“Mildly risqué, it is.” He paused. “A man and woman are making love when they hear someone coming up the stairs and the woman cries, ‘My God, it’s my husband!’ Her lover immediately jumps out of the window into a clump of bushes. So, here’s this guy, he’s outside hiding in this sorry clump of bushes, he’s naked, and he doesn’t know what to do, and naturally, it starts raining. Suddenly, a bunch of joggers go jogging by, and the guy sees his chance, and leaps into the middle of the joggers, running along with them. After a few seconds, the jogger beside him looks over and says, ‘Excuse me, but do you mind if I ask you a question?’ And the guy says, ‘Go ahead.’ And the jogger says, ‘Do you always jog naked?’ And the guy says, ‘Always.’ And the jogger asks, ‘Do you always wear a condom when you jog?’ And the guy says, ‘Only when it’s raining.’”
Jess found herself laughing out loud.
“That’s better. Now, can I sell you a pair of shoes?”
Jess laughed even harder.
“That wasn’t supposed to be funny. The funny part’s over.”
“I’m sorry. Are you as good at selling shoes as you are at telling jokes?”
“Try me.”
Jess checked her watch. She still had a little time. Surely one pair of shoes wouldn’t hurt. She probably owed the store that much, having murdered that poor shiny black shoe. Besides, she found herself curiously reluctant to leave. It had been a long time since a man had made her laugh out loud. She liked the sound. She liked the feeling.
“Actually, I could use a new pair of winter boots,” she said, remembering, relieved at finding a legitimate reason to stay.
“Right this way.” Adam Stohn directed her toward a display of leather and vinyl boots. “Have a seat.”
Jess lowered herself into a small rust-colored chair, for the first time taking note of her surroundings. The store was very modern, all glass and chrome. Shoes were everywhere, on glass tables, on mirrored shelves, along the brown-and-gold-carpeted floor, reflected in the high mirrored ceiling. She realized she’d shopped here several times before, though she had no memory of Adam Stohn.
“Are you new here?” she asked.
“I started this summer.”
“You like it?”
“Shoes are my life,” he said, his voice a sly smile. “Now, what sort of boot can I show you?”
“I’m not sure. I hate to spend a lot of money on a leather boot that’s only going to get ruined by the snow and salt.”
“So don’t buy leather.”
“But I like some style. And I like my feet to be warm.”
“The lady wants style
and
warmth. I believe that I have just what you need.”
“Is that so?”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
“Probably.”
He smiled, “I see we have a cynic in our midst. Well then, allow me.” He reached over to a small display of sleek and shiny black boots. “These are vinyl, fleece lined, waterproof, absolutely no-maintenance winter boots. They are stylish; they are warm; they are guaranteed to
withstand even the worst Chicago winter.” He handed Jess the boot.
“And they’re very expensive,” Jess exclaimed, surprised at the two-hundred-dollar price tag. “I can buy real leather for that price.”
“But you don’t want real leather. You have to spray it; you have to take care of it. And real leather leaks and marks and does all the things you want to avoid. This boot,” he said, tapping its shiny side, “you wear and forget about. It’s indestructible.”
“You
are
as good at selling shoes as you are at telling jokes,” Jess said.
“Are you saying you’d like to try them on?”
“Size eight and a half,” Jess said.
“Be right back.”
Jess watched Adam Stohn disappear through a door at the back of the store. She liked the casual determination of his gait, the straightness of his shoulders. Confidence without arrogance, she thought, her eyes drifting back along the mirrored walls.
Was there no escape from one’s own reflection? Were people really so interested in seeing themselves every second of the day? Jess caught the disappointed glare of the middle-aged salesman with the ill-fitting toupee in the glass. She closed her eyes. I know, she thought, responding to his silent admonishment, I’m shallow and easily swayed. A pretty face and a good joke get me every time.
“You’re not going to believe this,” Adam Stohn said upon his return, his arms filled with two wide boxes, “but I’m out of size eight and a half. I have a size eight and a size nine.”
She tried them. Predictably, the eight was too small, the nine too big.
“You’re sure you have no eight and a half?”
“I looked everywhere.”
Jess shrugged, checked her watch, stood up. She couldn’t afford to waste any more time.
“I can call one of our other stores,” Adam Stohn offered.
“All right,” Jess answered quickly. What was she doing?
He walked to the counter at the front of the store, picked up the black telephone, punched in some buttons, and spoke into the receiver, shaking his head, then repeating his call two more times. “Can you believe it?” he asked upon his return, “I called three stores. No one has size eight and a half. But …” he continued, his finger poking the air for emphasis, “one store has several on order and will call me as soon as they come in. Would you like me to call you?”
“I beg your pardon?” Was he asking her out?
“When the boots come in, would you like me to call you?”
“Oh, oh sure. Yes, please. That would be great.” Jess realized she was talking to cover her embarrassment. What had she been thinking of? Why had she thought he might be asking her out? Because he’d offered her a candy and told her a joke about condoms? Because the idea appealed to her? Just because she thought he was attractive and charming, did that necessarily mean the reverse was true?
Don’t be an idiot, Jess, she scolded herself, following him to the counter at the front of the store. The man was a shoe salesman, for God’s sake. Hardly the world’s prize catch.
Don’t be such a snob, a little voice admonished. At least he’s not a lawyer.
“Name?” he asked, reaching for a nearby pad and pencil.
“Jess Koster.”
“Phone number where you can be reached during the day?”
Jess gave him her number at work. “Maybe I better give you my home number too,” she said, not believing the words coming out of her mouth.
“Sure.” He copied the numbers down as she recited them. “My name is Adam Stohn.” He indicated the tag on his jacket, pronouncing the Stohn as Stone. “It shouldn’t be more than a week.”
“That’s great. Hopefully, it won’t snow before then.”
“It wouldn’t dare.”
Jess smiled and waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked just past her to where a woman stood admiring a pair of tomato-red Charles Jourdan pumps. “Thanks again,” she said on her way out, but he was already moving toward the other woman, and all Jess got was a perfunctory wave.
“I can’t believe I did that,” Jess was muttering as she slid into the backseat of the yellow taxi. Could she have been any more obvious? Why didn’t she just wear a large sign around her neck that stated
LONELY AND DEEPLY DISTURBED?
The cab reeked of cigarette smoke, although there was a large sign prominently displayed across the back of the front seat thanking people for not smoking. She gave the taxi driver the address of the chief medical examiner on Harrison Street and sank back into the scuffed and torn black vinyl seat. Probably what my new boots will look like by the end of the season, Jess thought, running her hand across the rough surface.
What had possessed her? That was twice in the last month she’d almost allowed a handsome stranger to pick her up. Had she learned absolutely nothing from the Erica Barnowski case? And this time the man in question hadn’t even come on to her. He’d offered her a glass of water, a candy, and some amusing repartee, all in pursuit of a hoped-for commission. He’d been trying to get into her purse, not her pants, when he told the joke about the naked jogger. And she’d let him in without even a struggle, committing herself to the most expensive pair of rubber boots ever made. “Not even leather,” she chastised herself, picking at a tear that sliced through the seat’s cheap upholstery like a large, gaping wound.
“Sorry?” the cabdriver said. “You say something?”
“Nothing. Sorry,” Jess apologized in return, continuing silently. Just talking to myself again. Something I seem to be doing with alarming frequency these days.
Two hundred dollars for a pair of vinyl boots. Was she crazy?
Well, yes, actually, she thought. That fact had been pretty much established.
“Nice day,” Jess commented, struggling for normalcy.
“Sorry?”
“I said it’s nice to see the sun again.”
The cabdriver shrugged, said nothing. Jess rode the rest of the way to the medical examiner’s office in silence, punctuated only by the instructions and static coming over the driver’s two-way radio.
The office of the chief medical examiner was a nondescript three-story building on a block full of such structures. Jess paid the cabdriver, exited the taxi, and walked
briskly toward the front of the building, gathering her coat tightly around her, preparing her body for the approaching chill.
Anderson, Michael, age 45, died suddenly as the result of a car accident
, Jess recited in her mind, recalling the morning obituaries as she strode through the front lobby toward the glassed-in receptionist’s corner:
Clemmons, Irene, died peacefully in her sleep in her hundred and second year, remembered fondly by her fellow residents at the Whispering Pines Lodge. Lawson, David, age 33. He’s gone on to other things. Mourned by his mother, his father, his sisters, and his dog. In lieu of donations to your favorite charities, lots and lots of flowers would be gratefully appreciated
.
Why was it that some people barely made it past the first bloom of youth when others hung on into their second century? Where was the fairness? she wondered, surprising herself. She thought she had given up on fairness a long time ago.
“I’m here to see Hilary Waugh,” she told the gum-chewing young woman behind the receptionist’s window.
The woman, whose straight brown hair looked as if it could use a good washing, cracked her gum and dialed the appropriate extension. “She says you’re early,” the receptionist informed Jess a few seconds later, her voice a rebuke. “She’ll be with you in a few minutes. If you want to have a seat. …”
“Thank you.” Jess backed away from the small reception area toward a faded brown corduroy sofa that sat against one beige wall, but she didn’t sit down. She could never sit down anywhere in this building. In fact, she could barely stand still. She hugged her arms around her, rubbed them in a vain effort to generate warmth.
Mateus, Jose, taken suddenly in his fifty-fourth year, survived by his mother, Alma, and his wife, Rosa, and their two children, Paolo and Gino
, her memory, recited.
Neilsen, Thomas, a retired civil servant, of a heart attack, in his seventy-seventh year. Mr. Neilsen is survived by his wife, Linda, his sons, Peter and Henry, his daughters-in-law, Rita and Susan, his grandchildren, Lisa, Karen, Jonathan, Stephen, and Jeffrey. The family will be receiving visitors at J. Humphrey’s Funeral Home all this week
.
Not like those unfortunates resting in Boot Hill, Jess thought, unwillingly conjuring up the image of that section of the morgue where rows of heavy gray metal drawers stored unidentified, unclaimed bodies. The only people who ever came to visit these lost souls were people like herself, people whose professional curiosity demanded their presence, if not their respect.
Doe, John, black male, suspected drug dealer, died of a gunshot wound to the head in his twenty-second year; Doe, Jane, white female, suspected prostitute, suddenly in her eighteenth year, strangled and left for dead near the shore of the Chicago River; Doe, John, white male and probable pimp, dead of three stab wounds to the chest, age 19; Doe, Jane, black female, longtime crack addict, in her twenty-eighth year, beaten to death after being sexually assaulted. Doe, John …
“Jess?”
Jess’s head snapped to the sound of her name.
“I’m sorry,” Hilary Waugh was saying, moving toward her. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Jess shook Hilary Waugh’s outstretched hand. She never failed to be surprised by how fit and fresh the chief medical examiner for Cook County always appeared, despite the unpleasantness and long hours of her job. Hilary Waugh had to be close to fifty, yet she had the skin of a woman half her age, and her posture, accented by her white lab coat,
was impeccable. She wore her dark shoulder-length hair pulled back into a French braid, and her hazel eyes were framed by large black glasses.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Jess said, following Hilary through the door that led from the lobby to the inner offices.
“Always a pleasure. What can I do for you?”
The long corridor was sterile and white and smelled faintly of formaldehyde, although Jess suspected any odors she was picking up were part of her overactive imagination. The morgue was in the basement, safely out of olfactory range.
“Have a seat,” Hilary said, stepping inside the tiny white cubbyhole that served as her office and motioning toward the empty chair across from her desk.
“If you don’t mind. I’ll stand.” Jess looked around the tiny cubicle that was the office of the chief medical examiner of Cook County. It was sparsely furnished with an old metal desk and two chairs, one on either side of the desk, the deep wine of the seat covers fraying at the seams. File cabinets lined the walls, alongside precarious stacks of papers. A tall green plant flourished despite the fact that it was crammed into a corner and all but hidden by books. There was no window, fluorescent lighting taking the place of the sun. “You obviously have a very green thumb,” Jess remarked.
“Oh, it’s not real,” Hilary said, laughing. “It’s silk. Much less trouble that way. Much more pleasant. I see enough dead things as it is. Which is, I’m sure, the point of your visit.”
Jess cleared her throat. “I’m looking for a woman, mid-forties, Italian American, about five feet six inches tall, a hundred and thirty-five pounds, maybe less. ActuaIly, here,”
Jess said, reaching inside her purse. “This is her picture.” Jess held out an old photo of Connie DeVuono standing with her arms proudly around her son, Steffan, then age six. “The picture’s a few years old. She’s lost some weight since then. Her hair’s a bit shorter.”