My shop was in a pale pink Creole cottage on Joseph Street near Audubon Zoo. The shoes were displayed on tables, on slanted Lucite stands of different heights. And there was a wooden magazine rack on the side wall. An impractical world of fashion, fitness, shelter, parenting help, food. I didn't want customers to be in a rush to leave, so I welcomed anyone who wanted to sit down and read. My shop sold women's shoes, but men came in for the magazines. Some used me like a library; some left with a box of pretty pumps they hadn't meant to buy. I tried to thumb through the issues before the guy came to pick up what hadn't sold. Afraid to miss some article or photograph.

I rented from a couple who lived in Birmingham, and their daughter, Katrina, worked for me part time while she went to Tulane University and studied social work. They hoped I'd also keep an eye on her, call them on the QT if it ever looked like Katrina was "abusing her freedom." I guess they meant drinking, smoking, screwing, skipping class, failing tests. I wasn't a narc and I liked hearing about the stuff she did. Her grades were okay.

"How's your daddy?" she said, when I walked in. Her accent was Old-South thick.

"They're running tests."

A woman in exercise clothes held up a strappy pewter sandal and asked Katrina for a 7-1/2 narrow. "Metallics look great with jeans, too." She went in the back to find the size and walked out with a shoe-box tower of possibilities.

There were messages to return by the phone and I sorted through the names. Sales reps who wanted to stop by, regular customers looking for something they'd seen in a magazine, and Daniel. He'd never phoned the shop, and for a second it felt like Christmas when there was Santa. I hoped he was in the nose of the plane, airborne and on his way to New Orleans. Two hours and change until I saw him at the airport. Soon.

Katrina showed the woman a matching purse. She decided on two pair of shoes and the bag, paid in cash, and left, swinging a shopping bag.

"You're good," I said.

"She wasn't leaving the store without something," Katrina said. "I could see it in her eyes." She slid the cash drawer shut.

"Nick called, said Scotty's practice got rained out so he's going to take him for a haircut and Chinese food." Katrina pulled a warm pack of Trident out of her jeans pocket, offered me a piece.

"Do you have class tonight?" I said. "Maybe I should close up."

Shoes were scattered on the floor in front of the chair where the woman had been sitting and Katrina sat cross-legged and put the strays back in their correct boxes. She had a tattoo of some winged bird on her lower back. "I have a test tonight so I'm going to have to run, but I can cut class tomorrow morning if you need me," she said.

"Can I let you know?"

"No prob." She filled in her time sheet by the register. "Who's Daniel?"

"A pilot I know."

"What airline?"

"United."

"He's nice?"

"Intrepid."

Katrina smiled and nodded knowingly. "Will he come by the shop?"

"Probably not." Daniel didn't drive anymore. His wife had died in a car accident. He fell asleep at the wheel and they ran up on someone's lawn and through the front window of the house into a spare bedroom. He had scars on his knees and hands, and when we made love he took my finger and had me point to them, like we were visiting this wife, another woman, dead and forgiven for everything she even thought about doing that might be ugly or small.

"I don't know yet if he's staying."

It was a slow day in the shop, and after Katrina left, I pulled the drapes in the front window so the shoes wouldn't fade, flipped the open sign on the front door to "Closed," and set the alarm.

(From "Speeding In the Driveway")  

Yesterday, on NPR, a father and son found a reason to listen to each other again.