Goody One Shoe (2 page)

BILLIE’S MOTHER HELD HER
hands
over Billie’s eyes. “Don’t peek.” It was four in the afternoon and already nips
of whisky slurred her words.

Billie said a brief prayer and asked God to make her mother
stop drinking. Just for today. It was all she wanted for her eleventh birthday.
No ponies, no new clothes. Not even the new Teen Talk Barbie that all the girls
at school already had. Billie’s big birthday wish was for her mother to find a
better way to cope. Not buying cigarettes and alcohol with what little money
her father made.

She inhaled the comfort of her father’s cologne.

“Okay, Billie Angel,” he said. “Open them.”

Her mother released Billie’s eyes and she stared at the
cake, ablaze on the kitchen counter. Not even a homemade cake, but a fancy
store-bought one with big roses and “Happy Birthday Billie 11 years-old”
written in cursive blue-icing letters atop the white slab. The flames from
eleven candles danced and swayed and threw their glorious light on Billie’s
face.

Her parents broke out into the birthday song. When they
finished, they urged her to blow out the candles.

Billie shut her eyes tight and wished for a sober mother.
Then she made another wish. The same one she made last year. She wished to have
friends. Real friends, not just her daddy or mother, or the five-year-old next
door who wouldn’t leave her alone. Not just her grandmother, who doted on
Billie since grandpa passed away the year before.

Real. Friends. Please. God.

She opened her eyes and stared at the flickering
candlelight. Were two wishes even allowed? She took a deep breath and blew out
every candle. Their extinguished bodies sent wisps of smoke into the air. Then
every single one of them relit. Billie blinked.

It was a miracle. A sign.

“Woohoo!” Her mother’s volume was whisky-fueled. “Billie’s
got eleven secret boyfriends.” She threw her arms in the air, clapped, and
laughed.

Billie fought back tears. “I do not.” She blew out the
candles, and once again they relit by themselves.

Her mother doubled over, one arm across her belly, laughter
shaking her oversized bosom. “Ah, shit, Billie. Do it again.”

“Florrie,” Billie’s father touched his wife’s arm. “That’s
enough. It’s not funny anymore.”

Billie crossed her arms. Her mother was never funny.

Her mother yanked her arm out of his grip. “It was fucking
hilarious.” She turned a finger on Billie. “You need to get a sense of humour.”

“Florrie! For God’s sake, make some coffee.” Her father
squatted in front of Billie. “We’re going out to dinner. All fancy for your
birthday.”

Billie glanced at her mother. She put her forehead against
father’s. “But we can’t afford it,” she whispered.

He put his hand on the back of her head and patted her hair.
“Don’t you worry about that. We can afford one night out.” He cut his eyes to
his wife and set his lips in a thin line.

Billie’s father pulled her chair out for her, like she was a
real lady. He told her to get anything she wanted. Her mouth watered at the
choices on the menu. Some she didn’t recognize. Escargot. Lobster bisque. She
settled on something familiar, yet exotic. Roast chicken with demi-glace,
garlic mashed potatoes, and asparagus with hollandaise sauce. She hoped that
meant cheese.

It didn’t. And it smelled like farts. But the chicken and
potatoes were delicious.

“I have one more surprise for you.” Her father beamed across
the table at her. He reached into the pocket of his pants and pulled out a
small box. He slid it across the table.

Billie picked it up. It was made of soft velvet. Short
sprigs of royal blue material stood on end, and shifted under her fingertips
when she rubbed the surface. She swallowed and eased the lid open. Inside,
nestled against ivory satin, was a gold cross. Billie gasped. She ogled the
shiny pendant and looked up at her father. “Gold? For me?”

“Just for you. Because we couldn’t ask for a better
daughter.”

Her mother rolled her eyes and pulled a cigarette from her
purse.

“Jesus, Florrie. Can’t you skip it for one night? I hate it
when you smoke in front of Billie.”

Her mother pinched her lips together and pitched the
cigarette into the gullet of her cheap purse.

Her father stood and came around behind Billie’s chair. He
plucked the necklace from inside the box, undid the clasp, and placed it around
her neck.

She touched the cross, ran her fingertips over the pattern
carved into its surface. She closed her eyes, held it in her hand, and imagined
Jesus on the crucifix. A tear sprang to her eye. She turned in her chair and
threw her arms around her father’s waist. “Thank you, Daddy. I’ll take good
care of it.”

He kissed the top of her head. “I know you will.”

Her mother shook Billie’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s from me too
you know. Don’t I get any hugs?”

Billie released her father, stood, and put her hands on her
mother’s shoulders. She placed a kiss on her mother’s cheek. “Thank you,
Mother.”

“You are welcome, darling. Now how about dessert?”

“We had cake at home, Florrie.”

“So? Special night, right? Buy the kid a piece of pie,
cheapskate.”

Her father squinted.

“It’s okay, Daddy. I don’t need pie.”

His face softened and he turned to Billie. “Of course you
do. Apple, right? Ice cream and cheese and anything else they’ll put on it.”

After she finished her slice of pie, her father counted out
the last of his cash. A flash of panic crossed his eyes and he whispered to his
wife that the tip would be a little light. Billie’s mother shrugged and
examined her fingernails. When they stood to leave, Billie rested her small
purse, a hand-me-down from her grandmother that carried nothing but cherry
Chapstick and a small mirror — and the twenty-dollar bill her grandmother had
slipped her for her birthday — onto her chair.

Outside of the restaurant, Billie tugged on her father’s
sleeve. “Daddy, I left my bag. I’ll go get it.”

“We’ll wait. I’m sure your mother would like a cigarette.”

“Hell, yes.” Her mother dug in her purse.

Billie ran back inside. She picked her purse up from the
chair, unzipped it, and pulled the money out. The waiter was taking the tab and
the funds her father had left behind. “Excuse me, my father asked me to give
you this for a tip.”

The man’s face lit up. “Why thank you, young lady. And happy
birthday to you.”

“Thank you.”

She pushed open the door to the restaurant. Her parents
stood on the street corner, arguing. Her father had one finger wagging in her
mother’s face, and her mother was tapping her foot against the pavement. She
slapped his hand away, turned, and stormed down the sidewalk.

Billie slid her hand inside her father’s and smiled up at
him.

He returned the smile. “Shall we take a walk? Your mother
wants to window shop.”

Billie nodded. She knew her mother wanted more than
window-shopping. But there wasn’t enough money. It was the biggest issue
between them. She wanted more. He couldn’t give it. But he’d do anything he
could, spend more than he had, to make his daughter happy.

Were all mothers jealous of their daughters?

They strolled along the street and spied the shiny goods
inside the lit-up windows.

Her mother oohed and aahed at the jewelry shining behind the
glass, at the shoes and boots and furs. She put both palms flat against one
window. “Look, Danny.” She wagged a finger. “Red patent leather stilettos. Oh,
and a matching purse.” She sidled up to him and slipped her arm through his,
rested her head on his shoulder and ran her fingers around the buttons of his
shirt. “Will you buy them for me? Pretend it’s my birthday?”

Her mother’s batting eyelashes and sly smile were all too
familiar.

Billie’s father’s cheeks turned as red as her mother’s
lipstick and his jaw clenched.

Billie took his hand. “It’s all right, Daddy.” Similar scenes
played out a few times a week, like a television rerun of an old, worn-out
sitcom. Minus the com. “Let’s just go home.”

Her father squeezed Billie’s hand. “We’ll cut through the
alley. Maybe we can be home in time to watch
Full House
before bed.”

Billie nodded with vigour.

They stepped into the darkness of the alley, musty and
reeking like an unclean bathroom. Dim bulbs over the back entries to stores and
bars and office buildings cast deep shadows across their path. Halfway through,
the thumping rhythms of hip-hop music vibrated from the bricks. Yards ahead, a
door opened and the music spilled out, its heavy beat tickling Billie’s feet
and bouncing in her ears.

Three men burst from the building. One of them wore a bright
red bandana on his head. The closer Billie and her family got, the louder the
men became.

“Da fuck, man? I said twenty per. You shortin’ me?” He
grabbed another man by the collar.

Billie couldn’t take her eyes off bandana man’s funny teeth.
She tugged on her father’s hand.

He stopped and turned to his wife. “Take Billie.”

“Danny, don’t.” Her mother yanked Billie backward a couple
of feet.

“I have to. It’s my job.”

“You are off the clock, God damn you. Can’t you just walk on
by for once?”

Her father reached into his jacket pocket where he kept his
badge. “You know I can’t.”

He approached the men. “Good evening, gentlemen.” He flashed
his badge.” Can I see your hands please?”

The man with the teeth dropped the other guy’s collar and
spun around. The light glinted off one tooth. A gold tooth. His eyes were wild
behind bushy brows.

The guy who was being roughed up backed away, turned, and
sprinted down the alley.

Gold Tooth jerked his head at Billie’s father. “Mind your
business, cop. We ain’t doin’ nothin’. Just out having a little smoke, that’s
all.”

“Sure, that’s all. Empty your pockets.”

Gold Tooth smirked and craned his neck. He took a step
forward in front of the third man who just stood in the dark and didn’t say a
word. “That’s a pretty lady you got there.” Gold Tooth put his hand inside the
pocket of his hoodie. “Maybe you oughtta just take her and the little one
home.”

Billie’s father rested his hand where his gun holster would
be if he were in uniform. “Let me see your hands.”

Gold Tooth yanked his hand from his hoodie and flicked open
a knife. He lunged and slashed at her father.

Her father pulled away, grabbed his forearm and swore. His
sleeve was cut and blood seeped through. He turned to his wife. “Run for help.”

Billie froze in place. The whole world slowed on its axis
and every second took ten to tick by. The barrel of a gun flashed in the dim
light. It was all she could see, the end of that gun, pointed at her father. It
got bigger and bigger until it took up her entire field of vision.

The muzzle flashed and a boom echoed off the walls around
her. Her father fell to his knees and landed on his face on the alley floor.

A high-pitched whine rang in Billie’s ears.

Billie’s mother ran to her husband. She kneeled in the filth
and the spilled blood, shook his shoulders. Her mouth was open and screaming
but all Billie heard was that whine.

She stood there, transfixed and paralyzed. Her feet had
grown roots and her body was numb.

The gun went off again and her mother collapsed on top of
her father. Gold Tooth held the knife at his side and yelled something at the
man with the gun.

Billie looked into the eye of the gun. She prayed for him to
shoot her too. Kill her too. Send her to heaven with her father.

Gold Tooth waved his arms and yelled. Billie could hear
nothing but blood coursing through her veins and the squeal and echo of gunfire.
Could feel nothing but hot urine running down her legs.

The muzzle flashed at the same time that Gold Tooth pushed
the gunman.

Billie went down. She didn’t feel any pain. Didn’t even feel
her body hit the ground. A cat screeched and music pulsed through the pavement.
She fell asleep to a good vibration and a sweet sensation whispering in her
ear.

MORNING COMMUTES WERE
much like
evenings — except most passengers were fresh and sparkling clean and didn’t
stink of lost hope and dried perspiration.

Armed with the knowledge that her contract allowed
freelancing, so long as she wasn’t stealing the company’s clients, Billie felt
more alive than she had in months. A few internet searches to pillage billing
rates and buzzwords from other editors, a down-and-dirty website announcing her
services to the waiting world, and several unsolicited emails to independent
writers she found on LinkedIn and Twitter and all manner of other time-suck
social media sites, and she was on her way. Or at least, she’d made the first
step. One tiny step.

At the third stop of fourteen, a horde of teens hopped onto
the train. She was familiar with this group. They were not a friendly bunch.
They pushed their way into the metal cylinder every morning, rode the rails
four whole stops before disembarking a block from school. She knew this because
they were so bloody loud that everyone heard where they were going, whom they’d
slept with, how horrible their parents were. Half a dozen privileged white boys
trying their hardest to be street. They made snide comments to commuters who
were minding their own business. Rude remarks about fashion choice and
haircuts, weight, height, four eyes. Juvenile bullshit with a hard edge. An
edge that would turn vicious and leave a deep wound if they were in just the
right mood.

She hated them all. Why didn’t they get off their lazy asses
and walk twenty-seven blocks? Leave the subway for those who needed it. Folks
who had a long commute. Struggled with mobility. Couldn’t afford to drive.
Didn’t want to be annoyed, interrupted, accosted by their presence.

One of the boys sat opposite her and gave her the same look
he did every day. Not even a look at all. His gaze passed through her as if she
weren’t even there, as if she were made of glass that didn’t shine, didn’t
reflect. She was lucky. If he did focus on her, who knows what unmannerly
verbal detritus would spew from his bully mouth.

He was their leader. Each of his crew did his bidding,
sometimes without the benefit of words being spoken. That morning he wore a new
accessory. A red bandana, do-rag style.

She closed her eyes to avoid looking at him. The spectre of
a gold-toothed man in a bright red headscarf loomed behind her lids. Her hand
trembled and she blinked the memory away.

Senseless tribal tattoos snaked up from under the hood of
the subway bully’s jacket and crawled around his neck. He probably thought they
meant warrior or strength or leader. She’d bet they meant puppy. His hoodie
fell open and underneath, a T-shirt emblazoned with the symbol of Batman.

She hated Batman.

The people who killed Bruce Wayne’s parents didn’t shoot him
full of lead. Didn’t cost him a leg. They just shot him full of angst and cost
him a normal life.

Billie had fought for normal. Fought to keep friends,
freaked out by the eleven-year-old’s missing limb, by the metal and rubber that
replaced flesh and bone. No fancy skin-like cover, no-siree. Grandmother
couldn’t afford that. When Billie hit puberty, the boys avoided her. Budding
breasts be damned, they couldn’t get past the missing part, the gnarled,
scarred, misshapen knob at the end of what was left of her calf. But still, she
fought for normal. It just never found her. No date for the prom, no sleepovers
with her girlfriends. There were no girlfriends. Just books. Books and her
father’s mother, who tried her best to be a replacement for Billie’s own mom.
Except Grandmother didn’t drink. So that was an improvement.

Billie vowed to be as normal as possible, just to spite the
bastards who took her family. To spite the kids who couldn’t see past her handicap,
past her deformity. Who couldn’t see her at all.

The subway shook and Billie focused her eyes. Bat Head was
gone. She found him standing in front of the door, waiting for it to open. When
it did, he led his crew out into the big wide world to annoy the crap out of
decent people everywhere. She blinked, glanced around, and rested her head
against the window behind her. Her fingers found the carved surface of her gold
cross.

Seven more stops.

A manuscript landed on her desk with a slap. Billie jumped
and jostled her teacup, sloshing oolong onto her mouse.

“An old-fashioned one. Paper and all.” Katherine crossed her
arms. “Due by the fifteenth. You can handle it, right? It’s only six-hundred
pages.” She smirked.

“In two weeks? Without a computer?” A knot grew in Billie’s
stomach. So much for spare-time to freelance.

“Two weeks. Assuming you still want to work here.” Katherine
loomed over her and leaned in. “You think I wouldn’t see that piss-poor excuse
for a website you threw together? Think I’m not checking up on all you
proofing-pool rats and what you say about me?”

Billie swallowed. “I checked my contract. I’m allowed. I’m
not taking any clients away from the company.” Her head lightened and her
cheeks warmed. “I promise.”

“You know where you can shove your promises. By the
fifteenth. Or consider yourself released to work freelance. Permanently.”

Katherine stormed back to her office. Jeffrey poked his
weasel head out of his hole, one side of his mouth upturned.

Billie put one palm atop the almost three-inch-thick
manuscript. She flipped through a few pages. Typewritten, single-spaced for
crying out loud. Who uses a typewriter? Single-spaced? She rubbed the bridge of
her nose and shook her head. Good thing she had no social life. It would have
been sacrificed to the editing gods anyway.

She ogled her computer, ran one finger across the keyboard.
She reached for the monitor and depressed the power button, a long sigh
feathered across her lips. A second before the screen’s light died, she noticed
the date. May first. May Day.

How bloody appropriate.