Louisiana, I said. Way far away.
I found out that their mama lived with a man named Walter. Their granny took care of them for a while. Now they’re here. What are your foster parents’ names? I said. Trayvien said, We don’t know yet. You think they might be worried where you are? Trayvien shrugged. I said, Well, let’s go find them, okay? We all washed up at the kitchen sink. We put Spot on his leash and paraded down the street. We waved to Mr. Lesperence next door. Everett walked beside Spot. Spot kept licking Everett’s face. Demetrius held the leash. Trayvien held Kendrick’s hand. I held Trayvien’s. Trayvien was sure it was a blue house. We made a couple of lefts and rights, but nothing looked familiar. Demetrius told me that Spot pees a lot.
Here it is, Trayvien said.
I wanted to ring the bell, let the people know we were back, but Trayvien wouldn’t let me. They napping, he said.
The boys hugged Spot. They stood in the driveway and waved goodbye until we turned the corner. This all happened a year and a half ago. I’ve never seen them again.
For a while, Spot and I took our walks by the blue house. One evening a man in a T-shirt and shorts stood there in the front yard, watering a Manila palm. He must have thought I was crazy. No kids ever lived here, he said. I looked around. This was the house. Spot slurped water from the hose. The man said, Shoo. Spot woofed at him. So you’re not a foster parent? I said. He made a face. Spot sniffed around the sidewalk. Evidently, the children’s volatile molecules lingered here, though the children did not. I called the Welfare. No one there would tell me anything — confidentiality, the woman said. I said, What kind of world is this? Four babies wandering the streets. You shouldn’t worry, she said.
My cholesterol is in the stratosphere it turns out. So I drink red wine now with my Paris buns. I brunch on the deck with Spot, imagine Trayvien telling me a story with a happy ending. Like maybe he says, The lion wants his friends back, but the man says forget about it. The bear is sure it was all a dream anyway. But the wolf says what he believes is you meet everyone twice before you die.
The Red Shoes
by Edna Buchanan
Downtown
(Originally published in 1999)
He stared from the shadows until the lights went out. He knew which apartment was hers, had conducted several recon missions to scout the layout of the building after following her home a week ago. She had been wearing narrow red sandals with little straps that night. The heels had to be four inches high. She wore them bare-legged, soles arched, each delicious digit of her toes spread like some exotic bird clinging to her elevated perch. Harvey’s knees felt weak as he remembered, picturing the voluptuous curve of her instep, and the right heel, slightly smudged, from driving. She should carpet the floor of her car, he thought, it would be a shame to ruin those shoes. Their sharp stiletto heels had pounded across the pavement and up the stairs, piercing his heart. Had to be at least four and a half inches high, he thought.
Suddenly her second-floor door swung open and someone emerged, taking Harvey by surprise as he gazed up, lost in fantasy. A big man trotted down the stairs, stared for a moment, then brushed by, ignoring him. Though husky, the fellow was light on his feet, in running shoes, jeans, and a hooded yellow sweatshirt. Must be the boyfriend, Harvey thought, turning away as the stranger strode toward the parking lot. Harvey took the opposite direction, the breezeway to the mailboxes, his head down, pretending to be a tenant coming home late.
His first instinct was to abort, to go home and watch another old movie, but instead he lingered. Nobody could know all the neighbors in a complex this size, he assured himself, aware that he was not a man most people would notice, or remember, anyway. A car door slammed and a big engine sprang quickly to life. Harvey relaxed as headlights swung out of the parking lot and melted into the night.
A close call, he thought, loitering behind the dumpsters. From his vantage point he continued to watch her apartment. The lights were still out. He had read that the deepest sleep comes soon after the first hour. He was too excited to give up now. The wait would be worth it, he thought, and settled down.
Harvey had always liked women’s feet. The roots of his obsession dated back to the moment he realized that he was the only one in his high school art-appreciation class turned on by the bare feet of the Virgin Mary.
Women’s feet became even more alluring after he stopped drinking. He had worked the steps, had a sponsor, and saw the truth behind an AA counselor’s comment that “you often replace one addiction with another.” How true.
Unfortunately, his recent expeditions had made the newspapers, forcing him to exercise more caution. But this one was worth the risk, more exciting than all of the others he had followed home.
Two of his encounters had apparently never been reported. That had perplexed him. He wondered if they had been too afraid or too embarrassed, or too lacking in faith in the local police? Perhaps they had liked it and hoped he’d be back. He pondered that possibility until, consulting the luminous dial of his watch, he decided it was time to make his move.
He silently ascended the open staircase. Glittery stars winked from above and Mars burned like an ember to the east. The rudimentary hardware on the sliding glass door was laughable. The high school summer he worked for a local locksmith had been well spent. These people should know how little protection they have, he thought righteously, then slid the door open just enough to slip in sideways. The darkened dining room smelled of lemon furniture polish on wood and the fruity aroma of fresh oranges arranged in a ceramic bowl.
A pendulum clock’s rhythmic tick was the only sound. It followed him to her bedroom, keeping time with his stealthy footsteps. His body quaked with anticipation. He knew the right room, always the last light out at night. Her faint form was barely distinguishable, a dim outline on the bed as he paused in the doorway. A jumbo jet roared overhead in ascent from Miami International Airport, but she never stirred. He waited until the airliner’s thunder faded, replaced by the faint hum of the ceiling fan above her bed.
He did not need his penlight to find what he had come for. The stiletto heels, side by side, stood at rigid attention next to her closet door. She had slipped them off carelessly, without unfastening the tiny metal buckles and the skinny straps. That’s how you ruin an excellent pair of shoes, he thought indignantly, then shivered with delight at her rash and wanton behavior.
In the beginning, during his early forays, he simply seized his prize and fled, pilfering their shoes, sometimes from the floor next to the very bed where they slumbered. Sometimes he snatched a bonus, a worn sock or nylon stocking from the dirty-clothes hamper on the way out. But one breezy and memorable night, his inhibitions had crumbled, along with his resistance. She was a shapely little waitress from Hooters, red-haired with a ponytail. Creeping in a window left open to the breeze, he had found her running shoes. They radiated a delightful, intoxicating aroma, a mixture of musky sweat, rubber, and Odor-Eaters. He was about to depart with them, when the blossoming full moon silvered the room, the sweet, alluring scent of night-blooming jasmine filled the air, and she stirred, murmuring in her sleep, and kicked off the flowered sheet. He stood frozen, the enticing arch of her bare foot beckoning, just inches away. Lord knows, he wasn’t made of stone. Who could resist? He planted a passionate wet kiss on her metatarsal. She woke up screaming, of course, and he beat feet out of there, but the shared terror, the adrenaline, the flight were irresistible. He was hooked.