By Peter Bruno

This time she’d been gone for two days without a call. But that night the shoes seemed to offer some relief. You were sitting on the bed at your mother’s side. Once again she was searching for air, clutching the sheets with each labored breath. Your sister was out and the three of you were waiting, again.

“God knows where she is. In that jungle.” Your father said, cigarette smoke seeping through his words. He meant the city, which was only twenty minutes away, but he often called it the jungle. You envisioned skyscrapers dense with vines. Parrots escaping through revolving doors. Elevators filled with zebras. Your sister was gone and, for all they knew, you knew, dead. As usual, the police had been called; so you waited. It was a muggy night and the air conditioner was on. Thunder grumbled. You heard the dog’s nails tap-tapping on the kitchen linoleum. By then, you had gotten a second dog that you disliked: Fifi, a gray miniature poodle with runny eyes. 

And then to everyone’s surprise, she appeared.  Standing in the opened doorframe, spots of rain on her face and dungaree jacket. In her arms she held a damp box. She entered the room; you moved toward your father. 

“Look what I bought Ma!” as if she had just come back from a neighborhood yard sale. Your mother turned away looking at the far wall and the framed image of Jesus adorned with dried, palm leaves twisted into the shape of a cross. 

“Look Ma!” She nudged over onto the edge of the bed, and ceremoniously lifted the lid of the box as if its contents were alive. She peeled back sheets of pink tissue paper, and revealed the shoes. They were red leather, open at the toe with an ankle strap and platform heels. Silver studs dotted the midsole.

“I got ‘em on sale. Look; please?”

Slowly she turned toward her daughter. She couldn’t help herself. 

“Aren’t they cute?” 

Your mother pushed herself back onto the propped pillows. Her eyes damp, her mascara runny. Whatever she had felt, or imagined, was forgotten. She held one of the shoes, tilting it, sharing its charm. You and your father looked at each other, then watched as your sister lifted the other shoe from the box and tried it on.

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Peter Bruno is a writer, teacher, and artist living in Rutland, Vermont. His work has appeared in Zig Zag Lit Mag, SEISMA, Hole in the Head Review, among others.