A Substitute Passion

A short story by Fletcher Kovich

Mandy Truman was forty-five and was wearing stilettos for the first time in twenty-two years. The last time she wore them she fell off them and broke her left ankle. At the time she had been arguing with a parking attendant who had ticketed her new car which was an affront to all she held dear—her hackles rose; her pulse quickened; her breast swelled; and the rising passion within her caused her to dance a dangerously feverish rendition of the tango around the transfixed attendant, during which she tripped over a protruding paving slab and landed in the gutter. She sat there, vocally nursing a broken ankle while, every few words, taking time out to inform the attendant—in much the manner of an impatient town crier—that she would not rest in her grave until she had spent the remaining years of her life viciously and tirelessly suing the city council and every one of the attendant’s successive school teachers, since they had clearly failed to accomplish his moral education. However, six days later her only response was to borrow a hammer from her landlord and smash every pair of her stilettos into an unrecognisable mass of leather, wood and nails.

Twenty-two years later, on a sunny Thursday afternoon, Mandy had left the office for a break and was carefully hobbling along High Street in her new stilettos when she came to a halt in front of a fat woman in a red dress. The woman seemed to be in her early thirties and had clearly been recently crying. Mandy stepped to the left just as the woman did, then Mandy stepped to the right just as the woman did. Mandy glared at her and sighed.

 The woman, who was called Helen Jameson and had just emerged from her weekly psychotherapy session at 37 High Street—which she had been attending now for two years and was just starting to make progress, or so her therapist felt—Helen looked shocked, for there was no reason for Mandy to have sighed at her in that offensive fashion, and she said, “Well, you chose to step there and back again,” pointing at the pavement; “I didn’t tell you to—what are you sighing at me like that for?”

To Mandy, this woman seemed even more offensive than a parking attendant. She felt like spitting in her face but decided to keep things civil, so she said, “What’s got up your nose—didn’t they have your favourite cake in the cake shop?”

 “What are you trying to say,” said Helen, “that I’m too fat? It’s the medication I’m on because,” and here she pointed at Mandy, “of people like you.”

“What are you talking about, you deranged hussy?—you’re so fat you couldn’t get out of my way.”

“I’m not a hussy.”

“Oh, yes you are; I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

“Look at who?—you’re deranged. It’s the shape of your eyes that does it—just look at them; they’re too far apart.”

Up until this point, Mandy had been simply enjoying herself, but now the woman had gone too far. She pointed back at her and said, “People like you make me sick; you think you can just put on a red dress, which hides all your fat—little do you know,” pointing at Helen’s fat, “—and you think men will be fooled by it and come chasing after you.”

“Don’t you point at me.”

“My eyes are the wrong shape, are they? Well look at your ridiculous tits; they’re as fat as the rest of you.”

“Some men like big tits.”

“Yes, that’s just what you think, isn’t it?—you hussy. People like you make me sick.”

Helen could take no more of this and moved forward to slap Mandy but Mandy stepped back and went to poke Helen in the eye but Helen managed to turn away and then went to push Mandy over but Mandy had already stepped aside and Helen fell forward, making a deep thudding sound as she hit the pavement, much as an adult walrus might if thrown from the back of a lorry by six burly men. Mandy decided to flee the scene while she was ahead and quickly turned away but in so doing, twisted her right ankle and fell off her stiletto. The force of her fall broke off the stiletto’s heel, which she bent to pick up as she made her escape. But before leaving the scene, she glanced down at the scarlet walrus and shouted at her, “I’ve won!” then limped on along the pavement.

Mandy found herself trying a range of techniques to hide her limp and, while her mind was busy elsewhere, she finally settled on the best technique which was to walk with her left leg bent, so as to reduce its length to that of her shoeless right leg, which meant her limp was neutralized and, to the casual observer, she would have appeared normal—as long as that observer did not look down to her two legs and compare the angle each knee was bent at. However, this method had the unfortunate side effect of forcing her back into an unnatural arch which, after only a few steps, caused her back to ache. But she persevered, almost unconscious of the increasing pain, since she was a woman and was used to making such sacrifices for the sake of appearance. Which brings us to that busy activity within her mind:

How could she go back to work with no shoes? What would people think of her? And, more importantly, what would Paul think of her?—Paul who had been her only source of joy for the last ten years, which joy had consisted of her basking in the sunshine of his smile, the sound of his voice, the sight of his face, the feel of the nearness of his body as he stood beside her desk, providing his opinion on her work, which situations she contrived a few times a day, just to feel the energy that radiated from him as he stood there unaware of the emotions his mere presence aroused within her.

On other occasions, her heart would be warmed by the mere thought of him as she glanced over to his empty seat when she worked late, which she often did so that when the other staff had finally departed, she could sit in Paul’s empty seat, which she had accepted was the highest degree of intimacy with him she would ever achieve, to be bathed in the energy he left behind in that chair, some invisible essence of him that perhaps only she could detect.

She walked along the pavement, her left leg bent more than her right, wondering how on earth she was going to make her reappearance in the office. She held that broken-off heel in her right hand and recalled Paul’s words from a few weeks before.

“She has sexy shoes,” he had said, referring to Susan’s stilettos, the new girl in the office, and when hearing that, Mandy truly thought their office had suffered a mild earthquake and she reached for the edge of her desk to steady herself. Perhaps it was at that moment that she became some sort of walking, talking zombie to whom the usual rules of humanity no longer applied—for, due to her loss, she no longer felt accountable to anyone or anything.

As she recalled Paul’s words now, she was aware of a connection between her own broken-off stiletto heel and Susan’s “sexy” stilettos; it was as though she held that woman’s “sexy” stiletto in her hand, the woman who had destroyed what meagre joy she had known, had taken it with a few carefully timed glances at Paul and a single look at Mandy herself which seemed to contain pure evil—though evil that was masked by the thin veil of that beautiful face; evil that Paul, being a mere man, would never be capable of seeing—she held that broken-off stiletto heel and knew that someone would pay for this crime, and pay for it today.

She became aware of her aching back and had to sit down. The hardware store was not many more steps away. For the moment she forgot about Paul’s words, about Susan’s thin veil of hated beauty, forgot, even, about the scarlet walrus whose presence standing there on the pavement—in the same red dress that Susan had once worn to the office—had seemed to represent Susan. She forgot about all this and focused on overcoming her aching back for just a few yards more, until, finally, she stepped into the hardware store, whose sign “Heels repaired while you wait” she had previously noticed, having passed the store many times. She sat on the single chair in the store, having been told the owner was currently busy and would begin her repair in a few minutes.

She started recalling red flashes which she had seen out of the corner of her eye as she made her way to the store. She had not even noticed these at the time but now, as she sat there, that same redness appeared before her and seemed to fill the whole store; it dominated her vision in the way an angry wall of water from a suddenly burst dam might as she looked up and saw the scarlet walrus standing directly in front of her, pointing at her and saying, “I didn’t wear this dress to attract men; I wore it because I like red. So, you’re wrong.”

Mandy’s mouth hung open.

Helen stepped even closer and went on, “And I didn’t like the way you sighed at me. You people are all the same—not me. Your mind is full of poison, and it’s yourself you’re sighing at, not me.”

Mandy said, in disbelief, “Didn’t like the way I sighed at you!” She stood up and, to make room for herself, pushed the walrus back as she got to her feet, telling her, “I’m sighing at myself?—what are you talking about, you deranged hussy?”

“It’s you who’s all the same, not me.”

“No, it’s you who’s all the same; just look at the state of you; do you honestly think men are fooled by this,” pointing at her red dress.

 “There’s nothing wrong with my tits,” said Helen, misinterpreting the sweep of Mandy’s hand, and she turned to the shop keeper who was stood holding a shoe in his hand as he followed their debate, rapt and somewhat in awe, as by an unexpected entertainment that had suddenly brightened his usually dull day more than he could have possibly hoped for.

“Do you like my tits?” asked Helen.

The shopkeeper’s head tilted to one side as he appraised her assets, then his eyebrows rose as though indicating that Helen’s tits were perfectly acceptable.

“This is ridiculous,” said Mandy and she pushed passed the scarlet walrus. She noticed one of her shoulder straps had broken off and realized this must have happened in their previous scuffle. When she pushed past her, she deliberately broke the other off, then quickly limped out of the shop, still carrying her broken-off heel.

Helen, holding the front of her dress in place, stepped to the door and shouted along the street, “You will apologize for sighing at me.”

Mandy shouted back, “Deranged!”

She made her way along the street, still walking with her left leg bent, not knowing where she was going, only aware of her aching back and that broken-off stiletto heel in her hand, which, more and more, seemed to connect all the elements of her troubled day—that deranged walrus in the red dress, whose madness seemed to be expressing some element of Susan’s character; and Susan herself, as though Susan had looked at her in the office a few weeks ago and cast this spell of destruction on her, Susan who wore “sexy” stilettos, Susan whose glance at Mandy had said, “He’s mine and I’ll take him from you; just you see if I don’t,” Susan whose deranged spirit was now being expressed by this scarlet walrus who would not leave Mandy in peace. Her back ached as she aimlessly walked. What could she do?—it seemed as though her world had ended. A few weeks ago she had Paul but now she had nothing.

She thought of all those times she sat in Paul’s chair after he left the office and she could still now clearly recall the feel of the energy he left behind. It was as though that energy were still with her now; she could feel his presence and she knew this feeling belonged to her; he belonged to her. But the world was mad, was unjust, was confused; yes, it was the world that was confused, and it did not seem to know Paul belonged to her. And in its confusion, it had sent Susan to distract him. Mandy had sensed this when she first saw her in that red dress in the office. And later, after Mandy had listened to a series of Paul’s complimentary references to “the new girl”, she had said to him, as casually as she could manage, “I don’t know what you see in her,” unconcerned, mentioning it almost in passing as she looked the other way and continued her work, but she could not help noticing him conjuring up Susan’s image in his mind, delighting in it, and then—with words that were colder than a surgeon’s knife as he sliced your womanhood from you—he had said, “She has sexy shoes.”

Mandy stopped in the street, unable to bear her aching back any longer, and in the distance she heard a voice calling. She turned and saw the deranged walrus pursuing her, her one hand still holding her red dress in place. She pointed at Mandy with her free hand and shouted, “Why can’t you apologize? What are you afraid of?”

 As Mandy looked at the woman’s face, all she could see was the look in Susan’s eyes as Susan glanced at her in the office, smugly—I’m going to take him from you—and the rage that poured from the walrus was also, Mandy could tell, a message from Susan; Susan hated her, and perhaps hated life, or hated something, and was determined to vent all her anger on Mandy—I will take him from you.

Mandy turned and resumed her pace, though still she had no idea where she was going; she now had nothing left and nowhere to go; her fragile life had been taken from her; all she had wanted was to go on basking in Paul’s presence, to be able to think about him at night, or in the morning over breakfast as she looked forward to seeing his smiling face in the office each day. That was all she wanted or needed, but now she had nothing, and, for the moment, she had forgotten about her aching back, though she was still walking with her left leg bent, as though crippled. She heard that voice calling out to her again, “What are you trying to hide? I know what it is; I know!”

She turned another corner, blindly; she did not care where she walked and was not even looking; and as she listened to the walrus’s taunting voice, she became aware of that broken-off stiletto heel and felt her hand gripping it and squeezing it, as though this were the only way she could express her anger. She stopped and turned, stripped of humanity, of purpose, of sight (for though her eyes were looking, they were blind) and then Helen stood before her, was right in her face, pointing, angry, telling her, “You’ve got small tits and you don’t like it. That’s why you said mine were too big. It’s you who’s got the problem, not me!”

Mandy said nothing, for there was nothing more to say, and the primal force that had made her stop and turn, now lifted her arm and she watched, coldly, detached, as though recalling a distant memory, as her hand pushed the stiletto heel into the side of Helen’s neck, pushed it with a force that seemed to come from beyond herself, had seemed unstoppable, beyond human intervention, had flown through her arm like a branch of invisible lightning.

The walrus, once again, fell to the floor, and Helen’s last thoughts were: “I did it; I did what you told me; I stood up for myself, and now I am finished…”

Mandy sat down, covered in blood, still holding the heel, which she had withdrawn from Helen’s neck. She looked down at the face of the woman’s dying body, at the heel in her hand, and, recalling the feel of that force that had flown through her arm, she found herself saying, “So, this is my passion, is it?”

She began sobbing, though at first the sobs felt as though they were being held back by a great weight, which she fought against, and then her whole body began howling and convulsing uncontrollably as she again took possession of her life on this planet.

11 May 2010

16 October 2010, edited.

Read my sketchbook entry on writing of this story, and on editing the story.

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