Baby Needs a New Pair of Shoes

“Go on.” Elizabeth Hepburn nodded her chin, as if she were trying to persuade me to try crack cocaine rather than just a book outside of my normal realm of reading. “Try it. I swear to God, you’re going to love it and want more and more. And, oh—” she put her hand to her face in awe “—those Choos.”

“Choos?” I said. “Did you say ‘Choos’? Don’t you mean to say ‘shoes’?”

“Oh, no,” she said, awe still in her eyes, “those Choos, those Jimmy Choos.”

I had no idea what she was talking about and my expression must have said as much, because she reached out a hand, placed it reassuringly on my arm.

“A girl needs more than a fish in her life for fun, Delilah. Now don’t forget to come back and visit me sometime—” oddly enough, she was not the first customer to thusly invite me “—and don’t forget to tell me what you think of those Choos. I’d bet both my Academy Awards you’re going to love them!”

3

“How’s that Michael Angelo’s Four Cheese Lasagna working out for you?”

Startled, I dropped my fork, causing some of the red sauce to splash up, speckling my wrist and the open pages of the book I was reading. I’d been so engrossed in High Heels and Hand Trucks: My Life Among the Books, which was about an underachieving independent bookseller who takes a job as the lapdog to a publishing bigwig, that I hadn’t even heard Hillary come in.

“What’s that you’re reading?” she asked.

See what I mean? People always ask me that question.

Before I could answer, Hillary flipped the book over to the jacket to look for herself as I wiped at the red speckles on my wrist.

Hillary sniffed. “Not exactly Hemingway, is it?”

“It’s better than Hemingway!” I enthused.

Hillary cocked one perfect blond eyebrow in my general direction, an eyebrow that was waxed and sculpted regularly by the nice Asian ladies at Nail Euphorium, a place I’d never set foot in but heard tell of from Hillary.

“Okay,” I conceded, “maybe it’s not Hemingway, but this book is fun!”

She still looked skeptical as she opened her refrigerator, the one on top, and removed fresh vegetables. I had no doubt she was going to make some kind of amazing homemade sauce, but my Michael Angelo’s really was working for me just fine.

“As a matter of fact—” I enthused on “—after I finish this one, I’m going to—”

“Don’t say it.” Hillary stopped me cold, brandishing a sharp knife. “You’re going to go down to the bookstore and buy everything else this woman, this Shelby Macallister has ever written…right?”

“Wrong,” I said, a touch snottily, but it was so nice to uncover someone else’s wrongness for a change. “You are so wrong.”

“Oh?”

“Shelby Macallister hasn’t written any other books before, meaning I can’t get any more of hers until she writes them. So there.”

Hillary shrugged, contrite, and went back to chopping. “Then I stand corrected.”

It was a good thing her back was to me, so she couldn’t see my blush when I said, “But I am going to go to the bookstore and buy a stack more of this kind of book.”

“I knew it!” She slammed the knife home so hard that poor little green pepper didn’t stand a chance. “Every time you get going on something—”

“Hi, honey—” it was my turn to cut her off “—how was your day?”

This was how Hillary and I plugged along in our merrily dysfunctional way, had done so since back in our college days, at least before I flunked out: I was wacky, she called me on my wackiness, I sidetracked that call by being solicitous, and on we went.

Hard as it was to tear myself away from High Heels, I put the book down and reaching behind me—the eat-in kitchen was that small—opened the door to the lower fridge.

“May I interest you in a libation?” I asked, going all waiterly on her. “Tonight we have Jake’s Fault Shiraz, Jake’s Fault Shiraz and, hmm, let’s see, Jake’s Fault Shiraz.”

Hillary tried to be stern, but before long she started to laugh, which was just fine, that was the way it always was with us.

“Oh, I don’t know.” She rolled her eyes. “I guess I’ll take the Jake’s Fault Shiraz.”

“Good choice, madam.” I rifled in the utility drawer for the rabbit-ears corkscrew. “Why don’t you go change out of your work clothes while I pour you a glass.” Hillary wore the pants in our family and had a great selection of spiffy suits that didn’t deserve to get ruined. “I’ll even finish chopping your vegetables for you.”

“Thanks, it has been a day.”

Sure, she should change so as not to get anything messy on her nice suit, but I really wanted her out of the room so she wouldn’t see what I was about to do with that corkscrew. Hillary had given it to me in my holiday stocking the winter before because I always had trouble opening bottles with the old-fashioned, cheap, blue, plastic corkscrew I’d been using for years. But what she did not yet know was that even with the high-tech marvel she had given me, a corkscrew so wonderful it could make a sommelier out of a five-year-old, I still had problems with the damn thing, always pushing down on the ears too prematurely so that the cork only rose partway out and I wound up mangling it as I twisted it between my legs, trying to uncork it the rest of the way.

The cork came out almost without incident, meaning it snapped a bit at the bottom and I had to press that snapped part through into the wine down below. I poured us each a glass, but Hillary must have decided to indulge in a second shower and by the time she emerged, I was too deep into High Heels and Hand Trucks again to make polite conversation while she ate and did whatever else she did, only taking in her words in the most peripheral way. The written word being the way I connected with the world, my imagination caught up in the mere prose descriptions of all those Choos.

Her: “Do you want more of this wine?”

Me: (stretching out glass without looking) “You wouldn’t believe these shoes.”

Her: “Want to watch American Idol 25 with me?”

Me: “You would not believe these shoes.”

Her: “How about Jon Stewart?”

Me: “You would not believe these shoes.”

Her: “I guess I might as well hit the—”

Me: “You would not—”

Her: “Oh, stuff it, Delilah. ’Night.”

Well, that was rude.

But here was the thing: you would not believe these shoes, no one would, unless you read about them yourself, I thought, shutting the book after the last page.

Damn! It was after midnight. I’d need to wait until after work the next day, technically that day, to go to the bookstore and pick up more books like High Heels. I was definitely going to be reading more books like High Heels.

But then I realized something else: reading about the shoes, which the author constantly described as “architectural marvels” as if there were no other words for them, was a far cry from actually seeing the shoes. I mean it’s always show, don’t tell, right? And as good as the author was at describing the shoes—there were so many of them!—I suddenly was struck by an overwhelming urge: I needed to see those shoes.

But what to do, what to do…

I had no idea who in Danbury might actually sell Jimmy Choos, probably nobody, and even if I took the last train into Manhattan, all the shops there would be closed at one in the morning.

What to do, what to do…