A collection of 12 short stories about givers and takers—the good, the bad, the self-centered and the disillusioned—from twisted tales about marriages gone sour and people caught up in problems they created or others created for them to glimpses into times past when immigrants struggled to find their place in America and WWII GIs struggled to stay alive. Some horror, subtle and not so subtle.
25-page subtle horror. Lidia and Simon Drago are living their last hoorah, a European vacation financed by the insurance money they received when their house burned down. On the night train from Paris to Florence they encounter a stranger who directs them to a lovely pensione in Florence. There, a clever artist agrees to depict the Dragos not as they look now but how they appeared in their prime. Warning: it’s not nice to fool Mother Nature.
SELECTED WORK We hope you enjoy this story which is part of A Collection of Givers and Takers. Be sure to check back later for more examples of Loretta's work.
MY AVE MUSEO
“Brace yourself, Olivia.”
Lorna, the drama queen, will her ridiculous theatrics never end. My first impulse is to end the call. Instead I play along with, “Please don’t tell me Mom’s still tossing garbage over her balcony.”
“Okay, I won’t. Now she’s flushing it down the toilet. Her landlord had to call a plumber. Not once, twice. ‘One more time and she’s out,’ he told me. I was so mortified, I could’ve had myself committed.”
I sigh, loud enough for Lorna to hear. “Maybe we should consider some type of assisted living. For Mom, I mean.”
“Get real,” Lorna replies. “Have you forgotten how she terrorized the hospital staff after her stroke?”
“The doctor called her recovery miraculous.”
“Next time, be very careful what you pray for, Olivia. Trust me, Mom cannot live alone. It’s just that simple. I’d take her in a heartbeat but she and Greg never did get along.”
“So punish me for Arthur’s myocardial infarction,” I counter. “I’m the struggling widow; you’re the one who lives in mansion Mom can’t stop bragging about. That and your incredible cooking.”
“The woman eats like a sparrow and you know it. This is not about who’s got the most space, even though my kids are still in high school and your Mandi is … well, need I say more.”
“Mandi’s out of rehab. She took a job in Chicago.”
“Well you could’ve said something before now. After all, I do care about your only child. Since she’s functioning in the real world again, perhaps you could redirect your boundless energy toward our ailing mother.”
“Lorna, pu-lease. Between this cramped condo and my museum responsibilities, I can scarcely find time to breathe.”
So liberate yourself, forget that never-ending project. It’s time to move on, for your sake and the family’s. If you can’t bring yourself to call The Salvation Army, just say the word and I will.”
Under no circumstances will I abandon my museum work. The collection is as much a part of me as my DNA. After poor Arthur’s unforeseen death I downsized to this condo and hired a handyman to convert the larger of two bedrooms into my personal tribute to shoes. My Ave Museo, I christened my hail and farewell museum. Custom-built shelving, calligraphy signage, and recessed lighting pay homage to my love affair with footwear. I arranged the vast collection in chronological order and catalogued it on index cards, along with glossy photos and pertinent information such as date and place of purchase, original versus discounted price, and special occasion, if any. I estimate my shoe count to be well over two thousand, which only averages out to a pair a week for the past forty years, starting with the black suedes acquired when I was a mere fifteen. Mom paid four dollars at a St. Louis factory outlet for the 5AA, classier-than-anyone-else’s penny loafers. From the moment I slipped my Cinderella foot into the lined interior, I was hooked.
Securing quality shoes at bargain prices has evolved into a lifelong passion. From warehouse bins to end-of-the-season overruns, I never pass up a bargain. With eyes half-closed, I can navigate one hand through a clearance pile and discover the softest of leather shoes, so lightweight my feet barely acknowledge their presence. My criteria for purchasing include style, comfort, and price—variables that fluctuate with my mood, weight, and current finances.
Lorna has upset me so I wander barefoot through the maze of shelves until I reach the early years section. Pressing a pair of clear plastic sling backs to my breast, I conjure up memories of my first date with Arthur, who was twelve years my senior and climbing a steep corporate ladder. I wore the sexy heels with an ankle bracelet and strapless sundress. Arthur caressed my tender instep with his tongue and suggested modeling as a possible career for me. “Unfortunately, my narrow foot and high arch don’t fit the standard for American shoes,” I explained before letting him make love to me.
I married Arthur in white linen, three-inch T-straps; sentimentality prevented me from ever wearing them again. After years of trying, we finally conceived. Every Sunday during that dreadful pregnancy he escorted me to St. Jerome’s, where I gave thanks for the alligator pumps that soothed my swollen feet. Mandi’s birth was unremarkable, except for those horrid hospital-issued slip-ons covering my feet in the delivery room. To my regret, the adorable child never developed into much of a shopper. Even as a little tot she threw tantrums at the sidewalk sales. I finally gave in and left her at home with Arthur. They bonded while I shopped, not that I’m complaining.
Only once did I pay full retail, from the brown and green sirens that called to me from the window of Vogue Boot Shop in St. Louis, a premier store that met its demise during urban renewal. Although the open-toes patchwork design only complimented a few outfits, I justified the expense as a confirmation of my worthiness. Most of my shoes reside in their original boxes, marked with the retail price and the discount actually paid. Orphaned shoes are displayed in clear plastic containers, not out of disrespect but to adhere to a pleasing conformity. Some of the orphans represent the crème de la crème, those incredible bargains from Italy—the slenderest of heels, the pointiest of toes.
“What’s with you American women and your love affair with all things Italian?” my orthopedist once grumbled while he examined a throbbing joint protruding below my big toe. “American women have no business trying to squeeze their gun boats into shoes designed for Italians.”
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “My grandparents came from Torino.”
Later, after going under the knife for a bunionectomy, I endured a nasty recovery that lasted as long as my promise to avoid further involvement with the Italian leathers.
By that time Mandi was starting high school so I set aside my everyday Keds and went back to work part-time. Within the year my job with an incentive travel agency evolved into a full-time career that took me around the world, enabling me to acquire shoes in every color and heel style. My practical blacks in assorted heel heights suffered the most wear and tear; burgundy could easily have qualified as basic, if only I’d found them at a decent sale price.
“Be sure to wear cushioned walking shoes,” I warned my traveling clients, not that I always followed my own advice. Bold European women who pounded their stiletto heels on unforgiving cobblestones inspired my sense of fashion, even though the soles of my sorry feel often rebelled. After touring Beijing’s rain-soaked Tiananmen Square, I deemed a pair of tattered sandals unworthy to return home, a rare but necessary decision to accommodate new purchases from Hong Kong. Thinking one of the hotel maids could use my castoffs, I set them on top of the wastebasket. The next morning the sandals had been returned, so clean and polished I felt obligated to give them a reprieve.
The black athletic Nikes that rubbed silver dollar blisters on my heels resurrected a memorable evening in Amsterdam when I hiked two miles to the government-approved Blue Light District. Teen-age prostitutes wearing lacy underwear posed like bored mannequins in display windows, offering their bodies to eager tourists. Or pathetic druggies. I was more curious than shocked. If only I’d been aware of my own daughter’s spiraling descent.
When Mandi got pregnant, I demanded a proper wedding and was determined to find the perfect mother-of-the-bride shoes. Over a three-week period I bought ten different styles, two of which were wedding appropriate but I couldn’t bring myself to leave the others behind. I finally settled on the sequined paisleys for Mandi’s wedding. They pinched my toes throughout the day, an omen I should’ve recognized as disastrous since the marriage ended four months later, right after God took Mandi’s tiny newborn. Then Arthur died. A series of depressions followed. Years of therapy, setbacks, and recoveries still haven’t resolved issues too painful to contemplate.
***** What I really need now is closure, but not before a good stiff drink. Or two, wouldn’t that be lovely. I mix a batch of margaritas, pour a generous dose over crushed ice, and put the glass to my lips. Closing my eyes, I let the salty sweet combo trickle down my throat. After a while I pick up the telephone and punch in a series of numbers. I sip some more, and wait for a click on the other end. The familiar hello sounds sleep. Not a good sign. “Brace yourself, Mandi.” “Mom, you’re such a drama queen. Please don’t tell me Grandma’s still tossing her garbage over the balcony.” “Okay, I won’t. Now she’s flushing it down the toilet. Naturally, the landlord wants her out. Your Auntie Lorna thinks I should take her. But as you know, I’m so cramped for space I can hardly breathe.” “Why don’t you sleep on the sofa and give Grandma your bedroom?” she purrs. “Mandi, pu-lease. I need a clear head to catalogue my Ave collection on the computer. I’ve been thinking, maybe you could—” “Maybe you could teach Grandma to use the computer. Or, if she can’t handle the computer, how about giving her my old job—dusting all those damn shoes you can’t live without.” What does Mandi know, her and those ridiculous German clogs she insists on wearing. “Like hell,” are my final words before ending the call. I check the clock. Good grief, it’s two in the morning, another plus for having a personal museum. My Ave Museo never closes.
