Best Foot Forward (5 page)

“It's not usually this crazy,” I told him.

“Don't matter to me.”

“It's a better place than what you're seeing.”

“I don't see anything.” He took the list Murray handed him and walked off.

What's your game, Tanner?

Other Gladstone stores were having the same problems; upset store managers were calling Mrs. Gladstone to please
do something.

“I've talked to Ken,” she told each one. “He's sensitive to our growing pains, but he feels this is the best way to go. I'm not running the show anymore.”

She stood by the window in her office; afternoon shadows played across the room. “The new shipment of shoes came in,” I said.

“And . . . ?”

“Well, they're kind of flimsy.” The term Murray used was “a joke.”

“And have we heard anything back on the quality report I requested?”

“No.”

I'd called Ken Woldman's assistant, who sounded irritated that I was checking up.

“And, Mrs. Gladstone, Helen Ruggles called from the Oakbrook store.” Helen Ruggles was a top store manager. “She said she needs to come in and talk to you about—”

“This nonsense?” Mrs. Gladstone turned sharply from the window.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Tell her we'll come to Oakbrook, Jenna. I need a fresh perspective.”

 

Early morning, I'm behind the wheel of the Cadillac, taking the open road to Oakbrook—at least metaphorically. I was actually on I-290 West, the Eisenhower Expressway, which was bumper-to-bumper traffic. Why they call this time of day
rush hour
is beyond me. It's impossible to rush anywhere.

Mrs. Gladstone was saying how there's power in numbers and if enough Gladstone managers were upset, we might be able to influence Ken Woldman, a numbers man through and through.

“We must move with speed,” she said just as the traffic broke free at Harlem Avenue. I smiled, gunned the accelerator.

“Speed of purpose, dear!”

I applied the brake. “Sorry.”

 

The Oakbrook Gladstone's Shoe Store was all windows facing a little garden of red geraniums. Everything about it seemed so sure, so right, except the window sign.

Rollings Walkers were the shoes that were giving me blisters.

Helen Ruggles, normally a happy woman, today looked stern. We sat in the back and got down to business. Helen said, “Madeline, I believe Elden wants to shut the Gladstone stores down one by one and move everything over to discount retailing.”

She had to be kidding!

Mrs. Gladstone sipped her coffee. “Did he tell you that?”

Helen set her jaw. “No, but I've been hearing things. In Louisiana, Elden is exclusively selling the Shoe Warehouse labels. In Kansas City, he has just made a decision to close that store and have the local Shoe Warehouse handle the business.”

Mrs. Gladstone tensed. “That's outrageous! Why haven't I been informed?”

Helen kept her voice low. “Madeline, are they taking you seriously in Dallas?”

That caught Mrs. Gladstone up short.

Helen pushed back her bangs. “I know you were named Director of Quality Control. Are they really giving you that authority?”

“Ken and I talk regularly. He's listening to my thoughts on doing business.”

Helen sighed. “Elden is coming out to visit the stores and tell us about the new plan. Did you know that?”

“No,” she said quietly. “I didn't.”

 

I wasn't sure what to say on the way home.

I pulled onto I-88 and headed to Chicago. “Mrs. Gladstone,” I asked finally, “what are you going to do?”

“Jenna, sometimes in life we have to fight for what we've been given. Do you understand what I mean?”

I wasn't sure why you'd have to fight for something you already had. “I don't think so.”

“You see, the sad truth is that corporations can play games with people. They tell you that you have certain authority and then, without telling you, they make sure you don't.”

“I had a friend like that once, Mrs. Gladstone. She kept telling me we were such good friends, but behind my back she was putting me down every chance she got.”

“And what did you do about that friend?”

“I confronted her. I told her I knew what she'd been saying.”

“I think I'm getting ready to do something like that, too.”

“Well, don't expect people to take it real well right off, Mrs. Gladstone. Franny started screaming at me right by my locker that I was a liar. You know, it was kind of embarrassing, but then I realized it made her look like the fool, not me. That was a year ago; we still go to the same school, but she just looks away when she sees me coming.”

“I will remember that, Jenna.”

The longer I'm in the business world, the more I see how much they need me.

“Right now,” she continued, “we have two ways to approach the matter. Retreat or advance.” I could hear her sitting up straighter. I wondered how she kept going forward with all the junk piled in her way.

“I've never seen you retreat from anything, ma'am.”

“I'm going to do my job whether they like it or not.”

I smiled, but inside I felt cautious.

Could they fire her?

And if Mrs. Gladstone was gone, could they fire me?

I felt a sharp pain shoot through my heel.

I dropped Mrs. Gladstone at the store and limped to the only man in Chicago who could help me.

 

“Hi, Gus. I've got a problem.”

A small, gnarled man was hunched over a shoe at a back table. He made a noise but didn't look up.

“Everyone who comes to me has a problem.”

I took off my shoes to get his attention. “I'm being tortured here, Gus.”

He walked slowly to me, grabbed my Rollings Walkers, felt the inside, tapped the toe, slammed it hard on the counter. He put it on the shelf near his window and peered at the heel.

“Okay, here's your situation. The stitching's a little wide and that's causing the heel to wobble. When did you buy these?”

“Two weeks ago. But I had another pair and they never gave me any trouble.”

Gus felt the sole, sniffed it. He pushed his spectacles onto his wide forehead. “They changed it.”

“No, Gus. Not this brand.”

“Only evident to the trained eye. I could restitch it for you. Make it tighter.”

“How much?”

Gus shook his head. “Everybody wants to know everything ahead of time. I'm not going to know the full damage until I get in there.” He looked at the other shoe. “This one'll give you the same problem, but it hasn't blown yet.” He stood back, thinking. “Twelve fifty, but that's an estimate.”

“I'll bring them tomorrow.”

“You gotta put these back on?”

I nodded.

He threw me a package of moleskin. “You should know better.”

Even though I was in pain, I took the long way back to work so I could see Opal and remind her that her summer job from hell only had one more week to go. I saw the tiny Fotomat booth at the end of the block where Opal sat eight hours a day. In the early weeks she'd made the most of it and really turned on the personality. Now, the walls were closing in.

I poked my head in the booth. “How are you?”

“I'm thinking about the meaning of life, and the answer isn't in this
chamber.
”

“It could be worse. You could be Bo-Peep walking down the aisle.”

“I could have a real job like you.”

“You'd hate selling shoes. You'd argue with the customers.”

“No, I wouldn't.”

“Opal, you'd have to deal with the demanding public.”

A woman poked her head in the booth and said, “My photos aren't ready until 5:00 P.M., but I was wondering if I could pick them up now.”

Opal turned to me. Her eyes looked hunted. “What do you call this?”

 

Mrs. Gladstone was in her office with the door closed, but when she's upset, her voice really carries.

“Rollings Walkers have never had a five percent return. Never! We've always been at one percent or below.
What is happening at that Bangor plant? . . .
Well, find out and get back to me.”

A return in the shoe business usually means the shoe was made badly. Rollings Walkers are our best-selling brand. I heard her slam the phone down. I went over and knocked on her door.

I opened the door a crack so she could see me.

I walked in, took off my Rollings Walkers, and told her what Gus had said.

Mrs. Gladstone picked up my shoes, bent them hard, and bent them again.

“Is there something you want me to do, Mrs. Gladstone?”

“Yes,” she ordered. “Get some better shoes and keep your eyes open.”

You can find a lot that's wrong when you keep your eyes open.

There were staff problems—Murray couldn't find passionate shoe people to work other shifts. Nells, who replaced me when I was gone this summer, had the personality of a clam. Ginger, our weekend floater, was part snapping turtle. “I'm trying to motivate sea life here,” Murray shouted. “Where are the visionaries? Where are the stars of tomorrow? In addition to you, kid.”

“Thanks, Murray.”

Company memos were coming in. My in-box was bulging.

That's business speak for
Get rid of the old shoes. The brand is being eliminated.

The funding was cut for the consulting podiatrist, too.

I peered in corners, eyes open.

But what did she want me to see?

The green envelope in my in-box read,
For everybody.
I opened it.

The card was hand-painted with brilliant colored flowers and butterflies. A squirrel family poked from behind a tree—they were all wearing high-top red sneakers.

The words A SECOND CHANCE curled across the top like skywriting. I opened it.

Below it was printed,

 

I'd never heard of a four-year-old who could write.

I felt a rustle of movement. There was Tanner. I showed him the card.

“The girl can paint.”

“Yaley painted this?”

“She's the best, when she keeps her head straight.”

He headed down the stairs before I could ask what he meant.

I thought about second chances and what Mrs. Gladstone had said about people learning from their mistakes. I thought about my dad—how I'd given him a thousand second chances probably, but they never did him any good.

I thought about the big second chance Mrs. Gladstone was giving Tanner. He could seem more grateful.

I went into Mrs. Gladstone's office and showed her the card. She studied it, smiling.

“Look at this detail, Jenna. She said her mother taught her.”

“The mother on drugs?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Gladstone put the card on her desk next to the picture of Elden in better days, when he was a smiling little boy.

I wondered how many second chances Mrs. Gladstone had already given him.

Her phone buzzed; I reached to answer it. Murray's voice burst through the receiver. “Kid, Madeline better get down here right away. There's a
. . . gentleman
to see her about Tanner.”

The way Murray said
gentleman,
I could tell this guy didn't fit the bill.

I followed Mrs. Gladstone to the elevator; we took it to the sales floor.

A large, sweaty, pasty-colored man was standing at the register, jiggling a big key chain. The keys clicked together in an irritating clink.

“Madeline,” Murray said, “this is Burt Odder. Tanner's
parole
officer.”

Mrs. Gladstone didn't even blink. I tried to get Murray's attention, but he was looking down. If this were school, I would have stuck my hand in the air and asked the big question.

Ex-convicts
have parole officers, right?

Burt Odder nodded slightly at Mrs. Gladstone and kept jiggling those keys. The front of his shirt was wet from perspiration.

“Ma'am, I'm here to tell you that I'm aware of you offering this individual a job, and while that's kindly, I need to make
you
aware that he's had five arrests in two years. He was just released from a youth prison for pickpocketing.”

“I see.” Mrs. Gladstone looked at Burt Odder's keys.

“I watch 'em come and go. I can tell the ones who are going to make it and the ones that nobody can help.”

“How have you tried to help him, Mr. Odder?”

He smirked. “I tell him what's what, you know? I tell him the law.”