If The Shoe Fits
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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.