Following My Toes (29 page)

“Yeah, and that’s what I was supposed to believe about Nina, right Missy? It’s all about sex, isn’t it? Let me tell you something, sex should be about love. And love is the most important part of being alive. But you treat love like it’s nothing.”

Now, I may not be the world’s best authority on love, but I can claim superiority on the subject over Bill, who was nutty enough to not only date Missy, but to want her back. Besides, his treatment of the three of us that evening wasn’t exactly a testament to his skills at affection. However, some of what he was saying made sense. I looked over at Margaret. I don’t think she had enough sense to be scared, but her face was crestfallen.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you and Bill were a couple?” Margaret asked Missy, with a threat of tears in her voice.

“It wasn’t important,” Missy replied.

“Sure. I can see how that wasn’t important enough to mention,” I broke in.

Margaret spoke again. “If what Bill is saying is true, then I agree with him. You treat love and sex like they’re nothing.”

“You say that because you’re convinced by him? You trust what he has to say? He’s crazy, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” Missy did her best to lean towards Margaret while she said this, but it was difficult, because she was tied up pretty tightly.

“I thought we were friends!” Margaret responded.

“We are! I don’t see how this changes anything.”

“You should have said something. I told you all about my past. And I was honest. But you lied.”

“How did I lie?” Missy demanded. Bill and I were both silent with anticipation, waiting for Margaret’s explanation.

“You told me you hadn’t been involved with anyone seriously for years.”

“She said that!” demanded Bill.

“Yes! And she also said that she doesn’t sleep around.”

“That’s a laugh!” said Bill.

“Maybe I have a different definition of what sleeping around means,” said Missy. “To me, if you’re friends with someone first, then it doesn’t count as sleeping around. The sex simply becomes an extension of your friendship, a different way of showing affection. And it’s possible to love someone as a friend, and to love another person as a friend at the same time. Why is that so wrong?”

“It just is.” said Bill.

Missy turned her attention toward Bill. “So you’re going to get back at me by forcing me and my friends to have sex with you? Isn’t that like, way too extreme? Especially considering how badly I have to go to the bathroom.”

Bill considered Missy’s statement while rubbing his chin and furrowing his brow. “I would say that you have a point, Missy. How-ever...” he began to pace around the room, “You’re not the only one here who betrayed me.”

“Who else?” demanded Missy.

“Faith did! I admit, at first, I was going after her to get to you. But then I actually started to develop feelings, and she completely ignored my attempts to let her know.”

“I wasn’t ignoring you! I didn’t know you felt that way. You could have been more clear; why didn’t you just ask me out?”

“Why didn’t you? You answer your door with your boobs hanging out, you fl irt with other men in front of me, and you tell me you’re not so nice and innocent. If that’s not an indirect come on, I don’t know what is.”

And then I said the number one most insincere line in the hu-man language, the one I’d heard from Peter, the one I swore I’d never condescend to say to someone else. “I’m sorry. But can’t we be friends?”

“No,” replied Bill. “I don’t want to be friends. I want you all to hurt as badly as I did.”

Peter’s crying face popped into my mind. I realized in an instant that seeing him hurt brought me no satisfaction. If only I was a more forgiving person maybe I wouldn’t be in this mess.

“You just think that’s what you want,” I said.

“No, I actually do want it.” Bill went towards my chair, and started to untie me. “Let’s get going here. You were going to be first.”

“Stop!” cried Margaret. “You’re making a mistake. Missy wasn’t lying. She and Faith have never been a couple. If first and foremost you want to hurt Missy, you should choose me. I’m the one she was with.”

Bill stopped untying me and stood up and went towards Margaret. The ropes were just loose enough that I could begin to squeeze my hands out of them.

“You honestly expect me to believe that Missy didn’t make time with her? I thought we had already established that she’ll sleep with whoever’s willing.”

“Yeah, but Faith wasn’t willing. I’m the one who was willing.”

“I wouldn’t have slept with Faith even if she had wanted to. She’s too uptight.” said Missy.

I started to protest, but bit my tongue and let out a loud breath through my nose instead.

“It’s true,” replied Margaret, “she is uptight. But I’m not. Which is why Missy fell in love with me, not with Faith.”

Bill’s back was to me as he faced Margaret. I was trying to make eye contact with her over his shoulder, but I couldn’t, he was too tall. So I didn’t know if Margaret was simply trying to distract him, or if she was being selfl ess, sacrificing herself for my good. It didn’t matter; I managed to get my hands completely loose as Bill went to untie Margaret.

“Okay,” he said. “If you insist. We’ll start with you.”

“No!” I yelled, my hands still behind my back as if they were tied. “Do me first. Margaret’s lying. I’m the one who Missy loves.”

For once Missy and I were thinking along the same lines. She witnessed me freeing my hands from the ropes, so she knew enough to stay silent. Bill turned back to me.

“If you think that Missy actually loves anyone, then you’re delusional. But your sister’s right. You do seem uptight. So we’ll get you out of the way first. Sort of like a warm-up for coming attractions.”

Sick fear gripped my stomach. This was actually happening. I knew I had only one chance to save myself, Missy and Margaret, so my mind raced back to the self-defense class I took years ago. As Bill leaned down to continue untying me, my hand shot up, and I punched him, my fist starting underneath his nose and shooting upwards.

My instructor warned us that a punch like that could actually kill, because in essence, you’re shoving a person’s nose into their brain. However, my punch wasn’t quite that powerful. Bill was very much alive, but he was now sprawled out on our floor, blood spurting out of his nostrils.

“You bitch!” he groaned. He was probably in shock, but he seemed to have given up on the idea of “our date.” Looking at him bleeding on the floor, I deduced he was no longer in the mood.

“Faith! Come grab my cell phone from my pocket!” Missy insisted. So that was why she had wanted to go to the bathroom. I scooted my chair over a few feet and reached in. As soon as I was done call-ing 911, I untied Missy’s arms, Margaret’s arms, and my feet. By the time the police came, took Bill away, and took our statements it was after 5:00 a.m.

* * *

I had to be at work in less than an hour, so instead of going to sleep I took a quick shower, then went outside to watch the sunrise. It was a particularly beautiful one that morning, turning the scattered clouds a bright pink and shedding warm light on the brownstones along my block. It was a new day, and amazingly, I felt an overwhelming sense of hope.

Chapter 23

At work my mind began to drift. I probably should have called in, but I promised Sally I would work extra shifts after the stuffing convention. I would have felt guilty not coming in, especially since I was the one who was opening.

Lucky for me it was a slow morning. Sinister clouds moved in, causing a summer storm to begin at around 6:45, and by 8:30 it still had not let up. Probably the unnaturally dark sky caused people to get up later, and they didn’t have time to stop for coffee—or they didn’t want to get soaking wet on their way to work, running from their cars to the coffee shop.

So at 8:30 I was doing nothing but standing at the counter, day-dreaming. I was playing and replaying the previous evening in my mind, trying to find rhyme or reason to the whole ordeal. The weight of the events from last night sat in my stomach like an anvil I had been forced fed. And its weight was forcing me to admit to myself some painful truths: I wasn’t psychic, and my self absorption went beyond being a mere inconvenience for myself and those around me.

Then my mind forced me back to another time when I simply didn’t get it.

* * *

It’s an afternoon in late winter. The sky and the ground offer varying shades of gray, white and brown. This makes for little contrast with the navy blues and blacks most people are wearing on this most somber of occasions. What can anyone say about a fifty year old man with a wife and daughter, an upstanding member of the community?

“Are we going soon?”

He’s standing before you, a cup of coffee in his hand. He’s wearing his usual suit, but the red socks have been replaced with white ones, and his fedora is absent. He looks almost dignified.

“I thought we would stay until it’s over. That’s the nice thing to do.”

The funeral reception has been going on for a couple of hours. It is in the living room of the house she grew up in, a house where you spent hundreds of hours as well.

“Yeah, but you’re not even talking to her.” He gestures toward your best friend, sitting alone in an armchair by the window. The sun has peaked through a cloud and is shining down on her, making her beautiful in her silent misery. “And the weather is getting bad.”

“So what are you saying, that we should abandon her?”

“No. But if we’re going to stay, we ought to make it worth her while. Go talk to her.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

He sets down his coffee on a nearby table and takes your hand. “Come on, I’ll help.” He leads you over to where she is sitting.

“Hey, how are you holding up?”

She looks up at you as if it is the first time she has seen you in months, her eyes registering surprise at your very presence. “This is so stupid,” she says. “Everyone here is pretending. People who barely knew him are pretending to be sad, and the ones who did love him are pretending to be fi ne.”

You think back to earlier that day, when she snapped at you for crying during the service.

“What can we do?” asks your boyfriend.

“You can get me out of here,” she replies.

The three of you go to the nearest bar, where he orders you all shots of Tequila. Your best friend tells him she has never done Tequila shots before, so he is obliged to show her the process of sucking the lime and licking the salt. Watching her knock back the shots is the first time you have seen her smile in weeks, so you let her have your shot as well. (You’ve actually never liked tequila, at least not in shot form.) After about half an hour they’re both plastered, so you remain as the sober designated driver.

“What did you think of the service?” she asks, directing the question only towards him. “Did you like the part where my dad’s boss talked about his years of service in the mining industry? What a joke! Like all those years in the mines didn’t contribute to his cancer!”

“He didn’t have lung cancer though. Maybe the mines had nothing to do with it,” you say.

“Yeah, right.” She croaks, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It’s what everybody is saying though. Nobody wants to believe that a middle aged man could die so quickly when he didn’t do anything wrong. Let’s blame it on the mines!” She yells this last part, waving her arms in the air, attracting attention from the rest of the bar.

He gently takes one of her hands, and lowers it to the table, where he continues to hold onto it. For a moment you think he’s going to reach down and kiss her hand as well, but he doesn’t. He just looks like he wants to. “When my dad died it was the same,” he says.

“Your dad died?” she asks. “When did he die?”

“When I was seventeen.”

“How?”

“He choked to death on a carrot. He was watching television while he was eating, and was alone in the house. The doctors said we found him probably fifteen minutes after it happened.”

“That’s awful.” She replies. You agree but say nothing. You’ve been in this relationship for two years, yet he’s never told you how his dad died; it was one of the few subjects he wouldn’t discuss. But now he’s telling the story to her, and you realize your presence at this occasion is completely irrelevant.

“Yeah. And after it happened people asked the most inane questions. Did he have a history of bad teeth or indigestion? What kind of carrots was he eating? What had been on the tv? Nobody wanted to believe that the exact same thing could happen to them at any moment.”

His words make her laugh, softly at first, but progressively harder. You squirm in your seat and reach to rub his shoulder – a gesture he seems not to notice.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

She speaks through her giggles. “They asked what he had been watching? What did they think, that he was watching a cop show or something? Like he had witnessed some violent crime and that’s what caused him to choke?”