The Heel

Zeke had made up her mind. She would not take off the make-up before telling Jason about the day. She would have dinner wearing the blue/gray eye shadow that went with her eyes and which, she was surprised, had created almost a feeling of joy when she saw herself.

Adele had laughed. “Soon you won’t want to look in the mirror without it,” she said.

Was that good? Not to be able to look at yourself until you looked like somebody else? A more worldly, vivacious, younger, more colorful, somebody else?

Funny, she didn’t feel different – not until she looked in a mirror. Then she lightened up and watched herself smile flirtatiously with her new long lashes, a lovely shade of dark honey. That’s what it was called. They were wispy, like her own, but all fringed out, and there were so many more wisps.

Adele did not let her listen to any of the consultants for make-up and clothes. She had her own ideas, from start to finish and – this was a bit of a shock – had a photo of her subject that she’d been studying in anticipation of this day.

Did they have a good time? You bet.

“They want me to get you up like Michelle,” Adele told her.

Oh, no. That was ludicrous. She was a fawn to Michelle’s panther. The most she could be was pretty, whereas Michelle was striking, stunning, big and bold. And that’s what her clothes were. Those belts and scarves and patterns.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to. Men are morons,” she said.

If Brenda had any inclination to resist Adele’s advice, it was now gone. They drove to a boutique on the Boulevard in the next congressional district.

Upscale. There was a tailor, a hostess, and a little tea table at a plush chair where Adele sat to pass judgment on the outfits. Cup of Jasmine in hand, she searched for, and found, a look.

Something that would define Brenda the way the pants suit defined Hillary, and her fashion statements defined Michelle.

She must appear, Adele told her, to be perfectly well-dressed, without having given it a thought. As a teacher, as an advocate for children, she could not seem as though she cared one whit about how she looked, except for the comfort of the audience. It was for them that she would wear the soft pastels of fairyland – lavender, pale green, light blue, to indicate her harmlessness, since most people were afraid of teachers.

They picked one basic dress and had the rest made up in different materials, with different colors, different necklines, hems, and sleeves. They all had one thing in common, and that was the way they faithfully followed the lines of her body, which looked quite elegant, swathed in the clingy chiffons and flowing silks.

There were 10 dresses altogether. Whether she got any more would depend upon how well she did.

At number four, she began to suspect, and then at number six was sure, that every dress had one element of… she could not deny it, sexiness. Adele plunged a neckline, diagonalled a hem, created a cut-out, or slit a sleeve. Each alteration revealed, in the innocent dress, an aspect of Brenda’s toned body.

In the trunk of the car was the proto-dress from which they’d all sprung. She hadn’t wanted to explain the box to Zeke. When he got out of the car and bounded up the stairs, she went to the trunk, took out the box, and squirreled it upstairs to the bedroom via the back stairway.

Yes, friends, there is a back stairway in their house. The very words conjure up farcical situations. None will happen here, if I can help it.

As soon as she closed the bedroom door, she opened the box, took out the dress, and fluffing it in front of her, peered at herself in the free-standing mirror. She looked positively marvelous, and she never used that word.

The dress was pale blue, and with the eye shadow, it took on dimension. It was made of some slinky material, not as fine as what they later picked out, but as she put it on, it slithered down her body and gave her a shivery thrill.

It was deceptively tight; the sides were slit to enable walking, and by chance happened to show a pretty leg. She preened before her new self and congratulated her on a job well done.

The neckline was a low scoop. Brenda peeled the dress back over her head and put on the bra, the only other item in the box. It worked! Her breasts puffed up out of the scoop neckline. And she’d thought she’d achieved cleavage with her old push-up bra. Adele was right. Technology had come a long way.

She turned herself this way and that before the mirror, so absorbed in her self-admiration that she didn’t hear the car pull up. Or notice when the bedroom door opened. Suddenly, Jason appeared in back of her in the mirror.

He did not look happy. “Do you know what time it is?” he asked. It wasn’t a real question. “It’s seven o’clock! We’re all starving down there… what the hell happened to your face?”

A pause while he digests what he sees. “Where did you get that dress? You look like a floozie in a grade B movie.”

He moved closer. Quietly, like a cat sneaking up on its prey, as if he didn’t want her to run away before he had a chance to see exactly what she was.

“All tarted up for the People, eh?” he sneered. “Or is it for Wagman?” His eyes bored into her, meanly. She didn’t deserve this. She worked hard all year. Nobody but a teacher knew what it was like to deal with hundreds of children every day. A completely unnatural situation, one woman with all those kids.

This was her vacation. If she wanted to look good, what of it? If she spent the day shopping with a friend, so what? She made the money, she was entitled to spend it. It was a sore spot that she made more money than Jason. She touched the sore spot. Just lightly. “I wanted to spend some of my salary.”

As soon as she said it, she realized her mistake, but it was too late.

He pounced. “And did you?” he asked. “You didn’t spend a penny of your money. The Boys paid for that dress. Out of Party funds. Mitchell Wagman paid for that crap on your face. With somebody else’s money. My wife is all dolled up for another man. He paid for her clothes, made her look like a tramp. You know what he sounds like? Your pimp. That’s what he sounds like, and that’s what he is. He dressed you up so you can go out and bring back the bacon.”

One more box lay open on the bed. She bent down. Her cleavage popped into her face. She tried not to notice it as she picked up one of the shoes cuddled in tissue paper and threw it, hard, at her husband. The tall, sharp heel hit him in the chest.

“That’s real classy,” he said. “Proves my point. Clothes make the woman. Or in this case, the whore.”

He picked the shoe off the floor, and with a tremendous display of force, broke off the offending heel.

“Jason! Those shoes cost three hundred dollars!”

His face registered surprise as he looked at the heel in his left hand.

“Guess a street walker’s gotta have good shoes,” he said. “Your boyfriend can buy you another pair.”

He shook the shoe at her. “There’s lots more of the People’s money where this came from.”