THE TAPPING OF HIGH HEELS
by Joan Baril
I buy a pair of black satin high heels at Eaton’s and wear them around the house all day, trying to break them in for Elsie’s wedding. I'm not sure why I put them on in the middle of the night. As usual I can’t sleep. When I swing out of bed, my toes touch the shoes, and so I slide my feet into them and tap my way to the kitchen to put on the kettle.
The familiar nightmare has snapped me awake. Down the hill at the port, a few blocks away, the fog horns bray and the trains beside the lake rattle all night long, their roaring and rumbling reminding me of the crowds in Madison Square Gardens. In my dream, I’m sitting as usual with the other New York Ranger wives. My husband Ron is in the net, as calm and steady as a concrete wall. But, at this point, my dream always takes a strange tack.
Suddenly, I’m sharing the net with my husband, reaching out for a glove save. ''Don't worry,'' I say to Ron as the skates clash before us spraying us with white. The referee blows his whistle as the crowd screams and I scream too. Ron’s down. He’s lying on the bed in that horrible Montreal hotel room and I’m not there beside him. In my high heels, I slide among the rushing players. I feel my screams start in my chest, over and over, soundless screams that say, “Wait, wait for me.”
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