Read Gaits of Heaven for Free Online Page A
Authors: Susan Conant
creatures who had helped Homo sapiens to evolve, I’d have lost my footing on the rough sidewalk and taken the kind of hard fall that might have warned me of the consequence of pride.
As it was, I walked smoothly and confidently past a parking area paved with cobblestones to the steep flight of steps that led up to the Greens’ house, which was a big, rambling brown-shingled place with a rose-covered fence, bright flowers, and a charming veranda. The fence, the steps, the porch, the shutters, and the other trim were neatly painted in cream. Arrayed on the veranda were wicker chairs and end tables, and from the beams hung baskets of flowering plants and ivy that were being tended by a well-muscled, dark-haired young man in a T-shirt printed with words that I’d just read on a van parked on the street: Year After Year: Perennial Care far Perennials. The front door had a shiny brass knocker and matching doorbell. Mounted on the frame was a little brass cylinder that I recognized as a mezuzah, a container for a tiny scroll, a fixture of traditional Jewish households. A Jewish friend had explained to me that the mezuzah was a reminder of God’s presence and commandments. Had I known what I was in for, I’d have paid attention to the mezuzah and found comfort in the knowledge that if my own efforts failed, I could turn to a truly High Power for help with Dolfo and the Greens. In fact, after giving the mezuzah no more than a glance, I rang the bell and, as I waited, made unproductive use of my brain by wondering why Year After Year was taking care of the lobelia, nasturtiums, and other annuals in the baskets. The answer should have been obvious: because the company was paid generously. Had I put my mind to work, I’d have focused on the row of shoes and rain boots to the right of the doormat. What’s more, when Eumie opened the door, I’d have taken in the rows of shoes and sandals in the foyer, realized their significance, and wondered how any sane person could exist in a shoeless house with an unhousebroken dog. That answer, too, should have been obvious: chez Green, sanity had nothing to do with anything.
That’s not what Eumie said when she greeted me, of course. And greeted is an understatement. Just as she’d done with Ron, she squealed, threw her arms around me, and welcomed me as if I were a beloved old friend she hadn’t seen for years. “Holly, come in!" Gesturing to the footwear on the floor, she said softly, as if confiding a secret, “This is a shoeless house. You don’t mind, do you.” It was a statement or perhaps an order or even a commandment. “We have socks and slippers you can use.”
Reminding myself to watch before I stepped, I eased off my running shoes and said, “I’m wearing socks. I’ll be fine.” Actually, if it hadn’t been for Dolfo, I’d have been delighted. The phenomenon of shoeless houses fascinated me, mainly because everything about the concept was not just foreign to the way I lived but entirely incompatible with it. I’d been in two shoeless houses before this, and both times, I’d tried to imagine explaining to my husband, my friends, and my relatives that henceforth they were to remove their shoes at the door and walk around in slippers or stocking feet. That’s about as far as I’d gone with the notion, since it was clear that my husband, my father, and Kevin Dennehy would have been unable to comprehend what I was saying; they just plain wouldn’t have understood. The same went for the dogs, who didn’t wear shoes, of course, but who’d somehow have been mystified by the ban anyway.
“Ted is dying to see you,” said Eumie, who was wearing loose, flowing white garments, white slippers, and large silver earrings. On her left wrist were six silver bangle bracelets. I wondered whether the peasant-priestess garments and the artisanal silver represented an effort to adapt to Cambridge, which favors natural fibers, ethnic or handcrafted accessories, and shoes too
As it was, I walked smoothly and confidently past a parking area paved with cobblestones to the steep flight of steps that led up to the Greens’ house, which was a big, rambling brown-shingled place with a rose-covered fence, bright flowers, and a charming veranda. The fence, the steps, the porch, the shutters, and the other trim were neatly painted in cream. Arrayed on the veranda were wicker chairs and end tables, and from the beams hung baskets of flowering plants and ivy that were being tended by a well-muscled, dark-haired young man in a T-shirt printed with words that I’d just read on a van parked on the street: Year After Year: Perennial Care far Perennials. The front door had a shiny brass knocker and matching doorbell. Mounted on the frame was a little brass cylinder that I recognized as a mezuzah, a container for a tiny scroll, a fixture of traditional Jewish households. A Jewish friend had explained to me that the mezuzah was a reminder of God’s presence and commandments. Had I known what I was in for, I’d have paid attention to the mezuzah and found comfort in the knowledge that if my own efforts failed, I could turn to a truly High Power for help with Dolfo and the Greens. In fact, after giving the mezuzah no more than a glance, I rang the bell and, as I waited, made unproductive use of my brain by wondering why Year After Year was taking care of the lobelia, nasturtiums, and other annuals in the baskets. The answer should have been obvious: because the company was paid generously. Had I put my mind to work, I’d have focused on the row of shoes and rain boots to the right of the doormat. What’s more, when Eumie opened the door, I’d have taken in the rows of shoes and sandals in the foyer, realized their significance, and wondered how any sane person could exist in a shoeless house with an unhousebroken dog. That answer, too, should have been obvious: chez Green, sanity had nothing to do with anything.
That’s not what Eumie said when she greeted me, of course. And greeted is an understatement. Just as she’d done with Ron, she squealed, threw her arms around me, and welcomed me as if I were a beloved old friend she hadn’t seen for years. “Holly, come in!" Gesturing to the footwear on the floor, she said softly, as if confiding a secret, “This is a shoeless house. You don’t mind, do you.” It was a statement or perhaps an order or even a commandment. “We have socks and slippers you can use.”
Reminding myself to watch before I stepped, I eased off my running shoes and said, “I’m wearing socks. I’ll be fine.” Actually, if it hadn’t been for Dolfo, I’d have been delighted. The phenomenon of shoeless houses fascinated me, mainly because everything about the concept was not just foreign to the way I lived but entirely incompatible with it. I’d been in two shoeless houses before this, and both times, I’d tried to imagine explaining to my husband, my friends, and my relatives that henceforth they were to remove their shoes at the door and walk around in slippers or stocking feet. That’s about as far as I’d gone with the notion, since it was clear that my husband, my father, and Kevin Dennehy would have been unable to comprehend what I was saying; they just plain wouldn’t have understood. The same went for the dogs, who didn’t wear shoes, of course, but who’d somehow have been mystified by the ban anyway.
“Ted is dying to see you,” said Eumie, who was wearing loose, flowing white garments, white slippers, and large silver earrings. On her left wrist were six silver bangle bracelets. I wondered whether the peasant-priestess garments and the artisanal silver represented an effort to adapt to Cambridge, which favors natural fibers, ethnic or handcrafted accessories, and shoes too