by Cutter, Leah
“Open, yes?” Lee asked, looking at Gabriella. “At least for now.”
“Yes, please.” Gabriella appreciated, yet again, Lee’s incredible thoughtfulness, anticipating her needs. She was so new to this. She’d had exactly two dates before this, and both had failed miserably.
Maybe the third time could be the charm.
Dinner progressed easily—conversation flowing from one topic to the next. Gabriella couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so much or smiled so hard.
About halfway through the evening, Lee got up to use the restroom. When he came back, he sat closer to Gabriella: close enough to press their near legs together from ankle to knee. He started a running commentary about…something.
Gabriella tried not to stiffen, to show the shock she felt. But before Lee could move away, she deliberately pressed back, applying pressure with her ankle. She’d never done this before, but she wanted it to continue.
They used Gabriella’s car service for the ride home. As soon as they slid into the back seat Lee put his hand, palm up, on his thigh: an invitation.
Gabriella was amazed at how patiently Lee waited—almost half the ride—before she shyly intertwined their fingers.
When the car took a curve fast enough to sway their bodies closer, so their knees touched, Gabriella leaned even closer and whispered, “I’ve never done this before.”
Lee squeezed her hand. “We have time. You’re also a quick study.”
Gabriella laughed softly, but stayed pressed against him.
When they arrived at Lee’s house, he leaned closer still and chastely kissed the side of her mouth.
Gabriella’s throat went dry. She couldn’t think of what to say.
“Can we do this again?” he asked.
Numbly she nodded.
“You want to make the next plans? Or should I?”
“I will.” Gabriella wasn’t sure where she found her voice, or what shook her out of her statue-like phase. She squeezed Lee’s hand tightly one last time before she let him leave.
The ride home passed in a daze. It wasn’t until Gabriella had to walk again that everything faded to black and white.
How could she ever show him all of her?
* * *
Gabriella left school during the middle of finals when she learned Mama was dying. Her professors all assured her that she could make up the exams. Gabriella thanked them with warmth she didn’t feel; the world had gone flat when she’d heard the news.
The trip to Spain took forever. Gabriella curled up in the window seat, wore her sunglasses the entire time, and pretended she wasn’t crying. The pressure changes brought a physical pain to her clogged sinuses that she welcomed: It didn’t feel right to hurt this much without her body actually aching.
Mama looked sallow under the white bedsheets, her glossy black hair more streaked with gray than Gabriella remembered. Mama’s collarbones stood out like a fashion model’s, and her cheeks lay sunken against her skull.
“You didn’t need to come,” Mama scolded upon seeing her.
Gabriella shrugged. “I wanted to see you anyway.” She’d been planning on coming during summer vacation.
“The doctors worry too much. It’s just a cold. I’ll be out before you leave.” Mama squeezed Gabriella’s hand. The sickness had stolen her usually tight grip, leaving it butterfly soft. “But it must have been His plan for you to come.”
“Please, Mama,” Gabriella said, slipping her hand away.
“He has a plan for you.”
“No, Mama, he doesn’t.”
“Your father doesn’t see what we see,” Mama confided suddenly. “But we see the truth. Not him. And so there’s a plan, yes.”
A nurse coming in to ask them what they’d like for dinner saved Gabriella from arguing further. Mama fell asleep soon afterward, with Gabriella promising she’d be there in the morning.
Gabriella should have extracted the same promise from Mama, who fell into a coma that night and never woke up, leaving Gabriella to state that whatever plan God had, leaving her motherless at the age of twenty didn’t seem like a good strategy.
That night, Gabriella dreamed of falling, as she generally did. Only this time she fell from the garden walls outside the compound where she’d grown up. The fall was short and, this time, snakes in the bushes had woven themselves into a net to catch her.
* * *
Lee and Gabriella went to the opera, to Broadway musicals and hole-in-the-wall theatres. They dined in the kitchen of four-star restaurants—the chef’s table—as well as ate greasy garlic fries at a local diner.
In between, and sometimes during, Gabriella would reach out and snag Lee’s hand in her own, or he would press their legs together under the table.
Kisses came, too. Shy, chaste kisses that Gabriella quickly grew bored with. Nibbling kisses that left her hungry. Deep kisses that left her breathless and scared of how much she wanted more.
That made her agree when Lee asked to see her bedroom.
They continued kissing on the lounge, sinking deeper into each other. Lee brought their laced fingers to his groin, where Gabriella could feel his stiffness and heat. “This is what you do to me,” Lee promised.
Gabriella let go of Lee’s hand, brought it back to her lap. “I’m not sure—if you’d feel the same. After.”
“Do you really think I wouldn’t respect you in the morning?” Lee asked with a smile.
Gabriella shook her head. “Not sex.” More important. She dragged her feet out from where they’d been curled under her, placing them directly in front of Lee. “This. These.”
Lee rubbed the top of one boot-sock. “You want to show me but you’re afraid.”
“Yes.” The word came out a hissed whisper.
“You’re never afraid of anything.”
“I get nervous some—”
“Not the same.”
“Do you believe in God?” Gabriella asked, stalling. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t asked him this before.
“Yes.”
“Heaven? Hell? The Devil?”
“Yes, and now you’re scaring me.”
Gabriella tried to move her feet away. Lee held on. “No, no, I’m joking. Sorry. Yes, I believe in Heaven and Hell, Good and Evil. There’s a plan, and we’re both part of it.”
Plans. Gabriella had thought she’d gotten away from them when Mama had died.
“What if we’re on different sides?” Gabriella supposedly bore the mark of the Devil.
“We’re not,” Lee said emphatically. “You’re a good person. Unless you think that I—”
“No, no.” Gabriella took a deep breath, her stomach clenching with fear. “I want to show you. But I understand if you insist on leaving afterward.”
“Did it ever occur to you that I fell for your brain first?” Lee asked. “You don’t have to show me.”
Gabriella was tempted to take the out Lee offered her. But she couldn’t. She had to do this. “You can still go,” she told him softly. Then she pulled her legs close and one by one, undid the zippers on her boot-socks.
Lee’s breath caught as Gabriella revealed her fur-covered calves.
Without pause, Gabriella pulled the ends off, exposing her hooves.
Lee sat in shock, mouth open and graceless.
Gabriella stood and walked across the floor as gently as she could, trying to mute her clomping steps. When Lee still hadn’t said anything, Gabriella told him, “You should go now.”
Lee finally closed his mouth and looked up at her. “Yes,” he said simply. He slid his jacket on and without another word—or even a final kiss—walked out the door.
Gabriella had never cried so hard before. Not even when Papa had died.
* * *
The next morning, Gabriella fearfully answered Lee’s call after only a few rings. She was in the middle of at least half-a-dozen things: When 6:30 A.M. had come she’d thrown herself into work with a vengeance. She sat in her most formal, most covered-up suit at her de
sk at home, fielding calls, e-mails, and text messages.
“I’m sorry,” Lee said. “I’m sorry I was a fool and didn’t realize His grand plan.”
“What?” Gabriella asked, her tiny rising hope dropping like a stone.
“I’m supposed to save you.”
“Have you been drinking?” was all Gabriella could think to ask.
“You’ve been marked, just as I have been,” Lee said breathlessly.
“You’re crazy,” Gabriella said, the realization striking her harder than a physical blow. She was already sitting, and wished she could easily lower herself to the floor.
“No, we were meant for each other. How do you explain how well we worked together? We practically read each other’s minds.”
Gabriella pressed her lips together. What he said was true: They’d had tremendous chemistry.
“And now it’s time for our greatest work, casting the Devil out of the world.”
Gabriella couldn’t help herself. She laughed. “What are you saying? That I’m a Devil worshipper? I spend my nights working. Not chanting or cursing people.”
“There’s more to evil than casting spells. You destroy people’s lives, their companies, their jobs.”
“I am hanging up now,” Gabriella said slowly. She’d heard this rant before; it was why her house had such extensive security.
“You can be saved!”
Gabriella shivered and hung up, promptly blocking Lee’s number. She was damned, but not like how he thought. Cursed to spend her life alone.
Later that evening, after Gabriella had exhausted herself with work, she looked at her bare feet, the nobs for ankles, legs covered in soft fur. The mark of the Devil. She tried to see them how her father thought of them, mere slabs without toes, the foot itself bifurcated.
All she saw were hooves.
* * *
They held the quarterly review in the CEO’s beautiful corner office. Marc, the CEO, asked Gabriella to stay afterward. He poured her fresh coffee and took the chair next to hers. Gabriella had always liked his bluntness, even if it made her job more difficult sometimes when he let a client know exactly what he thought of them.
Marc looked squarely at Gabriella as he said, “We’ve heard some rumors. I don’t believe them, of course.”
“Rumors?”
“You know,” Marc said expansively, waving one hand in her general direction. “The usual. Satan worshipping. Cloven feet.” He smiled slyly at her.
“The usual?”
Marc shrugged. “You’ve fallen under a lot of criticism lately.”
“I’ve already explained the Lakewood corporation situation—”
“Do you go to church?” Marc asked, failing completely at the innocent look he was aiming for.
“No. I don’t. And I would advise you to think carefully about whatever you’re about to say next. I’m a personal friend with the head of the disabilities council in Congress.”
Marc paused, took a breath, then continued. “Sometimes we must construct a public persona, just to lay rumors to rest.”
“And if we ignore a rumor, it generally disappears,” Gabriella said, trying not to grind her teeth.
“Not before the stockholders’ meeting next week,” Mark replied blandly.
“So I should call a press conference and be photographed stepping into a church? Praying before an altar? I can’t even count the lawsuits you’re encouraging—”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Marc said, cutting her off. “I don’t believe any of these rumors. I can’t control other people’s reactions, though. So think about it.”
Gabriella did, all through the long weekend.
However, she was damned if she was going to give in, do what was expected of her. She’d had enough of all the plans other people had laid out for her.
* * *
Mama had taken Gabriella to church as a girl. She’d liked the singing, the pungent incense, and the beautifully colored windows. The statue of the man who looked to be in pain bothered her, as did the floor when she looked at the carvings and realized they were walking on graves.
After the service Mama had a priest bless Gabriella. He sprinkled holy water on her hair, held his palm to her forehead, and blessed her while Mama watched closely.
Gabriella still couldn’t decide if Mama had been happy or disappointed that nothing had happened: no smoke, no flames, no thunderbolts from Heaven.
* * *
The stockholders’ meeting was held in one of the faceless banquet halls in the hotel across the street from the office. Grand chandeliers from the ‘70s hung from the ceiling, casting everyone in beige. Phoenix figurines rose from every table, the theme of rebirth repeated in the upbeat music, the ice sculpture on the banquet table, and even the swag the VIPs received—orange rubber bracelets declaring them “Member of the Order of the Phoenix.”
After everyone had been served, Marc got up, promising not to spoil anyone’s dinner, and kept his promise of a short speech.
Gabriella’s speaking time didn’t come until during coffee and dessert. She explained the company’s growth, the markets they were expanding into, then asked for questions.
“We’ve heard rumors—”
“No. I refuse to respond to rumors,” Gabriella said firmly. “Next question, please.”
Someone asked about a future prospect, and Gabriella gratefully answered.
The next question, of course, was, “But are the rumors true?”
Gabriella took a deep breath. She looked over her shoulder at the board. Marc held up his hands in a helpless gesture.
All their eyes devoured her. They would never leave Gabriella at peace, no matter what she did. And she was tired of hiding, tired of the secrets. She either had to disprove the whispers or fan them into a roar.
“You’ll have my letter of resignation on your desk in the morning,” Gabriella announced, turning back to the audience.
“As for your rumors, can you imagine my humiliation? No one should have to do this. No one.”
With a bravado Gabriella didn’t feel, she quickly unzipped her boot-socks.
The black stretch fabric fell away from pale skin that had never seen the sun. With wonder, Gabriella pulled a single boot off.
A horned, bifurcated foot hung off the end of her leg.
Papa’s vision of her.
Or had Gabriella finally just seen the truth?
She slid the boot-sock back on and walked off stage. First one, then another of the board members started clapping. They rose to their feet and gave her thunderous applause as she left the banquet hall.
That night, after finishing her resignation letter, Gabriella slid into her bed, careful not to catch the sheets on the rough, hornlike skin of her feet.
Gabriella looked at the empty pillow beside her and laughed this time, feeling as though she’d thoroughly foiled whatever plans she was supposed to follow. No one, including herself, had ever thought to bare her legs before.
Everyone else’s plans were finished. It was her turn now.
Author’s Note
The character of Gabriella came first for this story, this powerful, successful woman who may or may not have cloven feet. The ambiguity was there from the start: Were her feet a mark of the devil? Or had her perception of them been misinformed by others? The first scene, a couple of Gabriella’s childhood scenes, and Lee were in my head when I started writing. All I had to do was to discover the connecting scenes, as well as the ending.
Slipping The Leash
“Get off!” Twyla growled. Anger rushed through her, hot and feral. She didn’t know where the strength came from, but she threw Morris, her older brother who had “accidentally” sat on her, down to the floor. She rushed at him, fists cocked, already shifting to one foot to deliver a painful kick to his ribs.
“Twyla!”
Her dad’s shout stopped her. Shit. What had she done? Why was she going so postal all the time lately?
“I’m sorry,�
�� Twyla told Morris, offering him a hand up. She couldn’t believe it when he threw himself back, farther away from her, as if she’d scared him or something. “Whatever,” she muttered, standing slowly and turning to face her dad.
“Follow me.”
Twyla dragged her feet as she followed her dad out of the living room where the TV still blared a sitcom laugh track. Her white stockinged feet made no sound going through the immaculate dining room, something she prided herself on. Dad’s footsteps—and those of her brothers—always made the tiny white porcelain teacups in the cupboard ting against each other.
At the back door, they both paused long enough to slip on rubber sandals that always waited there, then went into the tiny fenced backyard. Dad walked over to the edge of Mom’s vegetable garden. Twyla reluctantly followed. The first frost had come a couple nights before, wilting what was left of the green beans and cucumbers. Green tomatoes still clung tenaciously. The fans of overgrown dill waved in the breeze.
Twyla waited while her dad stared at the softly rotting plants. She knew she was in trouble, again, as always. She didn’t know how much yet. Dad was aware of the fights she’d had at school, not all of them, but enough that she knew he was worried.
“Our family’s different,” Dad said.
Twyla blinked, surprised. She’d been expecting her dad to yell at her. “Yeah,” she said, nodding, putting her hands in her back pocket as if she was cool, everything was all cool. She didn’t know what else to say. She knew they were different—from being pushed down on the playground when she was just a kid and not knowing what to do when a bully called her “Squint,” to now, with her reputation, no one daring to make fun of her African-American father or her Japanese mother.
“More different than you realize.” Her dad stopped and took a deep breath. “You love it out here, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Twyla had to admit the truth. It was as if, as she’d gotten older, there wasn’t enough air inside anymore. Not just in the house, at school, or when riding the bus, but everywhere.
It was as if she didn’t belong anywhere but outside.
“Smells clean. Wild. The lake’s that way,” Dad said, pointing unerringly toward Lake Michigan. “Can smell the water in the wind.”