THE FOOT
(for Hank, with love and understanding)
Word Count: 529
Mr. Zefferelli kept his amputated foot in a wooden box stored on a shelf in his closet. It had been cut off just below the knee because of an infection that wouldn’t heal. He owned the grocery on the corner of Main and Seventh and I knew him since I was just a kid. My mother went there for the bread, my father loved his lean pastrami and I just went along until I was old enough to stop in by myself with a quarter for a lemon ice.
No one knew exactly how it started, a cut from a dropped knife, a stepped-on nail as he was sweeping up, a playful scratch from a kitty-claw that had just disemboweled a mouse. He told several different stories and each of us believed whatever we liked the best.
It gave him trouble so he sat in a corner directing traffic sometimes, his right leg propped up on a second chair, cash register on his lap. Sometimes he’d be gone for a few days and the store would be closed. Then he’d be back and hobbling around, his foot newly wrapped in bandages. When it became a case of life or the leg he made up his mind. And somehow he got it back and took it home.
It was horrifying. It was fascinating. It was a real life scary story. Mr. Zefferelli’s phantom foot was the step we heard behind us in the dark. The groan on the stairs outside in the hall.
Mr. Zefferelli never got over missing his leg. About a month after the amputation, Mrs. Zefferelli put a notice on the store window that they’d be closed the coming Saturday for a funeral service. All friends and valued customers were invited. They were going to finally bury Mr. Zefferelli’s foot.
My father refused to go but my mother and I were there. She out of some sort of understanding, me out of curiosity. The church turned down the request for a Catholic Mass, but Mr. Zefferelli paid someone from another parish to come in and officiate.
Mrs. Zefferelli was sitting there solemn and a bit wet around the corners of her eyes. Mr. Zefferelli had the look of apocalyptic devastation. He just stared at the small wooden box as if his life was in it. I went over and held his hand. I told him I was sorry for his loss.
He heaved a sigh that shook me to my toes. “That foot has skipped along the hillside paths in Sicily,” he said. “Along with its twin brother it stepped upon a ship and held me up through seas that rolled and boiled it to America. It found this little corner where we pinned our hopes and dreams to sell the freshest produce at the most honest prices. It took me up and down the stairs of the house we never thought we could afford. It chased the little boys I’m proud to call my sons. It followed everything my heart asked it to do.”
I thought about what he said and told him I understood. And now, when I am older, I really do.
“he heaved a sigh that shook me to my toes.” lovely. great tale here. expandable…i’ve always been fascinated by feet, too, even wrote about it.
Like yours too, Marcus! This is actually based on a recent true little tale.