Freddie's Dress Shoes by Dorothy Bennett

Edith held open her bedroom door for the shoes. They walked by as if they had somewhere to go. It was a brisque left-right walk — hardly looked believable. The shoes rose heel first as if a foot swung them back before thrusting forward, toe up and heel down. Why, she wondered, did each shoe wait for the other shoe to rest before leaving the ground? If they could move at all, certainly one shoe didn’t need to push at the earth with the toe so that the other shoe could have its turn. But there it was. Left, right, left, right, even with no feet inside. 

The shoes waited for Edith in the hallway. She joined them, one hand holding her nightgown tight over her chest as if the shoes were in danger of seeing her collarbone. After a moment, the shoes went on to the kitchen. She followed. 

They were smart shoes — Freddie’s wedding and funeral shoes. She hadn’t meant to bring them to life. She’d just never got round to cleaning out his things. He passed last autumn, and she spent a long winter alone. Now it was spring and time to clean. But Freddie kept his shoes in such a tumult of loafers, boots, and sandals that she doubted any of them had been properly paired since he last put them on. Last night, she put the dress shoes together on the floor, cried a bit, and got ready for bed. This morning, the shoes were pacing from her bedside table to the sliding mirrors of the closet and back.

The shoes now did a circuit of the kitchen. She did not have much in the way of breakfast for shoes but put out two bowls of oatmeal all the same. The shoes toed Freddie’s old chair back and rested underneath the table while she ate. She kept bending over to look at them. 

“What do you want with Freddie’s shoes?” she asked them. 

One toe tapped at her. Conversationally? Impatiently? It was hard to say. 

“You’re not Freddie.” Freddie had never tapped a toe that she could remember. And she remembered a lot. There had never been any children for the two of them. She never got round to much of a career, though she tried to make herself useful in the neighborhood and around the parish. So, there was a lot of her mental energy that went just to Freddie and a lot of his that went just to her. They hadn’t been overly handsome, rich, or educated. They vacationed, argued, and developed routines. 

Edith desperately missed being married to Freddie. 

The shoes didn’t tap at that. They weren’t Freddie. She sighed. One shoe rubbed the ball of its sole on the linoleum. She put her foot closer. The shoes shuffled over until the outside edge of the right dress shoe touched the outside edge of her right house slipper.

“Ok.” Edith picked up their bowls. “Things to do.” 

Not that she got dressed or started that potluck casserole or did laundry, even though today was the day to do those things. Instead, she bustled back to her bedroom closet. The dress shoes followed. 

Edith set out Freddie’s beach sandals. She paired them up on the closet floor, making sure the heel and toe of each was even to the other, and then on a whim, put one of his resort button-ups above them on a hanger, facing outward. She stood back and waited. The dress shoes did the same. 

Nothing happened.

Edith nudged the dress shoes with her foot. “Is this how this works?”

The dress shoes shifted a little away. 

“Fine, keep your secrets.”

Edith checked back throughout the morning, but the shirt and sandals stayed put. The dress shoes, though, did not. They explored the house — it wasn’t a big house — then they went where Edith went. While sitting on the couch with her folding all around, she had to bite back sharp words as they trod right over her towels. 

“Not there,” she said. “Go back. Thataway.” 

The shoes complied in a huffy sort of way. Like a cat, Edith thought.

She didn’t make the shoes lunch — after all, they hadn’t eaten the breakfast — but she invited them to join her while she ate her turkey and cheese on rye. She also didn’t talk to them, not really, not like a conversation. But she made remarks here and there. They seemed to respond. It was nice. If the shoes kept on being alive, she thought, she would need to get better at deciphering their taps and scuffles. All the same, the shoes seemed happy to get underfoot, and it made the day more entertaining. 

Towards the evening, though, the shoes sidled up to her, then to the door. Edith didn’t understand, then she pretended to not understand, and then relented. When she opened the back door, they fairly danced across the porch and down the steps. She watched them skip out of the warm yellow circle of porchlight. They vanished into the trees beyond her yard. 

Edith closed the door. It had been a nice day with the dress shoes. They would either come back or they wouldn’t. It was that way with pets too — and with husbands after a good long life. 

The first thing Edith saw the next morning was the resort shirt. It flounced at itself in the closet mirror, then at her, then at itself. The beach sandals underneath practically danced, posing with one heel out every time they stopped. Edith laughed, delighted.

Dorothy Bennett holds a Masters in Theology & Literature from the University of St Andrews and lives in Austin, TX, where she writes and co-runs a creative agency with her husband. Connect with her at www.dorothybennett.com.