Goody One Shoe

by Julie Frayn

  Jeremy reached over Agatha’s shoulder and shoved the microphone away. Her lawyer held up his hands. “Mrs. Friesen has no other comments. Please, let us through.”

  The lawyer dove into the mosh pit of reporters with Agatha in his considerable wake. Jeremy fell in behind to protect her from the rear. Every few steps his pants-bulge bumped into her ass. She struggled to maintain a straight face, but couldn’t prevent the heat from rising in her cheeks. At the curb, a black limousine idled. The lawyer opened the door. Agatha climbed in, then Jeremy clamoured over top of her. The lawyer put his foot in the car.

  Agatha thrust her arm out and peered up at him. “Oh no you don’t. You take a cab.” She reached for Jeremy with her other hand and cupped his bulge. “We’ve got some private celebrating to do.” She pushed the lawyer and yanked the door shut.

  June 12th, Friday

  THE EYELINER PENCIL SAILED through the air, landed on the floor and rolled behind the toilet. Hands on hips, Billie glared at her reflection in the mirror.

  Gosh darn, dang it, damn, shit, fuck.

  She plucked two Kleenex from their cheerful sunflower-clad box, dripped baby oil onto them, and wiped her third attempt at makeup from her eyes.

  How did women do this every day? She glared at the mirror before glancing at the reflected digits of the alarm clock on her nightstand. Six-ten. Only fifty more minutes. Her first date.

  Ever.

  She closed her eyes, grasped the sink’s edge, and swallowed a bit of vomit. No way. Not happening. She would not let herself screw this up.

  Her stomach calmed and she opened her eyes. Should she tell him it’s her first real date? Would the world’s oldest virgin scare him off? She raised one eyebrow. Surely there were bigger losers in the world than she. More outcasts and scaredy cats among the billions on this planet.

  She glanced at the eyeliner on the floor, examined the brown line of it on the side of her nose. She wiped it off, heaved a huge sigh, and picked up the shadow.

  She coaxed a small amount of taupe powder onto the brush and blew on it with a gentle exhale. So far so good. She closed her eyes and pulled up the memory of the woman at the cosmetics counter who’d sold her this glop all those years back. Her one attempt to be pretty, an unexpected and unwelcome desire that reached up and grabbed her by the throat. She’d never cared about pretty before. She’d only strived for normal. But the disaster with the kitten-heeled prosthetic the night she found Peg Leg was so disheartening, had so effectively underscored her utter failure, that she hadn’t even opened the bag. Hadn’t practiced what the woman with the painted lips and penciled brow and glued-on lashes, like so many spider legs screaming for emancipation from her purple-lined eyelids, had shown her. The makeup sat at the back of the bathroom drawer where she’d pitched it.

  She eyed the brush. Does makeup have a best-before date?

  Too late to worry about that. She feathered the brush across her right eyelid, dragged the subtle shade up toward the end of her brow. Not too shabby. She repeated the procedure on the left side. An avowed righty, she struggled to match the path of the shadow. Not horrible. Not perfect. But close enough.

  She picked up the dreaded eyelash curler and brought it to her face, her hand trembling. She managed to straddle her lash line with the open implement, then squeeze it shut. “Holy shit!” She snapped the wretched thing open and pulled it from her face, certain it had ripped all of her lashes out by the root. She eyed the foam between the curved metal bits. Only two lashes sacrificed to the jaws of beauty.

  She shook her head. One more time, other side. Her hand shook when she brought the miniature torture device closer to her eye. She fumbled, it flipped into the air, ricocheted off the mirror and crash-landed in the sink.

  Lashes would remain uncurled.

  She coated her lashes with a fine layer of brown mascara. The painted sales clerk tried to convince her to go with sparkly amethyst shadow and blacker-than-black eyeliner and lash goo to “bring out the lovely green flecks in her eyes.” Oh, brother. Taupe and brown were as far as Billie was willing to go.

  She picked up the lipstick tube and twisted the rocket of greasy pink out of its faux gold case. She sniffed it and recoiled. It smelled of her mother. The Saturday nights out, the two-in-the-morning bed checks when her breath was sweet with too much alcohol. She’d awaken Billie, sit on the edge of her bed, tell her how much she loved her, and kiss her with red lipsticked lips. The smell of it, the chemical taste, the stain of it on Billie’s own lips, brought all the feelings rushing back. Embarrassment in the privacy of her own bedroom. Confusion at how different her mother was in the middle of the night after too many Manhattans, too sappy, too maudlin, too stinky. Billie preferred the Wednesday morning mother, bright and cheerful and fueled with black coffee, flipper of flapjacks, and giver of hugs in the sunshine of the breakfast nook. Until black coffee came with a splash of whiskey. Then all love was lost.

  Billie returned the offending pink grease to its cave, capped it, and tossed the whole thing into the trash. A thin layer of petroleum jelly was all she ever needed. Lips were already pink, after all.

  She surveyed the result, turned her head side to side and pursed her lips. She didn’t look like the hookers on third, nor like the old ladies who couldn’t see just how blue and thick their eye shadow was. Billie looked like herself. With a tiny improvement.

  Baby steps.

  She dragged a brush across her scalp, along the length of her brown hair to the ends that hovered just above her waistline. Her mother said it was like flowing gravy. The most delicious au jus. Billie just saw dog shit and a river of dried muck. But when it wasn’t tethered into a high ponytail and wrapped into a constricted bun, it did catch the light in a lovely way.

  She gathered her hair in her fist, yanked it behind her head, and reached for the elastic next to the collection of bobby pins. She hesitated for a second, then let the tresses go. They framed her face and draped across her breasts. Maybe, for once, it was time to let them run free.

  She slid on her glasses and eyed her look. Beige cardigan over a black blouse tucked into a brown skirt that hung just past the knee. Nothing clinging, nothing tight. Not much to prove she was even a woman. She sighed. It would have to do. It was her best outfit.

  Lined up on her bed were all of her prosthetics. Well, the date-worthy ones. She certainly had no need for a running blade. She ran a finger along the toes of each one, her fist in front of her mouth. Should she dare the kitten heel? Stick to the flat foot her stump was already snug inside of?

  She bent over and looked at her bare feet, wiggled the toes that would wiggle. She balanced on tiptoes of her real foot, the fake one hanging there, ninety degrees to the carpet, like a sledgehammer. Or an anchor. Dynamic response or not, the damn thing wasn’t real.

  She imagined the heel on her prosthetic foot caught in a sidewalk grate, Bruce to her rescue, yanking on her fake leg, his arm around her waist, her hand on his shoulder for balance. Kind of romantic. Until her red pen appeared and scribbled a word bubble over Bruce’s head. “If you’d just watch where you’re going.” A word bubble appeared above hers. “Shut up and yank it out already.” She struck out romantic and wrote in comedic.

  There it was, her life in edits. Ludicrous. Farcical. Painful.

  Her hair swung in front of her face and she inhaled a strand into her nostril. She sneezed and lost her balance, stepped flat on the floor. The hair tickled her nose and she swiped it away. Not ready for heels. Not ready for hair freedom. She was going to need a lot of practice.

  She tied her hair into a low side ponytail, split the difference between control and whimsy. It was out of her face, but securely tethered. Only tickling the edge of freedom and hugging her curves. Or at least, hugging the clothing that did a fine job of hiding those curves.

  Billie pulled her best flats from the closet, the patent black ones with a silver buckle and satin bow through them. She fit her prosthetic foot into the right one, and slid the other
shoe onto her real foot. She hooked her purse over her shoulder, tugged her skirt straight, and smoothed her hair.

  A date. With a real man. Not one borne of her imagination. Not one she edited into her life on the subway, or in line at the grocery store. Not one drawn from red ink, improved by red ink, made taller, more handsome, and wittier than is possible in real life. No, Bruce was an honest-to-goodness man. At least, that’s what she hoped he was. Honest and good.

  Billie stood at the corner and waited for the walk light to turn.

  Bruce was on the other side of the street in front of the theatre, his hands in his pockets. The evening sun cast him in a golden glow. He checked his watch, wiped sweat from this brow.

  Was he nervous? Or was it just the heat?

  He buried his paws in the pockets again, and scanned the street. His gaze passed right over her. On his second sweep, he passed her by again, twitched, and snapped his head back around. His lips parted and his teeth gleamed through. Without taking his eyes off her, he pushed the walk button repeatedly, as if that would make the light change faster.

  When the little white walking man lit up, Billie stepped into the crosswalk with a small swarm of humanity. One guy bumped her and rushed past, not even bothering to apologize. Strikethrough humanity with the sweep of imaginary red ink. It was a small swarm of two-legged carbon life forms. And one one-legged one.

  Bruce grasped the arm of the bumping man on the other side of the street and growled something in his ear. The man turned, his face crimson, his eyes darting in all directions. “I — I’m sorry miss. Didn’t see you there.”

  Bruce let his arm go and held his hand out to Billie. “How can you miss someone this lovely? Time to look up, sir.”

  Billie’s cheeks warmed. She took Bruce’s hand and nodded at the bumping man.

  Bruce opened the door for her and ushered her inside.

  “Thanks for that.” Billie urged the blood to drain from her face. “But you don’t need to rescue me. I’ve done all right so far.”

  “Don’t need to.” He put his hand inside hers without asking. “But I want to. As long as you’re not offended by it.”

  She’d never been so unoffended in her whole life.

  He bought her popcorn and soda. Held the theatre door open for her. Allowed her to go ahead of him into the aisle. He never treated her like a cripple. Didn’t suggest they stick to the first level and avoid the stairs. He was all the best parts of any man she’d met all rolled into one. If only he didn’t smoke, he’d be perfect.

  During the movie, he rested his arm on the back of her chair. He never tried to kiss her, to grope her. Not that anyone else had ever tried before. Her red pen appeared and dragged his hand onto her shoulder, moved the popcorn bucket to his lap so she’d have to reach over and dig in. The pen turned his head and leaned it in. A “Kiss me” word bubble popped up.

  He turned and looked at her. “Everything okay?”

  She glanced around, her mouth parted, her heart pounding in her chest. She swallowed. “Yeah, fine. I was going to make a comment on the movie, but I forget what it was.”

  He leaned in. “We can dissect it over coffee.” He turned back to the screen, picked the popcorn bucket up from her lap, took a handful, and set it back down.

  All she’d ever wanted was a gentleman. Now it appeared that she had one. So why did she want so badly for him to be a little less gentle?

  Bruce opened the door of the coffee shop. A bell jangled to announce their arrival. A lone barista looked up and smiled. “Welcome! What can I get you?”

  Billie asked for black coffee, Bruce got some kind of vanilla-flavoured milky girly drink. He offered for her to choose a pastry, but she declined. He insisted they at least share one. She couldn’t decide and wouldn’t be so bold as to choose. So he did. A thick slice of lemon loaf.

  Bruce gathered up their late-evening snacks and led Billie to a spot in the corner. He set the cups down on the table, his on the side with his back against the wall.

  Bruce made small talk, where you from, favourite colour, what’s your sign. All the clichéd banter that Billie had assumed was more urban legend than actual dating practice. An awkward silence descended between them. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, glanced out the window. Billie mostly looked at her coffee cup.

  “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 ch
air 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.