The Patent Slipper

THE PATENT SLIPPER

{985 words}

I came out of the stockroom to find a woman underneath a sale table rummaging through the merchandise; boxes were strewn everywhere. She was in her forties and had coal-black hair and green eyes. An air of distinction emanated from her, even on all fours. The two-piece business suit easily cost a thousand dollars and her diamond jewelry glistened in the light, though no more appealing than her smile.

“Sorry, I can’t resist a clearance sale,” she said. “You wouldn’t have this in narrow, would you? My daughter would just love these for Easter.” She handed me a black-patent Mary Jane.

“I believe all the sizes are out, but I’ll check, Mrs. . . .?”

“Ford. Mandy Ford. Thank you so much. I’ve searched all over the city for a pair like these. I’m afraid I’ve waited too long. Are you the proprietor?”

“Joe London at your service. Let me take a peek in the back.” There was a hopeful look in her eyes, like a puppy believing its master will throw a ball forever, but I was certain the shoe wasn’t there.

The last few years had become drudgery; my zeal gone. I’d lost interest in the shoe business and considered selling, having grown weary of the same old motions: finding a similar style, highlighting its good points, extolling its advantages over the shoe I didn’t have, and finally closing the deal. Still, I wondered what a woman like this was doing in my store on hands and knees. Her smile intrigued me. I double-checked every shelf, thoroughly. I found a soft-leather single-strap and returned with my best face. Mandy Ford had straightened the boxes in my absence.

“Wa-lah,” I said, holding the slipper in the palm of my hand, my usual gesture to enhance a presentation. “The last one in the store. It’s a Buster Brown—good quality. And you can polish these if they get scuffed.”

“It's not shiny,” she said.

“It’s all I have.”

“Please, are you sure?”

“I’m sorry, it’s the last narrow in her size.”

With a blank expression she mumbled, “Tomorrow is Easter.”

“I only carry a few in this size,” I said, feeling the need to explain. “I won’t sell any more until Christmas. Mine is a small store, to stay in business the inventory must be turned regularly. I could order the shoe, but it wouldn’t arrive until next week ”

Her green eyes welled with tears; her captivating smile vanished. It seemed that some vital force was replaced by a mechanism soon to fail. She began to sob. Her broken wailing came in short spurts, gasping for breath and quivering. Perspiration formed on her forehead and lips. I locked the front door, turned the closed sign, and walked her around the showroom until the trembling eased. I sat her down and patted her face with a handkerchief. “Talk to me Mandy, is there anyone I can call?”

“No one can help. My daughter is dying, and no one can help! All the money in the world can’t help her. I can’t even get the shoes she wants . . . You must think I’m silly worrying about shoes. It’s what she wants, that’s all. It’s just what she wants.” Mandy’s crying reduced to a whimper. Before I had a chance to respond, a woman rapping at the door diverted my attention.

“I hate to bother you,” the woman said, “after what I put you through, but my husband said these shoes must be returned. He’s laid off and we can’t afford them; we might lose our apartment. He told me not to buy anything, but our little girl is singing in church tomorrow. She just wanted them so . . . well, her school shoes will do fine.”

The woman held her head high and fought back the tears. I remembered her laboring over the purchase earlier in the week. Mandy had composed herself and was listening attentively.

“No problem,” I said, setting the box beside the cash register and the soft leather pair. The ends of both boxes faced me. Nine AA. No way, I thought, removing the lid. It was the patent slipper. “Mandy, look at this!” She knew instantly. Mandy grabbed the soft leather pair and asked the lady if her daughter would like them.

“It’s the right size,” Mandy said. “I want to buy them for you.”

“Thanks, but I can’t take them. My husband is a proud man, but his inability to provide for us has made him crazy. I don’t expect you to understand—we come from different worlds.”

Mandy Ford was taken aback. She examined the woman’s modest attire, lack of makeup, and premature aging. The black woman wore no jewelry except a wedding band. Notwithstanding, the imprint of life’s random cruelty couldn’t overshadow her dignity.

“No,” Mandy said softly. “We come from the same world; we’re mothers.”

Mandy endorsed a five-thousand-dollar check. “This should help until your husband gets well,” she said. “Please, take it. My daughter won’t be able to sing tomorrow.”

With the check and shoes in hand, the woman left in shock.

Mandy’s smile returned. “I don't know how to thank you," she said with an honesty I'll never forgot.

“What’s your daughter’s name?” I asked.

“Faith,” Mandy answered proudly.

“Tell Faith I said happy Easter.”

Going through the motions was never quite the same after that. The lady in shock and I became good friends. She purchased shoes until her daughter, Hope, outgrew the store. And recently, I fit Hope’s daughter, Charity, with her first pair of walkers. I never saw Mandy Ford again. But she sends me a shipment of patent slippers every Easter with lots and lots of narrows.