The Lady with the Pretty Shoes

Is there anything more awkward than attending a funeral for someone you don’t really know? I’ve encountered little in my life that matches the feeling, yet I keep on doing it. Strange as it may sound, I’ve attended far more funerals for people I don’t know than for people I do. Anyone I don’t recognize immediately, I count as ‘people I don’t know.’ For much of my life, I’ve had trouble recognizing many people who, convention dictates, I should know.

Every church I’ve been to smells different, but all funeral homes smell the same: dusty. The dust of many years is probably harbored in the inevitable wall-to-wall carpeting, no matter how many times it’s been vacuumed. High-pile carpets tend to feel and sound like forest moss underfoot, though the synthetic fibers are less crunchy than the living organism. All noise is muffled, rendering the endless rooms opening one into another solemnly and decidedly quieter than any library. Even the flatwoven, minimal-pile carpets mute the many shuffling footsteps of mourners.

I feel less at ease in funeral homes than in churches. I’m not sure where to go or what to do. In a sad, much-used but uninhabited living room away from home, conversation of any kind just feels so wrong.

Be that as it may, funerals never cease to be sources of unexpected, fascinating, and meaningful human interactions.

There was one funeral that I think my family might have been late to, because we’d never been to that particular funeral home before. The service was for the mother of a family friend.

I remember fluffy carpeting somewhere between beige and yellow, and a dimly-lit-by-table-lamps room with no windows and…red walls, maybe? I know I remember red and yellow, but my brain may have scrambled the placement.

Another thing I remember clearly from that funeral is the little bucket of nice chocolates with a photo of an elderly lady (the deceased) and a sign explaining these were her favorite, and every guest should feel free to take one. I was a child then, so I didn’t. I’d been taught candy and the like was only for grownups unless it was given or offered specifically to me.

The service was of no interest to me at that young age, but the luncheon afterwards was something to look forward to. It was served inside a town hall I’d only been to once before, for a celebration of life for a neighbor-friend’s deceased father. It was after dark that first time, the windows inside the big white room framing absolute black outside. Now, sunlight streamed in through the glass.

All the way across the room from where my family was seated, I saw a lady. She was wearing bright lipstick that caught my eyes, though I was sure I would never want to put anything so inedible anywhere near my own mouth. From my short-statured vantage point, the lady seemed to tower over others with her blonde updo and slim dress and high-heeled shoes.

Those shoes captivated me. They were white, with low heels. Little straps crossed the toes and twined around her ankles, and tiny silver buckles flashed back the light from the sun and the hall’s white fluorescent bulbs. The lady’s whole person seemed to sparkle and glow from the inside out. The most arresting detail of all: The lady with the pretty shoes was laughing and smiling at a funeral.

I wonder if her mirth is what really made me take notice of her. The fact that I picked out one singular person in that room and focused on them is quite astounding. I never recognized anyone besides close family and friends as individuals. A mass of humanity was, to me, faceless. I never looked at any one person.

I’m not sure how it happened, if I asked my parents for permission or if I just walked over there on a whim, but somehow I got up the nerve to walk across the room to where the lady with the pretty shoes was seated.

Talking to her was the easy part. I liked talking if someone would listen to me, though I wasn’t the best at listening in return.

“I like your shoes,” I told the lady. “They’re so pretty.”

She smiled down at me with bright white teeth. “Do you want to try them on?”

A bit taken aback, I said, “No, thank you. I think they’re pretty on you, but I wouldn’t want to wear them.” I pulled out a chair and sat down beside her at her table. She asked me my name, and told me hers, and asked me a question. Something about what I did, or liked doing, or wanted to do.

I told her that I loved reading, and I had an I Spy picture book about a treasure hunt I that I really liked, and I wanted to write a book inspired by the pictures and riddles. She listened through my description of the story, how it played out through the book, and my ideas for expanding on it. When I paused (probably for breath) the lady with the pretty shoes looked at me and said, quite seriously, “You know what? I think you should do that.”

When it was time to leave, I was sad to say goodbye to her.

The lady’s words stayed in my head. You know what? I think you should do that. Someone besides my parents knew my desire to write a book. Someone besides my parents thought I could—no, should do it.

I took the step of starting to write my book. My only planning had been poring over I Spy Treasure Hunt until I could find every hidden item in every riddle, and naming a few characters.

I wrote five chapters before I decided I didn’t like how my writing sounded. so, I shelved it. I obviously had no idea how to finish a first draft and fix it later. To this day, I wonder if I would have finished that whole book if I had just kept going. But I will never know, because I did not.

Years later, I started writing a fantasy, so that my world and story could contain absolutely anything I wanted. That project was shelved as well. I tried to pick up the Treasure Hunt novel again, completely rewriting it. I got farther, but was still displeased, and shelved the project again.

I explored short stories, then picked up the Treasure Hunt novel for a third time. It was shelved yet again after extensive planning and research, but before a word of story was written. I couldn’t leave it alone, but was also afraid to do it wrong. I turned back to the short stories.

One night, I attended church with a girl who I’d been told was the granddaughter of the lady with the pretty shoes. That information hadn’t really sunk in, though. It just floated around in the back of my mind.

The girl told me her grandparents had agreed to come to mass tonight, because she was going to be joining my family in the choir.

From above, in the loft, I saw a couple enter the church, the woman taller than the man. She wore a pretty, slim dress, and her blonde hair was piled on top of her head. I still had such trouble with recognizing people, but I was sure I recognized her.

After mass, I hurried downstairs to wait with the girl for her grandmother. When she came, I knew her face. It was the first time I had seen her since the day I met her years ago.

After initial introductions, I stepped forward and told her that we’d met before, at a funeral, when I was a little girl. My mother filled in whose funeral it was.

“You talked to me at the lunch afterwards,” I said, looking into that sharp-featured face I thought I would likely never see again. I was as tall as her now. She was still wearing bright lipstick, though her face had more lines than before. “I told you that I thought your shoes were pretty. You asked me what I liked doing, and I told you that I wanted to write a book. I still haven’t forgotten what you said to me. You told me, ‘You know what? I think you should do that.’”

She remembered me. She laughed and smiled just like she did the first time.

“I started writing that book because of you,” I informed her. “I didn't finish it yet, but I’m a writer now, and I’ve written a bunch of short stories, and I’m working on novels.” At that point I had started crying, though I tried to blink the tears away.

And then she began crying, too. Her mascara streaked down her cheeks. We hugged, briefly, lightly, but it felt so good.

I hope, one day, to present her with that book. It will be dedicated to “The Lady with the Pretty Shoes.”