A nameless bridge stood over a shallow creek, and past that, away from the footpath and the road, was a small clearing where Murray walked. To his right were the white, chipped rocks of the water’s edge. Up ahead, tall trees marked the end of the clearing. The area was a tame pocket of wilderness that attracted youth, as places like it sometimes will. Bike jumps loomed through the trees, the occasional empty cigarette packet or spent nitrous oxide canister littered the ground, and a graffiti-stamped drainpipe protruded from the creek’s end where many a young boy or girl’s courage was no doubt tested.

The grass was short and soft underfoot. Blade trimmings stuck to Murray’s legs. He was a councilman and had worked the area over with his whipper snipper for the best part of the morning. Now, the sun held a higher position in the sky and a cool breeze relented the day of its sting. Murray’s day was ending and held that special instance when the work is done: feet sink into the full length of boots, aches turn to a dull throb, whatever pinched inward released outward—where does it all go?

He retraced his steps and approached the edge of the tall trees. There, a spotless pair of women’s shoes sat on a short tree stump. They remained exactly as they were when he found them earlier while cutting the grass. The shoes were black with silver spotted lace, nothing fancy, probably from Target. The toes of the shoes were angled together in a delicate “V” shape, and this, coupled with the slope of the tree stump on which they sat, resembled a display like the kind you might find in a storefront window. It could have passed as a portal to another world. Murray knelt and picked them up, pinched them between his fingers at the heels and walked back the way he came.

The suburbs dozed as puffs of clouds meandered across the vast sky. It was the kind of peacefulness Murray had come to savour during his outdoor work. The serenity situated between the whirr of his whipper snipper. It reminded him somehow of a boyhood memory: wind chimes sounding on Grandma and Pop’s patio. He walked past the little bridge and turned away from the creek back towards the road.

Vaping and leaning against a white Isuzu truck was Jared, Murray’s co-worker. He too was finished for the day, having cut his share of the grass also. A sticker on the back of his truck read: “Trudeau = Fascist.” He was twenty-two, with blonde hair spiky at the back and straight at the front in a 2000’s-style throwback. Clean shaven, high-vised, tatted, a thin frame but muscular calves. Murray still held the shoes as he approached and Jared took no time noticing.

“What are those?” asked Jared.

Murray hoisted the shoes forward to give him a better look. “They were on a tree stump back there,” said Murray.

“What like someone put them there?” This was too much. “What are you going to do with ’em?”

“Nothin’. I’m not gonna do anything with ’em. I just don’t think they should be left sitting there.”

Jared pondered this for a moment. “I don’t think they’ll fit Muz.”

Murray held out his hand and gestured for Jared to pass him the vape. Both had performed this ritual countless times. No words were necessary. Jared took a large inhale and blew a grape scented cloud that hung in the air momentarily before vanishing. He handed the vape to Murray who did the same. They repeated this process a while longer and then parted ways.

School crowd traffic shuffled, and the streets were narrowed by cars parked too far from the curb. The woman’s shoes sat beside Murray on the passenger seat. They held a certain gravitas that made Murray nervous. It was as if they held someone else’s memories. Who had put them there, and why? He reckoned it didn’t matter now. Someone obviously didn’t mind parting with them.

He took his eyes off the road and studied them again.

“What am I doing?” he said aloud.

He considered snatching the shoes and chucking them out the window. No, this is important, he thought. “I’ve done a whole lot of fuck-all up until this point. I’m not chickening out now.” He flicked the radio on. Triple M were playing Chisel, so he turned up the volume and mumbled along and as the song was ending he pulled into his driveway.

He clicked the clicker, collected the woman’s shoes, and got out the truck with a sigh. The day’s work washed over him anew. He went inside. The sun shone through a large window in the kitchen and sparkled the countertop. He didn’t know what to do with the shoes, so he plopped them on the kitchen bench where they centred the room like a monument, Murray’s out-in-the-open placement of them a small act of defiance, proof that they held no power over him, that this whole endeavour was a casual exercise, all totally normal and above board. Nothing to see here. But inside, his stomach rolled. Waiting was the worst part, worse than the ensuing conversation. Michael would be home from school soon.

Murray grabbed a pale ale from the fridge and hopped in the shower. Stood under hot water for half an hour.

 

Murray watched TV in the lounge room. His hair was still wet when the front door shrieked (he’d been meaning to WD-40 it). Michael entered, the same time he usually did. Michael passed behind the couch and peeped an almost inaudible hey like the sound a Muppet would make and was gone.

Murray stood from the couch and quickly wheeled around into the kitchen. The shoes were still on the bench. Michael had walked right past them straight to his room. He could be in there all afternoon. Murray, anxious to get the ordeal over with, considered taking the shoes and knocking on his son’s door, but Michael opened it, humming and heading for the pantry.

“How was school?” asked Murray.

“It was alright. The police came. Something about nudes being sent around. The teachers said you’ll get a letter about it.”

“As in nude photos?”

“Yep, idiots.” Michael fixed himself a bowl of microwave noodles. His skin was soft and pale, and his frame had the makings to match his father’s own powerful physique, but was all together thinner, un-sculpted by sun and labour. His uniform hung loose, a deep navy and yellow, black shoes, accented by thin streaks of shadowy silver eyeliner above his eyes. The clash of colours bore it all too clear. Spoke of bravery.

The shoes remained on the kitchen bench. They looked less stylish here, their mystical significance obviously attributed more so to their peculiar placement within the scrub than any self-evident charm, or even craftmanship. Michael must have caught one of Murray’s sweaty sideways glances towards them. Too late to back out now.

“What are those?” asked Michael.

“They were on a tree stump. I found them,” said Murray.

“Like someone put them there?” Michael swapped his bowl of noodles for the shoes and began examining them. He turned them over and rubbed the soles. He flipped them around again and ran his finger along the silver lace. “That’s so interesting. I wonder who?”

He asked his dad whereabouts they were, and Murray told him. Michael knew the area.

“And you said they were sitting on a tree stump?” said Michael, suddenly full of questions. “How magical.”

Murray didn’t know what to say next. He certainly didn’t expect this. It was going kind of … well?

“I saw them while I was cutting the grass in the morning. I came back for them later in the day and they were still there, so I grabbed them. They’ll need a good clean.”

“I got them for you,” Murray continued.

Michael’s face suddenly changed. What have I done? thought Murray. The back of his neck began to perspire. It was as if he’d stepped into an oven or dove headfirst into Michael’s noodles.

Michael considered the shoes, cupping them in his hands.

“Thanks Dad,” he said. Michael turned to go, then paused for a moment and turned back. “I’m just trying it out.”

“I know. It’s what the doctor said to do,” said Murray. He backpedalled to the fridge. “You want a beer?”