By Zan Bockes
My mother usually did not lie or steal. I don’t think she necessarily considered these activities morally wrong–her terror of being caught was the primary issue. The Red Boot Incident, as my mother and I called it, remained a secret from my father and brother until she died 14 years later.
She preferred the expensive and stylish, but my father’s wages as a caseworker did not support her tastes. She and my brother emphasized appearances and financial success, whereas my father and I opted for comfort and practicality. The cheaper, the better.
She saw the boots in a window at Hansen’s Shoes in downtown Omaha. A flock of pale mannequins’ hands held single shoes aloft, like offerings to an omniscient deity. In 1975, the boots were popular and fashionable, and though I never saw the price tag, Hansen’s tended to be costly.
She modeled them for me, twirling in the soft light of her vanity table, turning her feet this way and that. Socrates, our large-pawed puppy, seemed to approve as he watched us from the doorway.
I had to admit they were beautiful, made of soft red leather elegantly stitched across the toe and up to the calf. I imagined her strides, fierce and sure, impaling insects and small animals with those stiletto heels, inspiring the confidence she often lacked.
I, however, thought it ridiculous that a pricey pair of shoes would raise self-esteem. She couldn’t possibly wear them to the restaurant where she worked–the walking and standing required something more substantial. Yet I felt a tinge of jealousy–I had not inherited her looks, and as an awkward teenager I felt lost when it came to makeup and decorative clothing.
That evening, she clacked across the kitchen floor in her new boots, fixing dinner. My father looked up from his crossword puzzle to determine the source of the noise. “Are those new?” he asked.
My mother gleefully told him she’d gotten them on sale at a discount store. “Two for the price of one!” she joked. “I just had to get both.”
“Where do you expect to wear those?” my father grunted. “To the brothel?”
Mom’s eyes filled with tears, and she returned to the hamburgers in the frying pan, wiping her face with her fingers.
Sometime the next day, while we were all at work or school, Socrates got into her closet. By the time we returned, the damage from Socrates’ puppy teeth had been done. He’d devoured the heel and eaten a ragged hole in the toe of the left boot. After screaming briefly at the oblivious dog, my mother collapsed in tears.
I have no idea what she intended by returning the shoes to the store. She must’ve known it was futile to get a replacement without paying the full price, but this is what she told me, in hushed tones, several days later:
When the store opened at 8 a.m., she carried the boot box in to speak to a salesperson. She wandered around looking for help, increasingly dejected as she passed thin-strapped sandals, elegant pumps and sequined dance shoes, all with alarming price tags. When she ventured to the front of the store, she saw on display a single, identical red boot. She picked it out of the mannequin’s hand to admire it–her size five, the left one, in perfect condition.
She looked around, trying not to seem furtive, then replaced the display boot with the one Socrates had destroyed, propping it in the graceful mannequin hand in the most appealing way possible, showing off the chewed heel and gnawed toe for all to see. She slipped out the door.
“Don’t tell ANYBODY!” she whispered to me. For weeks she was in agony. Maybe a clerk would remember her. Maybe she’d be traced through the credit card. Maybe someone saw her make the trade. She couldn’t wear the boots in public, fearing arrest, and was shamed and astonished by her gall.
I never saw her put them on again. After her death in 1989, my brother and I cleaned out her closet. There, in the very back, was a Hansen’s shoebox, both immaculate red boots still in tissue paper.