Jaine Austen 4 - Shoes to Die For by Laura Levine Page A

gallbladder surgery, how all the nurses flirted with him, how the surgeon said it was the biggest gallbladder he’d ever removed in all his years of practice, and how—when he was finally allowed to have visitors—Debbie Reynolds showed up with a big bouquet of roses.
    “Oh, please!” Mrs. Pechter said, her huge bosoms heaving with indignation. “Don’t start with Debbie Reynolds again.”
    “Yeah,” Mrs. Rubin chimed in. “Enough already!”
    “Are you sure you weren’t hallucinating?” Mrs. Zahler asked.
    “No, I wasn’t hallucinating,” Mr. Goldman snapped. “Debbie Reynolds visited me in the hospital!”
    “Right,” said Mrs. Pechter. “Just like Tom Cruise came to see me when I had my corns lanced.”
    The other ladies chortled gaily. Mr. Goldman glared at them and slammed his notebook shut.
    Score one for Mrs. Pechter.
    “Okay, who wants to read next?” I asked.
    Mr. Goldman’s ignominious defeat in the war of words with Mrs. Pechter seemed to have given the other ladies courage. Several hands shot up. And I was thrilled to see that one of the volunteers was Mrs. Stein.
    Lillian Stein was a recent arrival both at Shalom and in my class. A plump woman with large sad eyes, she reminded me of a child on her first day in kindergarten. For weeks I’d been hoping she’d read something, but she’d just sat in her chair, silently taking in the chatter around her.
    And now, at last, she was raising her hand.
    “Mrs. Stein!” I said. “I’m so glad you’ve got something you want to share with us. Go ahead.”
    The other ladies murmured their encouragement.
    With trembling hands, she unfolded a single piece of lined paper.
    “My Husband, Max,” she read, in a thin, barely audible voice.
    “Speak up!” Mr. Goldman said. “We can’t hear you.”
    “Yes, Mrs. Stein,” I said. “A little louder, please.”
    She began again.
    “My husband, Max, and I were married for fifty-two years before he died of a fatal heart attack.”
    A wave of tsk-tsks rippled through the room.
    “We met when I was working in the men’s department at Macy’s, and Max came in to buy a tie. I could tell he liked me because he wound up buying five ties. And two suits. And a coat.”
    The ladies chuckled appreciatively.
    “He asked me out on a date to go bowling. I didn’t much like bowling, but I said yes irregardless.”
    Mr. Goldman’s hand shot up.
    “Mistake!” he cried. “There’s no such word as ‘irregardless’!”
    I could see what was happening. Still steamed at having been bested by Mrs. Pechter, Mr. Goldman was now taking out his irritation on poor Mrs. Stein. But he was right, of course. There was no such word as “irregardless.”
    “Let’s save our comments for later, shall we?” I said. “Go on, Mrs. Stein. You’re doing beautifully.”
    Looking somewhat shaken, Mrs. Stein resumed her narrative and told us about her honeymoon, how she and Max drove across country on Route 66, taking in such sights as the Grand Canyon and the Black Hills of North Dakota.
    “Another mistake!” Mr. Goldman shouted. “You can’t get to the Black Hills from Route 66.”
    “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Mrs. Pechter said. “Put a sock in it, Abe.”
    “I’m just making a simple correction. After all, I was a traveling salesman for fifty years. I oughta know where Route 66 goes.”
    By now, Mrs. Stein was close to tears.
    “Mrs. Stein is not writing an atlas, Mr. Goldman,” I said. “She’s writing a memoir. Let’s listen to her, shall we?”
    There was no mistaking the anger in my voice.
    “Go on, Mrs. Stein,” I said, with an encouraging smile.
    Reluctantly, Mrs. Stein picked up her paper, which was now damp with sweat, and continued.
    “My Max was always a good cook, and after we settled in Los Angeles, he opened a restaurant. He called it Max’s Delicatessen.”
    Once again, Mr. Goldman sprung to life.
    “You owned Max’s Deli?” he asked.
    Mrs. Stein nodded.
    “On Fairfax Avenue?”
    She