Red Shoes

That rainy autumn afternoon, a Saturday, my brothers and sisters were gathered in the finished basement watching cartoons. My mother was out and my father was probably watching college football in his study. I was eight or nine years old. Rather than sit before the television, I realized I could visit again my favorite corner of our large, unfinished attic, by myself. The mere idea of searching through the mysterious boxes of clothes stored there was enough to draw me away from my siblings.

When we had moved in, the movers carried many boxes up the creaky wooden stairs of the attic Most now sat dusty and forgotten. They had since been joined by disabled or outmoded household items and the odd lot of things that just didn't have a place anywhere else. In the crowded attic, I had discovered many stacked boxes and several covered racks of hanging clothes. Some were stored until the proper season called them into use. Many boxes and hanging garments belonged to my mother. I was fascinated by this diverse cornucopia of apparel and accoutrements and had only begun to explore it. Finding another chance to rummage freely through the stored treasures, I quietly ascended the attic stairs.

The large, steeply-angled attic was still shadowy despite the incandescence of a few bare bulbs. My younger brother and sister found the attic a fearsome place, to be endured only when mother or father were close by. For me, the attic and the crawl space beneath the porch, both being rough, dark and abandoned, belonged to some era long past. If ghosts did exist, they would be at home in the damp or dry darkness. I liked ghosts and monsters and was not afraid.

Though large, the attic was crowded with labeled boxes, castoffs, household goods and furnishings, seasonal items, curios and things in the netherworld between future use and charitable donation. There were old lamps in need of new wiring, a half dozen antiquated chairs without a suitable table and miscellaneous chests, trunks and dormant luggage. I bypassed the confusion of things and ambled to my favorite place. The far end of the attic was crowded with stored clothes. They hung hidden beneath draped, dusty blankets or were folded inside marked and unmarked boxes or secreted inside worn steamer chests redolent of moth crystals.

During a previous foray to the attic, I had pulled from under the hanging clothes three large and heavy boxes. The first one contained a variety of pocketbooks, purses and belts. The second and third boxes, which I quickly scanned, were filled with footwear. Before I could begin to explore the treasure boxes, I was called down to supper. Now, alone, I would discover what lay within.

The large cartons I had pushed and dragged across the rough wood floor sat where I'd left them. I spread back the flaps of one and began rummaging through slingbacks and pumps and heeled, strappy sandals. Though many were black or brown, there were bright colors and pastels, especially among the sandals. Hidden beneath this confusion of shoes, near the bottom of the box, I discovered a pair of red flats. They appeared to be new. The shade of red, lighter than the red of a fire engine, was the lush red of a cherry tomato. I was fascinated and I gently freed one shoe from the crowd of heels and straps to slowly peruse it. I held the light shoe in both hands, slowly turning it to better examine its features.

Only a few faint scuff marks on the leather soles belied its seeming newness. It was similar to a ballet slipper but featured sturdier leather, a firm, thin leather sole and minimal, stacked heel and a cutout decoration. The polished red flat delighted me. I lifted its mate from the box and carefully set both shoes down atop a nearby steamer chest to study them.

They were bright red calfskin 'skimmers', flats with three teardrop cutouts embellishing their gently rounded toes. Fine stitching, barely noticeable in matching red thread, bordered the cutouts and detailed the edges of the shoe. Thin, tan leather soles and modest 'pancake' heels showed only faint signs of wear. Incised in the soles, were the words Made in Italy with vero cuoio beneath. The gleaming red flats were crafted from one piece of contoured calfskin bound by a single, fine vertical seam accenting the heel. Pale tan, buttery soft calfskin covered the insole and lined the curvaceous interior. The maker's name was printed in silver script on the insole. Small, black letters, stamped on the inside lining of each shoe, revealed their size, 6 B. They were flats Audrey Hepburn would wear. They were flats my mother owned but had scarcely worn. Very likely, she purchased them before bearing children for the shoes in her walk-in closet were marked, 6 1/2 B or 7 B, a half-size or whole size larger.

Captivated, I set them down before me on the floor, yearning to try them on. I sat on the steamer trunk to unlace my sneakers and pull off my socks. My eyes never left the shoes. I stood up, arched my left foot to point my toes, and slipped my foot down and into the shoe. Once I felt my toes close to the tip of the shoe, I lowered my heel, expecting it would not fit. Trying on my sister's shoes, I needed to hold the cup of the heel open to allow room to squeeze my heel down into the shoe. My heel easily descended down to meet the leather insole of this flat. The shoe fit my foot. Pleased, I slipped into the other shoe.

Sliding my naked feet into them was unexpectedly pleasurable. Though perhaps a half size too large, they fit well enough so that I could sense the cool calfskin yielding to the contours of my bare feet. I never was aware of my feet in shoes, unless the shoes were drenched or my feet were cold. Now, I relished feeling the soft leather of the flats close on my ankles and toes and the soles of my feet. Consciously, I walked a few steps and was gratified that the diminutive shoes stayed with my feet. I kept looking down at them. I was mesmerized by the glistening slippers. They were even more wonderful than the elegant Ferragamo, black patent bowed flats I had found in my mother's walk-in closet.

I needed to see them on my feet, to see how they looked on me and how I looked in them. I did not dare to descend the attic stairs and silently walk to my parents' bedroom to stand before their full-length mirror. Someone might see me. Someone might see me wearing red girls' shoes. Boys did not wear girls' shoes. Boys did not wear girls' clothes. Girls could wear pretty red shoes. Girls could wear vivid colors, dresses, jewelry and even makeup and they could wear anything worn by boys, as well. I was a boy. I was not a girl and so should not wear their clothes. I knew I should not, and I knew I would.

I knew at the very least I would be teased, if not ridiculed, if my brothers and sisters saw me wearing girls' shoes. Depending on their moods, my father and mother might just grin at my folly, or tease me, or scold me. Worse still, they might question me, expecting me to provide a reason for my behavior. I did not have one.

Unwilling to leave the safety of the attic, I walked over to the opposite end of the room where empty frames and framed pictures leaned against the wall. As the thin leather heels made a distinct 'clack' with each step, I stepped softly to minimize the sound. I found the antique mirror I knew was stored there. The ornate cherry frame was heavy and I strained to move it to the front of the stack. In the dusky attic, the mirror would not offer the same sharp reflection I found in my parents' full-length mirror. I did angle it toward the light, hoping to brighten its reflection.

I walked up close to the mirror, excited. "I'm wearing girl's shoes...and they fit me!" I thought. I gazed with rapt attention at the red flats adorning my feet. I studied the sweep of the edges defining their shape and delighted in their voluptuous curving contours, their exquisite detailing. I took a light step to one side and studied how they looked from that angle. Then, I changed my stance again, and again, to see them from every angle. Though I cherished my mother's black patent Ferragamos, these bright red shoes were even more wonderful. I rolled up the bottoms of my jeans as I examined the shoes from changing angles. How would they appear, how would I appear, if I were wearing the red slippers with bare ankles and calves? how would they look on me with a skirt? I stared at the vivid reflections. I wanted to wear them down the attic stairs and around my home. I did not consider returning them to their box. I wanted to have the magical red flats close to me, in my room, so I could wear them, gaze at them. In the same way I was enamored of Diane, the prettiest girl in my class, I was entranced by the shoes. I was developing a 'crush' on them and longed to keep them close.

I did not want to take them off. If I did not leave the attic soon, though, I imagined someone would find the attic door open and come upstairs, and I would be scurrying to hide the shoes, barefoot. I could bring my treasure to my bedroom. I gathered my socks and sneakers and walked to the top of the stairs. For several minutes, I listened for sounds of activity. No one was on the second floor. I yielded to the temptation to wear them down to my bedroom.

Stepping down the stairs slowly, pleased to see the flats still on my feet, I reached the hall and closed the attic door behind me. I did not hear anyone about. Now, certain everyone else was downstairs, my courage grew. I felt it would be safe to try them on before my parents' full-length bedroom mirror. I set down my socks and sneakers in my bedroom and slipped my feet out of the flats. In case someone did appear, I would just be holding them, not wearing them.

Barefoot, with the shoes swinging from my fingers, I hurried down the thick carpet of the hall to the bedroom. Too late, I discovered my mother, curled up in an upholstered chair, reading. She looked up from her book and the red shoes dangling from my hand immediately caught her eye. I froze, feeling my face blushing.

"Where in the world did you find those shoes?"

I heard genuine curiosity in her voice, not the sternness I had expected.

"I found them up in the attic. In a box." I stood still, believing I would have to explain why I had taken them from the attic.

"Let me see them."

I offered ny mother the shoes and she took them, and after a cursory glance, set them down before her on the carpet.

"I thought I'd given these away years ago," she mused, "I bought them just to match some slacks, for a party, and then I ended up wearing something else."

She rose from her chair and slipped off her tapestry flats.

"I doubt they'll still fit," she said and she pressed her foot into one of the shoes. After wiggling her foot, she was able to set her heel down to the insole.

"Ah, my feet have grown. I bought these years ago, before I had any of you children. These don't really fit anymore."

"They fit me," I blurted.

"They fit you? You tried them on?"

My mother was surprised, but I did not here concern in her voice. Though still apprehensive, I found myself willing to answer with some enthusiasm.

"Yes, they fit me really well."

My mother grinned with amusement. She leaned down and pulled the shoe off her foot and then set out both flats on the carpet before me with the toes facing her.

"I don't think your feet are quite big enough," she said smiling, "but let's see. Try them on."

Surprised by her lighthearted curiosity, I mumbled, "What?" I had heard her words clearly, but I was nonplussed by the unexpected invitation to actually try the shoes on.

"Go ahead, let's see how they fit." Her cheerful voice was reassuring and I stepped forward to the waiting shoes.

Carefully, I slid my left foot into the the warm flat and my heel settled down on the insole with one smooth motion. I stepped into its mate just as easily.

My mother's eyes were on my feet. "Now, let's see you walk in them. Why don't you walk over to the dresser?"

Blushing, as much from excitement as from shyness, I turned and walked stiffly to the dresser. I knew my mother was studying my walk to discover whether or not my heels rose out of the shoes. That would mean the flats were too large. My feet did not slip out of them. I reached the bowfront dresser and turned back, stopping where I'd begun and awaiting her appraisal.

"Well," she said, "you're right, they do fit you. You did grow a lot over the summer. We'd better make sure you're not outgrowing your school shoes."

I was disappointed her attention had shifted from the shoes on my feet to my school shoes, crepe-soled 'dirty' bucs. I managed to say, "Okay."

"Now, as for those old shoes of mine..." She paused to consider the fate of the red flats, arms folded, looking down at them.

I impulsively asked, "Can I have them?"

"You want those shoes, Dear?" She grinned, clearly amused by my shy request. She thought for a moment and then said in a soft voice, "But you know those are girl's shoes. I know you wouldn't want your friends to see you wearing them. Would you?"

"No, I wouldn't, not at all. But, I was thinking, I could just wear these, here, around the house. Like slippers."

"But you have slippers, those Indian moccasins. And you never wear them."

My mother deftly slipped on her Appleseed's tapestry flats, reached for her mug of tea, and sat back down in her reading chair.

"Yeah, I know." I doubted I would be allowed to have the flats and following my mother's considerate response, I felt awkward talking about them. However, my desire to possess them remained.

"Those moccasins are scratchy inside. But these are really comfortable." Looking down at the red shoes, I confessed "I really like these. A lot."

"I know you do, Dear. They're wonderful shoes. But I think you'd be teased if you wore them, that's all."

"I know, but I wouldn't wear them around anybody. I'd only wear them, when I'm by myself."

She drew her legs up onto the cushion, curling comfortably like a cat. She glanced down at her own flats and then gazed at mine. Her eyes found mine briefly and then looked beyond me. She seemed to be musing about something. Whatever it was, it led her to smile warmly.

"I think your father would be, upset, if he saw you wearing those shoes. Don't you?"

"Yes, he probably would be, I know. I wouldn't want him to see me. But, I can wear them, in private."

My mother set down her mug of tea and leaned forward, grinning.

"My old shoes...you really do like them, don't you?"

"Yes. I really do. They're really comfortable. And, I'd just wear them, when, I'm by myself."

My mother's warm smile relieved me and encouraged my own, sheepish grin. I realized that she found my enthusiam for her old shoes amusing. Rather than finding fault with my desire to have the shoes, she was considering the consequences of my wearing them.

"I really like them."

My mother put her hand to her chin, stroking it in a playful mimicry of someone sternly making a decision. I smiled seeing her enjoyment.

"Wel-l-l-l-l," she began, "if you r-e-a-l-l-y want to have them, for your bedroom slippers...you may. That's fine with me. But, I just don't think you should wear them in front of your brothers, or when you have friends over. And I don't think your father should see them. He wouldn't understand. Do you agree that wouldn't be a very good idea?"

"Yes, I do agree," I responded with enthusiasm, as if affirming my Cub Scout Oath, "I'll only wear them when I'm by myself."

I grinned with relief and happiness. The wondrous shoes were mine. My mother was only concerned that my wearing them could provoke ridicule or disturb my father. That I wanted to wear feminine flats was not, in itself, a concern.

"Well, Dear" my mother said, as the fingers of her hand casually traced the contours of one of her tapestry flats, "they are lovely shoes. I'm sorry they don't fit me. They've never gone out of style. But, they do fit you. And I know they're comfortable, like these." She patted her tapestry flats. "So, Dear, enjoy them."

"Thanks, Mom, thank you." I smiled sheepishly, still feeling vulnerable but much more at ease. I bent down and removed the shoes from my feet, realizing as I gathered them in one hand, 'they're really mine!.'

My mother opened her book again, looked to me and smiled, and returned to her reading.

I went directly to my room. Once I closed my bedroom door, I sat down on the lower bunk bed, set the flats down on the carpet and carefully slipped my feet within the delicate red shoes. I was delighted to see them on my feet.

My brother had vacated the lower bunk for his own bedroom and the bed had become a favorite place to lie down and read. I switched on the wall lamp and swung my legs up on the bed. With the pillow proped up behind me, I stretched out on my back. I looked down at my new shoes.

I gazed at the three teardrop cutouts that embellished the softly rounded toe of each shoe. I pointed my feet, turned my ankles to study the flats from diverse angles. I relished the sinuous curving of the soles and the bright red glistening leather. In the mellow incandescent light, late on a rainy autumn afternoon, I lay there in bliss, enchanted with my beautiful shoes.

Postscript: A year or so later, we would move from the house. The move encouraged my parents to winnow down their accumulations. Somewhere, in the course of the move, my beloved flats disappeared. I missed them, though I had been wearing them less frequently. My feet had continued to grow. The red flats still fit. But now, the many shoes in my mother's bedroom closet truly fit me. And, she often added to her collection.