Goody One Shoe (10 page)

JANIS JONES LIT ANOTHER
cigarette
and blew the smoke at the window. She picked tobacco from her lip and flicked
it at the glass. Well, she flicked it at the media scum trampling her lawn. The
glass just got in the way. Every time she showed herself they scrambled around
like dice in a game of Pop-O-Matic Trouble. Trouble, trouble, that’s the name.
But she didn’t want to send these media game pegs back. Even if they were
ruining her roses. Leaving the house was out of the question. They’d rip her to
pieces, and not just in a metaphorical, thrown-to-the-lions kind of way.

She refused to flinch, to give them what they wanted. For
her to fall apart. To show weakness. To confess.

Screw ‘em. Screw ‘em all.

The horizontal blinds crashed against the windowsill. She
let the nylon string trail between her fingers and dangle from the valance. She
stubbed out her cigarette in a tin ashtray. They could suck on that until the
next curtain call, until her next award-winning performance. If they insisted
on sticking around, at least she could toy with them. Squeeze every ounce of
exposure from her fifteen minutes.

Her third husband put his hands on her shoulders and began
to knead the tension from them. She closed her eyes and dropped her chin to her
chest. “Oh, bless you.”

He kissed her cheek. “I don’t know why you won’t let me
chase them off.”

She shook him off her. He didn’t understand her at all.
“They’re insatiable. They’d just come back.”

He sighed and held up his palms. “Fine. Personally, I’d like
them off my property. It’s just a moment-by-moment reminder that Ryan is gone.
They just won’t let him die.”

“Well, he is dead.” She spat the words at him.

His eyes filled with tears and he balled his fists. “Why’d
you leave him in the bathtub alone? How could you turn your back on him? He was
only nine months old.” Tears streamed down his pathetic cheeks.

“What are you accusing me of?” She drew back her arm and
slapped his face.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his jaw.

She lit another cigarette. “And I told you, the phone rang.
I was only gone a few seconds.”

“We have voice mail. You could have let it go to voice
mail.” He broke down and sobbed, holding his face in both hands.

She rolled her eyes and checked her watch.

He wiped his nose and shook his head. “You don’t even cry
anymore. Hell, you barely cried at all.”

She blinked and pinched herself as hard as she could under
her armpit until tears welled up in her eyes. “I’ve cried! You bastard, how
dare you?” She stood straighter and jutted out her chin, her indignation
growing. “Maybe if you hadn’t marooned us out here in the boonies, it wouldn’t
have taken so long for the paramedics to get here. Maybe they could have saved
him.” She crossed her arms and smirked. “Maybe it’s your fault he’s dead.”

She looked at him, his dead gaze getting deader by the
moment. He was just like the others. No grit. No balls. No fight. Couldn’t
handle their evil spawn dying. Like they think part of them died too. They
should all just grow the hell up.

He strolled to the bar and poured himself a scotch. Didn’t
even offer her anything. Chivalry truly was dead.

“I need a shower.” He turned and headed for the stairs.

Bastards were all the same. They woo her, fawn over her,
give her everything her beautiful heart desires. She patted her perfectly
coifed hair and blotted her shimmering lips together. She gave them each a
child and they adored her even more. Until they held the baby. Then she was
just part of the furniture. And as soon as those children were gone, they all
went cold.

Is that all she was good for? Fucking and making babies?
Being a mommy and a nanny and a nursemaid to those mewling, screaming, bundles
of mucous and spew?

She ran a hand over her less-than-taut tummy. She used to
have definition. Tone. Now she had stretch marks, love handles, saddlebags. She
should have gotten herself fixed. Avoided the whole damn mess. But then they
would have left her because she couldn’t pop out their pitiful progeny.

Men. They all sucked.

She parted the blinds with her fingers and peeked out. One
of the reporters was having his makeup touched up, a white cloth tucked into
his collar to save it from the flesh-coloured powder. He was even more handsome
in person than on the screen. She must be huge news if they sent out the big
talent.

He glanced at the house and caught her eye.

She raised the blinds, smiled and licked her lips, sucked
hard on the end of her cigarette and winked at him.

He grinned, ripped the cloth from his collar and threw it on
her lawn, motioned for his cameraman and ran toward the window. “Mrs. Jones!”
His voice was just as deep and resonating as on television, even filtered
through her double-pane picture window. He stood under the window, stretched
the microphone up toward her. “Do you have any comment about the new
allegations that you may have murdered your first two children?”

Her eyes became slits and her flirtation withered like trampled
roses. She yanked on the cord and let the curtain of blinds come down.

Yep. Bastards were all the same.

BILLIE WALKED IN A FOG
from
the subway to the office. Since meeting Bruce, she’d lost focus on her daily
life. Her schedule was muddled, missing the occasional gym day, or going on a
Monday thinking it was Tuesday. Her head filled with the touch of his lips to
hers, the soft caress of his sturdy hands. The vision of him lounging with Peg
Leg kept popping up and blurring the rest of her world. No red ink, just a real
vision. A perfect moment. One she wanted to crawl into and stop time so she
could live there forever. Without work, without pain, without the torment of
other human beings.

And without the possibility of moving her relationship with
Bruce into a sexual realm. A realm she yearned for, yet feared.

She was a coward. And ridiculous to boot, wanting to stop
time to prevent potential joy, love, promise. Perhaps even ecstasy. Something
she’d like to know just once before she died. Pure, unadulterated ecstasy. And
not in pill form, thank you very much.

She fantasized about it, but had no real-life frame of
reference. Her red ink-marred version of sex soon morphed into a bad movie sex
scene. Watching actors fake it onscreen didn’t provide sufficient data. She
needed to feel it. Experience it. Live it.

If only she could strip off the damn chicken suit.

The crash of a tin garbage can tipping over shook her from
her sexual pondering. She stopped and turned to face the alley, darkened by the
shadow of the forty-story building that housed her office. In the dimness, two
men towered over a smaller man. One of them held him by the scruff of his
collar and jabbed a pointed finger into his chest.

The surroundings closed in around her, her vision focused on
the centre, the periphery spinning in a kaleidoscope of light and dark. She was
staring down a familiar tube. Dark alley. Angry men. Pain pending.

The thug holding the little guy pushed him to the ground and
kicked him in the stomach.

Billie snapped out of her kaleidoscope. It was Jeffrey.

She dug her hand into her purse and dropped her briefcase
onto a bag of garbage.

The second thug kneeled on the grimy asphalt and punched
Jeffrey in the eye.

“Stop!” She ran toward them, her cell phone in one hand.
She’d already dialled and held the phone to her ear. Her other hand fingered
the can of pepper spray she kept hidden in her pocket.

“Nine-one-one, where is your emergency?”

The men stopped and turned to her. They both stood.

“Alley between Perry Tower and the Dilly Deli on sixth. Gay
bashing.”

Jeffrey cowered against the building, his arms shielding his
head, his knees drawn up under his chin.

“She called the cops.” One of the men bolted down the alley
away from her.

The other ran at her. When he was five feet away, she pulled
the can from her pocket, her index finger already on the trigger. She held it
up at arm’s length and sprayed a stream of pepper into his face.

He screamed and dropped to the ground. Billie, her heartbeat
in her ears, her legs flush with adrenaline, stood over him.

He swiped at his eyes. “You fucking bitch, you blinded me.”

“That was the point.” She put the phone to her ear. “Is
someone coming?”

“Yes ma’am, units are en route. Are the attackers still
there?”

“One of them. I’ve got him subdued.” Billie placed the foot
of her prosthetic leg on his crotch.

He squirmed. “No, don’t do it.”

“That foot has titanium bones. You move, and I crush your
sorry balls like robin’s eggs. You hear me?” She applied enough pressure to
make her point.

“All right, all right, just — just stop.” He held one hand
over his face. His cheeks blossomed in pepper burns. Tears streamed from his
eyes and dripped onto the pavement.

“Yeah, you bastard.” Jeffrey had come out of his cocoon and
stood beside Billie. He kicked the man in the ribs. The man groaned.

“Jeffrey.” Billie put her hand on his arm. “Don’t. Don’t be
like them.” She touched his swollen cheek. “That eye’s going to be a mess.”

“Thank you, Billie.” He rested his forehead on her shoulder
and wept.

The man on the ground took his hand away from his face and
blinked.

She leaned forward. “One move and I spray you again.” Blood
and adrenaline coursed through her. Even her absent shin and foot were alive
with power. Justice palpitated her heart. Billie stood a little straighter,
shifted her shoulders back, and stuck out her chest. All that was missing were
tights and a cape.

“Where the hell have you two been?” Katherine stood, arms
crossed, waxed legs shoulder-width apart, stilettos stabbing the carpet.

Jeffrey pointed to his eye.

Katherine’s face contorted, turned crimson, and then
softened. “Jeffrey. What happened?” She strode toward him and cupped his chin
in her manicured talon, eyed his shiner and the bandage the EMT had taped over
an open wound.

“I got jumped in an alley. We had to give statements to the
cops. And a totally hot paramedic cleaned me up and disinfected me.”

“That’s horrible!” She turned to Billie. “What’s your
excuse? Where’s your mortal wound?”

“Billie saved me. She was amazing. She maced the guy and
nearly crushed his man parts under her awesome titanium foot. It was the best
thing ever.” Jeffrey reached out and took Billie’s hand. “If it weren’t for
her, I might be dead.”

Katherine crossed her arms again. Shields up. “Really? Well,
isn’t that … surprising.” She turned to Jeffrey. “Go home for the day. Get some
rest.”

He shook his head. “No thanks, I’m not ready for the big,
ugly world yet. Can I stay for a while?”

“Of course.” Katherine patted his hand. She turned to Billie.
“You’ve got deadlines.” She jerked her head at Billie’s desk, turned, and
retreated to her lair.

Jeffrey headed for the kitchenette. “I’m going to get your
coffee,” he said over his shoulder.

“You don’t need to do that.”

He stopped and spun around. “Oh, yes I do.” He flashed a
toothy grin and disappeared behind the divider.

Billie set her briefcase on her desk and stared out the
window. Score one for the good guys.

Throughout the morning, Jeffrey topped up Billie’s coffee
four times. Between the afterglow of superhero adrenaline, added caffeine, and
his heavy hand with the sugar shaker, her heart was pulsating out of her chest.
But she just couldn’t tell him to stop. He even took her to lunch. Not ready to
step into the mean streets, as teeming with cutthroat ruffians as he envisioned
they were, they stuck to the tiny sandwich shop in the lobby and noshed on
soggy tuna salad on rye and limp pickles.

Back at her desk, Billie popped a breath mint into her mouth
and shook her mouse until her screen came to life.

A stilted laugh filled the office. Not a genuine laugh, more
the kind you allow yourself when you have to laugh even when whatever was said
is not the least bit funny. Billie poked her head out of her hole to see the
editor of Dreckula with her hand on Katherine’s doorknob.

The woman clicked the door shut and wended her way through
the cubicle maze to the exit. She caught Billie watching her, paused and rapped
her knuckles on the metal frame of a short divider. “Hey, nice job on those
edits.”

The heat rose in Billie’s cheeks. “Thanks. And sorry. I know
I’m only a proofreader.”

The woman snorted. “Hell, don’t apologize. Made my job
easier. You’ve got quite an eye for fiction. Ever thought of applying to be an
editor?”

“As soon as a job comes open, I’ll be all over it.”

“Well, one’s open now.” The woman’s forehead crinkled like a
normal person’s. “Didn’t Katherine post it?”

Over the woman’s shoulder, a machine gun appeared and
sprayed Katherine’s door with red bullets. “No, she hadn’t mentioned it.”

“Well,” the woman rested her hand on Billie’s shoulder,
“I’ll send you the post.” She slid a business card from her jacket pocket,
dropped it on the desk and tapped it with one fingertip. “Use me as a
reference. You’re a shoo-in.” She winked, turned, and headed for the exit.

The second the door clicked shut, Jeffrey’s head popped out
from his hole. He rolled his chair backward, leapt from it, and bolted to
Billie’s side. “Did that just happen?”

Billie nodded. “Yeah. I think it did.”

He faux-punched her arm. “A shoo-in, she said.” He giggled
and tapped his fingertips together in silent applause. “Are you going for it?”

She glared at the door to Katherine’s den. “I’ve got nothing
to lose.”

He punched the air. “Yes! That’ll show her. You should go
confront her. Give her what-for.”

Billie nodded. Wisps of mightiness from her morning brush
with heroism still pumped through her veins and buoyed her bravado. She pushed
away from her desk and stood, patted Jeffrey on the shoulder. “I think I will.”
She stormed into Katherine’s office and slammed the door.

Billie stood over Katherine, her fists on the desk, her
resolve set. “I want a shot at that promotion.”

Katherine looked at her with the usual disdain. “What
promotion?”

Billie slapped the desk. “The one you’re keeping from me.
What’s wrong, Katherine, afraid I’ll eclipse you? Afraid I’m better than you?
That maybe, one day, I’ll be
your
boss and treat
you
like the
muck I scrape off the bottom of
my
shoe?”

Katherine huffed. “Like that could ever happen.” She leaned
her elbows on her desk. “I didn’t bother telling you because you’re not ready
yet. They’d just toss your application in the slush pile and move on.”

“That’s my choice, not yours.”

Katherine picked up a pencil and leaned back in her chair,
tapped the eraser against her cheek. “Fine. You want to embarrass yourself?”
She snapped her chair erect and shuffled through a stack of files, pulled a
document out and tossed it across the desk. It spun through the air, floated to
the floor and landed at Billie’s feet. “Knock yourself out. But here’s the
deal. If you don’t get it, you’re fired.”

Billie stooped and retrieved the document. “You can’t fire
me for that. I’ll take it to HR if you try.” She shook the pages at her. “But
I’m not worried. Because I’m qualified for this job. And I darn well deserve
it.”

She straightened her skirt, spun on her good foot, and left
Katherine’s office with quiet dignity, pulling the door shut with a click. She
did deserve it. Was qualified for it. But if she didn’t make the cut, could she
be fired? Her heart hammered in her throat.

How could she take down a six-foot cretin in an alley and
fight for justice one minute, then be scared to death of the plastic gorgon in
the corner office the next?