Goody One Shoe (4 page)

BILLIE PICKED A LILLIPUTIAN
piece
of fluff from her skirt and flicked it into the air. It floated and swayed on
the stillness before the evil forces of static electricity dragged it back down
to the floral polyester. She sighed and looked up into the sagging face of Dr.
Kroft. The past twentyish years hadn’t been kind to the old broad. What was
she, pushing sixty? The crevasses around her eyes and canyon-deep laugh lines
parenthesizing her dry lips made her look closer to seventy-five.

The doc pushed her Sally-Jesse-Raphael-red glasses up higher
on her nose and glanced at her lilac notepad. Not a book, never white paper.
Lilac. Only lilac. Billie had always wondered why. Had never asked. But at that
moment, the question burned a hole in her thoughts. “Why lilac?”

The doc sent one eyebrow into space. “What’s that, now?”

Billie gestured to the notepad. “Lilac paper. Always lilac.
Twenty plus years of lilac. Did you buy them in bulk back in 1994 or
something?”

Doc’s eyebrow landed back on earth and the corners of her
upturned lips disappeared into folds of old skin. She shook her head. “I like
purple. When you were gone, I tried yellow. Even plain old white. But lilac is
calming.” She tapped the rim of her glasses with her pen. “It’s kind on the old
eyes. Now enough about my quirks. Let’s discuss your messed-up psyche.”

One thing Billie could always count on was Doc Kroft not
pussyfooting around her crazy.

“So you awoke on the fire escape. You think you were going
to jump?”

“Either that or fly. Maybe my night brain thinks that’s
possible. I can run with one leg, so why not fly without wings?”

“Have you had any new trauma?”

“Nope.” Katherine’s pokey finger and crimson face came to
mind. Is being mistreated at work, being intentionally held back from any
opportunity to move up, to be promoted, to find any nuance of job satisfaction,
trauma?

“No public teasing, no verbal abuse.”

Billie squished the piece of skirt fluff under her thumb and
pushed it around. “That’s not trauma. That’s life.”

Doc tossed her lilac notepad on the coffee table between
them and lobbed her blue pen at it. “Billie, we’ve talked about this. It’s not
the same as witnessing your parents’ murder, or having your leg shot off. But
for someone who has been traumatized in that way, it can be a trigger.”

Billie sighed. “Yeah, I know. You being pissed at me doesn’t
help.”

“Darling, Billie. I am anything but pissed. I’m worried.
You’ve not been to see me in more than two years. Are you taking your meds?”

Doc had her scrunched-up concerned face on. Did she practice
that in the mirror? Billie liked that face. It was endearing. It reminded her
of her grandmother.

Billie fidgeted with her skirt, made eye contact with the
curtains, cleared her throat.

“Billie. You stopped again.”

“Yes, I stopped. I think it’s the meds that make me crazy.”

“No, it’s not. There are side effects, but without them,
things end up worse.” She tented her fingers.

Billie often wondered if there was a special class for that
at psychologist school. Finger tenting one-oh-one.

“How about the social life?”

Billie winced. “Does the cat count?”

Doc shook her head. “So no new friends, no boyfriends. Not
even one date?”

“No ma’am. Unless you count the sweet sticky things in the
grocery store.”

“Have you tried the tips I suggested? Volunteering, singles
groups, support groups?”

Billie stared at her.

“Ok, then. You’re still active at church, I imagine, so that
is something.”

Billie bit her lip and looked at her lap. “Actually, I don’t
go there much anymore.”

“What’s not much?”

Billie shrugged. “Never? Well, once. A couple of weeks ago.
Before that it was a few months.”

“But not since.” It wasn’t a question. The doc was
ruminating on her disappointment. She picked up her lilac pad. “Well, if you’re
not going to get out there and look for support and you insist on staying off
the meds,” the doc eyed her over the rim of her glasses that hung on for dear
life at the tip of her nose, “you’ll need therapy. Consistent, ongoing
therapy.” She turned to a fresh sheet and scratched out a few words, ripped the
page off and handed it to Billie. “Three other therapists to consider.”

Billie stared at the names, looked up at the doc, a tear
burning the corner of one eye. “You’re dumping me?”

“Dumping you? Of course not. But maybe you need someone new.
I figured since you’d avoided me for so long, you could stand some fresh
ideas.”

“I wasn’t avoiding you. I was avoiding everything.” Billie
wadded up the paper and tossed it on the coffee table. “I don’t want anyone new
or fresh. I want you. But I don’t want drugs. They make my skin crawl and itch.
My stump is itchy enough already.”

Doc smiled. “All right, then. Let’s ease back into it. How
about every third Thursday? We can take it from there.”

Billie tapped her real foot against the area rug. “How about
I come back in two weeks?”

Doc nodded. “Two weeks it is. See you on the fourth.”

BILLIE SPREAD THE NEWSPAPER
across
her lap. The subway rocked and jerked as it always did, an annoying reality
that brought a sense of uncomfortable comfort. Some sameness and predictability
to her increasingly unpredictable days.

She scanned the headlines, rolled her eyes at misspelled
words and inconsistent capitalization. She froze when she read “Couple Gunned
Down In Alley.” It was a small article, near the bottom of page seven, tucked
away like it didn’t even matter. She ran her fingers down the column and
devoured the text. Young family out for a matinee on a Saturday, they left the
theatre by the back exit and were robbed of wallet and purse. The muggers shot
the parents and took off. No leads. Children traumatized. Father dead. Mother
clinging to life in the hospital.

Billie closed her eyes. They were going to get away with it.
Like the monsters that killed her family. Those poor children. Maybe she should
visit them. Talk to them.

Goddamn bullies in the world can’t leave good people alone.
Have to harm them, steal from them, push them around. Snuff out their lives.
And where’s the justice system? Sitting back and watching, scratching its balls
and flexing its scrawny biceps. Stupid cops and stupider courts with all the
rights afforded the accused and none left for the victims.

She blinked her eyes open and unclenched her fists. She
smoothed the crunched up corners of the newspaper against her lap. Her inner
fury prevented her from noticing the band of teenage hoodlums who were too lazy
to walk home from school milling around her. Bat Head, his shirt gray and
batless, smirked in her direction.

“Hey, cripple. Nice shoes.” His posse laughed and one of
them slapped his back, congratulated him on his prowess at insensitivity. His
awe-inspiring superpower to be mean for no reason.

“I am not a cripple,” Billie said through grit teeth.

Bat Head tapped her prosthesis with the toe of his
lime-green kicks and leaned in. “Cripple,” he sneered.

The car descended into silence except for the rustling of
newsprint somewhere at the back and the clomp of heavy footsteps up the aisle.
“Leave her be, boy. She’s not bothering you.”

Billie blinked at the sound of a man’s voice that rumbled
like a bass tuba with a handful of gravel caught in the bell.

Humanity on the subway. Go figure.

The boy turned on the man, but when he had to look up a good
five inches to meet his gaze, his bravado faltered. He held up his palms. “It’s
cool, dude. Just playin’ with the gimpy chick. No harm, no foul, right?”

The man took a step forward. “She’s not gimpy, and she’s not
a chick. So yeah, dude.” He poked the boy in the chest. “Harm.” He poked the
boy again. “Foul.”

The subway pitched and braked. The boy lost his balance. He
grabbed for the pole but his fingers slipped and he landed on his denim-clad
ass. The car exploded with laughter and applause. One of his friends helped him
to his feet. “C’mon Nick. Just drop it.”

Nick jerked his chin at the man. “Another time, old man.”

The man laughed. “Bring it, shit-for-brains.”

When the doors opened, the boy and his crew scrambled out
and ran down the platform. Passengers that filed past the tall, broad man
patted his shoulder, gave him a thumbs up, mumbled “way to go” and “atta boy”
before disappearing out the open maw of the subway car.

Billie smiled up at the man. “Thank you.” Her cheeks warmed
at the sight of his crooked nose and rugged chin, darkened by the shadow of
afternoon beard scruff.

“You’re welcome. If you don’t stand up to the little
bastards, they’ll walk all over you. Or worse.” He trundled away, plopped his
bulky frame into the seat he’d risen from, picked up his own newspaper, and
shook the crease from it. He caught her eye and winked, the corners of his
mouth upturned.

Billie looked at her lap. That’s exactly how that story
should read. She wouldn’t edit a thing. Except maybe her own fear. Not of the
boys, of their insults and their callous mocking. She was used to high school
bullies. No, she’d strikeout her fear of holding the man’s gaze. Her fear of
what might happen if she found the nerve to speak to him. Fear of rejection, of
being tossed aside like damaged goods. She cut her eyes to his face.

He was absorbed in the paper, ignoring her angst.

She folded her newspaper and read the headline. Another
horrific crime. Another criminal off on a technicality. Cops didn’t get a
proper warrant before searching a vehicle. Her father was probably rolling over
in his grave. And the useless public servant prosecutors rushed through the
trial, didn’t do their due diligence on behalf of the victims. She mentally
edited the piece, at best, a piss-poor excuse for journalism. It read like it
was written for a grade four language class. Must they pander to the lowest
common denominator?

She huffed a breath at the misspelling of informant, dug in
her purse and pulled out a red pen. She filled the article with proofreading
marks, deleted unnecessary words, corrected spelling, undangled participles,
and closed compound words. What newspaper reporter worth their salt spells it
“news paper?”

Once the proofing was complete, she went back to the
beginning. She edited for content. For plot. It seemed unreasonable, unlikely —
or at least a damn sight unfair — that the depraved clowns who had raped an
eleven-year-old boy in the back of a van, then tossed him out like so much
trash on Tuesday morning, should get away with it. And in this case, “clowns”
was literal. Two schmucks dressed in full pancake makeup, neon-wigged,
oversized red-shoe regalia. They abducted the boy from the corner after they’d
performed at a four-year-old’s birthday party just up the street.

Goddamn clowns. Nothing sucked more than clowns. Except
maybe Batman.

She struck out an entire paragraph, wrote her own conclusion
in the margins. A gruesome form of justice meted out to the most deserving of
pedophilic scum.

“Yeah, I didn’t like how that one ended either.”

She started and looked up into the face of tall, dark, and
stalwart. She blinked. Her tongue refused to cooperate with her brain and just
sat there, mute and dry. A witty retort died on her lips. Just as well. It was
probably lame. He would have laughed at her.

He sat beside her and scanned the paper. His eyes moved side
to side when he read, like there was a tennis match being played out on the
page. He poked out his lower lip and nodded. “I like what you’ve done with it.”
He tapped the paragraph she’d rewritten. “Incarceration is too good for them. So
is death. Public castration, now that’s creative.” He grinned and held out his
hand. “Bruce.”

Her eyelids fluttered. Maybe she could edit his name.
Randall. Or Dennis. Even Chester. Anything but Bruce. What was his surname,
Wayne?

Her cheeks warmed and she looked at the paper. She held her
hand toward his. “Billie.”

He shook her hand. “Billie? Isn’t that more of a guy’s
name?”

She willed the heat in her cheeks to subside but failed
miserably. “Short for Wilhelmina.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Yeah, Billie’s better.”

The subway jerked to a halt. Bruce slid on the hard plastic
seat. His thigh brushed against hers. A heat she wasn’t accustomed to burned
where their clothing met.

“Well, my stop. Stay safe, Billie. Edit a few more endings
and make those bad guys pay.” He winked, stood, and was gone from her life in a
single beat of her heart.

LEAVES RUSTLED OVER BILLIE’S
head.
The cool breeze of early fall cleared her brain and let her creative juices
flow. She’d sat on her favourite bench under her favourite oak for more than an
hour, engrossed in the third edit of the fourth short story she’d written that
month. It wasn’t even extra credit work. She wrote them for fun. For release.
For companionship. She was well on her way to completing her bachelor’s degree
in English in almost half the time her fellow students would take. Then onto a
master’s. Perhaps a PhD was in her future. She was devoted to her studies, to
her writing. Especially to editing. Editing was the best part. That’s where she
truly shined.

The bench shook with the weight of an intruder who dared to
plop down beside her. Billie ignored whoever was encroaching on her space,
invading her privacy. Trying to muscle in on her loneliness.

“What are you writing?”

She shot a sideways glance at the poacher and rolled her
eyes. George something. He always sat near her, tried to make small talk. He
came off as thick as a redwood’s trunk and just as dense. Her constant rebuffs
failed to deter him. Like spilled coffee on a Scotchgarded sofa, her rejection
didn’t sink in, just rolled off him. And he came back for more almost every
day.

She pulled her binder cover half-closed so he couldn’t read
the pages. “Short story.”

“We’re supposed to write a story?” He dropped his books on
the bench.

She threw him a scowl. “Not for any class I’m in. It’s just
for me.”

“You do extra work for nothing?” He leaned back on the bench
and draped his arms across the backrest, his right hand resting against her
shoulder.

Billie sat up and his arm slid down her back. She glared at
him. “Hands off.”

“Shit, sorry. Man, you’re jumpy.” He withdrew his arm and
bounced one knee up and down. “Can I ask you something?”

She sighed, closed her binder, half-turned in her seat, and
tried to stab him with her best piercing stare. “What?” Despite his intrusive
behaviour, his average grades, and his rather large proboscis, she had to admit
he was kind of cute.

He licked his lips. “I wondered if maybe, sometime, you and
me could grab a coffee or something.”

She gritted her teeth. “You and I.”

“Yeah. Us. Coffee.”

“No, I mean… Never mind.”

He squished his lips together and raised his eyebrows. “Is
that a no?”

“Yeah. It’s a no.”

“Can I ask why? You already have a boyfriend?”

She huffed. “Are you trying to be funny?”

His brows descended and furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m a freak.” She yanked up her pant leg
and flicked her prosthesis with her middle finger.

“I know about your leg. How does that make you a freak?” He
tugged her pant leg down.

“See? You can’t even look at it. You think I’m a freak too.
Just like everyone else.”

“Billie, it doesn’t bother me. It’s just that you’re being
kind of loud and people are staring.”

“So let them stare.”

“Fine, you want to make an ass of yourself, be my guest.” He
gathered his books and stood. “You need to chill out. Maybe let somebody past
that iron wall you’ve built around yourself.”

“Screw you.”

He shook his head. “It’s a shame too. You’re so smart.
Pretty behind that angry scowl you wear. Cute but crazy. And I don’t need the
crazy.” He walked away and didn’t look back.

And he never bothered her again.