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Authors: Joan Bauer

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BOOK: Best Foot Forward
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Do I want him to stop drinking?
Yes.
Can I do anything to make him stop?
No. I can only love him and speak the truth when we're together, if we ever are again.
It's a sad truth to hold on to, but truth isn't always happy or easy.
I was walking to the Art Institute to meet Yaley. I had a feeling I was about to learn more truth about Tanner Cobb than I wanted to.
 
Yaley was sitting on the big stone steps leading up to the Art Institute, drawing something on a pad. I paused a minute to look at the stone lions guarding the steps. They always seemed sorrowful to me—like they'd seen more in this world than they ever wanted.
A father lifted his son up on the lion's back. My dad used to do that with me when I was little. He'd put me on one lion and Faith on the other.
All of a sudden, I wanted to be a little kid again; wanted my dad to be here lifting me up on a lion.
I wanted to be rich and hire a detective to find my father and then pay the best doctors in the world to heal him.
I touched the stone-carved mane as I passed the lion; leaned in close to that noble face.
I walked over to Yaley. “Hi,” I said, and sat down. “Cool scarf.” She had a purple scarf woven through her hair. I peered at what she was drawing—it was a sketch of one of the lions. He was wearing sunglasses and had on high-top red sneakers. She had a thing for red sneakers. “That's great,” I said. “I love the sneakers.”
Yaley examined the drawing. “My grandma told me a story once about a little boy who put on his fastest shoes to run away from bad situations. He'd run until he found a place that was safe. I put sneakers in my pictures to help me remember.”
She put her pencils in a case and looked toward the lion. “What I wanted to tell you about Tanner is he made a major dumb move, which is why he went to jail. He stole a wallet from a guy who happened to be a judge.” She shook her head.
“A
judge's
wallet?”
“Talk about
dumb.
I told him, ‘Why didn't you just tap a cop on the shoulder and ask him for
his
wallet? It would have been as stupid.' He said the judge wasn't wearing his robe, how was he to know? ‘ 'Cause all judges have the
look.
You've seen it enough,' I told him.”
“Sounds like you know a lot about judges, too.” I wondered if she'd ever been arrested.
“Grandma and I go to court with him so he won't feel alone. I draw the faces sometimes. I don't know what happened to Tanner in jail, but something did. He came back different.”
“Different how?”
“Like he doesn't care.”
Yaley turned to look at the entrance to the museum. Big banners hung down about the special exhibits. “I had some of my paintings up at school,” she said, “but someday I want my art to be in a museum.”
“I bet someday it will be.”
She smiled slightly. “Maybe, but I could use some of Tanner's attitude to get there. It's good he's working at your store. I told him, ‘You mess up this shoe job, you're worse than an idiot.' ”
“What did he say?”
“He said he actually knew that.”
“It sounds like you take care of him, Yaley.”
“Somebody's got to. You should see the girls he hangs with.” She looked up at the sky for the longest time. “Tanner's not really bad like some people say, Jenna.”
“I believe that.”
“
Promise me
you'll remember it.”
 
I put the pair of red high-top sneakers on the athletic shoe display close to the front window and stood back.
Tanner walked on the floor and stopped dead when he saw them. He beamed a smile at me. The brightness of it reminded me of my grandmother's smile. It used to bounce off buildings when she walked down the street. We called her the human lighthouse.
Not anymore. Not since the Alzheimer's hit.
Tanner walked over to the sneakers and picked them up.
“How much?” he asked.
I told him the price with the employee discount.
He shook his head. Couldn't afford it. He put the shoes back, but made sure they were centered just right.
Not that long ago, he probably would have stolen them.
Harry Bender always said that shoes could turn a life around.
 
I was merging onto Lake Shore Drive. Merging into heavy traffic is a lot like a company merger. Not everyone is thrilled you're there.
The man in the black Saab gunned his motor and tried to cut me off.
The woman in the Jeep Cherokee was offended that I'd actually joined her lane.
I drove twenty miles per hour toward the Sheridan Road exit, finally got off, and headed to Shady Oaks Nursing Home to see my grandmother.
But she wasn't in her room.
She wasn't in the dining hall or the lounge area or the game room.
I walked the halls; called out, “Grandma.” Most of the old women looked up hopefully.
I grabbed a nurse to help me.
“Mrs. Lowman?” she called softly.
We went outside and couldn't find her.
I was close to panic.
Back inside, up the stairs, into the library.
“Grandma!”
She was sitting at a table. She hardly looked up.
I tried to catch my breath.
“We've been looking everywhere for you!”
Her eyes gazed curiously at me without connection. It was the first time she hadn't recognized me at least a little. The truth of that pierced my heart.
“I'm Jenna,” I told her. “Your granddaughter.
Remember
?”
“I'm Miranda,” she said. “How nice to meet you.”
Tears filled my eyes. She couldn't be getting this bad!
“I've been here with my books,” she added.
I sat down. It took every ounce of strength I had to do that.
“You've got a lot of books,” I said.
“Yes,” she answered in a faraway voice. “I like stories.”
So I told her Yaley's story.
And when it was over, she said, “I'm so glad you came to call.”
“Me, too.”
I took her hand. I used to have these big dreams about someone inventing an instant cure for Alzheimer's disease. I hope that will happen someday, but it won't be in time to help Grandma. Then I remembered what she used to tell me about dreaming when I was a little girl.
Some dreams are for keeping and others are for the wind to take away.
But how do you know which is which?
 
Al-Anon was helping me keep my head straight. I'd never thought of alcoholics as being lucky, but now I did, compared to Alzheimer's patients. At least there's hope for heavy drinkers—if they can stop, that is.
Today at the meeting, we were discussing mealtime in the alcoholic home.
That's always a touchy subject.
“I used to hate dinnertime when I was growing up,” a guy said, “because my parents always fought about whether Dad should have more wine. They'd sit there angrily and I'd be trying to explain what happened at school. I'd make up all these excuses for not coming down to dinner.” He looked at his very round stomach and laughed. “I was pretty skinny back then because of it.”
“I just eat fast to get it over with,” someone said.
“I eat standing up,” said another guy.
“I eat walking down the street.”
“I eat here.” A woman tore open a Hershey's bar.
“You should have brought some for everyone, Katie.”
“I ate it on the way over.”
I could relate. I had my own weakness—doughnuts. Dad used to eat them when he was hung over. I'd join him, too. I can make quick work of a box of doughnut holes.
Digging around in the past always makes me hungry.
The meeting closed. The Serenity Prayer took on new meaning. I accepted the things I could not change. I simply had to have a doughnut.
 
I was in line at Duran's Doughnuts; it's the best blow-out treat in Chicago. Raspberry cream doughnuts, semisweet chocolate chip, applesauce raisin—one bite, and you're ruined. No other doughnut will ever do again.
The woman in front of me couldn't make up her mind. The tall guy waiting on her was patient. “You want to try an assortment?”
“I'm not sure.”
“You want to zero in on our two best-selling brands?”
“I'm not sure.”
Selling doughnuts could be a lot like selling shoes. Mel, the owner, waited on me. “You're looking pretty svelte there,” he said to me. “You've not been in here too much.”
I smiled. “I've been dieting, Mel.”
“Don't go crazy with that.”
I ordered two raspberry creams and a caramel pecan. I'd hit massive sugar shock in approximately an hour.
 
The room wasn't exactly turning, but my blood sugar had topped out. I was about to take a break when a girl with long hair and spiked heels burst through the glass doors and struck a pose. Her earrings clinked together like wind chimes.
“Tanner here?” She had the kind of voice that's all attitude.
I smiled. “I'll get him. Who should I say is—”
She laughed. “You tell him Baby's arrived.”
“I'll tell him.” She shook her hair like Faith does and started looking around. I poked my head in the back and sang out, “Tanner, Baby's here to see you.”
Tanner peered out from the storage locker.
I grinned. “She's waiting for you.”
He looked worried. “What's she look like?”
I described her.
“How tall?”
“I wasn't paying attention.”
“She got a little mole above her lip?”
“I didn't get that close!”
“You tell her I was here?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head, started slowly toward the sales floor like a condemned man. He walked out, half smiling, and said, “Hi, Baby, I knew you'd find me.”
She gave him a fierce look. “You've been avoiding me.”
“I'm working all the time.”
She marched toward him, fuming. “You can't pick up the phone? I've left how many messages?”
“I don't get reception much in here.”
She grabbed the phone off his belt, flipped it open. “Looks okay to me.”
Tanner held out his hands and gave her a killer smile. “I do what I can with what I got.”
For some reason, this calmed her. Now Tanner and Baby were talking in muffled tones. Murray stuck out his chicken neck, which meant I could take my break. Tried and true Jenna. No life beyond these walls, which was why I got so much done.
I went upstairs.
An e-mail message had come from Ken Woldman, CEO, to Mrs. Gladstone about her quality control report.
 
Madeline—
Great stuff. Lots to discuss on developing our
common language of quality.
 
A package had arrived from Mergers R Hell. It had a note from Elden M. Gladstone, SI (Shoe Insect).
ALL GLADSTONE SHOE STORE PERSONNEL, REGARDLESS OF LENGTH OF SERVICE, ARE EXPECTED TO VIEW THE ENCLOSED SHOE WAREHOUSE CD, “HOW TO SELL A PAIR OF SHOES.” IT WILL HELP US ALL FIND THE COMMON LANGUAGE TO MAKE THIS MERGER THE BEST IN THE BUSINESS.
 
 
“I got a bucket in case anybody needs to throw up.” Murray joined me, Mrs. Gladstone, and Tanner after we closed the store. I put the CD into my computer.
Dumb music played.
A man and a woman on the screen, wearing matching Shoe Warehouse shirts. The woman said stiffly, “How do I sell a pair of shoes, Don? This is my first day.” She looked pretty excited about it.
Murray gripped my chair.
“Don't worry, Suzie,” said Don. “Selling shoes is as easy as one, two, three.”
Tanner snorted. Mrs. Gladstone sat down. I was already sitting.
“You see, Suzie, people just want to see a friendly face when they come into a shoe store. That's the first thing you've got to remember.”
Suzie nodded. “Okay, Don, I think I can remember
that.
”
“And the second thing you've got to remember is that every foot is a little different.” He held up a foot measurer. “That's why we have
this
!”
Tanner was laughing big time; Murray was praying, “Oh, God . . . oh, God . . .”
It went on to show Don measuring Suzie's foot and Suzie getting happier and happier as she saw that any brain-dead moron could sell shoes. You didn't have to know anything about the brands. You didn't even have to be breathing—you could be animatronic, like Don.
Tedious twerp music played as Don walked Suzie through the shoe store, finishing up with point number three. “To find the right fit, check the toe.”
“What about the width?”
Murray screamed.
“What about heel placement?”
But Don didn't care about that. He shook Suzie's hand and told her she was ready to begin her exciting new career selling shoes. The CD ended.
Mrs. Gladstone went into her office and shut the door.
Murray went into the bathroom.
Tanner said, “So when am I gonna sell shoes? I can do
that.
”
I glared at him until he went downstairs.
 
In my own defense, I would like to say that I did not see that stupid guy who was pulling out of the parking lot much too fast, and when I heard the sickening crack of his bumper connecting with my passenger door, I slammed on the brake and jumped out of the car.
BOOK: Best Foot Forward
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