Love Is Red (18 page)

When it comes to bed vs. closet, it is important to understand the pros and cons of both.

Let us address the obvious first.

Many in this city don't even have an under to their bed. But if they do, under the bed can offer more storage space. However,
getting
under the bed is far more uncomfortable than stepping into the closet. It's a tight squeeze, but the body gives and gives. People are always so amazed at what the body can do; how, given the right circumstances, it can twist and turn and shift. You're not. You know different bodies well. You know what the human body is capable of.

It's also often dirtier under the bed than in the closet. Forgotten socks, limp and mournful; fierce little dust balls; the odd condom wrapper, the odd condom. Hairpins, the extension cord to the hair dryer, underwear, one earring, a candy wrapper, loose change, the obligatory quarter, and a scrunched-up receipt.

You don't mind a little dirt, however.

Bedbugs. You can sense them before smelling their musty,
sweet odor. Even scarier than you, perhaps, although their smears of blood are small and yours, yours tend to be bigger.

If you can stand, or rather lie with, these discomforts, there's nothing like under the bed. The vantage point is wonderful. You go unnoticed for longer. Under-the-bed fears are dealt with in childhood. There are no such things as monsters.

Except when there are.

In bed is where people feel the safest. Which is ironic. In bed is often where people are at their most vulnerable: wear the least amount of clothes and sink, fall, drift into unconsciousness.

Bed is where people allow themselves to become closer to the state of death.

You're here to bridge the gap.

You'll wait until she's asleep before drawing one hand from under the mattress. Aligning your breath to her breath, settling into her rhythm, eyes growing accustomed to, filling up with, the dark. One hand, and then another. Slowly—the best things need to be drawn out. And soon enough she'll wake. With your hands wandering free, you might decide to tug on her toe, a quick tug, so she wakes and looks about but does not see you. You've done this once or twice before. You love it. And probably, if you are delicate enough, she will go back to sleep.

There's something about being under the bed, staring up, a cheek pressed to the underside of the mattress and her body with its faint warmth above you, that never fails to make you smile.

Slowly, infinitely slowly, you slide out. Limb by limb. In the dark, careful not to wake her.

Partially out, you might be able to reach up, stroke her cheek, entwine a lock of her hair around a finger, breathe into her ear,
whisper a secret she will never, ever have the chance to tell.

Not yet, not yet.

And then you'll gently lean over to rouse her from her dreams, to pull her up from her subconscious so that she might look you in the face.

There's nothing like that expression of sheer and complete bewilderment, of unbreathing, unbelieving panic. It fizzes on your lips; it's sweet and sharp and cold and lovely.

Panic is neon orange, it wails like sirens and unanswered phones, it tastes of chlorine and blistered tongues, it smells like a wet bed at summer camp, like the bathroom in the airplane, it rocks like turbulence.

Then again, there's always the closet. The closet is more comfortable, of course. But it's also much more obvious. It's been appropriated and been made coarse by the tales of the bogeyman.

It's actually a wonderful place. Warm and womblike, your own little cave. You stand. You wait for the coat hangers to settle down, to stop their jangling. Closets tell so much. There's wood and there are slats, an intimate smell. Sometimes coats for snow and boots for rain, suitcases, fans. Stuffed animals with sad glass eyes. In the one you're thinking of, the one you visited most recently, there were many shoe boxes filled with photos and paper cutouts and unused postcards. And the quiet pale fluttering of moths. Clothes carry the smells of the city. The scents are ghosts. Cigarettes, of course, falafel from the sidewalk, the pinkest hint of sprayed perfume or lingering deodorant. The pockets still have lip balm for the lips that will widen later, ready to scream. Some closets have files, books, badly folded sheets and blankets, a box of sock puppets, strange but wonderful. Two kinds of hats, one a
baseball cap, one furry, and hanging bags that she should throw out but doesn't. Hers has a mirror posted on the back.

There's nothing like when she opens a closet and finds you there. It's a whole different kind of beverage. Whereas under the bed there is a gradual surfacing from sleep to wakefulness, now you watch her eyes as she realizes in an instant that her worst nightmare is true.

Shock is the color of the spots before the migraine, blue and black and floating. It tastes of sugar water, it tastes of rubber, it stings like a slap, burns like a cheek pressed against the floor.

You stand there and you grin. “Hello.”

Once or twice you've had the door slammed shut, as if hiding your grinning, grinning face will erase all of you. You wait. They can run, try to dial for help, but you, you are unnaturally fast and you know where their phones are, what they mean to do, the tumblers of the locks upon the doors. And how are you there, with the window closed and the door locked? And yet, somehow you're through and in and—

“Hello.”

You have a light and pleasant voice.

You have a lovely smile.

She has seen it before.

Only now she doesn't smile back.

You think about this as you stand waiting to be served at the open bar. An open bar always means a line. Oh, Katherine. She'll be showering quickly, worried that she's running late. You move up a little farther; a woman in front of you wants your attention.
Her husband is growing plump; sweat patches will form under his arms when he dances.

Yes, he has money but no one told me it would be this lonely.

She just wants to be noticed again, wants to be told she looks beautiful and have the person mean it.

She's very lovely and well preserved but you choose not to pay attention to her yet. Katherine will be coming through to her room from the bathroom by now, pink and perfect, bare wet feet back and forth to the closet. You saw her dress too. When you looked in her closet all those hours before. You'll compliment her on it. Did she know it was your favorite color?

You wonder if she'll be listening to the radio with its amusing little bulletins on the man they think is you.

You imagine that as she applies her makeup, leaning forward, concentrating on not smudging her eyeliner, opening her lips, she'll be giving herself a little talk, a warning to not have so many expectations, to not get her hopes up. She will anyway.

You're finally at the bar. You ask for a scotch and then turn to the lovely, well-preserved woman next to you and ask her what she'll have. It's a neat trick. Here she was thinking that no one noticed her anymore, and then you did. She is surprised; she blushes as she tells you.

She has a million questions already, but right now she's heady with relief. She's still beautiful. She's still got what it takes.

Katherine will be heading out soon, leaving the apartment that you finally left several hours ago.

“Hello,” you had said to the woman you surprised earlier that afternoon.

As the bartender pours the drinks you asked for, you remember how the woman looked trussed up and gagged on her bed. How she wet herself.

“Don't feel bad,” you told her. This happens quite often; it's nothing to feel ashamed about. You tell her you'll clean her up. You're good at clearing up messes. You're neat.

Rage is white, it burns like ice, it cracks like lightning, it tastes of tarmac, it tastes of iron, it feels like fingers gripping the fleshy part of your upper arm, it sounds like tires squealing, it feels like splinters, it hisses like gas, it reeks like a cage in the zoo.

You remember the look in her wide brown eyes as you informed her that it wouldn't take too long. After all, you have a gala to attend.

“Here you go, sir,” the bartender says as he puts the glasses down in front of you. You hand one to the eager woman by your side.

“Cheers,” you say as you lift your glass. She wants to know what you're toasting to.

You pause, pretending to think, and then you say: “Let's drink to the night ahead, and all that it may bring.”

“Do you think it will be a good one?” she asks kittenishly for your benefit. She thinks the night includes her. It will not, lucky little kitten. You smile.

“I think it will be a memorable one,” you say, and gently clink your glass against hers. “Please excuse me,” you say and her face falls in a ruin of disappointment as you walk back toward the crowd. You don't want to keep your real date waiting.

Every woman has the right to one red dress.

Every woman has the right to be born, to be loved, to learn, to vote, and to run for office. Every woman has the right to be the head of a major corporation. Every woman has the right to be a stay-at-home mom. Every woman has the right to be treated with respect. Every woman has the right to be taken seriously. Every woman has the right to say no. Every woman has the right to say yes. Every woman has the right to one red dress. A little number she hasn't been eating for, at least not eating anything that gives her pleasure. I am a woman and I have exercised that right.

The dress is strapless, with a pleated bodice. The dress is long, and made of silk. It slides effortlessly against my skin like a perfect compliment given by a stranger. The dress is a bright and deep vermillion red. The dress says,
Well, hey there
, in a starlet's husky voice. The dress makes a statement. It says,
I am here
, and I will be there, tonight.

Now I sit in the cab, and the driver and I listen to the radio announcer rehash the miraculous news.

We are informed that Michael John Hanley, referred to by the media as the Sickle Man, was discovered dead in his apartment
after he had been reported missing for forty-eight hours. Neighbors concerned by his recent behavior had contacted police, who had searched Hanley's apartment.

As Megan had so gleefully told me, they had found him hanging in his closet. He was pronounced dead at the scene.

It seems that Hanley had written a crazy, rambling note confessing to the crimes. Although it has yet to be confirmed, reliable sources say that the letter contained details only the killer would know.

I listen for anything new but there's nothing that I haven't already heard or read. Michael John Hanley, thirty-four, had completed two tours in Afghanistan and come back with full honors. Known to his friends as Jack because of his love of Jack Daniel's, Hanley was a quiet guy who enjoyed strumming on a guitar and playing football with friends. He was shy but by all accounts friendly and warm.

“He was really funny when you got to know him,” says his friend and fellow soldier Jeff Lloyd, a note of amazed disbelief in his voice.

His family had noticed a difference when he returned from his most recent tour. He was withdrawn and seemed distant. They grew alarmed and urged him to seek help, suspecting that he might be suffering from PTSD.

Eliza Clare, a criminologist, says it makes sense: “He was clearly under a great deal of strain.” His military training would have allowed him to access people's homes in a way not many civilians could.

Tonight New Yorkers are taking to the streets in celebration. Megan's probably crawling up some guy's leg by now.

“We've all been living in terror,” says Staten Island café owner Tony Assetti. Whoever Tony Assetti is, he has the thickest accent
I've heard in a while. It makes me smile and crave meatballs. “Tonight I'll finally sleep well.”

There will be more vigils and prayers for many of the victims, but for their friends and families Hanley's death brings little comfort.

“My sister's still dead. That monster destroyed my family, he's destroyed my life. He's broken my parents' hearts,” says Daniel Shapiro, the brother of Natalie Shapiro, Hanley's youngest victim.

“The killer, known as the Sick—”

The driver turns it off. I'm glad.

I look out of the window at people congregating on the sidewalks. The air hangs low and close, like sodden sponges. The evening has that thick yellow feel that comes just before a storm. A storm would blow away the summer stink of garbage, at least for a little while, and force the hordes off the streets, where they're milling around, just waiting to do something, acting for all the world like marchers waiting to take part in a parade.

Two young guys strut around bare-chested, puffed up tight with bravado; someone holds up a handmade sign which screams
WE GOT HIM
! in large angry red letters; a group of friends spills out from a bar and stands in a gesticulating clump on the street. A woman sits on a sidewalk curb. She wears normal summer office attire and her shoulders are shaking as she weeps—with joy or sorrow, it's impossible to say.

She's not the only one. A man braces himself against a wall, tears running down his face, as a shriek of young girls runs past him. The city is triumphant but angry. It calls for piñatas, any excuse to beat something hard with a stick.

I slip back into my fantasy. I will enter Cipriani's foyer and the crowd will part like the Red Sea. They will part for the lovely woman in her red, red dress. My fantasy is taken from the romantic comedies I publically scorn and privately adore, and in it I will walk up to David, who stands resplendent in a tuxedo. I will shake him out of his usual wisecracking state and render him speechless with my beauty.

The taxi stops. I'm here at Cipriani on 42nd Street. The night is warm and humid; I pay in damp bills. I'm nervous, excited and careful in my high heels on the stairs.

Say a prayer and here we go.

Walking into the lobby of the Cipriani is like stepping back in time. It was built in the 1920s and I can easily imagine Scott Fitzgerald or Dorothy Parker being witty over gin fizzes while being elbowed by flappers. Then I remember it used to be a bank, so maybe not. There are arched doorways and massive Corinthian columns; the pink brick walls and mosaic floors make a lethal acoustic combination, a hellish empty swimming pool magnifying each and every screeching salutation and laugh of the upper echelon greeting one another.

It makes me uneasy. I look for David. I can't find him in the crush of people.
Where is he? Why didn't we pick a meeting place?
I need a drink. A drink will either anchor me or allow me to float up and not care.

I don't feel like standing here anymore like a moron. I go over to check out the table seating. It's indexed alphabetically and I search for my name.
Katherine Emerson, Katherine Emerson, Katherine Emerson.

Table nineteen.

Clutching my clutch, I make my way into the ballroom. Immediately a waiter steps forward as if he has heard my thoughts. The color of the drink on his tray is a light pink.

“Sorry, what is this?”

“Pink passion bellini.” Clearly he's been answering this question for a while.

It's a ridiculous name, but it tastes wonderful. I look around again, absorbing my surroundings, which, like the inside of a Victorian music box, are rosy plush and bathed in golden light. The massive columns are lit up at the top like birthday candles and the marble walls are softened, draped with rose velvet. In this ocean of gold and rose, round tables bob to the surface, laden under wineglasses, glinting silverware, and bouquets of huge white peonies. The flames of slim white candles flicker below while high in the dusky heavens chandeliers glitter.

Like the music box ballerinas, the guests are on display in bold summer colors; turquoise, pinks and greens and blues and whites. The younger women are radiant in chiffon and lace dresses. They are flushed with youth and beauty, their hair falls in long shining tresses. The older women are well put together, with impeccably messy coifs or tailored bobs. At the age where they can afford to make a statement and have a little more fun, they wear linen shifts with beaded necklines and embroidered jackets in Japanese silk. Large stones set in silver ring their fingers and lie against their tucked throats. The men all seem impossibly handsome, in their perfectly cut black-tie jackets. The
younger ones, grinning white grins, lend supporting arms to their teetering dates; the older men with their salt-and-pepper hair bestow charming, weary smiles. They form a wall of moving elegance, setting off their colorful partners: “And what can I get you to drink?”

Table nineteen, table nineteen, table nineteen.
I wind my way over in between other tables, where people are already beginning to sit.

I see him before I see anyone else.

His black jacket and white shirt, his black hair. His arrogant, elegant profile. He's turning and laughing, more relaxed and at ease than I have ever seen him. This is because the most enchanting girl in the world has just whispered something hilarious into his ear.

She wears a tawny, glittering sleeveless dress with a high neck, made from almost-transparent chiffon with intricate golden beading that is just different enough to set her apart. It clings to every lithe part of her. Her long chestnut hair is gathered into a single full braid that hangs down her one bare shoulder. Her eyes are thickly lashed and her mouth is wide and red. She laughs and her smile is perfect too; there is a miniscule gap between her front two teeth, just enough to be interesting, to give her character.

She can't be more than twenty-five.

There's a hand on my arm. “Hey there, beautiful.”

I whirl around and it's David smiling back at me. “Where did you go? I looked everywhere for you.”

“I couldn't find you, so I thought I'd see if you were at the table.”

“Well, here I am.”

He's so lovely, so handsome, so kind. He is better than my fantasy. His hand takes mine. Holds it firm. “Let's go face the firing squad.”

I don't want to go near that table but there's no choice. I will have to deal with Sael and his lovely, luminous girl.

“Hey, everyone,” he says easily and naturally, “this is Katherine.”

Faces turn.

“Hey!” “Hi!” Everyone is warm, pleasant.

“Looks like I got here late.”

“Not at all,” says a pretty blonde, “we just got here early.”

“To catch up—”

“Really to make a start at the bar,” adds an amiable-looking curly-haired guy whose friendly face resembles that of a golden retriever.

“Let me make the introductions,” says David. “Katherine, this is—” He goes round saying everyone's names. I don't hear anything because I am watching Sael whispering back to the most delicious girl in the world who grins and—

“—and you have the pleasure of knowing Sael already.” David rolls his eyes. “And this is . . . Hailey?”

“Margot,” says the luminous girl. “Close enough, though.” She smiles at us. “Sorry about that antisocial display, but Sael was just being—” She starts laughing helplessly.

“Hey, Katherine,” Sael says, with such an obvious lack of interest it's amazing to me that he even remembered my name, and then they're both giggling.

“Come now, children,” says David, almost annoyed. “Pull it together.” He pulls out my chair and I sit down, though what I
want
to do is run out of the room, down the stairs, and out into the night.

The waiter comes and fills my glass with wine. The candle flames flicker, magnified, through a sea of silverware, an ocean of glass.

Plates are set down in front of us; people eat, people drink, people talk, people laugh, people make conversation. They're all accomplished, good-looking, successful.

I'm in hell.

“So Katherine, what do you do?” a sleek-looking Asian guy is asking me. I think his name is Mark. I can't be sure.

The beautiful girl is looking at me; Sael puts one broad hand over her slender one.

David leaps to my rescue. “Katherine's a writer.”

“What kind?”

I try to recover. So like David to make me sound more interesting than I am. “Sorry, um, freelance, mostly art criticism.”

“That's cool.” Margot has joined the conversation. Apparently she's not just beautiful but is a team player. “Have you seen . . .”

She mentions a forthcoming exhibition of miniature portraiture at the Whitney. I've heard about it, but it hasn't opened to the public yet.

“Actually, I didn't know that was open yet.”

“Oh yeah, I think it might have been a private showing.” She wrinkles her perfect nose apologetically. “My bad.”

Bitch.

“Margot's also a writer.” This is from Sael, dreamer of bad dreams, teller of tales. He glances at me for a moment with what appears to be a kind of pity before returning to beam at Margot, who lowers her lashes and dimples.

Please let me sleep here, just for tonight.

“What do you write?”

“Oh, nothing much—”

“Oh right, she's only a staff writer at the
New Yorker
.” Sael is a real praise-singer. Margot is modest.

“Nice,” I say.

“That must be amazing!” This is from the pretty blonde, like an all-American cheerleader. And she means it; she isn't jealous.

“It has its moments.” Clearly meaning,
It's the most incredible job in the world.

“Weren't you telling me how you interviewed Laurence Underhouse?” Sael prompts her.

“He's famous for his nudes, isn't he?”

“I didn't know he was still alive,” says another girl, a brunette, Rebecca or something.

“Well, something's up and kicking because he wanted to paint Margot's picture.” Sael is still on the bemused boyfriend kick.

There are exclamations round the table.

“What!”

“Really?”

“Well”—Margot is leaning forward conspiratorially—“I shouldn't tell this story, it's terrible—”

So of course everyone begs her to do so, and of course she does, and it's hysterical and witty and involves waxed vaginas as a punch line.

There is a steel vise around my forehead. “Excuse me,” I mutter to David.

“Everything all right?”

“Bathroom break, back in a moment,” I reply as the vise grip tightens.

The bathroom is right off the foyer. It's huge and cream and lined with art deco tiles in seashell colors and it smells faintly of vanilla and other expensive scents, the way bathrooms in these
kinds of places do, and I'm in the stall with my burning face in my hands and the tears come.