A Hundred Pairs of Shoes

A HUNDRED PAIRS OF SHOES

The first time I saw Chloe was at one of those refined cocktail parties given by the department of surgery. She was a concealed voluptuary in an astonishingly tailored black silk jacket and skirt. Personally, I find overly exposed body parts a turn off, since I think pleasures are greatest in anticipation.  Beneath super sheer stockings, I could see that her legs were slender and strong. She wore a chic pair of black suede high heels that reminded me of those little night birds who flit flirtatiously in front of your car lights. I followed those sexy shoes with my eyes, almost spilling my very dry martini.

“Nice shoes,” I said, when I was really thinking ‘nice legs’.

Chloe looked at me evenly with a touch of doubt in her eyes. It was obviously not a pick up line she had heard before.

“You like my shoes?” she said complacently bored.

“Yes, I, I, I know it is odd but I have a thing about shoes.” I sometimes stutter when I’m nervous. Her eyes narrowed and I began to worry that she was taking me for a pervert.

“Oh, I, I, I don’t have a foot fetish or anything like that. I just love good leather. I appreciate stylish shoes on a woman.” I was glad that I had worn my Magli shoes to the party. It lent credence to my little speech.

“Really,” she emphasized the word, “I bought these in Italy last summer. I have to admit I have a weakness for shoes. I must have a hundred pairs in my closet.”

“Imelda, may I get you something to drink?” I asked.

“Merlot,” she said, “Thanks.”

As I made my way to the bar, I kept telling myself to go slowly; to stay in the present and in reality. It was agonizingly difficult. I think what we call coincidences are spiritual puns. I had taught the ‘Lens Model’ in my psychology class the previous week, and my behavior should have been more appropriate. However, there is no accounting for lust.

The Lens Model essentially says that what we think we see in others will determine for the most part, how we treat them and respond to them. The accuracy of what we think we see will dictate the appropriateness of the behavior we utilize or the actions we take and the productivity of the relationship.

What did I think I was seeing in Chloe? Obviously she was a sophisticated woman who provided generously for herself. I didn’t notice a ring. She smelled like the hyacinths in my garden and I wanted to draw closer and breathe her in. The classically beautiful face seemed air brushed to perfection like the faces one sees in fashion magazines. Dramatic black hair, bluntly cut in an oriental fashion contributed a touch of the exotic. She reminded me of a sleek black cat, aloof and looking for options.

Handing over the wine, I bit my tongue to control the stuttering, “At a party, one should drink wisely but not too well, and talk well but not too wisely. You go first.”

“Who said that?” she asked, “It sounds familiar.”

“Somerset, Maugham although it isn’t exactly what he said. So, so tell me about yourself. All I know is that you have a a a penchant for shoes.”

“I’ve just joined the department; I’m a general surgeon. Are you in the surgery department too?” she asked in a confident way that challenged me.

“Oh heavens no, I, I, I can’t stand the sight of blood. I’m just a lowly psychology professor.” I was hoping that she found that amusing and not too self effacing.

“Actually, I don’t know many people here,” she confessed as her deep set eyes scanned the room. It was a habit that came to irritate me. Chloe never seemed entirely present.

“Perhaps you will allow me to show you around the university? Maybe we could do lunch at the faculty club one day. It’s a quick walk from the hospital. Even doctors have to eat.”

She smiled coolly and I thought she was calculating the distance to the door. As a surgeon she was playing hard ball in what was basically a boy’s club. I began to see that this was a competent, highly intelligent woman who was probably extremely independent.

Much to my surprise and delight, we ended up having a relationship that was constantly in overdrive. Those first months were wildly exciting since she possessed tremendous energy and could match my spontaneity regardless of how little sleep she had. I often needed a nap after classes to keep up.

“Let’s fly to Paris for the long week-end. I feel like a change,” Chloe would say.

She would be back in the operating room Tuesday morning with all the enthusiasm of a cheer leader. Her dedication to her work was remarkable. I waited, not very patiently, on many nights for her to finish up in surgery, or make rounds on patients. How could I complain about someone saving lives and stamping out disease? Besides, I was addicted to the adrenalin rush; I felt electrified by her presence. She had a wry sense of humor and was great fun to be with most of the time. There were occasions when she could become quarrelsome if she didn’t get her way. Frequently, all I could do was stare at her with my awful thoughts. I have never enjoyed confrontation.

“Nick, you are really quite timid sometimes. Why don’t you stand up for yourself? I wonder about you when you are so quiet. Are you a little sneak too? Do you lurk around my apartment checking up on me? Because if you ever do that, we are finished,” she warned.

It never occurred to me to snoop. I thought Chloe was a complex personality but there was never an instance that made me suspicious. Looking back, I may have been oblivious by choice. One night when I called, her voice seemed odd as if she wasn’t free to talk.

“Are you busy? Do you have someone there?” I asked innocently enough. There was a pregnant pause but nothing remarkable was delivered. She was cold and abrupt.

“No Nick, I’m working on a paper. Call me tomorrow.”

I thought I heard a muffled cough, as if her hand was over the receiver. I hung up the phone with a heavy heart. I didn’t want to stay in with my wretched suspicions, so I called Neil Drake and invited him for a drink.

“You look a little bedraggled and down,” he said when I arrived at the bar.

“I need a drink. I think Chloe is giving me the run around,” I said bleakly

Neil and I have been friends since high school. He became an orthopedic surgeon with forceful hands and a determination that could set anything straight. Besides, I trusted him.

“Have you heard something?” I asked

“What are you talking about? You mean do I know anything about Chloe?”

“Yes, any hospital gossip you’d like to share,” I whispered, trying to make light of the situation.

“Nicky, Chloe is a bitch why don’t you just get rid of her?”

I was stunned. I took several big slugs of Scotch before I could look at him.
“Neil, I love her.”

He glanced away staring into the smoke filled room avoiding my eyes. Suspicion is a heavy stone to carry and I had a sinking feeling.

“Look Nicky, Chloe is trouble. I’m pretty sure she takes amphetamines. She’s hyped all the time, and I’ve heard some things about her surgeries that bother me. I think she is going to go before the board on this. Haven’t you ever noticed anything?”

“I’m not a doctor. I just thought she had a lot of energy. I know this drug thing is serious, but I can help her with that. God Neil, I thought you were going to tell me she is seeing someone at the hospital.”

“Nicky, Nicky,” he said shaking his head. “Chloe is a Zelig. She has been playing it fast and loose since she arrived.”

I looked at him stunned. He glanced away, his eyes skittering around the room looking for an escape from the truth.

“You too Neil?” I asked.

“Me too Nicky. But it was in the beginning when she first arrived. When I found out you liked her, I didn’t know how to tell you. You were so smitten. I apologise, I should have tried to explain. I hope you won’t hold this against me. We’ve been friends for too long.”

I stood up with the greatest effort and walked out feeling overwhelmingly drained and sad. I’m not a brave person. I abhor confrontation. Yet somehow I found myself driving to Chloe’s apartment. I needed to face her. When Chloe finally answered my insistent knocking, she was dressed in a silk robe, and wore an expression of surprised annoyance.

“This isn’t a good time Nick,” she said steadily.

The bathroom door was closed and I heard the flushing of the toilette. She glanced over her shoulder and back to me. Her eyes were uncomfortably bright.

“My sister is here. She’s upset. I want you to leave now,” she said.

I knew she was lying and I was frantically thinking of what I should do or say when the guy came out. The door opened and Chloe let out a long derisive sigh. Out stepped a tall, blonde woman arms waving with a big smile.

“Hi there, I’m Janie.”

“Hi Janie,” I said too cheerfully. “You don’t look like your sister.”

“Excuse me?” she said genuinely confused.

“Nick, would you please just go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” said Chloe authoritatively.

I couldn’t move. My brain was working so fast that I could see colors bearing down on me; welding me into place. Janie adjusted her robe and took up a position on the couch, patting the seat beside her in invitation.

“So you are the Nick. I know about you but my guess is you don’t know about me. Chloe thinks the hospital isn’t ready for a bisexual surgeon. What do you think Nick?”

I had a momentary vision of my students reciting the definition of the Lens Model to me. They were shaking their fingers and asking how a psychologist could get it so wrong. I hadn’t been cognizant of many things. My need to find love had clouded my perception.

“What are you doing here? Did you come to check up on me? Get out of here Nick. We are finished,” said Chloe through clenched teeth.

I began to see the humor in this little imbroglio, as if all this was my fault. I started to laugh. Janie joined me, and soon we were laughing so hard that she got the hiccups.

“And I thought you loved me.”

“Love you? Love you?” Chloe sneered. “Whatever led you to believe that? Nick, we had fun, but I never said that I loved you.”

“That’s hilarious Nick,” gasped Janie between hiccups, “Chloe’s never loved anyone but herself!”

“Shut up Janie,” yelled Chloe, “Nick, I could never love you! You’re just a pious, smarmy, little man who lacks imagination. Don’t you dare say a word about my behavior. I owe you nothing not even an explanation!”

Chloe’s eyes flashed like a feral cat. She was wound up tight, and I could see that Neil was probably right about the speed. Further conversation was pointless. I had the greatest need to go home to bed, assume the fetal position, and turn the electric blanket up to 9.

It took me the better part of the week to think about how to assuage my humiliation. I may have a phlegmatic temperament, but I’m not unimaginative. I rang up Neil knowing that he would help me.

“Neil, how are you?” I asked in my most cheery voice. “I need a favor.”

“Sure Nicky, I owe you.” he said magnanimously.

“I want you to ask Chloe out Saturday night. Make it a six course meal, long and drawn out. I want her occupied for a few hours.”

“You aren’t going to do anything stupid are you?”

“No. Would I do something stupid? Oh, and bring me one of your orthopedic saws, one for cutting off toes?”

“What? Nicky! I’m a doctor, I don’t believe in mutilating people.”

“Just bring it.”

I thought I could get into Chloe’s apartment without much trouble. I was more concerned with being discovered, but no one passed in the hall that night. I slipped in feeling a questionable thrill. Psychologists don’t usually break the law. They understand the theory of consequences. Being caught would dismiss any possibility of tenure, and I would probably have to take up picking locks for a profession. I shut the door behind me and made my way to the closet.

Chloe probably did have 100 pairs of shoes. There were lavender shoes with delicate bows, canary yellow pumps, and lime green high heels, so fashionable that year. Max Mara’s mango, orange stilettos stood by several pairs of soft, lovely reds. It was a rainbow of shoes, collected lovingly over the years.

At one point, I thought I might not finish in time, but I became increasingly proficient at sawing off the right heel. I was ruthless, even the neat, little Ferragamos, with the alligator toes and heels, had to go. I piled them up lovingly at the front door like a cat that brings you body parts to admire.

When I was finished, only one pair remained, the Italian, black, suede heels. Somehow I couldn’t let the cat take those little birds.