John Lutz - Dancing with the Dead

“We can do it,” Mary said. But she knew she hadn’t fooled herself with the empty words, and probably hadn’t fooled Helen.

“Say it often enough and maybe we’ll believe it,” Helen told her, letting the ballroom door swing shut.

As Mary turned around, she saw a man in a white shirt perched on a tall stepladder. He was hanging a rectangular banner above a display of shoes. As he lifted a corner of the banner, the lettering-SPANGLE SOUL SHOES-became visible.

“That’s where I sent away for my shoes,” Mary said. “C’mon, Helen, maybe I can get a replacement pair just like them!”

“I wanna check out one of those gowns,” Helen told her, motioning with her head toward a rack of dance costumes. She dug in her purse and handed Mary her MasterCard. “Use that if you need it, then come on over by that second rack of dresses, okay?”

Mary tapped the plastic card with a fingernail. “Listen, you sure about this, Helen?”

“Just buy the shoes, Mary Mary, then meet me by those dresses and lie about how well one looks on me.”

Mary squeezed her hand, then whirled and hurried toward the Spangle Soul display, as if someone might beat her to the last pair of Latin dance shoes.

Actually the display wasn’t completely set up; only a few dozen shoes sat in a row on the long table. Their toes were pointed forward in precisely the same direction, like compass needles indicating north. Half of them were men’s shoes.

The man on the top step of the ladder noticed her, shifted his body awkwardly, and stared down at her. His white shirt had perspiration stains under the arms. Mary saw that his spine was misshapen, and one of his own shoes had a built-up sole. “Sorry, we ain’t quite open,” he said from on high with a nervous smile. It was a long way down from where he was, and he couldn’t abide further disability.

“I just need to know if you have a certain shoe,” Mary said.

He knotted a length of twine to fasten the last corner of the banner. Now he began placing sparkling silver stars on the material; they appeared to be fastened with Velcro. “Be about twenty minutes,” he said. “I gotta get these stars in place.”

“I bought a pair of shoes from you by mail,” Mary persisted, “and the heels are broken. I need to replace them. Tell you the truth, I’m desperate.”

He stared down at her again. “You mean they was broken when you got them?” He sounded incredulous, as if she’d just confirmed that the moon was made of cheese.

“No, no. Someone-they got broken later.”

“Well, we can’t exchange-”

“But I don’t wanna exchange them, I’ll buy another pair.”

The profit motive prevailed. The man wiped his hands on his thighs, then carefully worked his way down the wooden ladder, balancing his box of stars. She noticed that what she’d thought was a wallet jutting from his back pocket was actually a small Bible; maybe he had a conscience and a charitable heart, and finally religion was coming to Mary’s rescue. All those hours of mandatory youthful prayer might not have been wasted. He limped over to stand behind the table and face her. She was surprised by how short he was. Whatever was wrong with his spine or his leg caused him to list to his left like a sinking ship even when he stood still.

Mary picked up one of his business cards from the stack on the table. His name actually was Spangle. Albert Spangle. Be a good Christian, Albert Spangle.

“I’m Mary Arlington,” she said.

He smiled, transforming his pockmarked, fiftyish face into a mask of rough beauty, the face of a simple and solid man. His eyes were kind and bright blue beneath craggy, graying brows. “Ah, I remember now. Them white open-toed ones with straps and two-and-a-half-inch heels.”

“Those are the ones,” Mary said, pleased. “But I dyed them black. What I really need’s a black pair.”

He raised a gnarled forefinger. There was a speck of glitter on its tip, from one of the stars. “Lemme look, Mary. Size… six, am I right?”

“You’ve got a good memory.”

“Got to, when you sell most of your merchandise by mail.”

“I’ll be praying you find them,” Mary said. Well, why not a little schmaltz?

She watched silently as he limped over to a jumble of large cardboard cartons, each of them apparently containing shoe boxes.

Spangle crouched down clumsily and rummaged through the boxes for such a long time Mary began feeling guilty. He really did want to help her now, and she was taking advantage of his kind nature. After all, there was no reason she had to have shoes identical to the ruined ones.

She was about to tell him she’d come back later when he said, “Bingo!” and straightened up holding a pair of black shoes. “Only difference is, these here are leather,” he told her, limping back toward the display table. He handed them to her with the toes pointed down, as if they were weapons that might discharge.

Mary studied the shoes and decided she liked them even better in leather. She worked her right shoe off her foot. Standing on her left leg and leaning on the table for balance, she bent over and tried on one of the dance shoes.

It seemed to fit. She put on the other and shifted her weight, swiveled her feet. The shoes were definitely more comfortable than the pair Jake had ruined. What luck! Was fate finally swinging over to her side?

Mary reached into her purse and closed her hand around Helen’s MasterCard. “How much are they?”

“Eighty dollars,” Spangle said. “But since you had bad luck with the last pair, for you they’re sixty.” He was beaming at her, his blue eyes alive with light. “Fair enough?”

“More than fair. Really. Thank you.” She removed the shoes from her feet and slipped back into her street shoes. Spangle took the new shoes from her and inserted them noisily back among crinkled white tissue in their box. “You take credit cards?” Mary asked.

He laughed. “Who don’t?”

She handed him Helen’s card, then realized Spangle knew her name and might notice it wasn’t on the card. “This actually belongs to my friend over there. If you want, I can go get her and she’ll sign for the shoes.”

“Naw, that’s okay. You can sign for her. I already dealt with you and know you’re really who you say.”

Mary wondered how he could know, since she hadn’t shown him any identification, but she didn’t argue.

“I mean,” Spangle said, “unless you’re making up a pretty good story, you gotta be the Mary that bought the white Latins. You’re from Detroit, right?”

“St. Louis!” Mary said, surprised.

“See.” Spangle seemed unfazed. “That’s how I run an instant credit check. If you’d have said Detroit, no shoes. Anyway, in this business you gotta have a certain amount of faith. And the years have taught me that ballroom dancers are by and large honest folks.” He chuckled. “Well, maybe not some of the instructors.”

He bent down and got a credit-card machine from beneath the table and ran Helen’s MasterCard through it, then filled out the charge form and handed it to Mary to sign. “Tell your friend if she needs a pair of shoes, this here’s the place. No special deals for her, though, unless she buys two pairs like you did.”

Mary signed Helen’s name. “I’ll tell her. I’ll tell lots of people this is the table if they need shoes.”

Spangle laughed, gave her the customer’s copy and carbons, then limped back toward the stepladder. “No substitute for good will, no matter what you’re selling,” he said. “Thanks for the business, Mary, and I hope you knock ’em dead in the competition.”

As she walked away carrying the shoes, he was again lurching up the ladder, his box of Velcro stars tucked beneath his arm. He seemed unaware that he’d salvaged her dreams.