her blue eyes lit with a familiar spark—a spark he hadn't seen much of since the day he'd come home to find her sitting quietly on the couch. He'd looked at her and known, even before she raised her head, even before he'd she'd told him, It's back. The cancer came back. "I don't want you to be alone," she said. "I don't want you turning into one of those unpleasant widowers. You'll eat too much sodium." "Is that all you're worried about?" he teased her. "My sodium?" "Those men get nasty," she said. Her eyes were slipping shut. He held her straw to her lips so she could sip. "Self-righteous and crotchety. I don't want it happening to you." Her voice was fading. "I want you to find someone." "Do you have anyone in mind?" he asked. "Anyone special you've noticed?" She didn't answer. He thought she was asleep—eyelids slipped shut, thin chest rising and falling slowly beneath the fresh bandages —but she said something else to him. "I want you to be happy," she said, each word coming in a separate puff of breath. He'd bowed his head, afraid that if he looked at her, his wife, the woman he'd loved and lived with for fifty-three years, he'd start crying and wouldn't be able to stop. So he sat by her bed and held her hand and whispered into her ear how much he loved her. He
76 Jennifer weiner
thought, when she'd died, that he'd never even want to look at another woman again, and the neighbor ladies, with their kugels and their cleavage, didn't appeal. Nobody had until now. It wasn't that Ella reminded him of Sharla—at least, not physically. Sharla had been small, and with age she'd only gotten smaller. She'd had round blue eyes and bobbed blond hair, a too-big nose and a too-big bottom that she'd despaired of, and she'd loved coral lipstick and costume jewelry: necklaces of painted glass beads, dangly earrings that flashed and glittered when she moved. She'd reminded him of some tiny, exotic bird with iridescent plumage and a high, sweet song. Ella was different. She was taller, with fine features—a sharp nose, a firm jawline—and the long auburn locks she kept twined around her head, even though all of the other ladies at Golden Acres had short hair. Ella reminded him a little bit of Katharine Hepburn—a Jewish Katharine Hepburn, not quite so regal, or terrifying, a Hepburn steeped in some secret melancholy. "Hepburn," he muttered. He shook his head at his own foolishness and started up the steps. He wished his shirt weren't wrinkled. He wished he had a hat. "Well, hello!" Lewis was so startled he actually jumped a little bit, and stared at a woman whose face he didn't recognize. "Mavis Gold," the woman supplied. "And where are you off to, all dressed up?" "Oh . . . just . . ." Mavis Gold clapped her hands, causing her tanned upper arms to jiggle in a celebratory fashion. "Ella!" she whispered—a whisper so loud that cars on the Causeway probably heard it, Lewis thought. She ran one fingertip appreciatively over the top of a tulip. "They're beautiful. You're such a gentleman." Mavis beamed at him, kissed his cheek, and thumbed away the lipstick she'd left. "Good luck!" He nodded, took a deep breath, repositioned his gifts for the last time, and turned the doorbell's crank. He listened for a radio, a
In Her Shoes 77
television set, and heard nothing but Ella's feet padding quickly across the floor. She opened the door and looked at him with a puzzled expression. "Lewis?" He nodded, suddenly tongue-tied. She was wearing blue jeans, the kind that came only as far as the middle of her calves, and a loose white shirt and no shoes. Her feet were bare, long, and pale, beautifully shaped, with a polish the color of mother-of-pearl on the nails. Her feet made him want to kiss her. Instead, he sw allowed hard. "Hello," he said. There. That was a start. A furrow appeared between Ella's eyebrows. "Was the poem too long?" "No, no, the poem was fine. I'm here because . . . well, I was wondering if. . ." Come
76 Jennifer weiner
thought, when she'd died, that he'd never even want to look at another woman again, and the neighbor ladies, with their kugels and their cleavage, didn't appeal. Nobody had until now. It wasn't that Ella reminded him of Sharla—at least, not physically. Sharla had been small, and with age she'd only gotten smaller. She'd had round blue eyes and bobbed blond hair, a too-big nose and a too-big bottom that she'd despaired of, and she'd loved coral lipstick and costume jewelry: necklaces of painted glass beads, dangly earrings that flashed and glittered when she moved. She'd reminded him of some tiny, exotic bird with iridescent plumage and a high, sweet song. Ella was different. She was taller, with fine features—a sharp nose, a firm jawline—and the long auburn locks she kept twined around her head, even though all of the other ladies at Golden Acres had short hair. Ella reminded him a little bit of Katharine Hepburn—a Jewish Katharine Hepburn, not quite so regal, or terrifying, a Hepburn steeped in some secret melancholy. "Hepburn," he muttered. He shook his head at his own foolishness and started up the steps. He wished his shirt weren't wrinkled. He wished he had a hat. "Well, hello!" Lewis was so startled he actually jumped a little bit, and stared at a woman whose face he didn't recognize. "Mavis Gold," the woman supplied. "And where are you off to, all dressed up?" "Oh . . . just . . ." Mavis Gold clapped her hands, causing her tanned upper arms to jiggle in a celebratory fashion. "Ella!" she whispered—a whisper so loud that cars on the Causeway probably heard it, Lewis thought. She ran one fingertip appreciatively over the top of a tulip. "They're beautiful. You're such a gentleman." Mavis beamed at him, kissed his cheek, and thumbed away the lipstick she'd left. "Good luck!" He nodded, took a deep breath, repositioned his gifts for the last time, and turned the doorbell's crank. He listened for a radio, a
In Her Shoes 77
television set, and heard nothing but Ella's feet padding quickly across the floor. She opened the door and looked at him with a puzzled expression. "Lewis?" He nodded, suddenly tongue-tied. She was wearing blue jeans, the kind that came only as far as the middle of her calves, and a loose white shirt and no shoes. Her feet were bare, long, and pale, beautifully shaped, with a polish the color of mother-of-pearl on the nails. Her feet made him want to kiss her. Instead, he sw allowed hard. "Hello," he said. There. That was a start. A furrow appeared between Ella's eyebrows. "Was the poem too long?" "No, no, the poem was fine. I'm here because . . . well, I was wondering if. . ." Come
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