A woman took my shoes on the subway. They were loafers, brown and expensive, passed down from my father—the same shoes he wore when he received his Purple Heart. My brother, David, was eternally jealous when he left them to me. Our relationship was a game of Tug of War that I was often losing, one I hardly wanted to be a part of. Wearing the shoes was a big deal for me. I didn’t dress up often. Mostly due to my all-consuming depression. The world was a specter of itself. I spent most of my energy those days on getting out of bed.
David and his wife, Jeanie, had goaded me into coming to their house for dinner. To meet someone. A blind date. The woman was a colleague of Jeanie’s, a doctor at a hospital connected to one of the local universities. Practicing something beyond my comprehension. I was heading back home after the dinner when my loafers were taken. The night went as follows:
I left my house with the intention of getting to dinner an hour early. That way, I could deal with David’s nature and still have time to recover for when the date arrived. Plus, Philadelphia transit was always a gamble. Some days you’ll traverse the steps littered with needles and shattered glass and have a train waiting for you like a golden chariot. Others, you’ll get there just to watch it scream away, and won’t see another one for hours. On occasion, you’ll learn someone was stabbed and killed on the very train you missed.
The ride to my brother’s house wasn’t too bad. Nobody looked up from their phones. Nobody died. As the train started rolling, a man sitting on the floor screamed the name of every stop. There was a tourist that found it helpful, and expressed as much as he made his exit. Someone did threaten to kill the man on the floor if he didn’t SHUT HIS TRAP. The main hiccup was the train getting stuck in the tunnel, the lights flickering on and off, over and over. A mechanical issue, according to the voice from the loudspeaker. Which meant I ended up getting to my brother’s house fifteen minutes late. Which meant she was already there, waiting for me. This mystery woman. What a nightmare.
David and Jeanie lived in a nicer part of the city in a row-home with an exposed brick exterior and a big red door. The same color red as the front door of our childhood home. And there I was, knocking on it, with a feeling in the pit of my gut like someone had scooped out my insides. My brother opened the door, flashing his veneers. He was a dentist, and an asshole. But in our adulthood, he had developed a keen interest in my well-being. Maybe it was his form of reparations for how he treated me as a kid. Or maybe he felt he owed it to our parents, to their memory. I didn’t have any great reasons to love him. But I did. He was the only family I had left.
“Hey kiddo,” he said, waving me inside. “Thanks for coming.”
“Hey. Sorry I’m late,” I said. “Thanks for having me.” I could hear Jeanie in the kitchen, rushing to get things ready. The heat from the oven was thick in the air. And there was the mystery woman, sitting on their leather couch, scanning the room with curious eyes. Her hair was short and dark and her face was crested with white streaks I recognized as vitiligo. She was exceptional to look at. Which made me even more nervous.
“Doug, this is Clara. Clara, Doug,” David said, waving his arms about, his big goofy teeth still on full display. Clara stood up and patted down the parts of her flowing blue dress below her waist.
“Doug,” she said, sticking her hand out as though greeting a patient. Then she laughed, “I’m kidding. Come over here.” In her heels, she stood a few inches taller than me. The giantess pulled me in for a hug and the world softened a bit. Then we pulled apart, close enough to where I could still feel the gravitational pull of her face, and she said, “Jeanie tells me great things. So I have some expectations. No pressure.”
“I do love to disappoint,” I said. There was a warmth oozing out from her, worming its way into my chest. “I’ve heard great things, as well.” That was a lie. I hadn’t. In fact, the only thing I knew about her was that she worked with Jeanie, in some capacity. I suspect David was intentional, in that way. The more I knew, the more I’d find ways to talk myself out of it.
“Okay, kids. I just need to borrow him for a minute. Boy talk,” David said, dragging me down the hall and into his guest room. The same room I used as a cave to disappear from the world for several months when my wife, Viv, left me. Well, the truth of it was—she left everyone.
“Dude, what the fuck?” he said. I tried to scan back to the last few minutes to figure out what could have offended him. It was always something. All I could do was raise an eyebrow. “I told Clara you were this fit, bearded guy. Like a Viking. Why did you shave? And when did you get fat?”
Fat was an exaggeration. I had started drinking again, and my belly was poking out a bit from under my dress shirt. Sure, my belt was being put to work. But coming from a guy who was shaped like an urn, it felt out of pocket. And hurtful. “I thought shaving was a thing you do, before these sorts of things. You know I’m out of practice.”
“Not when your beard was doing all that heavy lifting for that face of yours, man. That thing was a godsend.” He shook his head.
“Alright. Do you have a pen?” I asked.
“Why, so you can write an apology letter to Clara for having to look at you like this? A eulogy for your beard? I’m kidding, I’m kidding.”
“Something like that,” I said. He rummaged through the desk drawer and held up a silver Sharpie like a torch in the night.
“Listen, I just want to see you happy, man. Clara is great. I’ll see you out there. Game time.” He handed me the pen and left the room. I wasn’t expecting much from that night. But I couldn’t deny there was a small part of me already imagining life outside the walls of my brother’s home with Clara. It was part of my disease. Thinking that others could affect my sadness. The disappointment when they couldn’t.
I moved into the small half-bathroom in the corner of the room. My face was staring right back at me. Maybe my brother was right. I was something close to ugly. My nose was long and crooked. My eyes were sunken in and coated with lack of sleep. Though I still had my father’s blue eyes that my mother wouldn’t stop flouting about, all through my childhood. I uncapped the Sharpie and took it to my face like a razor. I traced over my cheeks, around my mouth, marking my face repeatedly with brief, silver lines. I leaned in to kiss the mirror, leaving a smudge of ink across the glass. I couldn’t help but laugh, taking in my new beard. It didn’t look half bad. Maybe I’d discovered a new trend in male grooming. I capped the pen and walked out towards the dining room.
Their hallway was decorated with photos and keepsakes from all of their travels over the years. There’s a framed picture of Jeanie holding David in her arms like a baby on the Appalachian Trail I’m particularly fond of. One night, several years ago, during my brief stint as their roommate, while David was away at a dentistry conference, God knows what they do there, Jeanie broke down in front of me. She told me that David had been pressuring her to have children, and that she wasn’t interested in being a mother. When I asked her why, she told me that she felt it would be inhumane to bring a child into this world, given the state of things. It was a similar reason as to why Viv and I never explored parenthood, though we were in agreement. And then Viv decided life wasn’t worth its trouble for herself, either.
I walked into the dining room where Jeanie was setting plates on the table. The smell of her famous casserole wafted in from the kitchen. She was an excellent cook, and I think she would have pursued it if her parents hadn’t lamented the importance of a serious career. She looked mostly the same as always—short in stature with long, curly brown hair, a sharp, angled face. Very Jewish. We met at temple in high school and became fast friends. It didn’t take me long to fall for her completely. Though I never would have admitted it. And then she and my brother got together some time after college. I let the fantasies slide away. It was for the best.
She looked up and started cracking up, doubled over, hands on her knees, gasping for breath. Finally, after the sun exploded and the earth returned to primordial dust, she gathered herself and said, “What on earth did you do to your face?”
“I’m trying something new. What, you don’t like it?”
She slapped me on the arm. “You’re lucky Clara shares your sense of humor.”
Eventually, Clara and David filtered into the room and we all sat down to eat. Clara was next to me, with Jeanie and David across from us. Nobody had made much fuss about my new beard, though David was glaring at me between bites of casserole. Clara looked at me once and stroked her own face, then gave me a thumbs up of approval. We were about halfway through the meal and little of substance had been shared. David bragged about his practice, Jeanie mentioned what she had been reading lately, avoiding talk of work. I learned that Clara played the clarinet, poorly, by her description, and was an only child. I was elsewhere for the other topics of conversation. I know it sounds stupid, but I was stuck trying to figure out what I would say to Clara on her deathbed. If it came to it. But all I could think of was the word, chartreuse. Eventually, everyone turned towards me.
“So,” Clara started, “Jeanie tells me you’re a writer.”
I shook my head and smiled. I was a writer in the same way someone selling peanuts at baseball games could be considered an entrepreneur. I got paid to sit in my room and write copy for a company whose products largely targeted retired seniors. I had one story several years ago get published in a literary magazine of some merit. Which left me worse off than how I felt when I was pining for it.
David jumped in, “Don’t let this humble act fool you. This guy’s story…” I felt my cheeks get hot with embarrassment and my ears start to ring. The truth is, when I found out my story had been published, I was in disbelief. And then for a brief moment it felt as though I’d ascended my mortal frame and into the infinite bliss. It was short lived. There’s always another goalpost. Always another distraction to chase.
“That’s incredible,” Clara said, “What was the story about? If you don’t mind me asking.”
How does one go about telling their date that their biggest success was writing a story about their dead wife? “It was a grief story,” I settled on. David sighed in tandem with Clara nodding her head. Jeanie was quick to change the subject. The night continued on in that way, chipping at each other, seeing how much of ourselves we were willing to reveal. Soon enough, dinner was done and Jeanie was bringing out a beautiful, shining chocolate cake.
“Oh no, no. You know I can’t eat that,” David said, patting his stomach, round and protruding. Apparently, he had started on a new diet. Following in the footsteps of our parents in their later years. They were concerned with living forever, even though the odds were against them. As far as I know, nobody has yet to make it out of this thing alive. They joined a nutrition cult, went on several five-mile walks every single day, without fail. Dad even started meditating in an attempt to regulate his blood pressure. They had a pretty good run. Dad survived two suicide attempts in his life and died of a stroke at seventy-six. Mom just disappeared in her sleep a few weeks after.
“Good thing our guests here aren’t so limited,” Jeanie said. And she was right. We happily obliged. It melted in my mouth and the dopamine was enough to make my little rat brain soar. I caught Clara’s eyes between bites and fell in love each time.
Soon the night had disappeared. We played charades. Clara guessed that David was a headless chicken. His word was rockstar. He got so upset that we all laughed until our eyes were wet. And then I started to panic, thinking that the good feelings would betray me, and how pretty soon everyone in this room would be dead and gone forever. It was like oblivion was right behind my eyelids. I couldn’t see past it. I stood up to excuse myself.
“This was really great,” I said, shaking a bit, “But I think it’s past my bedtime.” I could tell David was going to protest, but Jeanie put her arm on his shoulder. She was already a parent, in that way.
“I think it might be mine as well. I’ve got an early morning,” Clara said. “How are you getting home?”
* * *
Clara and I were walking towards the station, side by side. It turned out we were only a few stops away from each other. The sky was dark, the stars unable to sneak past the city’s haze. We could hear the train rumbling underground, and without much thought started sprinting towards the station’s open mouth. One of Clara’s heels got snagged on a pothole and snapped off. It didn’t stop her. Wielding her broken heel like a knife, she hopped down the stairs and over the turnstile. We made it onto the car, out of breath, and sat down across from each other on the plastic orange seats.
She hovered her bare foot over the stained subway floor. I had already started unlacing my loafers and soon had them stretched out in front of me. “Take them,” I said. “Consider it a loaner.”
“I’m not taking your shoes.” Clara said, laughing. Her whole face was a smile.
“I’m sorry. It has to happen. I think it would be a crime to have you walk barefoot in South Philly at night. I couldn’t live with the guilt. And you can give them back to me when we see each other again. It’s a selfish loan, if anything. I’m no better than the banks.”
She took the shoes and swallowed. “Well, thank you. Really. I had a great time tonight. And I would love to see you again. As friends. If that’s okay.”
I was silent at first. It was a shot to the heart. I started to chew on the feeling and had to stifle a laugh. What a beautiful thing it was, to connect with anyone at all. Like when the cashier at the liquor store remembered my name the week before. That was as good as it gets.
“It’s not that I don’t see something here,” she continued, “I really do. I just get the sense that you might not be ready right now, putting some pieces together. I prefer not to rush into things, too.” She reached over with her manicured hand and brushed my Sharpied cheek.
“That sounds great,” I said.
Then after a bit of silence the subway doors opened and a man sitting on the floor in the dark corner of the car yelled SNYDER. Clara stood up in her new loafers. “Shit, this is me,” she said. I stood up next to her and she pulled me into her gravity one last time. What a feeling. Then I watched her walk up and out of the station in my father’s shoes.
The train rattled through the tunnel. I could see one of my toes poking from the end of my sock before the lights turned off overhead and we delved into darkness. In the corner of my eye, I could make out the shape of Viv, leaning against the metal wall of the traincar. She was smiling and waving at me, just as she would every night, back in those days. Then the light from my stop pulled the train from the shadows and she disappeared before I could wave back.
