Goody One Shoe (11 page)

BRUCE PULLED A BOTTLE
of
Pinot grigio from the ice bucket, wiped the bottle with his linen napkin, and
filled Billie’s glass.

“You trying to get me drunk, mister?” She picked up the
crystal stem and swirled the citrusy elixir before taking a generous sip.

Bruce filled his own glass. “You’ve discovered my devious
plan.”

She giggled, the wine fuzzing her brain, her cheeks warm.
Maybe he was a bad influence on her. She’d drank more wine since she met him
than in the entire year before he’d taken one giant step into her life.

“So,” he said, his eyes on his wine. “What happened to you,
Billie?”

Her eyelids fluttered. “What do you mean?”

He found her gaze. “I mean your leg. Sorry for being so
bold, but I’ve been curious. And there’s no subtle way to bring it up.”

“Dessert?”

Bruce started at the intrusion. He threw the waiter a
withering look.

The waiter slid a leather-bound slab of menu in front of
each of them. “I recommend the beignet. Or the crème brûlée, it’s a big
seller.” He smiled at Billie and poised his pencil over his notepad.

Bruce cleared his throat. “Maybe give us a few moments.”

The young man’s cheeks pinked. “Oh. Of course, sir.” He
slipped away.

Bruce relinquished his wine glass and reached across the
table, taking one of Billie’s hands. “So, your leg. Will you tell me?” He
raised her hand and kissed her fingertips.

She rarely told anyone the whole story. Most people didn’t
ask. Maybe didn’t care. Or perhaps they couldn’t handle the pure and utter
sadness of it all.

“It was my eleventh birthday.” Her voice came out like a
squeak. She willed it free from her throat but held it back all the same. She
told him about the restaurant. About the roast chicken and garlic mashed
potatoes. The asparagus with hollandaise. “I hated that. Smelled like when I’d
fart under the covers then wave them.” She pulled her hand away from his and
covered her mouth. She could feel the blush race through her body until sweat
pooled under her breasts. “I can’t believe I just told you that.” She moved her
hand to cover her eyes.

Bruce held his stomach with both hands, his belly-laugh
drawing stares and hushes from other diners.

“Don’t sweat it,” he said. “I used to try to light mine on
fire.”

She peered at him through her fingers. “Did it work?”

“Nah. That’s one of those stupid urban legends. Or old
wives’ tales. Or something.” He waved the waiter over. “You like crème brûlée?”

“I’d rather have the pie.”

“Excellent.” He turned to the young man. “Two pieces of
apple pie, with all the à la mode and cheese and everything you got.” He handed
the waiter the menus and watched him hustle away. Bruce turned back to her.
“So, chicken, potatoes, farty asparagus. Then what?”

“Apple pie.” She smiled. “A la mode and cheese and all.”
Déjà vu all over again. “After dinner we walked along the strip. It was all lit
up, the store windows full of wonderful things. Nothing we could afford. I was
young, but not stupid. I knew we were poor.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “We took
a shortcut down an alley to where the car was parked. There were three men in
the shadows. I was never told what they were doing, but I’d guess it was drugs.
They were counting out money. Dad flashed his badge. He was off duty, didn’t
have his gun. No radio.” She wiped her cheek. “Stupid, eh?”

“I don’t know. Sounds like the right thing to do.”

“Except they weren’t impressed. One of them ran away. One
pulled a knife and cut my dad’s arm. The other brought a huge gun out from
under his coat. He shot my father in the chest. Mom tried to pull him away,
tried to stop the bleeding. She told me to run. But I just stood there.”

“Did your dad die?”

“Right there on the pavement. Then the man shot my mother.
She died too. Then,” she tapped her prosthesis with her knuckles and closed her
eyes, “he shot me. But I didn’t die. I remember sirens in the distance. Then an
ambulance. I woke up the next day without the bottom part of my leg or any
parents.”

She opened her eyes. Bruce was in tears, his ruddy cheeks
ruddier than usual. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Shit, Billie.
I had no idea. I figured maybe you were born that way. Or some childhood
disease or something.” He shook his head. “Did they catch the bastards?”

“One of them. Not the shooter. I couldn’t identify him, all
I saw was the barrel of his gun. But I remembered the other guy. His bandana.
His weird teeth.”

“So you helped put one of them away, good for you.”

“Mostly he did that to himself. He dropped his knife. Had
his fingerprints in Dad’s blood on it. But he wouldn’t give up his partner.”

“No wonder you edit the news. Reality sucks.”

“And blows.”

The waiter slid a plate in front of her. Steam wafted from a
thick slab of pie. A generous scoop of ice cream — the good kind with actual
flecks of real vanilla bean —  melted beside it. A slice of orange cheddar
wilted over the crust. Cinnamon and apples filled her senses. Saliva filled her
mouth. She grabbed her fork and cut off a huge chunk with a corner of cheese,
dragged it through melting ice cream, and brought it to her mouth.

She focused on the memory at the end of her fork, but was
aware of Bruce’s eyes on her. She raised her eyes to his face. It had a new
look to it. A softer, warmer look. Maybe she’d edited that in, added his
empathy for her tale of sorrow. But there were no red pen marks scratched on
him, just his gentle smile. She lifted her fork. “Cheers.” The whole bite went
into her mouth, ice cream dripped down her lip and tickled her chin. She chewed
and flashed her eyebrows at him.

He tossed his head back and laughed.

BILLIE STOOD ON THE
blue mat,
her hands gripping the wood on either side of her. She imagined herself in
gymnastics class, swinging between the parallel bars, balancing upside down in
a handstand and then letting her legs fly through the air until she was
airborne. She performed a triple flip and landed with precision and perfect form
onto the mat. The judges flashed scorecards. Tens across the board.

Reality stood before her in the form of a physical therapist
clad in pink polyester.

“Way to go, Billie. One step at a time.” Suzanne clapped
like Billie had just won a gold medal at the Olympics. Or had caught a bright
rainbow-striped beach ball on the end of her trained-seal nose.

She looked down at her temporary prosthesis. Just a pole
stuck in what looked like an upside down toilet plunger and a chunk of wood for
a foot. It would be weeks before she’d be healed enough, before the swelling
subsided enough, to be fitted for her first leg.

No matter how many socks they layered over her stump, it
hurt to put on that plunger. Pain shot through her, from the toes to her calf
to the thigh, around her back and up into her shoulders. Except there were no
toes. No calf. Nothing but stump below the knee. How did nothing hurt so much?

Stump. That was a word she needed to get used to. It used to
mean what remained after her father cut down the diseased tree in the front
yard. Now it was what remained of her leg. She would lie in her bed and stare
at it, draw limbs and branches and leaves growing from it. Change it from a
dead stump to a living thing.

“Billie, darling. It’ll be all right. When you get your own
leg, you’ll be back to normal in no time.”

Grandmother meant well, and Billie loved her for it. The
woman hadn’t been ready to take Billie on full-time and raise her. But she was
here, every day. Willing to see Billie through puberty and into adulthood. Help
her through the pain, adjustment, therapy, and grief. That’s a lot to ask of an
old lady. But what other choice was there? Billie had no aunts or uncles. Her
other grandparents were all gone. No other family. Dead parents. Missing leg.

She was adrift in a sea of emptiness. Her grandmother was
the only thing left to hold onto.

Yes, Billie loved her. But, God damn it, she said some
stupid stuff.
When you get your own leg
. Seriously? Last Billie checked,
her own leg was gone, just stains on the alley floor, bits of her flesh and
bone hauled away by rats and fed to their young. Billie bones. Billie rinds.
Billie snacks.

Billie’s arms shook against the bars. She’d begun to take
her Lord’s name in vain. Had taken her grandmother’s kindness for granted and
inwardly shamed her for her awkwardness. God wouldn’t like that. But Billie was
certain He would forgive her for the terrible thoughts she kept bottled up
inside, as long as she didn’t let them out. Sure that He’d forgive her brutal
and bloody fantasies of appropriate justice that would be handed down to the
men who murdered her parents. Who left her an orphan and a cripple.

She’d planned their demise through many sleepless nights.
Envisioned firing squads or public hangings. She shoved so much crack cocaine
up their noses and down their throats that they foamed at the mouth and
convulsed on the alley floor until they died in pools of cat piss.

As much satisfaction as those thoughts brought, they also
smothered her with guilt. Thou shalt not kill. That’s what the bible said. But
it also said an eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. If you aren’t to kill, but
you can take a life in retribution for a life stolen, then where are you? What
is the right answer?

She’d talked to God more than ever these past weeks. Almost
every minute of every day. He didn’t answer. Maybe he was bored of her whining.
Sick of her sorrow. Or maybe others needed him more and he was just too busy.
Perhaps his silence was his answer. If he spoke, maybe she wouldn’t like what
he’d have to say.

“I can’t do anymore.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. One
wrist buckled under her weight and exhaustion and her good leg went out from
under her.

Suzanne caught Billie and helped her to the wheelchair.
Grandmother jumped to her feet, wrung her hands and danced on her toes like she
needed to pee.

“It takes time. You’ll get stronger.” Suzanne kneeled beside
the chair and dismantled the various parts of the peg leg. She patted Billie’s
real leg and looked up into her face. “I promise. One day, you’ll be running
down the street, playing with your friends.” The woman smiled as if that would
solve everything.

Chin up, buck up, smile and wave.

What a load of crap.

“We’ll see you tomorrow.” Suzanne wheeled her out to the
hall before relinquishing the chair to Billie’s grandmother. “You both have a
good night,” she said, a huge smile plastered on her face.

Billie wanted to sew her happy mouth shut.

Her grandmother nodded and allowed the woman a thin smile.
Not even a smile really. More of a grimace with the ends curled up. It was the
best she could muster. Billie understood. Smiling was something she couldn’t
make herself do on the outside. She was a Judas if she even smiled on the
inside. Would happiness mean she didn’t love her father? Billie even missed her
mother, evil witch that she was. Missed the way she was before whiskey became
her best buddy and she reeked of cigarette smoke. Or maybe she’d always been
that way and Billie only began to notice when she grew up. When she smelled
that smell on Justine and Ronald, where that smell just didn’t belong.

Grandmother pushed the wheelchair toward the exit.

Billie grabbed the rubber wheels and forced the chair to
stop. “I can do it myself.” She cringed at the anger in her voice. She grasped
the push rings and grunted. The chair lurched forward, veered a bit to the
right. She corrected and tried again.

She hadn’t meant to snap at Grandmother, but Billie had to
figure out how to fend for herself. Grandmother wouldn’t live forever. Heck,
she might die that very day. Billie too. Because apparently God didn’t give His
own damn who got shot.

IT WAS THE BEST WINE
she’d
ever tasted, crisp and light with orange and lemon undertones and perfectly
chilled. Billie sipped at the last of her second glass of chardonnay and stared
westward. The sun hovered above the mountains on the horizon, getting ready to
set and end another day. The remaining spring snow capping the peaks glowed
purple in the waning evening light, the downtown lights of high-rises twinkling
in the dusk. A twinge of envy pecked at her heart. The view from her apartment
sucked compared to this.

The pop of a cork pulled her attentions away from the
floor-to-ceiling window. She looked over her shoulder, scanned the leather sofa
and original paintings hanging on each wall. It bordered on opulent. She
expected a butler to appear from the Batcave and offer her a gin fizz.  Her
gaze found Bruce in the kitchen, visible from the waist up in the open-floor
concept, standing behind a granite island, pouring two more glasses of wine. He
came out from behind it, his apron still wrapped around his waist, his skin
aromatic with garlic and shallots and thyme from the wonderful pan sauce he’d
whipped up to top the spatchcock chicken he’d fed her.

He handed her a fresh glass of wine, took the empty and
placed it on the coffee table, slipped one arm around her waist, and stood
behind her, his chin on her shoulder. “It looks so beautiful from up here, so
shiny and clean.”

His breath, thick with chardonnay, warmed her cheek. She had
the same feeling she got every time he stood close — heat between her legs and
aching warmth in her belly. He was an adrenaline shot to the heart. She leaned
her head against his shoulder. “Too bad it’s so dirty when you’re down at
ground level.”

He swayed her body to silent music and rested his cheek
against hers. “How about we watch a movie? There’s bound to be something on
Netflix.”

She sipped her wine, ran her tongue across her teeth. It
felt a little thick. “Maybe I should head home. If I finish this wine, I won’t
be able to walk to the subway. And you’ve had too much to drink to drive me.”

He tugged on her hand and led her to the sofa. “It’s
Saturday night. Can’t you stay?” He pointed to the sofa. “I can sleep on the
couch. You can take my bed. No funny business, I promise.” He kissed her. “I’m
just not ready to let you go yet.”

She touched her hand to his cheek.

Sleep overnight? At a man’s house? At this rate, she might
just quality for full-fledged adulthood. “But what about church?”

“I’ll get you up early. Take you home to change and shower.
You’ll get to the church on time.”

“You don’t even know what time that is, do you?”

“Not a clue.”

She smirked. “Okay. I’ll stay. As long as you get me home by
nine.”

“Nine?” He checked his watch. “I guess I can always catch a
nap while you’re off praying.” He gave her a gentle poke in the ribs.

She grabbed his hand and squeezed. “And as long as we watch
anything but Batman.”

“It’s a deal. Though I’m surprised you’re not a fan. Since
you pretty much have the same story.”

“Except he was rich.”

“True. And a man.”

“And he dresses up like a bat and beats the crap out of bad
guys.”

Bruce pulled one bobby pin from her bun and set it on the
side table.

Her breath caught in her throat and her heart bounced about
her chest. “And he had both of his legs.” Her syllables slurred together.

“Well, maybe you’re not Batman, but I’d love to see you in a
leather suit and cape.” He tugged another bobby pin free, then a third. Her
hair fell onto her shoulder. “And you right wrongs in your own, weird and
wonderful way. With your magic red pen.” He untangled the elastic from her
ponytail. When he freed her hair, he ran his fingers through it, from the base
of her neck to the ends near her waist. “And you’re way better looking than
him.” He grabbed her with both hands and tickled her abdomen.

She squealed like a little girl and wrested free of his
grip. “Very funny.” She settled onto the sofa next to him, his arm around her
shoulder. “Why don’t you have any pets?”

He pointed the remote at the television and clicked buttons.
“I’m not home enough.”

“Is that why you’re not married?”

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “Nope.” He
sighed. “I was married. Been divorced for five years or so.”

She traced random patterns on his buttoned-down shirt with
one finger. “What happened?”

“Remember what I said about being a big asshole?”

She nodded. “In the past.”

“Well, my ex put up with a lot of that assholedness through
our marriage. Even as I began to grow up, it was too late. It was like a bad
taste in her mouth, you know? None of my new found ….” He pursed his lips and
rocked his head back and forth, searching for the right words. “Goodness, I
guess, cleansed her palette. She just fell out of love with me.” He slugged
back the rest of his wine. “That’s life in the big city, right?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. Besides, it was for the best. She
remarried, had a kid. She’s happy now. She deserves to be happy. And,” he
kissed Billie’s cheek, “I found you. So I’d say it’s a win-win.”

He’d found her. The gimpy chick who was a
thirty-three-year-old virgin and afraid to let him fully in. Lucky guy. He
deserved to be happy too. Deserved so much more than she’d been able to give
him.

“I think you should get a cat.”

He laughed. “Well, I sure like Peg Leg. Never been a cat guy
before. Maybe. Would make this place a little less lonely.” He scrolled through
movie titles. “Have you seen
Hancock
?”

She grinned. “An alcoholic superhero. How romantic.”

“Hah, sorry. I’m not the romantic comedy type.”

“Me neither.” She settled in beside him and rested her head
on his shoulder.

They watched the movie in silence, save for a few guffaws
and snickers. Billie hadn’t had her prosthesis off all day. Her stump was
carping at her to air it out, lotion it up, give it a bloody break already. She
shifted and squirmed, tried to scratch without Bruce noticing.

“Does it get itchy a lot?” He leaned forward, slid her skirt
up a few inches and eyed the works of her prosthetic leg.

Her cheeks warmed and she tugged the skirt down.

“Oh, shit, sorry. I didn’t mean anything. Just, you know.”
His entire head turned red and sweat broke out on his brow. “Just curious.” He
wiped his mouth. “Sorry.”

“You can stop saying that, you know.”

“What?”

“Sorry. You say it all the time.” She sighed and pulled her
skirt up at bit. “I’m just not used to people being genuinely interested.
Usually they’re staring or pointing, but not for any good reason.” She glanced
at him. “You want to see?”

He looked at her with such sweetness. No rubbernecker eyes,
just kindness and empathy. Something she hadn’t seen in another’s eyes since
Grandmother passed.

He swallowed. “If you’re okay with it. I do.”

Each bit of her prosthesis she removed, each layer of sock
unrolled, was a strip tease. The most intimate moment of her life. It bordered
on sexy. So why did her stomach churn and leap? She was about to reveal
something few were allowed to see, except doctors and therapists and her
grandmother. And the office staff, but damn, she had to take the thing off
occasionally. After so many years working in close quarters, she felt an odd
familiarity with those jackasses. And sometimes, she just liked to gross them
out.

She pulled off the prosthetic leg and rolled the socks away.
There it was, her naked stump. She watched his face for signs of disgust, for
the fight-or-flight response. Though, where could he flee to? He was already
where he belonged.

But she didn’t see any of that. He looked as curious as he
said he was. He eyeballed her stump, ran his gaze along the scars and stretch
marks from the growth spurts she had through her teens. If he hesitated on the
ugly nubbin of scar tissue, it was probably all in her mind. He showed no
indication of any negative emotion. She smiled on the inside and parked her red
pen for the night.

“How does your leg stay on?”

“It just does.”

“You don’t even limp. Can you run?”

She grinned. “Why don’t you come to the gym with me and
see?”

His face broke out in a big smile. He looked ten years
younger when he was smiling. Better than any face lift, any Botox injection.
“It’s a date.”

Billie stretched and reached for Peg Leg. The pillow was
cool to her touch and empty of her furry companion. Her eyes flew open and she
bolted upright.

Was that bacon?

Sun streamed in through the gauzy curtains of Bruce’s large bedroom.
She found the clock radio. Eight-fifteen.

“Good morning, Billie sunshine.” Bruce came into the room,
freshly showered, his short curls damp. He wore only boxers and a grey T-shirt.
He was laden with a tray, the Sunday paper tucked under one arm, his biceps
prominent, the veins in his forearms bulging.

She pushed herself against the pillows, wiped her fingers
under her eyes, and tried to pat down her morning hair.

He sat on the bed and placed the tray between them. The
newspaper fell onto the comforter. He leaned over it and planted a kiss on her
morning-breath mouth.

Oh, God, why didn’t she carry a spare toothbrush in her
purse?

He settled onto the bed and lifted a napkin from the tray
with a magician’s flair. Ta-da! Underneath the napkin was a large plate with a
mound of scrambled eggs, cheddar melting on top, a pile of buttered toast, jam
on the side in a little bowl with a tiny spoon. And bacon. Lots and lots of
crispy bacon. Could he read her thoughts? She must have told him how much she
loved bacon.

“You cooked breakfast?” The tray held two cups of steaming
coffee.

“Of course. It’s Sunday. That’s always a big breakfast day
for me.” He picked up one of the forks and handed it to her. A red pen rolled
out from beneath the rim of the plate.

She picked it up. “Are we editing justice gone awry this
morning?”

He fit half a strip of bacon into his mouth. “Or doing the
Sunday crossword.” He swallowed. “Or both. Or neither.” He flashed his eyebrows
at her.

She squinted. “Well, I’m starved. And there’s just enough
time to eat and maybe start the crossword before you have to get me home by
nine, as promised.”

“Right. God awaits your presence in His house.” He didn’t
even try to mask his sarcasm.

“You’re not a believer, are you?”

“I’m not sure anymore. I used to be, when I was a kid.
There’s just too much that can’t be explained. Too much bad that, if there
really were a God, He’d prevent.” Bruce ran his hand over the blanket that
covered her amputated leg. “Just too many good people are dealt shitty hands to
think He can be up there watching out for them.”

She shoved a forkful of eggs into her mouth and stared at
him while she chewed and swallowed. “I don’t think His purpose is to keep
everything right.”

Bruce’s eyebrows popped up in surprise. “Then what is it?”

“It’s to give those who are dealt a shitty hand something to
hold onto. Something to prevent themselves from drifting out into a bitter sea
and drowning in their own self-pity. He gives strength to get up every day and
face the crappy truth about life.” She snapped off a bite of bacon between her
teeth. At least the salt and nitrates would camouflage her hangover wine
breath. She chased it with a gulp of sweet, creamy, perfect coffee. “Will you
show me how you make your coffee? Mine sucks.”

He took the cup from her hand and set it on the nightstand,
moved the tray to a long dresser with a mirror hanging above it.

Billie caught a glimpse of her reflection. Hair matted,
pillow seams denting her face. And what little mascara she’d worn the night
before now rested under her eyes and on her cheeks.

Bruce kneeled on the bed and put his fists on the mattress
on either side of her hips. He brought his face an inch from hers. “You, Ms.
Wilhelmina Fullalove, are the most interesting person I’ve ever met.”

Heat rushed to her face. “I doubt that.”

“Believe it.” He kissed her.

She closed her eyes and let the heat spread through her
chest, into her abdomen, and pool in her groin.

He shifted forward and took her into his strong embrace. He
lifted her from the bed and brought her into his lap. The massive T-shirt he
let her wear as a nightgown bunched around her waist.

Her arms floated until they were around his neck. One of his
hands slipped under her T-shirt and ran up the length of her spine, leaving a
trail of gooseflesh in its wake. He held her with one big paw, explored her
skin with the other.

When his fingers grazed the side of her left breast, she
gasped and opened her eyes. He was staring at her, his eyes soft but anxious.
She rested her forehead against his and drew her lips away, gulping for breath
and commanding her heart to stop pounding.