by Julie Frayn
“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.
1993
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.
Saturday and Sunday
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.
