The Rose Thieves by Heidi Jon Schmidt Page A

their drab little wedded life. “And,” Ma said, laughing, “as a last resort, you can always send her your shoe.”
    â€œWhat?” I said.
    We were terribly punchy; she had a pillow over her face and was laughing uncontrollably. She dropped the pillow slightly so she could see me. “Of course, I don’t think those shoes would do it.” She pointed to my desert boots drying beside the fireplace. “It should be something a little risqué, preferably something that reveals some toe.” She put the pillow back over her face and laughed.
    The zombies had gained entrance to the manor house, and the pretty blond girl sat up in bed suddenly, the silk strap of her nightgown slipping over her shoulder as she screamed.
    â€œThat’s what your grandfather’s mistress did,” she said, “and it worked like a charm. Just the shoe, no message, but my mother didn’t have much trouble figuring it out. It’s not every day that people send single shoes in the overseas mail.”
    The girl in the silk nightgown was, by now, a zombie. She still looked pretty, but when she tilted her head and turned toward the camera, we could see it: her eyes were dead.
    â€œOf course,” my mother said, “she had the shoes for it. Your grandmother had boots. Out went philandering Philip.”
    â€œWhere did he go from there?”
    â€œWell,” she said, “he lived on Gramercy Park for a little while, and he didn’t go back to France. That’s all I know.”
    â€œDon’t you wonder where he is?”
    â€œWhy? Do you think he wonders about me?” She was quiet for a few minutes. Then she said, “I’m sorry I brought it up.”
    The next night I stayed up alone.
    When my parents were divorced and we moved out of the house, I found the shoe again. It was very well hidden this time, in a barrel of old stuffed toys that had long since been turned into mouse nests. I was alone when I found it, and I packed it with my few clothes and books and took it to New York with me.
    *   *   *
    I can’t find an attitude for my grandfather. I know it’s supposed to be an attitude, not a pose, I know I should look for his heart. We’re not supposed to do research, but I have to resort to it. I find the New York office of the Bank of the Lesser Antilles: it takes up three rooms in a hideous blue-and-white box of a building downtown.
    Finally, I take the shoe with me to Little Italy, where I ask people until I find the address of a shoemaker. He lives in an apartment with beaded curtains, beaded radiator covers, and a vat of soup in which whole chickens roll in boiling stock. Yes, he can make another shoe like this. It will cost one hundred dollars. Beadwork is expensive. I talk him down to fifty-five, which still means I have to cancel my dentist appointment. As I leave, he says, “Fifty-five for you only,” and pinches my ass quickly twice, once on each cheek. I don’t object when he does this; but the next week, when I return to pick up the shoes, I stand in the doorway to hand him the cash, and back all the way to the stairs.
    *   *   *
    Now that I have the shoes, I have everything. They very nearly match. The beadwork of the older shoe has a harsh glow; I imagine there’s gold in the dye. The new pigments are too basic, too exact. I want to run home, but I walk, taking the stairs two at a time all the way up the six flights to my apartment.
    I’ve never asked again about my grandfather, or the shoe. My mother got one more card from him, at Christmas, years after her divorce. Its printed message read:
    To wish you loads of Christmas cheer,
    And love that grows each passing year.
    She threw it out in a pile of sale announcements and grocery circulars, and I didn’t bother to retrieve it. It was postmarked Sioux City, Iowa. Maybe he’s a salesman. Or maybe he’s been a hog farmer all these