If The Shoe Fits

Though we were president (me) and vice president (him) of Brothers and Sisters in Christ (BASIC), Tad usually looked past me, as if too busy to give me his full attention. Today though, another man lived in his skin—a towel-brandishing, knee-bending, foot-washing man.

His towel hung from one side of his waistband now, like a child’s napkin at a barbecue. He tugged it free and tossed it to the floor before tapping my ankle for me to lift my foot out of the tub. How he knew to do that I didn’t know. Did he get pedicures too?

Too embarrassed to look at him any longer, I stared at my sunshine shoes, the yellow peekaboo pumps I’d made for Dana’s wedding but had only been brave enough to wear today, three months later. Now, I longed for a pair of fuzzy slippers. They’d be easier to escape with. I’d tried to roll with it, but this was ridiculous. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I have to go.”

I struggled to get up, but Tad held my foot, massaged my heel. He took a deep breath. “Wait…Listen.”

The rhythm of Mother Holloway’s humming my favorite hymn, the music minister praying under his breath, someone’s wife crying behind me, and the splashes of simple service moved me, moved through me. It started as a shiver at first, then a stream and finally a flood. The room faded as I shut my eyes, letting the sacred sounds close in on me. Who knew that feet could bring such peace to a place?

Warmth poured over my ankles, flowed between my toes. That Tad. Sneaky. I sat in my chair, head buried in my hands. If he’d only stopped there, I could have endured it, pretended none of it had happened. But as always, Tad went too far.

“You have beautiful feet, Rochelle, the Gospel-spreading, life-giving kind, the kind that make it to the finish line.” He said it loud, in his tornado-warning voice.

Mother Holloway stopped humming. I stopped sitting, dropping my unopened Bible from my lap as I stood. The book splashed Tad’s face as it thudded into the water. The black cover peeled back and released the gold-edged pages, billowing at first, then bloating.

Tad grabbed the book and squeezed as though saving a life. And he was saving a life. Mine. From the cover, bought by my son as a boy, to the notes scribbled in the margin on almost every page, that book contained the past ten years of my life and all God’s promises for my future. Still, I went for my shoes, to run, to save my heart. To save my mind.

“Wait.” He held out the damp Bible. When I took it, he held it with me, knowing I wouldn’t stay. Everyone was looking at us, listening, but he didn’t seem to care. “Really, Rochelle, your feet are beautiful. So are you.” He released his grip on my Bible, but tightened the grip on my heart. Why had he waited until today, when I was giving up on everything, to get all brave? I held the wet stack of pages in front of me like a shield and headed for the door.

“If that boy thinks those feet are pretty, Chelle, you’d better marry him. No offense, sugar.” Mother Holloway’s voice followed me to the door.

None taken, I thought, unable to speak. As for marrying Tad or anyone else, the thought that had always been laughable before became painful now. Why was Tad saying stuff like this now, when it was too late? When whatever shred of womanhood had that survived seventeen years of single parenting, entrepreneurship, church service and a really bad attempt at having a boyfriend last year lay dead on the bottom of my heart. It was best to leave it there. Sometimes it’s been too long for a resurrection.

On his arrival, Jesus found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb for four days.

Now at the door, I looked back at Tad, still kneeling and reaching out with those long copper fingers. He was looking at me, his lips curved into a waning moon full of star-bright teeth. “Thanks for coming. You have so much to offer.” He whispered it, but again, everyone heard.

I stabbed my feet farther into my shoes, grinding my toes into place. Water dotted the canary leather like tears. My own tears refused to fall. After months of crying for everyone else, I had no tears left for myself.

Tad’s smile, a small one, was like a boy with a secret, a man with a plan. I stepped into the hall, reminding myself of how other women in the church had been sucked into a web of mixed messages and ended up with broken hearts and, in some cases, broken faith.

A thousands Sundays of hide-and-seek with Tad had taught me never to put my trust in him. Or my hope. Our game stayed the same each week. (“It’s good to see you, Sister Rochelle.” “And you.”) Stolen glances that would have rendered lesser souls legally blind would follow, but never anything more, unless you counted that February eight years ago when he held my hand for four Sundays in a row. He’d made up for his slip by ignoring me for months, like he’d probably do after today.

On my way to the car, I reminded myself of that, as well as how cruel he’d been to say those things in front of some of the main grinders of the church rumor mill. I’d spend the rest of the year explaining that we weren’t dating, but things like that never occurred to him. I stepped painfully toward the car, trying not to think about the Bible leaking through my dress. How could I start over without my notes? My thoughts? Tad’s thoughts came to me instead.

Gospel-spreading feet.

Yeah, these tootsies could spread cement from here to Mexico. In fact, they’d tried to do just that. When pregnant with my son, the doctor had advised cutting back at work as my feet swelled and my not-so-sensible shoes cramped. Determined to show my teenage heartthrob (who I was sure would marry me at any moment) that I wasn’t a lazy woman, I ignored the doctor’s advice and worked more, not less. If my son’s father was impressed, he had a sorry way of showing it, going to the bathroom during my labor and never returning.

The next time I saw him was on a TV screen as he drank and fought his way through a few stormy years in professional basketball. Though it’d hurt to see him in magazines with pretty women on his arm, the money he sent (a couple hundred thousand, which I invested in design school, my home, my shoe boutique and Dana’s shop) was helpful. One day the money stopped and the only man I’d ever loved or made love to disappeared from the face of the earth. I realized quickly that he might not ever come back. Might not save me.

It was then that Jesus revealed Himself to me, a God more than willing to be my husband, my son’s father and my closest friend. For years, I gave myself freely to Christ without regret, except for my secret, that somewhere in a nursing home in Mexico my son’s father slumbered in a coma like a male version of Sleeping Beauty. From the returns on my well-invested funds, I paid for his monthly care, each night secretly praying the same prayer, Let today be the day, Lord. Let Jordan wake up and come home.

Instead, Jordan’s sister Dana, who’d shared parenting chores with me since her teen years, and Tracey, another friend and former neighbor, filled much of my void for companionship. Though we’d spent time together online as the Sassy Sistahood, we became something more, sisters in Christ. When Dana found out last year about her brother and, worse yet, about me knowing about her brother’s condition and whereabouts, our relationship was a little strained. Okay, so a lot strained. We’re close still but in a different, more distant way. For one thing, she’s married now. Talk about changing relationship dynamics…

Anyway, about Jordan. Though I continued to pay for his care, Jordan coming home drifted away from me with all my other happily-ever-after dreams. Many times, I almost told Dana that I knew where her brother was and what had happened to him, but I never could find the right words. Last year, Jordan woke up and found the words himself, coming home to turn my son’s head and break my heart all over again.

Working too hard to keep a man had broken these feet in the first place, broken my heart. I couldn’t let that happen again. Not for anyone. Not even intelligent, handsome, aggravating Tad.

And He will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

The Scripture leaked from my mind into one of the puddles I passed on the way to my car. I paused at the trash can near my trunk and slipped off my shoes.

Afraid that some thrifty deaconess would rescue the yellow pumps and put them in the clothes bank, forcing me to see the stain of this morning on the feet of a stranger, I gripped the shoes to my chest along with my soggy Bible. Tomorrow’s trash pickup at home was a safer option, one that ensured I’d never see those sunshine shoes again.

Chapter two

My son, his father, my son’s girlfriend—the whole crew of fools—awaited me at home. I didn’t even get to squish the rest of the water out of my Bible before facing them.

“Hi-eeee,” Shemika said, waving with one hand and covering her watermelon-size belly with the other. She bowed her head quickly, nibbling one of the emergency croissants from my freezer.

I dumped my wet shoes beside the door next to the others. I took in the scene in disbelief. Not only had these folks invaded my home—with the help of my son’s key, no doubt—they’d kicked off their shoes and cooked themselves some breakfast, too.

The nerve.

Still armed with my wet Bible, I grabbed the empty plastic bag my croissants had come in and wrapped the Bible in it. It was a total loss, but I was too afraid to throw it away. I have a thing about Bibles, too. As ink blurred in the margins and bled across the pages, I bled inside too. I’d meant to get a new Bible sometime, but not now. Not yet. Everything was changing without my permission. Sort of like my unexpected guests.

I turned to my son’s father, eating eggs at my kitchen table as though he belonged there. As many times as I’d envisioned him in that seat, the sight bothered me now.

“How did you get in here, Jordan?” I knew already, of course, but I wanted to let all of them know that keying into my home and waiting for me was unacceptable.

“Well, we—”

“Leave Dad out of it, Mom. It’s my fault. I used my key.” My son, Jericho, stood, hands shoved into his jeans.

“Dad? It’s like that now? That’s rich.” About as rich as his father, whose gifts seemed to have worn away any of my son’s remaining brain cells. Sure it was great that Jordan was here today, but what about when he disappeared again?

“Can we not start with that? What’s with you anyway? Are those the sunshine shoes?” He pointed to my wet pumps by the door.

“That’s them. It’s a long story. Sunday school was, well, interesting. I had to come home.” I looked over at Shemika. “Your grandmother had a good time, though.”

“I’m sure.” Shemika shrugged and gave me the same guilty smile she’d worn since her pregnancy started showing. Today though, something different played around her eyes. Maybe the reality I’d been trying to describe to them was finally sinking in.

My son didn’t look as amused. “Church? Is that really it? You seem really out of it. And is that your Bible wrapped up over there? The one that you write in?”

Jordan stopped pushing his eggs around on his plate and looked at me with a concern that shook me a little. I must have looked like a fool in this wet blouse and rumpled skirt, but he looked at me as if I was wearing an evening gown. Tad was one thing, but Jordan was going to have to get out of here. They were all giving me puppy-dog looks now.

“We had an exercise in Sunday school and I got a little wet, okay? The question isn’t about me. The question is, what are you people doing here!” Whoa. Had that come out of my mouth? I was definitely going to have to check with the doctor about those perimenopause supplements. Kicking folks and screaming all before noon? And on a Sunday too? I needed a nap and some sugar-free chocolate.

Shemika piped up this time. “Well, coming here was my idea, actually. I’m not feeling so well, Mrs. Rose—”

“That’s Miss—Miss Gardner, same as Jericho.” I didn’t scream this time, but my meaning was clear. What had they been telling this girl? As long as she’d known us, hadn’t somebody clued her in on the whole horrible story.

“She was never my wife, Shemika,” Jordan said. “Though she should have been. I wasn’t as brave as Jericho, but she was as brave as you. And hardworking, too. She worked double shifts in the supermarket and picked up hours at the hospital until the day she went into labor.” He paused and stared at the floor. “Even messed up her feet to do it. I’m sorry about everything, but I’m sorry about that.”

I braced myself against the chair at the sound of Jordan’s voice. For years, I’d thought that marrying Jordan would have saved me, taken the shame of my teen pregnancy away. All these years later, listening to him, looking at him, I realized things could have been worse if he’d stayed. I couldn’t think of anything he could add to my life. Nothing I needed to think about, anyway.

Shemika tugged my son’s sleeve. “I thought they were divorced—”