Echar Agua al Mar

Chapter III

Today, Mamá Imelda was at work.

Technically she was at work every day, but today she was at work and working. As the face of the business, she did not often have time to make shoes herself. Mamá Imelda was the one who gave estimates on bulk orders, made deliveries, and shook down—that is, persuaded—the odd debtor for late payments.

When it came to shoes, each member of the Rivera family had something they were best at: the twins loved to hammer soles and punch eyelets, Rosita enjoyed polishing as well as keeping track of inventory, Julio kept a steady hand with carving designs, and Victoria ruled supreme over sewing the final touches. But Imelda? She could do it all.

In a sense, that was to be expected. It was Imelda who had taught each and every one of them the shoemaker's art. It was Imelda who had kissed her daughter goodbye each morning before dawn, leaving her in her uncles' care as she trekked across Santa Cecilia to sit for sixteen hours at the side of a wizened old cobbler. It was Imelda who had lived, breathed, dreamed of shoes for decades, doing whatever it took to learn as much as possible about the craft.

In short, Imelda was an expert's expert.

"Calfskin, Mamá Imelda?"

"I think so, yes." Her bony fingers ran expertly over the leather, feeling for any glaring flaws in the material. She squinted, holding each piece up to the light with an appraiser's eye. Finally she nodded to herself, choosing the highest quality pieces from their more-than-ample supply. Rosita watched, her pen hovering over the clipboard of inventory assets.

"Are they for Papá Héctor's boots?" Imelda stopped in her tracks, looking over her shoulder with a glare that would—and often did—frighten the dead.

"Again with the Papá Héctor?" she grunted, shaking her head. "When did he earn that privilege?" She opened the cabinet of lasts, mouth pursed as she searched the sizes. "Papá Héctor. Hmph!"

"Well..." Rosita looked to Julio for support, but the only thing he could offer was a bemused shrug. "He is your husband, after all."

"Bah!" Imelda yanked two lasts from the shelf, holding one in each hand and eyeballing them with a scowl. "He is not fit to call me his wife!"

"And yet you make his boots," Victoria whispered to the leather in her hands.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing, Mamá Imelda." She bent her head to hide her smile as the lasts hit the workbench with a solid thump. Necks cracking and throats clearing, the family settled into their afternoon shift without another word. They were nearly a month behind on orders, with plenty to keep them busy.

Taking up one of the lasts in her hand, Imelda closed her eyes and pictured Héctor's feet. Long, thin toes, dusty from the roads. A tiny fracture on the right talus that had not yet re-fused. She could not remember what his feet looked like as a living man—why would she have cared, in those days? But when she had measured his feet, she was surprised to find them large and flat, with hardly any arch to speak of. Had he lived to be an old man, he would have surely suffered from arthritis.

She did not like to think of him as old.

Imelda felt over the smooth wood, her hands taking the place of her eyes as she recalled the way his bones had felt in her palms. The measurements she'd taken were merely a guide; she fared much better when she relied on her memory. Don Martín, the widower who had taught her the art of shoemaking, had praised that sort of talent.

"You'll make good business that way, so long as you don't lose your head. There's nothing wrong with double-checking your own work."

Imelda had taken those words to heart, and with good results. It was unfortunate that she had not been able to find Don Martín in this world, to thank him properly. She hated to think that he had already moved on, to that nebulous unknown that souls journeyed to after being forgotten by all living men.