Joan, who was normally mild-mannered, was incredulous, and stood up to speak to Mr. Crook in a hushed but firm tone. “Mr. Crook, I can’t believe you would not put shoes on my husband in the first place, and then just throw out the shoes we gave you, and not tell me. What are you going to do about it?”

Mr. Crook took Joan by the arm and led her away from Joanna, who trailed right behind. “Please understand, Mrs. Larson,” he said, looking at his watch, “we are going to open the doors in five minutes. We’ll have to purchase another pair, but with today being Sunday, and the department stores closed all day, and mass scheduled for ten o’clock tomorrow morning, there may not be time. But I will do my best to find another pair, somehow.”

“Mr. Crook, that’s not good enough. My husband is not leaving here unless he has socks and shoes on!”

Before he could answer, Joanna spoke up. “I know! I’ll go home and get the shoes Daddy always wore. They might be scuffy, but no one will know, except for us, and they’ll probably be more comfortable anyway.” Somehow there was a logic to this that even the grown-ups could understand. Unbeknownst to Mr. Crook and her mom, Joanna now realized that this was exactly how things were supposed to turn out.

Unlike today, back then an eleven-year-old child could walk three blocks down a street on a Brooklyn morning, and let herself into her apartment without a parent having to fear a thing, so Joanna was allowed to go on this mission alone.

“Hurry back, Joanna,” her mom said as she buttoned her coat and gave her a kiss.

After Joanna reached home, and let herself into the apartment, she hesitated before opening the door to her parents’ bedroom. She took a deep breath and finally forced herself to go in, going immediately to her dad’s closet without looking at the bed. She gasped when she saw his shirts and pants. The first thing she noticed was the brown and white flannel shirt he had been wearing last Thursday night. She held it to her face and basked in his scent; closing her eyes, she felt the rubble of his beard when they kissed for the last time.

She knew the shoes were on the floor of the closet somewhere, but it was dark, so she groped around among his personal belongings: a stack of magazines and books, a transistor radio, a toolbox, and a box containing the sort of personal miscellaneous memorabilia one collects over a lifetime. She dug through the disarray and eventually her hand landed on the shoes.