door just opened? It wasn't locked?”

  “I'm here, right?”

  “Right.”

  ****

  I muster the balls to tell the mysterious girl to leave, formulating the words in the split second it took to walk from the stockroom to the sales floor. “I don't mean to be rude, but-” I blurted out before realizing she and the shoes were gone. There's no sight of her outside the windows, either. I waited a few seconds, creeping around the rows in case she reappeared, then gave up, totally relieved.

  ****

  “What happened?” Stephanie paced the stockroom, puffing hard on a cigarette.

  “She left.” I fished the sandwich from the plastic baggie it was sealed in. The bread was soft and the cheese creamy. “Seems to be missing an ingredient. No ham?”

  “Must have forgotten to add it,” Stephanie said, inhaling the packaged tobacco harder. “She does that sometimes. Chicken Parmesan is usually sauce and spaghetti minus the meat. Old people are like that, I guess.”

  “I wouldn't know. My grandparents died before I was born.”

  She blinked at me, rolling the tip of the cigarette between her lips. “And you've got no other old people in your life? I've got like at least six. There's a lot of death i
n your family, dude.”

  “Yes, there is and no, I don't.” I watched her for a second, wondering if she'd eat the cigarettes while she watched me inhale the meatless sandwich. “And they all died here, right about where you're standing.”

  Stephanie didn't move, dismissing the statement as a joke. “Shut up. Why do you do this? Always trying to mess with my head.”

  “They did. Their bodies were found in almost the exact same places.”

  “You'd said your parents were a murder-suicide?”

  Swallowing, I felt my stomach respond to the first bites of food. “Yes, found dead in each other's arms, wedding rings shoved down their throats.”

  Stephanie tried to read me, as if she could tell the truth from a lie. “That' screwed up, dude.”

  “Roland,” I corrected and then continued, “My grandparents were hung on hooks with shoe heels stuck in their hearts.”

  “But you said they were both murder-suicides, didn't you?” She asked, “How do you kill yourself while your body is hung by another?”

  “No, my grandparents were murdered by someone who was never caught. The facts seem like fiction now and I'm okay with not knowing the hard truth. The gruesome details are better left as classified information. Just like Aunt Grace's managers.” I chomped the last bite of sandwich, wanting a second.

  “Dude, this is like a movie, what you're telling me,” Stephanie said. “You're making this up.”

  “You see the stains?” I pointed to the tainted cement.

  Stephanie examined the floor. “That's paint.”

  “No. They bled out buckets and the cement didn't have a protective coating then. It was porous and soaked the blood up like a sponge.” The truth has little impact on me, and none on her—totally desensitized teenagers.

  She shivered, her anxiety level rising. “You're not afraid the unknown killer will come back for you?”

  Stumped by the question, I thought over my answer, contemplating the evil shoes. “I guess not. Whoever killed my grandparents must be dead by now, right?”

  “Don't ask me.” She shrugged, smacking her lips, wanting to smoke. “So, what's the deal with the managers? What about them? How many did you have?”

  “My aunt hired a series of losers to manage the store, I guess,” I revealed without knowing the facts. “They're no longer with us.”

  “Obviously, or else I wouldn't be here,” she replied like I was stupid. “They all quit?”

  “Yes, and bought the farm.” I laughed awkwardly, confirming my stupidity.

  She shot me a horrible look. “Huh? Really? Shut up.” Kicking a shoe box at the wall, Stephanie waved off my statement. “You're going to try and freak me out again?”

  Although I didn't witness the supposed sequential demise of Aunt Grace's ill-fated staff, I'd heard pieces of her testimony to the detectives who visited our apartment. Aunt Grace warned me not to tell anyone what I'd heard, and I kept my mouth shut, until now.

  “I was twelve when the first one was smashed by the rolling racks, like a fly hit by a high-speed swatter, after turning in his resignation.” Surprised that this information came out of me, I retracted, wishing I hadn't spoken. “That's what she said, anyway.”

  “Bullshit. Your stories are unbelievable.” Not buying a word, she flicked a lighter, setting off sparks. She flippantly remarked, “Have you ever seen a therapist?”

  “No,” I replied sourly, and then said, “His body was a shattered pancake, that was Aunt Grace's description.”

  “Liar,” she said, flicking harder on the lighter like a threat to stop screwing with her. “And the second one? What happened to them?”

  “The second manger caught fire while unpacking sneakers and smoking at the same time.” My stomach rumbled, still starving. “I'm not kidding when I tell you refraining from smoking in the stockroom is for your own safety. One small ash flicked on chemical-covered shoes and a combustible situation is a given, so, quit it with the lighter.”

  Stephanie suggested, “Then let me go have a smoke.”

  “You just got here.”

  “Like an hour ago,” she whined, shaking her cigarette box, wanting one bad. “You're talking about dead people! Deaths that happened right here! If this shit really took place, you'd show some feeling, some fear! Something like what I'm feeling!”

  She was right―I'm an insensitive prick, talking about gruesome acts like they were nothing. Having lived in a contained environment of doom had turned me into a zombie. “I'm sorry to freak you out. I won't tell you about the others.”

  Stephanie snorted. “No, now you have to. Finish.”

  Continuing, I said, “Number three was flattened by the racks, too, after quitting.”

  “Ha ha,” she said with a fake laugh. “How original.”

  “Four and five were impaled by my father's industrial-size fabric shears.”

  “Perfect,” she sneered with an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. “Go on.”

  “The last one to die... I can't remember exactly.” I searched through the muck in my brain, finding nothing, so I said, “I'm sure it had something to do with the stink of the shoes. When I walked in here yesterday for the first time in years, the smell of cheap vinyl and plastic was like a slap in the face.”

  “Great. So, you're the asshole psycho killer, like I said yesterday, and you're warning me of what's going to happen to me?” she asked. “Or are you just an ass minus the psycho killer shit, and this conversation is a lame attempt at being cool?”

  Ignoring her, I finished my point. “It used to smell like leather and oil-the smell of my father.” The venting felt like a gigantic weight lifted off my shoulders. “But that's all gone.”

  Surprisingly, she applauded loudly and continued in her sarcastic tone. “Is this the part where I cry?”

  “It's probably best if you don't believe me.” Exhaustion took over, and I lost the will to lie and convince. “If you want. But you're better at being a bitch.”

  “Come on!” she yelled, stamping her feet for some unknown reason. “Don't stop now!”

  Burping up the sandwich, I pounded my chest. “I have nothing else to say.”

  “Tell me how the store's going to kill me, too, Roland. Maybe you're the sick fuck who's doing the killing?” And then she went there. “You're planning my death right now, aren't you?”

  “I knew I shouldn't have said a word.” Cleaning my clothes of bread crumbs, I answered her questions. “I'm not a killer, and I'm not a good liar.” I smiled at her crookedly. “My dreams of being a stand-up comedian are out the window.”

  Stephanie looked me over, trying to read my empty mind. “Can we get a TV in here? That way we won't have to talk.”

  “Yeah, maybe. First I have to fix the phone.” Yawning, my vision spun. “Hey, go out on the sales floor. I need to pass out a minute.”

  “You haven't showed me how to have customer service yet.” she reminded me.

  “I'll only be a minute.” Waving for her to leave me alone, she left the stockroom. Suddenly, there was quiet and I drifted with heavy eyelids, running the murderous tales I spun though my mind, wondering why I bothered to tell them. Placing my head on the desk, I'm blanketed by a disturbing dream, seducing me into a deep sleep.

  “I think you have a customer, dude. Did you hear the front door opening?” Stephanie shook my shoulder, having returned from a moment on the sales floor. She scratched my arm with her nails, trying to wake me. “I don't feel trained enough to deal with people. I tried and it didn't work.”

  “Try again,” I mumbled. Her voice faded as my lids glued shut, dreaming about a suppressed memory gurgling back with the tail-end of the wine buzz. I'd long forgotten this one until uncovering the fitting chair.

  I remembered seeing the puddles on the floor, formed by the blood that used to drip from the fitting chair when no one was looking―when I was a boy playing with jacks on the cold cement.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Unable to wak
e me, Stephanie confronted the clean-cut surveillance installation man, clad in a denim jumper, waiting for assistance on the sales floor.

  “What's up?” she asked, sending him a disinterested vibe. “Want something? It's my second day working here and I haven't been trained,” Stephanie admitted. “So, if you want to grab some shoes and go, I'm cool with it. I won't say a word.” Then she whispered, “The register doesn't work. If you've got cash we can make a deal.”

  “You're scheduled for an install today.” He chirped, raising an eyebrow at her, cracking a professional grin. “Ten-to-two was the general time frame given when you first set the appointment. It's 11:51 in the morning. I don't like to keep customers waiting all day.” Tapping his pen on the clipboard, he flashed an invoice. “We all have things to do, lives to live, businesses to run, right?”

  She raised an eyebrow back at him. “Right.”

  “Where do you want the cameras?” he asked, visually scanning the walls.

  “Cameras? For what? Oh... the crazy bitch said something about it this morning.” Out of habit, Stephanie hopped up on the register desk, forgetting her wounded bottom. “Fuck!” she yelled, jumping off instantly, crying in pain. Cupping her ass, she rubbed and rubbed. “God damn it! If you only knew what's happened to me today.”

  “Don't you hate when that happens?” The surveillance man empathized, rubbing his own ass, stricken with sympathy pains. “I drive around in a van from morning till night and it never fails. My butt goes totally numb. Can't even walk when I get out sometimes, I just hop around like a lunatic.”

  Stephanie assessed him, wondering if he really was a lunatic. “What's going on here?” she asked. “Are you and him setting me up for something?”

  “Something like?” he asked, clueless and rolling his eyes side to side. “Who's him?”

  “Never mind,” she said with total frustration.