by Julie Frayn
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.
Monday
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 No5 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.
Thursday the 18th
“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.”
Friday
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 k
nob. 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 rub
bed 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.