ALL THE WARMTH and satisfaction that Earl had enjoyed the last few months crumbled away as his superstitions got the better of him. That night, when he tried to sleep, his heart tightened and his eyes bulged at every croak, chirp, rustle, and thump that leapt out of the darkness at him.
“Did you hear that?”
“I heard you, making a racket there.”
“I thought I heard footsteps, Mely.”
“Then why don’t you get up and check. But be quiet about it.”
“No, no,” he said. “It must have been nothing. Sorry to wake you, hon.”
He cast a glance at the loafers, just beneath the window in the pool of moonlight that gave them an eerie glow. When he gained just a little courage, he stretched a foot out of bed and kicked them into the darkness.
“Quiet, Earl,” said Mely.
In the morning he couldn’t bring himself to wear the loafers. Since he’d considered his old shoes an embarrassment to even have in the same house with the loafers, and so had thrown them away, he didn’t have any shoes to wear. Sure, he had plenty of money for new shoes, but he didn’t have the time now to travel to a store in Biscayne or Fort Pierce, and he didn’t have the courage to provide an explanation to someone who might make the purchase for him. So he hid the shoes under the bed and went barefoot.
He told Mely that he just wanted to let the shoes air for a while. She looked at him funny, but didn’t say anything. When he went to the post office and folks came in and asked what had happened to those famous shoes of his, he replied that Mely was polishing them for him. But when the questions persisted for a few days, he allowed that he’d had to send the shoes to New York to be polished professionally, since no one in Florida was qualified to handle leather of such high quality.
Still, hiding the shoes did nothing to diminish his fright. At the first hint of dusk, his body tensed and his brow sweated, while his mind became a turmoil of imagined evil.
Worst of all were the nights when the Yankee tourists came. Earl became a nuisance to his guests, spilling wine and dropping plates as he imagined an apparition floating by the window or footsteps padding the roof. People began to talk. The guests mumbled among themselves about the ineptness of the service and the unsanitary conditions of the restaurant. Quaintness is one thing, they said, but a waiter with bare feet is stretching the limit. And what filthy, ill-formed feet besides. And now that they thought about it, the food wasn’t as good as they’d been led to believe.
It wasn’t long before this sort of talk made its way back to New York and was passed around in the highest social circles. Southwind Cruise Lines suffered a steep falling off of business on their Florida and Caribbean routes. The Yankee guests in Figulus slowed to a trickle and the whole town suffered.
At first, Earl thought he could attribute it to the end of the season. It was spring, now, and the weather was beginning to heat up. There was no snow for the Yankees to escape, and there was no reason for them to put up with the insects and the Florida sun that seemed to grow bigger and hotter by the day. Soon, though, Earl would know that it wasn’t just the season.
When the first quarter reports came in and were analyzed thoroughly, the Rathmartin boys were forced to make some hard decisions. As usual, their father, Elias, was off on one of his adventure-tale fantasies, so they made their decisions without his advice or knowledge. It was the first really big decision they’d made without their father around, and they were proud of themselves for making it—proud to consult their lawyers and their board of vice presidents, proud to have their secretaries draft up the letter addressed to Earl Shank from the Directors of the Southwind Company.
Dear Mr. Shank,
This is to inform you in writing, as per article three, paragraph one of our contract, that the Southwind Cruise Lines hereby renders null and void said contract, with the stated reason of a downturn in business resulting from the word-of-mouth of recent cruise guests dissatisfied with their experience in your restaurant. Statistical evidence will be provided if you so request it.
Cordially,
Stanislaw and Merwyn Rathmartin, Directors
The Southwind Cruise Lines and Shipping and Trading Company
Earl read this letter five or six times, then wandered out of his post office in a daze. It’s them damned, cursed shoes, he thought. But he knew that it wasn’t just the shoes, either.
He wandered into his house and past Mely.
“What’s wrong, Earl?” she asked, looking up from a new recipe she was experimenting with.
Earl didn’t answer her. He shuffled into the bedroom and dug around under the bed until he found the cursed shoes. He held them with his pinkies, afraid something evil might rub off. Then he walked past Mely again and out the door.
She called after him, trying to rib him and lighten his mood, “Earl, you get your shoes back from New York?”
No answer.
He went down to the dock and borrowed Josh McCready’s skiff, setting the shoes as far away from him in the boat as possible, careful not to disturb them or shake them up too much for fear of angering whatever evil powers they held. Still, he knew it wasn’t just the shoes; he had to blame himself.
He rowed steadily, huffing and puffing, his belly getting in the way of the oars. In a little while he was across the lake, and when he beached the boat and took out the shoes, he found that he’d washed up in front of what must have been Josef Steinmetz’s home. There was the little shack with the covered porch and the rocking chairs for him and his wife. Just to the north, he spotted the burned-out orchard, some life finally beginning to take root around the black, skeletal remains of the citrus trees. He went up and sat for a while on one of those rocking chairs on the porch. He had the emptiest feeling, as if all his success of the past few months had been only a lot of hot air in his balloon, and now he’d found the leak, the widening hole.
He felt closer to that immigrant than ever, even if the man was dead, and even if his ghost was seeking Earl out to frighten him to death. He deserved it. Just like Earl, Josef Steinmetz was a man who’d seen his misty dreams blown off by an evil wind. He was a man who’d had his hopes slapped away by the cool hand of fate. But Earl knew there was one key difference: with Earl, it wasn’t just the shoes and it wasn’t just fate; it was his own foolishness. He’d let the whole town down, he’d let Mely down, and he’d let himself down. Again. He could handle the jabs of the townsfolk—they’d made fun of him before, and it almost seemed just that they’d do it again. And he knew that Mely would forgive him—she hadn’t been completely convinced of their success yet, anyway. But for himself this seemed the final defeat, one he could not forget. He’d finally got what he’d always wanted, and then by his own foolishness and superstition, he’d let it slip away. There was no use blaming it on the shoes, though he didn’t doubt there was something unearthly about them—his fate had been tied too closely to them for it to be pure chance.
But whether by the magic of the shoes or not, he’d finally been given the starring role in the performance of his own happy fortune—not a role many men receive, or if they do, not one they recognize they’re playing. And he’d blown it—he’d blown the lines, he’d used all the wrong gestures, and he’d dragged the show down after a promising opening. Now he’d never act in this town again. No one would let him; he was no longer convincing as anything but a fool. He no longer had the confidence to try any of the challenging and entertaining roles he’d played before. There was nothing else for him to do now, nothing else to look forward to, but to wade his way out into the ocean and muster the last of his abilities together to play the Final Role—the role with no audience, the role for which there’d be no applause and no reviews, nothing but the satisfaction of one role well played—for there was only one way to play it—and then that final fall of the curtain.
He’d be missed, but only until next Tuesday, when the Yankee cruise ship would not anchor off the inlet, and the Yankee tenders would not dock in front of the post office, and the Yankee millionaires would not spend any money on the quaint little souvenir trinkets. Then they’d know. Mely would cry, but she was strong, and she’d get over him just like she got over ol’ Jake, though he hoped it would take longer than the five weeks she took to get over him. Then his absence would be covered up and smoothed over until people forgot him altogether, except for once or twice when they were sitting alone on their porches, staring at the sunset, and just for a second they’d remember the few months of good times that Mayor Earl brought to Figulus, and they’d say to themselves, Those were the days, but they’d never say anything out loud, because it wouldn’t be appropriate to talk about it. And that was okay with Earl, because that was all he could hope for now—that someone would remember him fondly, if only for a moment, and think about what he’d tried to do.
Well that’s that, then, thought Earl, and he picked up the loafers and headed out to the beach. Though it was nearly dusk, the sun was still hot out there—the last rays of the day seemed to cut right through the jungle of palms and sea grapes to keep the beach heated. Still, the eastern horizon was beginning to darken and seemed to march toward him, swallowing up everything in its cool, deep blue. Soon, it would swallow him, too, and he’d be cool at last—his brow would no longer sweat and his eyes would no longer squint and his lungs would no longer feel the weight of the air. He’d be cool and light as ice.
First things first, though: Earl held the shoes up and looked at them one last time. No longer afraid to touch them, he rubbed them clean with his palm and looked at his soft brown reflection. Then he took a step toward the surf and threw them out into the thick green swells. He watched them as if he were watching his own fate. The waves pushed them down and smothered them, pulled them back up, and dragged them slowly out to sea with the tide. He watched until they were out of sight.
Earl felt a strange sense of relief, then. He knew the shoes had some sort of power over him, but he didn’t know how much until he was finally rid of them. He laughed out loud at these superstitions. But the more he thought of it, the more he realized the feeling wasn’t so crazy after all. He hadn’t just convinced himself of the magical powers of the shoes, he’d convinced the whole town, save Mely. They’d all believed, just like he did, that the good fortune of the town was in some indescribable, almost unspeakable way connected to Earl’s found pair of loafers. He could see that, now, when he remembered the way they’d always asked him about his shoes, the way they’d looked down at those shoes with awe and wonderment in their eyes, and maybe a little fear, too. But above all, faith. They’d never have said anything. It wasn’t the kind of thing folks talk about. It was a feeling, though, passed from one to another without anybody ever having to speak. The shoes had a power beyond words.
Earl filled himself with the exhilaration of these thoughts, until he remembered he’d just tossed the shoes into the ocean.
Then he had to laugh again, to let the hot air out. He had to laugh at the way his thoughts lagged so fatally behind his actions.
He stepped into the lip of the surf and felt the water cooling his feet. He stepped deeper and deeper until the waves broke against his waist. His whole body was getting cool. It made him feel good, and he thought how funny it was that he was leaving here just the way he’d come almost a quarter century ago. He’d flung his hands away from the side of the SS Seaworthy’s lifeboat, trying to do then what he was going to do today. In that respect he’d be a success, at least. His tragic biography would show only how his continual failures served to provide him with the courage to finish what he should have finished on his very first day in Figulus. He’d been so full of energy and ideas then, and he’d tried so hard to make something for himself and for the town. He’d just lacked what it took. He wasn’t destined for greatness after all, it looked like. He was another mediocre fella who’d tried and failed. If only he’d had something more unique, something that could bring people in from all over the country. The tropical wilderness and the beautiful beaches had not been enough. Nor had Mely’s home cooking and the quaint little restaurant. If only he’d come up with something awe-inspiring, something that filled people with wonderment the way those shoes had affected the townsfolk. Or the way that Barefoot Mailman story had affected Elias Rathmartin.
It was then, with his shirt ballooning around his neck, and the water up to his dry and cracked lips, about to silence him forever, that Earl got an idea.