Now someone had ripped the label off it.
Caleb stood slowly.
“There are more things I lied about.”
I looked back at him.
“How many?”
“There are more things I lied about.”
His answer came quietly.
“Enough.”
Then he picked up the repaired black shoes.
“But the reason these came back matters most.”
***
Caleb carried the shoes two blocks farther and stopped outside a narrow storefront squeezed between a pharmacy and a laundromat.
“But the reason these came back matters most.”
A faded sign read:
MARTIN’S SHOE REPAIR
I looked at him.
“This is where they came from?”
He nodded.
Inside, an older man was sorting receipts behind the counter. He studied Caleb for several seconds.
Then he smiled. “Walking man.”
Caleb actually laughed.
“You remember me?”
“This is where they came from?”
“You wore through more leather than anybody I’ve ever met.”
The man looked at the shoes in Caleb’s hands.
“Those finally found you?”
I stared between them.
Caleb explained.
***
One afternoon, 15 years earlier, the sole of his shoe had split less than an hour before an interview.
“Those finally found you?”
He’d walked into this shop with barely enough money for bus fare.
Martin had looked at the résumé folder in his hand.
“Interview?”
Caleb nodded.
Martin repaired the shoe anyway.
“When you get a job,” he’d told him, “come back.”
Caleb eventually did.
“When you get a job… come back.”
A few weeks later, he’d found work.
He returned, paid Martin, and asked him to restore both shoes completely.
By then, his new job had him traveling during the week, so he paid extra to have them shipped to our apartment when they were ready.
***
“Why?” I asked.
He returned, paid Martin, and asked him to restore both shoes completely.
Caleb looked embarrassed.
“I was going to wear them on our anniversary.”
“And?”
“And tell you everything.”
Martin snorted. “He talked about that confession for 20 minutes.”
Caleb frowned. “I was nervous.”
“You were exhausting.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“I was going to wear them on our anniversary.”
Then Martin’s look warmed up.
“He loved you. That much was obvious.”
I looked at Caleb.
“Love wasn’t the problem.”
Nobody argued.
***
On the walk back toward the bus stop, Caleb finally explained the missing package.
We’d moved shortly after he ordered the restored shoes.
“He loved you. That much was obvious.”
The courier sent them to our old apartment, where they were marked undeliverable.
Years later, the local depot that had handled the package closed, and its forgotten inventory was eventually absorbed into the same warehouse liquidation we’d ordered from.
“That’s why you picked the local warehouse?” I asked.
The courier sent them to our old apartment, where they were marked undeliverable.
Caleb shook his head.
“Cheap shipping. That’s it. I had no idea this still existed.”
He’d assumed the shoes were gone. And once they were, he’d done what he’d already been doing for months: found another reason not to tell me.
“That’s ridiculous,” I said.
“I know.”
“Cheap shipping. That’s it. I had no idea this still existed.”
“You needed shoes to tell your wife?”
“No.” He looked at the sidewalk. “I needed an excuse to start.”
He rubbed his thumb along the edge of one shoe.
“And when they disappeared, I let losing the excuse become another excuse.”
***
We reached the bus shelter again.
“You needed shoes to tell your wife?”
“What did you think would’ve happened if you’d told me?” I asked.
“You would’ve worried.”
“I would have.”
He looked surprised.
I shook my head.
“Caleb, I would’ve worried with you.”
For the first time that night, he had no answer.
“What did you think would’ve happened if you’d told me?”
After a while, I asked, “Is there anything you’re afraid to tell me now?”
“No.”
I just looked at him.
Caleb closed his eyes briefly.
Then he sat beside me.
“My department’s being reorganized.”
I waited.
“My job’s probably safe. But there may be cuts.”
“How long have you known?”
“Is there anything you’re afraid to tell me now?”
“A week.”
I nearly laughed.
“Fifteen years, and we’re still doing this?”
“I’m trying not to.”
“Then try out loud.”
That made him smile.
He told me he was scared of starting over at his age.
Scared of interviews.
Scared that one bad meeting could rearrange our lives again.
He told me he was scared of starting over at his age.
I didn’t solve anything.
I just listened.
***
Later, we stopped at a diner near our old neighborhood.
Halfway through dinner, Caleb’s phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen.
Work email.
His old reflex appeared instantly.
He turned the phone facedown.
Then stopped and looked at me.
“It’s about the restructuring.”
His old reflex appeared instantly.
“Okay.”
He opened it.
Read.
Then turned the phone so we could look together.
Nothing had been decided yet.
For once, that was enough.
***
Outside, Caleb slipped into the old restored shoes and began to limp.
“You okay?” I asked.
“I’m fine.”
He took three more steps.
Nothing had been decided yet.
Then laughed.
“Actually, no. These things are terrible.”
I held out my arm.
Fifteen years earlier, those shoes had carried my husband miles through something he thought he had to survive alone.
That night, he finally let somebody walk beside him.
Fifteen years earlier, those shoes had carried my husband miles through something he thought he had to survive alone.
