Twelve Stories

Dan Moreau

Father Cruz fell asleep with his shoes on. His bed was near an open window, and he could feel the desert breeze. When he woke, he stared at his stocking-clad feet, then startled, jumped out of bed, and ran outside.

His neighbor, Maria, was sweeping her front porch. “Is anything the matter, Father?” she said.

“Someone stole my shoes while I was sleeping.”

“Are you sure?”

The priest pointed to his socked feet. Maria shrugged and resumed sweeping as if a shoeless priest were an everyday occurrence. He was a tall man, over six feet, and wore a size twelve. He couldn’t imagine his shoes fitting anyone else in the village. To make matters worse, they were the only pair he brought with him from Mexico City.

With little time to spare, he donned an extra pair of socks and headed to the town square. The ground was so hot he felt like he was walking over raked coals. Every so often he had to stop and lift up his foot to pick a pebble from his sock.

“Is everything all right, Father?” asked a farmer who crossed his path. Father Cruz nodded and kept going. As he overtook the farmer, he could hear him whisper, “He’s finally lost it.”

Father Cruz had come to the village to fill in for its regular priest, who had taken ill. Before long, he developed a hatred for the village and its rural inhabitants whom he considered superstitious and small-minded.

At the town square, he ducked under a sign that read Zapatos and pushed open a door that rang a bell. The clerk came from behind the counter. He was a portly man who wore a white apron.

“What can I do for you, Father?”

“I need a new pair of shoes.”

“Wait here,” the clerk said and disappeared into the back.

The priest sat on a bench and rubbed his feet. The clerk came out of the stockroom balancing a stack of shoeboxes that towered above his head. Father Cruz tried on each pair and walked around, grimacing. “Do you have anything in a bigger size?”

The clerk shook his head. “Those are the biggest sizes we carry. I can special order a pair for you.”

“How long will that take?”

The clerk shrugged. “A month. Maybe longer.”

The priest put on the pair that seemed to crowd his toes the least. Still, the fit was very snug. It was a size smaller than he was used to. “I’ll take these,” he said.

“Excellent choice. Do you still want me to order a bigger size?”

“No. I think this pair will do.”

As soon as he left the store, however, his feet started to ache. He took short, halting steps as if he were trying out a new dance. Everyone in the square gawked and prodded each other in the ribcage with a chuckle.

When he got home, he sat on his bed and removed his shoes and socks. His feet were covered in blisters. He stuffed his new shoes with wads of newspaper, and he soaked his feet in a warm vat of water into which he poured a steady stream of salt. Once his feet were sufficiently pruned, he dried them off and wrapped them in gauze. Somehow, he managed to get his shoes back on, and he headed out the door to give the evening Mass.

His gait was slow and measured like that of a wounded soldier. As he labored toward the church, he caught sight of something dangling from a telephone wire. Standing underneath it, he recognized his shoes tied together at the laces. They were a good twelve feet off the ground. Father Cruz picked up a rock and tried to knock the shoes free. He attempted to climb the pole, but his new shoes gained no purchase, and each time he slid down.

When he was about to give up, a boy walked by. He was a skinny boy, all arms and legs. He had a flat nose and a bowl of black hair.

“Son, can you help me?”

The boy regarded the priest suspiciously.

“Can you climb that pole and get my shoes?”

The boy crossed his arms. “How much?”

“How much what?” the priest said.

“How much will you pay me?”

Father Cruz dug around in his pocket and produced a dull coin that he placed in the palm of the boy’s hand. The boy stared at it.

“Go on, now. What are you waiting for?” the priest said.

The boy looked at the priest.

“All right,” Father Cruz said, and he gave the boy another coin.

The boy wrapped his skinny arms and legs around the pole and started his ascent. Once he reached the top, he untangled the shoes from the wire and they dropped with a thud to the ground.

“God bless you,” the priest said.

The boy shrugged and climbed back down. Father Cruz took off his new shoes and put on his old ones. They felt as comfortable as a lover’s embrace. Before continuing on to the church, he made a detour through the town square.

The store was still open. He set the new shoes on top of the counter. The clerk stared at them as if Father Cruz had just plunked down two dead fish.

“I’d like to return these shoes,” Father Cruz said.

“But you’ve already worn them.”

The priest wiped off some of the scuff marks with the hem of his frock. “See, good as new.”

The clerk pushed the shoes across the counter. “I’m sorry, Father. But I can’t accept these. They’re in no condition to be resold.”

The priest pushed them back. “Well, I have no use for them. Be a good man, and give back my money.”

Sighing, the clerk went to the register, opened the drawer, and counted out the priest’s money from the till.

“Thank you,” Father Cruz said, making sure all the money was there. “Will I see you in church tonight?”

The shopkeeper lowered his eyes and nodded.

“Very good,” the priest said. He rapped his knuckles on the counter. Outside the store, his feet started to hurt again. He tried to walk it off, but with each step the pain grew more intense. Unable to go any farther, he sat down on a bench and took off his shoes.

“Are you all right, Father?” someone asked. It was one of his parishioners, an old woman wearing a scarf over her head.

He held out his feet. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “Will you be so kind as to remove the gauze around my feet?”

She nodded, knelt in front of the priest, and started to unravel the gauze. Father Cruz closed his eyes, wincing every now and then in pain. When the last piece of gauze was removed, the woman gasped and covered her mouth.

“What is it?” the priest asked.

The old woman took a step back and made the sign of the cross.

“What’s wrong with you? Can’t you speak?” Father Cruz said. Then he looked down at his feet. His blisters had turned into bloody sores. The priest shook his head, realizing the woman’s superstition. “It’s not what you think. My shoes were too tight.”

The old woman ran off.

Father Cruz tried to stand but the pain was too great, and he had to sit back down. He called for help, but no one answered. As the sky darkened, the old woman returned. She was accompanied by a crowd of villagers.

“There he is,” she said and pointed at the priest’s bloodied feet. The crowd surrounded the priest.

“What are you doing? Stand back,” Father Cruz said.

The crowd held him down as they checked his hands and wrists.

“Let me go,” he shouted. But as much as he struggled, he couldn’t break free. Then he saw her out of the corner of his eye, the old woman approaching him with a crown of thorns. And as his screams echoed through the village, no one said a word.

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Dan Moreau’s work has appeared in Farfelu Magazine, Word Riot and Segue.