Goody One Shoe (9 page)

“Billie what?” The sonorous tones of his hardy voice broke
the silence.

She raised her eyeballs and furrowed her brows. “Pardon?”

“I don’t know your last name.”

“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “Fullalove.”

He pursed his lips. “Wilhelmina Fullalove. That’s quite a
mouthful. What’s your middle name, Supercalliffragilistic?”

She giggled, rolled her eyes, and covered her mouth to make
it stop. “It’s Angelina. My dad used to call me Billie Angel.”

His face contorted as if laughter was forthcoming. Or tears.
“Wilhelmina Angelina Fullalove? Man, I thought I had it bad.”

She faux-slapped his hand. “How about you? Bruce what?”

“Montoya.”

She cocked her head, her mouth askew. “What’s your middle
name, Inigo?”

Bruce grimaced. “Yeah, I get that a lot. But no, just Bruce Adam
Montoya.”

The awkwardness descended once again. Bruce eyeballed the
scenery outside the window. Billie drew invisible patterns on the handle of her
coffee cup.

He put his palms on the table and pushed himself part way to
his feet. “I’m going to grab a paper. I didn’t have time for it this morning.
There’s still a couple left.” He left a swirl of smoky cologne-filled air in
his wake.

He wanted to read a newspaper? In the middle of a date?
Billie slid down in her seat. First date ever and she was killing it. Not in
that good, slang, “killin’ it, baby” kind of way. No, she was letting it die a
slow, painful death right before her eyes. She drew a knife with her mental red
pen, brought it down on the table until the blade penetrated the cutesy
wannabe-Greek-bistro tiles. It was the sword in the dating stone. But she
didn’t have the magical powers to pull it free and rule the dating land.

A newspaper landed atop her imaginary knife, which evanesced
into the dark-roast-scented ether.

“You got your red pen?” His eyebrows bounced up and down.

“Sorry?”

“I figure we could edit a few endings. Thanks to you, I
can’t read any article the way it was written. I’m imagining a red pen in my
hand, editing out the crap and adding the ending I want. A good ending. A just
ending, if you know what I mean.”

One side of her mouth curled up. A just ending. Yes, she
understood him exactly. “Really?”

He nodded.

She fished two red pens from her purse. Her heart pattered
about her chest cavity, bounding with excitement. She bordered on gleeful. Not
only was he rugged and strong, sturdy and ruddy, he was of like mind. How rare
that must be, to find someone just as off, just as touched.

Just as normal.

“Do you fix grammar and spelling?” She handed him a pen.

He roared a giant laugh. His breath was sweet with vanilla.
“I’ll leave that to the professionals.” He took the pen with one hand and
placed his other hand over hers. “I’m having a wonderful time with you, Billie.”
He crunched his face up and shut his eyes. “Wow, how lame did that sound?” His
easy laugh bellowed from deep inside him.

She added her other hand to the knot of knuckles in the
middle of the table. “Not lame. I’m having a wonderful time with you, too.”

Bruce squeezed and leaned his body toward her. A tiny
gesture, but a lean all the same. He held her in his gaze for longer than she
had ever felt comfortable before, squeezed again and released her hands. “Okay,
what dastardly crimes against justice can we put right tonight?” He spread the
newspaper open. “Maybe you need to come closer. You know, so one of us doesn’t
have to read upside down.” A tinge of pink crept into his face.

Billie nodded. “Yes, upside down is so annoying.” She
dragged her chair to the other side of the table and sat. A shock of static
sparked between them when her skirt brushed his pants. Billie jumped. Bruce
laughed. She settled into her chair and allowed her thigh to rub against his.
The tiny chairs did nothing to reign in his girth. Warmth spread from that
point of connection, crawled down her right leg and pooled in her stump. Her
fingers faltered and the pen flipped in the air and landed on the page. She
giggled.

Where had this giggle come from? Before she met Bruce, she
hadn’t giggled since she was ten.

Bruce put his right arm around the back of her chair and
picked up the pen. He was a lefty. She hadn’t noticed that before. They scanned
the headlines, flipped the pages. It would appear that Thursday had been a slow
news day. Then there it was, deep in the society page. Murder. Or the
appearance of it. The whisper of it. Only rumours and unproven suspicions. The
justice system had put the widow, Agatha Friesen, on trial for conspiracy to
commit murder. The jury hung. At a second trial, a new group of her peers found
her not guilty. Perhaps that was the problem with the justice system. Peers.
Peer pressure. Too much emphasis on the rights of the accused at the utter
denial and expense of any rights for the victim.

With double jeopardy firmly attached, the widow was free to
take up with a younger man — one the prosecution had claimed was in on the
conspiracy. She was free to spend her inheritance and the life insurance money,
since her husband was the last living member of his family and there was no one
to challenge the will.

Billie put her red pen to the page. Time to fix that.

With the widow’s proper fate carefully etched in red ink,
the date ended with a promise to go out again the following Friday.

“It could be our regular thing,” he said. “If you want it to
be.”

Her cheeks warmed and she glanced at her feet. “I’d like
that.” She tried not to sound too eager, but probably failed at that too, with her
head bobbing yes faster than her mouth could demurely concur. Of course she wanted
it to be a regular thing. Recurring human contact. The pleasant kind. Not that
Peg Leg wasn’t good company. And maybe if he spoke actual words and said all of
the things that her mental red pen said for him, that would be enough.

No. No it wouldn’t.

Bruce held her hand in his strong grip. She felt safe with
him, but free at the same time. Like a leash she could take off whenever she
needed to.

He walked her to her building, kissed her cheek under the
streetlight, and waited until she waved from her third floor walk-up before
lumbering up the street to the nearest subway station.

She sat at the window, her forehead against the cool pane,
and watched until the last tendril of his lengthy shadow disappeared from her
view.

BILLIE SLID HER CHROME-PLATED
letter opener under the flap, all sealed shut with some stranger’s spit. She
used to use her finger until the day she sliced the tip open with that spitty
sliver of transformed tree, ripe with foreign DNA. What kind of disease had she
introduced into her bloodstream?

Some schmuck in the office was whistling a disagreeably
catchy tune. She slipped a letter from the envelope, unfolded the sheet and
hesitated, the page held mid-air, her lips pursed.

It was her. She was the whistling schmuck. She smiled,
nodded, and resumed her rendition of
Happy
by Pharrell Williams, amping
up the volume.

Her weekend had been filled with editing Annabelle’s
manuscript, treadmill running, and weight training. And shopping. She bought a
new dress, new shoes. Even a pair of boot cut jeans, tight in the butt with
legroom for her prosthesis. Her ass looked great in them. And she bought a
cookbook. She spent Sunday teaching herself the fine art of roasting chicken
and mashing potatoes. It wasn’t great, burned skin and dry meat and lumpy
potatoes. But it was a start.

“You’re awfully cheery this morning.”

She shut her eyes. The happy whistle died on her lips. “What
do you want, pest?”

“Why are you always so mean to me?” The whine of his voice
made her ears ache.

She cracked her neck and turned to the little weasel.
“You’re kidding me, right?” A red knife sliced through the air and stabbed
Jeffrey in the eye. Ink blood spewed from the wound and his mouth became a
surprised O. Her inner bitch smiled. “You are never nice to me. You poke fun at
my prosthesis. You annoy the snot out of me constantly. And you never miss an
opportunity to rat me out to Katherine, even when there’s nothing to rat on.”
The pen added whiskers and a pointy nose to his already mousy face.

“Well, I can’t help it. That — thing — is always there,
staring at me.” He scratched his whiskers. “It’s icky.”

“Icky?” She swiveled her chair and yanked up her skirt.
“It’s my leg, you dolt.” She knocked on the prosthesis. “Just metal and rubber
and plastic. How is that icky?”

“Not the fake part. The real part. Underneath.” He shifted
on his feet and scanned the room.

“You can’t see that part. And don’t worry, I’ll keep it
under wraps in the office. Don’t want to harm your delicate sensibilities. Give
you more fodder to stoke Katherine’s obvious hatred of me.”

Jeffrey snorted. “Hatred? You idiot, she doesn’t hate you.”

Billie squinted. “What are you talking about?”

He leaned in. “She doesn’t hate you. I mean, she doesn’t
like
you. But mostly, she’s afraid of you.”

Billie crossed her arms over her chest. “Give me a break.
Afraid of what?”

“All that affirmative action crap head office is spewing.
They want to make a show of how progressive they are. They want to move some
handicaps up the ladder.”

Billie looked askance at his rodent face. “Well, there’s the
problem.”

Jeffrey cocked his head and raised his eyebrows.

She shoved her skirt down. “I’m not handicapped.” She
swiveled the chair and faced her computer.

“Suit yourself. But you’re missing an opportunity. That
vampire writer, the typing guy, he liked your edits.” He bent over and put his
pointed nose near her face. “And so did the editor,” he whispered.

Billie’s heart hammered. They liked her work? Katherine was
stonewalling her. That bitch. She squinted. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Maybe one day you can repay the favour.” He leaned in. “And
I like to stir the pot.” He tossed his head back and spewed a whiny, wimpy
snicker.

Taffy’s squeaking yip was like an air raid siren. Warning,
Katherine incoming! Duck and cover! Any other day, Billie would have crawled
under the desk until the danger had passed. But today she was pissed. She
donned her best glare and eyed Katherine’s daily catwalk. A red pen jumped up
and drew a leg jutting out from Jeffrey’s hole. Katherine’s four-inch Christian
Louboutins, the disgusting cowhide stilettos with actual cow’s hair still
attached and dyed to look like an executed zebra, caught on the leg and she
landed on her red-ink ass on the Berber.

Katherine strode by with her practiced model’s gait. She
ignored Billie except for one fleeting flick of her azure-contact-lensed eyes.
A whiff of Chanel N
^o
5 tickled the tip of Billie’s nose. When
Katherine passed, a red butcher’s knife protruded from between her shoulder
blades.

Billie boiled in her seat. If the editor liked her work, the
author liked her work, and head office was looking for poor, needy, handicapped
folk to promote, then Billie was going to damn well get promoted. She just had
to figure out how to get past the gatekeeper. How to slay the corporate
Cerberus and lop off all three of her two-faced heads.

“I HAD A DATE.”

Doc Frost raised both eyebrows. That was a first. Billie had
surprised and impressed her in one four-word sentence. “A date? With subway
Batman?”

Billie snorted. “With Bruce, yes.”

“Well,” Doc leaned back and donned the practiced
finger-tented pose, “that’s progress. How was it?”

“It was lovely. Quiet. A movie and coffee. He’s a perfect
gentleman.” Billie couldn’t meet Doc’s eyes. Didn’t want to blurt out all the
private thoughts she’d been having, all the times she’d copulated with Bruce in
her mind. Of course, in those life-edits, she had two real legs. Doc might
think she was even more bat-guano crazy.

“So?” Doc spread her palms wide and plastered a question
mark on her face. “Will there be more?”

Billie nodded, her cheeks warm. “Tomorrow night. Dinner.”

“Excellent!”

Billie’s laughter spurt from her mouth like the bark of a
trained seal. Doc had never been so loud, so exuberant. “So glad you’re
pleased.”

“Well, I am. This is a huge step, Billie. Huge.”

Billie grabbed the pillow into her lap and hugged it to her
belly. “No pressure or anything.”

“Sorry. How about church? Have you been since our last
meeting?”

“Both Sundays.” Though she could barely sit through an
entire service and skipped the weekly glad-handing in the foyer.

“Also excellent. Have you had any more instances of
dissociative fugue? Wake up anywhere unexpected?”

“Not a once.” Well, how easy had that lie been? Billie had
considered telling Doc of the morning panhandling scene. But she was certain it
was an anomaly. Like the near-jump from the fire escape. Coincidence. Like the
clowns.

Doc nodded. “That’s good news. Maybe we can hold off on the
meds then. Keep up with therapy. But I am worried about your safety. It would
be nice if you had a roommate to keep an eye on you.”

“Well, I only have Peg Leg and that’s not about to change
anytime soon. I’m fine, Doc. It was just a little sleepwalking.” She nodded as
if trying to convince herself.

Doc looked skeptical. “Let’s hope so.”

BILLIE TUGGED ON THE
brass
knob and turned the key in the deadbolt at the same time. The trick to getting
the door open — pull and turn. If she didn’t do it just right, the bolt
wouldn’t slide all the way and she’d have to do it repeatedly. Wintertime was
the worst, when the drafts in the hall dropped the temperature to five degrees
and the door warped, its frozen front and its toasty back at odds with the
jamb. But this was a warm spring. The bolt slid into place.

She stood with her hand on the knob. The steady flow of
Bruce’s breath became loud in her ear. Was he nervous too? She shot a look over
her shoulder. “I haven’t had anyone up in quite a while.”

He put one hand around her waist and turned her to face him.
“If you’d like to take a rain check, I’m cool with that.” His fingers brushed
hair from her cheek.

For their second Friday date, he’d taken her to dinner.
Thai, her favourite. Though he hadn’t known that. Some little hole in the wall
in the ‘burbs he discovered a couple years back when overseeing construction of
a residential development. He picked her up in his black Tahoe. Clean as a
whistle in the cab. Construction nightmare of hard hats, clipboards, rolls of
blue prints, and a mass of empty takeout containers in the back.

She shook her head. “No, I’d like you to come in. I might
have some wine.” She smiled, reached behind her back, and turned the knob.

Inside, she slipped off her one shoe, bent, and pried the
other from her prosthetic foot. Bruce took his shoes off with the toe of one
shoe against the heel of the other. That explained the scuff marks on the
backs.

“Have a seat.” Billie opened the fridge and pulled out a
bottle of wine. “Do you like Riesling?”

“I like anything.”

She turned to find Bruce reclining on her sofa, his feet on
her coffee table. Peg Leg was sprawled across his lap, tummy in the air. Bruce
petted and rubbed the cat, cooed at him. Peg Leg licked his fingers. Any ill
ease or jitters she’d had about him being in her home dissolved at the sight of
her best friend’s eyes, just slits of pleasure. Her red pen popped up but she
tossed it aside. This was a rare perfect moment and she didn’t want to mess
with it.

She placed two glasses of chilled wine on the coffee table
and eased onto the other end of the sofa. Peg Leg stretched his inky bulk and
tugged at her skirt with one paw. She reached over and stroked the soft fur
between his ears.

“He’s a great cat. What’s his name?”

“Peg Leg.”

Bruce snorted, scratched under Peg Leg’s armpits, ran his
hands over the cat’s hind leg, then rubbed his stump. “How’d it happen?”

“I don’t know.” She patted the knee of her amputated leg.
“This is how we found each other.”

Bruce grinned, his gaze locked on Peg Leg. “Kismet. You were
meant to be together.”

She couldn’t take her eyes from his rough-hewn face, from
the scars that others might think marred him, lessened his ruddy handsomeness.
To Billie, every scar enhanced his uniqueness. Made him stand out. Added to his
charm.

His many, many charms.

She reached out and ran one finger along the longest mark.

His face relaxed and a grin crept up on his lips. He kept
his eyes on the cat.

The scar started under his left eye, ran the length of his
cheekbone and disappeared into his hairline at the temple. It wasn’t deep or
even easily visible. Just a wisp of a white line, a cobweb of a scar. She
wanted to kiss every millimetre of it. “What happened?”

“Just one of far too many fights. Guy cut me with a razor.”
He took her fingers from his face and kissed them. “I used to be an asshole,
Billie. A big one.”

“How so?”

He sighed and slid down in the seat. “Those thugs on the
subway? The high school boys? That was me. I did too many drugs, pushed my luck
one too many times. And ended up in the hoosegow for my juvenile delinquent
efforts.”

“What charge?”

He cut his eyes to her face. “Public intoxication. Drunk and
disorderly. Possession. And the cherry on top of the idiot-sundae — I took a
swing at a cop. A solid uppercut to the jaw. His partner took me to the ground
and laid the boots to me good.”

“They aren’t allowed to do that.”

“What they are supposed to do and what they actually do are
usually not connected. But shit, I deserved it. I was high and had a knife in
my pocket. If he hadn’t stopped me, hell, I might have stuck the guy.”

“Do you think so?”

He shifted and turned to face her. “Like I said, big fat
asshole.” He rubbed his fingers on the sleeve of her cardigan. “I’d understand
if you didn’t want to hang around with me anymore.”

“Because of the you who doesn’t exist anymore? You seem
pretty decent now.” She wanted to wrap him in her arms, stroke his head and
tell him how wonderful he was. Instead she took his hand in hers. “I think you
should forgive yourself. Seems that we wouldn’t need to edit this story if we’d
found it in the newspaper. You paid for your crime. Maybe even a couple you
didn’t get charged with. And you turned your life around.” She raised one
eyebrow and pursed her lips. “You did turn it around, right? No more drugs, no
more concealed weapons or pokes at the po-po?”

Bruce let his laughter fill her apartment. “No more of that
shit. I’m older. Wiser.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe you just said
po-po.”

She clamped her lips together but couldn’t keep the laughter
in. It snorted from her mouth and her nose at the same time. Bruce’s body shook
with amusement. Peg Leg hissed and jumped from the sofa, curled up on his bed
beside the radiator and glared at them for interrupting his stump rub.

Bruce slid across the thick, black denim of her sofa. He put
his hand behind her waist and leaned his face toward hers.

Her heart nearly stopped dead. Sweat broke out on her palms
and she fought the urge to push him away and flee. She’d been waiting for this
moment. Craved the chance to kiss him. She held her breath and closed her eyes.

The first, tentative touch of his lips against hers sent a
thunderbolt aching through her chest. She could hear the pounding of her heart
and feel the blood thump through her veins. Heat spread through her body and
pooled in her lap. Pressure built in her bladder.

She put her hand against his chest and drew away. “I need to
pee.” She jumped up and bolted to the bathroom, closed the door, and leaned her
back against it. She put her hands to her face. “Damn, damn, damn.” She looked
in the mirror. “Did I just say pee?”

What the hell was wrong with her? She should have crushed
her lips to his. Stuck her tongue in his mouth. Ran her hands all over him and
held him against her body. But she just couldn’t bring herself to do it.

That sealed it. She was a total chicken shit.

“Billie?” A light tap at the door. “Are you okay? I pushed
my luck, didn’t I?”

She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt. “I’m fine. I’ll be
right out.” Her eyes darted around the room. She flushed the empty toilet,
wiped flakes of mascara from under her eyes. She splashed cool water on her
cheeks and washed her hands, put her hand on the knob, took a deep breath, and
opened the door.

Bruce waited on the other side, his face flushed, his gaze
at his feet. “Look, I’m sorry. I’ll just leave.” He looked up and took a step
toward her. “I like you, Billie. A lot. You’re very … unusual. In a wonderful
way. And I don’t want to lose your friendship.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’ll let myself out.” He turned away.

“Wait. Don’t go.” She took his hand. “I have to confess
something.”

“Confess?” He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not like, half guy
or anything are you? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, just not my
thing.” One side of his mouth curled up. “Then again, for you, I could give it
a try.”

She shook her head and grinned on the inside. “Nothing like
that.” She led him to the sofa. “I’m sorry for running away. I got scared.” She
couldn’t meet his eyes. Had no clue where to look, so she fell into old habits
and stared at her lap. “I’ve never really been kissed before.” She closed her
eyes and waited for the taunting jibes to fly.

“Never?” He cupped her chin in his hand and lifted her head
until she looked him in the eye. “Billie, have you never been with a man?”

Tears sprang to her eyes and she sniffed. She shook her
head.

He slumped back into the sofa. His lips clamped together and
his cheeks bulged. His breath expelled from his mouth like someone had popped
his cheek balloons. He rubbed his palm over the top of his head. “Wow. That’s
huge. I had no idea, really. If I had,” he sat up straight and took her hand,
“I would never have been so damn presumptuous.”

“You don’t want to run screaming from the building?” She
searched his eyes for the truth.

“Run? Hell no. Like I said, I like you. A lot. A whole
freaking lot.” He took her hands and lifted them to his mouth, kissed her
fingertips. An easy gesture, and one she was fast growing comfortable with. Why
did his lips on hers scare her so much? He looked so wide-eyed and vulnerable.
Shields down. Open to attack.

She put one hand to his cheek and stroked his pocked skin.
She swallowed, inched her body closer to him, and brought her face just an inch
from his. “I’m ready. I am. I just panicked.” She swallowed three times. “Can I
kiss you?” she whispered.

He smiled and his eyes softened. “You bet you can.”

He didn’t make a move, just sat there like a stone. He let
her take charge, go at her pace. Were all men like this? So kind and
understanding? She doubted it. Hell, she knew for a fact they weren’t.

She placed her palm flat on his chest and neared his lips,
their warmth touching hers before their skin met. The wine on his breath made
her stomach lurch but the beat of his heart under her hand calmed her. She
closed her eyes. When their lips came together, a smaller thunderbolt raced
through her. She rested there, in kissing stasis. A contact coma.

And still, he waited for her.

She opened her eyes to find his open and staring. That was
the moment, the catalyst. The sign. She parted her lips and tilted her head as
she’d watched other women do, on television, in the movies, on the street
corner.

Bruce moved his lips, gently and tenderly, never forcing her
to do more. His arm found its way around her waist and tugged her closer.

She didn’t resist. Didn’t want to run away. Her chest ached,
her heartbeat staccato, disjointed from the pulse in her ears. She dropped her
hand from his chest and placed it behind his neck, her other arm under his,
around his body. She moved closer until their chests were snug against one
another.

They remained there, locked in a sweet, slow kiss for more
seconds than she dared to count.

She broke the spell, released her embrace, and dropped her
chin to her chest. She smiled.

He stroked her hair. “We will take this as slowly as you
want, Billie. Like a glacier. Like continental drift.” He kissed her forehead.
“You set the pace. I’m in no rush.”