[SelzShoes]

The dowdy grey woman took the stairs briskly; weaving around the turns and rails with the footwork of a boxer. Feint, feint, push, feint, feint, and push. She glided with an ease unsuggested by her stature. Mrs. Fallon moves with such grace her sudden stop caught him off-guard.

Her hands flipped through the keys like a sharp with a new deck. It appeared she could find the right set by touch alone. The door swung open and stale air filled the hall.

“Smallest room I got; not much to look at.” A dress, bare bed and table crowded what little space there was.

“I’ll be on the road a lot.” He sat the cardboard suitcase down. The landlady did not know it, but she was looking at all of his worldly possessions.

“What’s your line again?” Mrs. Gertrude Fallon had little use for the salesmen who would come for rooms. They would always end up trying to sell their widgets and goo-gahs to the other tenants and her. Bothering everyone with the latest thing. An unlike the relief cases who made up her long timers; the salesmen would always end up skipping out on a day or two of rent.

“I’m a ballplayer. I’ll be traveling a lot.”

Gertrude’s face disapproved. “Had some ballplayers years ago. Left with two weeks unpaid. Drinking men too.” Dishonest and drunk was no way to present yourself to a Latter Day Saint.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty. Manger Paul Waner had enough heart to forward a loan so he would not have to sleep in the clubhouse. “I’ll pay two weeks now, if you don’t mind.”

The landlady turned from grey to green at the sight of the cash. “I don’t mind a bit!” Bills were exchanged as she started to enumerate the house rules. “Now, I don’t do laundry. I do clean each room once a week—provided you don’t live like a pig. I’ll take care of yours when you are gone,” her voice sing-songed over her list. But he had stopped listening once the money was in her hands.

For the first time in years he had a home.