by Julie Frayn
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.”
Janis Jones
JANIS JONES LIT ANOTHER cigarette and blew the smoke at the window. She picked tobacco from her lip and flicked it at the glass. Well, she flicked it at the media scum trampling her lawn. The glass just got in the way. Every time she showed herself they scrambled around like dice in a game of Pop-O-Matic Trouble. Trouble, trouble, that’s the name. But she didn’t want to send these media game pegs back. Even if they were ruining her roses. Leaving the house was out of the question. They’d rip her to pieces, and not just in a metaphorical, thrown-to-the-lions kind of way.
She refused to flinch, to give them what they wanted. For her to fall apart. To show weakness. To confess.
Screw ‘em. Screw ‘em all.
The horizontal blinds crashed against the windowsill. She let the nylon string trail between her fingers and dangle from the valance. She stubbed out her cigarette in a tin ashtray. They could suck on that until the next curtain call, until her next award-winning performance. If they insisted on sticking around, at least she could toy with them. Squeeze every ounce of exposure from her fifteen minutes.
Her third husband put his hands on her shoulders and began to knead the tension from them. She closed her eyes and dropped her chin to her chest. “Oh, bless you.”
He kissed her cheek. “I don’t know why you won’t let me chase them off.”
She shook him off her. He didn’t understand her at all. “They’re insatiable. They’d just come back.”
He sighed and held up his palms. “Fine. Personally, I’d like them off my property. It’s just a moment-by-moment reminder that Ryan is gone. They just won’t let him die.”
“Well, he is dead.” She spat the words at him.
His eyes filled with tears and he balled his fists. “Why’d you leave him in the bathtub alone? How could you turn your back on him? He was only nine months old.” Tears streamed down his pathetic cheeks.
“What are you accusing me of?” She drew back her arm and slapped his face.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his jaw.
She lit another cigarette. “And I told you, the phone rang. I was only gone a few seconds.”
“We have voice mail. You could have let it go to voice mail.” He broke down and sobbed, holding his face in both hands.
She rolled her eyes and checked her watch.
He wiped his nose and shook his head. “You don’t even cry anymore. Hell, you barely cried at all.”
She blinked and pinched herself as hard as she could under her armpit until tears welled up in her eyes. “I’ve cried! You bastard, how dare you?” She stood straighter and jutted out her chin, her indignation growing. “Maybe if you hadn’t marooned us out here in the boonies, it wouldn’t have taken so long for the paramedics to get here. Maybe they could have saved him.” She crossed her arms and smirked. “Maybe it’s your fault he’s dead.”
She looked at him, his dead gaze getting deader by the moment. He was just like the others. No grit. No balls. No fight. Couldn’t handle their evil spawn dying. Like they think part of them died too. They should all just grow the hell up.
He strolled to the bar and poured himself a scotch. Didn’t even offer her anything. Chivalry truly was dead.
“I need a shower.” He turned and headed for the stairs.
Bastards were all the same. They woo her, fawn over her, give her everything her beautiful heart desires. She patted her perfectly coifed hair and blotted her shimmering lips together. She gave them each a child and they adored her even more. Until they held the baby. Then she was just part of the furniture. And as soon as those children were gone, they all went cold.
Is that all she was good for? Fucking and making babies? Being a mommy and a nanny and a nursemaid to those mewling, screaming, bundles of mucous and spew?
She ran a hand over her less-than-taut tummy. She used to have definition. Tone. Now she had stretch marks, love handles, saddlebags. She should have gotten herself fixed. Avoided the whole damn mess. But then they would have left her because she couldn’t pop out their pitiful progeny.
Men. They all sucked.
She parted the blinds with her fingers and peeked out. One of the reporters was having his makeup touched up, a white cloth tucked into his collar to save it from the flesh-coloured powder. He was even more handsome in person than on the screen. She must be huge news if they sent out the big talent.
He glanced at the house and caught her eye.
She raised the blinds, smiled and licked her lips, sucked hard on the end of her cigarette and winked at him.
He grinned, ripped the cloth from his collar and threw it on her lawn, motioned for his cameraman and ran toward the window. “Mrs. Jones!” His voice was just as deep and resonating as on television, even filtered through her double-pane picture window. He stood under the window, stretched the microphone up toward her. “Do you have any comment about the new allegations that you may have murdered your first two children?”
Her eyes became slits and her flirtation withered like trampled roses. She yanked on the cord and let the curtain of blinds come down.
Yep. Bastards were all the same.
Tuesday, June 30th
BILLIE WALKED IN A FOG from the subway to the office. Since meeting Bruce, she’d lost focus on her daily life. Her schedule was muddled, missing the occasional gym day, or going on a Monday thinking it was Tuesday. Her head filled with the touch of his lips to hers, the soft caress of his sturdy hands. The vision of him lounging with Peg Leg kept popping up and blurring the rest of her world. No red ink, just a real vision. A perfect moment. One she wanted to crawl into and stop time so she could live there forever. Without work, without pain, without the torment of other human beings.
And without the possibility of moving her relationship with Bruce into a sexual realm. A realm she yearned for, yet feared.
She was a coward. And ridiculous to boot, wanting to stop time to prevent potential joy, love, promise. Perhaps even ecstasy. Something she’d like to know just once before she died. Pure, unadulterated ecstasy. And not in pill form, thank you very much.
She fantasized about it, but had no real-life frame of reference. Her red ink-marred version of sex soon morphed into a bad movie sex scene. Watching actors fake it onscreen didn’t provide sufficient data. She needed to feel it. Experience it. Live it.
If only she could strip off the damn chicken suit.
The crash of a tin garbage can tipping over shook her from her sexual pondering. She stopped and turned to face the alley, darkened by the shadow of the forty-story building that housed her office. In the dimness, two men towered over a smaller man. One of them held him by the scruff of his collar and jabbed a pointed finger into his chest.
The surroundings closed in around her, her vision focused on the centre, the periphery spinning in a kaleidoscope of light and dark. She was staring down a familiar tube. Dark alley. Angry men. Pain pending.
The thug holding the little guy pushed him to the ground and kicked him in the stomach.
Billie snapped out of her kaleidoscope. It was Jeffrey.
She dug her hand into her purse and dropped her briefcase onto a bag of garbage.
The second thug kneeled on the grimy asphalt and punched Jeffrey in the eye.
“Stop!” She ran toward them, her cell phone in one hand. She’d already dialled and held t
he phone to her ear. Her other hand fingered the can of pepper spray she kept hidden in her pocket.
“Nine-one-one, where is your emergency?”
The men stopped and turned to her. They both stood.
“Alley between Perry Tower and the Dilly Deli on sixth. Gay bashing.”
Jeffrey cowered against the building, his arms shielding his head, his knees drawn up under his chin.
“She called the cops.” One of the men bolted down the alley away from her.
The other ran at her. When he was five feet away, she pulled the can from her pocket, her index finger already on the trigger. She held it up at arm’s length and sprayed a stream of pepper into his face.
He screamed and dropped to the ground. Billie, her heartbeat in her ears, her legs flush with adrenaline, stood over him.
He swiped at his eyes. “You fucking bitch, you blinded me.”
“That was the point.” She put the phone to her ear. “Is someone coming?”
“Yes ma’am, units are en route. Are the attackers still there?”
“One of them. I’ve got him subdued.” Billie placed the foot of her prosthetic leg on his crotch.
He squirmed. “No, don’t do it.”
“That foot has titanium bones. You move, and I crush your sorry balls like robin’s eggs. You hear me?” She applied enough pressure to make her point.
“All right, all right, just — just stop.” He held one hand over his face. His cheeks blossomed in pepper burns. Tears streamed from his eyes and dripped onto the pavement.
“Yeah, you bastard.” Jeffrey had come out of his cocoon and stood beside Billie. He kicked the man in the ribs. The man groaned.
“Jeffrey.” Billie put her hand on his arm. “Don’t. Don’t be like them.” She touched his swollen cheek. “That eye’s going to be a mess.”
“Thank you, Billie.” He rested his forehead on her shoulder and wept.
The man on the ground took his hand away from his face and blinked.
She leaned forward. “One move and I spray you again.” Blood and adrenaline coursed through her. Even her absent shin and foot were alive with power. Justice palpitated her heart. Billie stood a little straighter, shifted her shoulders back, and stuck out her chest. All that was missing were tights and a cape.
“Where the hell have you two been?” Katherine stood, arms crossed, waxed legs shoulder-width apart, stilettos stabbing the carpet.
Jeffrey pointed to his eye.
Katherine’s face contorted, turned crimson, and then softened. “Jeffrey. What happened?” She strode toward him and cupped his chin in her manicured talon, eyed his shiner and the bandage the EMT had taped over an open wound.
“I got jumped in an alley. We had to give statements to the cops. And a totally hot paramedic cleaned me up and disinfected me.”
“That’s horrible!” She turned to Billie. “What’s your excuse? Where’s your mortal wound?”
“Billie saved me. She was amazing. She maced the guy and nearly crushed his man parts under her awesome titanium foot. It was the best thing ever.” Jeffrey reached out and took Billie’s hand. “If it weren’t for her, I might be dead.”
Katherine crossed her arms again. Shields up. “Really? Well, isn’t that … surprising.” She turned to Jeffrey. “Go home for the day. Get some rest.”
He shook his head. “No thanks, I’m not ready for the big, ugly world yet. Can I stay for a while?”
“Of course.” Katherine patted his hand. She turned to Billie. “You’ve got deadlines.” She jerked her head at Billie’s desk, turned, and retreated to her lair.
Jeffrey headed for the kitchenette. “I’m going to get your coffee,” he said over his shoulder.
“You don’t need to do that.”
He stopped and spun around. “Oh, yes I do.” He flashed a toothy grin and disappeared behind the divider.
Billie set her briefcase on her desk and stared out the window. Score one for the good guys.
Throughout the morning, Jeffrey topped up Billie’s coffee four times. Between the afterglow of superhero adrenaline, added caffeine, and his heavy hand with the sugar shaker, her heart was pulsating out of her chest. But she just couldn’t tell him to stop. He even took her to lunch. Not ready to step into the mean streets, as teeming with cutthroat ruffians as he envisioned they were, they stuck to the tiny sandwich shop in the lobby and noshed on soggy tuna salad on rye and limp pickles.
Back at her desk, Billie popped a breath mint into her mouth and shook her mouse until her screen came to life.
A stilted laugh filled the office. Not a genuine laugh, more the kind you allow yourself when you have to laugh even when whatever was said is not the least bit funny. Billie poked her head out of her hole to see the editor of Dreckula with her hand on Katherine’s doorknob.
The woman clicked the door shut and wended her way through the cubicle maze to the exit. She caught Billie watching her, paused and rapped her knuckles on the metal frame of a short divider. “Hey, nice job on those edits.”
The heat rose in Billie’s cheeks. “Thanks. And sorry. I know I’m only a proofreader.”
The woman snorted. “Hell, don’t apologize. Made my job easier. You’ve got quite an eye for fiction. Ever thought of applying to be an editor?”
“As soon as a job comes open, I’ll be all over it.”
“Well, one’s open now.” The woman’s forehead crinkled like a normal person’s. “Didn’t Katherine post it?”
Over the woman’s shoulder, a machine gun appeared and sprayed Katherine’s door with red bullets. “No, she hadn’t mentioned it.”
“Well,” the woman rested her hand on Billie’s shoulder, “I’ll send you the post.” She slid a business card from her jacket pocket, dropped it on the desk and tapped it with one fingertip. “Use me as a reference. You’re a shoo-in.” She winked, turned, and headed for the exit.
The second the door clicked shut, Jeffrey’s head popped out from his hole. He rolled his chair backward, leapt from it, and bolted to Billie’s side. “Did that just happen?”
Billie nodded. “Yeah. I think it did.”
He faux-punched her arm. “A shoo-in, she said.” He giggled and tapped his fingertips together in silent applause. “Are you going for it?”
She glared at the door to Katherine’s den. “I’ve got nothing to lose.”
He punched the air. “Yes! That’ll show her. You should go confront her. Give her what-for.”
Billie nodded. Wisps of mightiness from her morning brush with heroism still pumped through her veins and buoyed her bravado. She pushed away from her desk and stood, patted Jeffrey on the shoulder. “I think I will.” She stormed into Katherine’s office and slammed the door.
Billie stood over Katherine, her fists on the desk, her resolve set. “I want a shot at that promotion.”
Katherine looked at her with the usual disdain. “What promotion?”
Billie slapped the desk. “The one you’re keeping from me. What’s wrong, Katherine, afraid I’ll eclipse you? Afraid I’m better than you? That maybe, one day, I’ll be your boss and treat you like the muck I scrape off the bottom of my shoe?”
Katherine huffed. “Like that could ever happen.” She leaned her elbows on her desk. “I didn’t bother telling you because you’re not ready yet. They’d just toss your application in the slush pile and move on.”
“That’s my choice, not yours.”
Katherine picked up a pencil and leaned back in her chair, tapped the eraser against her cheek. “Fine. You want to embarrass yourself?” She snapped her chair erect and shuffled through a stack of files, pulled a document out and tossed it across the desk. It spun through the air, floated to the floor and landed at Billie’s feet. “Knock yourself out. But here’s the deal. If you don’t get it, you’re fired.”
Billie stooped and retrieved the document. “You can’t fire me for that. I’ll take it to HR if you try.” She shook the pages at her. “But I’m not worried. Because
I’m qualified for this job. And I darn well deserve it.”
She straightened her skirt, spun on her good foot, and left Katherine’s office with quiet dignity, pulling the door shut with a click. She did deserve it. Was qualified for it. But if she didn’t make the cut, could she be fired? Her heart hammered in her throat.
How could she take down a six-foot cretin in an alley and fight for justice one minute, then be scared to death of the plastic gorgon in the corner office the next?
Friday
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.