This story is by Lydia Fischer Dooley and was part of our 2024 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
“Whoever loves money never has enough; whoever loves wealth is never satisfied with their income. This too is meaningless.” Ecclesiastes 5:10
Working in the Community Library had been a welcome addition to my routine. Mother Superior had reasoned that “the Lord gives us strengths where we are needed most” and it appeared that serving the elderly, the ill, or the unfortunate was not where my ‘strengths’ were required. Credit to Mother Superior, she never made me feel bad or lesser than others for this. And realistically, it was perfect timing since Saint Jerome’s Library desperately needed new librarians. Two of their best, Sister Claudine and Sister Assumpta had recently died, so the time was ripe for my inauguration.
The first few months were full of new tasks I had to master. I learned about book restoration, archival management, and cataloguing. Wednesdays were my busiest days when I would read for the children as part of the library’s after-school literacy program. My favourite story to read was El Pájaro y La Ballena or “The Bird and the Whale.” Something about that unexpected romance between two wildly different creatures resonated with me, even if it was a story intended for children.
It was during the summer holidays that things eventually became quiet. The children were off from school, most likely shipped off to some relative or grandparent in the countryside. Some of the regulars would of course still attend, particularly the retirees and older members of the community. Yet, they tended to keep to themselves and seemed to prefer less social interaction than more. I couldn’t complain – my timetable was predictable and peaceful, just how I liked it.
Except one day everything changed.
I had been sitting at the front desk, rifling through the filing cabinet for our records of missing books. Suddenly, I heard a sharp ‘clack’ on the floor. Then a ‘click-clack’ which appeared to be getting louder – suggesting whatever was making that sound was coming closer. I looked down on the floor to make out what it was. And that is where I saw them; four-inch Ferragamo black patent stiletto heels. They shimmered in the soft lights of the library, with the tip of each heel daintily kissing the hard flagstones of the reception. I was in love.
This first sighting began a summer of yearning and coveting. I dreamt of nothing but beautiful arches, patented leather, and the pointed toes of those beautiful Ferragamos. The woman attached to the stilettos made little difference to me, although I was glad she had made it her practice to visit the library every day. I began to look forward to the familiar ‘click-clacks’ of the shoes, leading to goosebumps springing up my arms and inner thighs. I often wondered what my own feet would look like in them – slender, beautiful, seductive even? These thoughts alone were titillating, to wear something out of desire rather than necessity. I would think about those Ferragamos more than I’d like to admit, often becoming distracted during prayer or kept awake at night, with my whole-body tensing just at the thought of them.
As time progressed, even Mother Superior began to notice a difference in my behaviour. I had begun going to the library earlier and earlier, often staying later than I ever had before. Initially, I had dismissed her concerns, particularly considering her pointed questions about whether there was “a young man involved.” It was hard not to laugh. Yet, once I started being honest with myself, I similarly began to feel uneasy. Did Moses himself not clearly state God’s commandment that “Thou shalt not covet your neighbour’s goods?” I began to pray feverishly asking God to distract my gaze and forgive me for lusting after another man’s possessions. When this did not work, I confided in Sister Brigid, a good friend who had joined the convent at the same time as myself. However, when I shared my concerns with her, she appeared mostly amused by my predicament. She reasoned that it was “normal” for “a young woman” to sometimes yearn for “glamorous objects” and that all I needed to do was “distract myself with good works and prayer.” I wasn’t so sure.
It was this trepidation that found me frozen still in the women’s bathroom on a Thursday in early September. I had prayed. I had gone to confession. I had asked the Lord for his forgiveness. Yet here I was, eye-to-eye with two four-inch Ferragamo stiletto heels. Unattended and sitting coyly next to the sink. A mixture of fear, dread, and electrical anticipation coursed throughout my body. A voice suddenly called out from behind the stall door:
“Darling, I am sorry for leaving my shoes just lying there! I do so love them, but my feet are destroyed! Do you have any band-aids that I could use?”
I paused to clear a little phlegm in my throat. The Ferragamos sat watching me suggestively from the bathroom counter. I imagined starting a new life wearing them in fancy restaurants, dressed in slinky, skin-tight dresses.
“Darling, are you still there? Have you got those band-aids?”
I responded that I did not, but I would go and get the First Aid Box.
Except I didn’t. I lied. I instead found my hands grabbing the nape of the shoes, rushing out the bathroom door, then out of the library, and finally out the front door.
I continued running. Running, running, running along the footpaths of the town; pausing only to throw off my clunky, sensible brogues to replace them with the beautiful Ferragamos. I fit – just about – and heard the familiar ‘click-clack’ as I sprinted frantically yet aimlessly down the street. If I had time to think, I probably would have wondered what this meant. Was I heading for the convent, to beg for forgiveness? To ask for help, for redemption, and to try again at being a good nun? Or was I heading for something else? Where I could wear four-inch heels and dresses and skirts and make-up? Is that what I wanted?
But of course, I wasn’t really thinking. I was just running, dreaming, and listening to the ‘click-clack’ of my stiletto heels.
The goosebumps popped up again, across my legs and inner thighs as I continued to relish the tight feeling of the Ferragamos on my feet. I dreamt about the new life I would pursue with these shoes, trying out different things and places.
I was happy. Happy and beautiful.
It was at this point that the sounds of sirens became louder, as they had moved closer to my location. If I had been a little less enamoured with myself and my hypothetical future plans, I might have taken note of them.
But for now, I didn’t care. I was wearing my Ferragamos and I was beautiful.
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