Love Is Red (23 page)

For you, refrigerators are places where small leftovers go to die. You wonder how long mayonnaise can last, or a half jar of Dijon mustard. You love a good mustard, a condiment that bites back, that puts up a fight. There's the seventh girl's hot sauce. You took that from her fridge. She liked her food hot and spicy. That was one of the lines she had used on you. She had read somewhere in a magazine that men will take a subliminal hint, believing that if a woman says “spicy” she will be good in bed.
I love it so much I even put it on my Greek yogurt in the mornings.

Somehow these small bottles make the fridge look more human. You smile. More human—oh, you are hilarious.

You pour the rest of the milk down the sink. There is something amazingly decadent about this. The milk had another three days and then some, but you'll be gone and you won't be coming back. At least not for a while, and not to this place. Or, in fact, this time.

You make sure all the dishes are clean and put away. Stacks of dirty dishes are so clichéd. There is no need to attract roaches. Not that you mind them, but others might. You are the sensitive type. You appreciate others' needs.

You move through to the bathroom to pack your toiletries. Humans are so productive even in their dullest moments: their sweat, their plaque, their filth. Many are ashamed of their uncooperative bodies, their smells and wastes, but it is all life and so it should be celebrated. To pack your toiletries and to unpack the last of your souvenirs, taking and spreading as you go.

Here in the bathroom you place a candle. Light pink, it was given out at a baby shower. The woman's sister said she would call when she was getting labor pains and everyone should light them and send her good vibes. The candle is light pink because her sister was pregnant with a little girl.
To each her own
, the fifth girl supposed, and she kept it ready to light when she got the call.

Judgment is navy blue, it has the faint punch of mothballs, it feels like the lapel of a blazer, it sounds like the tear of thin plastic around a packet of papers, it tingles like mint dental floss.

The call came two days after her body was found. Snuffed out. The daughter will be given the dead woman's name. A burden as heavy as a gravestone. The little girl will grow to love her mother's murdered sister, to consider her the best aunt of all. Fantasize about how she could have gone and stayed at her aunt's apartment in the city, about what would have been.

You take a toothbrush. The toothbrush is white with a green strip down the handle. It feels good in your hand. You keep her toothbrush in the little cupboard above the sink behind the moisturizers and the pill bottles. The eighth girl had a thing about people's breath. She said most men had meaty breath. You didn't. It was one of the many things that she liked about you. She had a toothbrush at home and a toothbrush at her office. Ironically, gum made her feel a little nauseated and also she
hated the sound of it being chewed. She remembered reading about misophonia for the first time and feeling triumphant that there were others who hated these noises as she hated them. You told her you had it too. You bonded over this.

She also liked to have her hair pulled. She liked sex but hated the noises of sex. The thick sound of a tongue in her ear and a man's heavy panting drove her crazy with disgust.

Obsession is neon lime, it niggles like a popcorn kernel stuck in your back molar, it whines like a mosquito in the dark, it flakes like gnawed cuticles, it smells like hand sanitizer.

You've seeded this apartment with their items. You let the stories grow. The single wineglass that stands apart; the mug bearing the name of a city you never visited, that someone else chipped; a button on the desk; a box of ancient peppermints; a ticket stub for a movie you never saw in your wallet. Once you threaded other laces into your own sneakers. Women's laces and men's laces look much the same in this regard.

These things are flourishing in their new environment. It becomes a game. To write with a pen that was never yours on Post-its originally bought for another's desk. You open the freezer to see the bag of stolen frozen raspberries at the very back, behind the frozen peas. You've stirred a pot with a wooden spoon well worn from stirring the Bolognese another dead girl loved to make.

You feed books to the bookshelf. From a slim volume of unread poetry to a well-thumbed romance, a secret favorite of the tough and funny feminist producer from Chicago. You wonder if her friends ever knew she read such things. Now they'll never know.

There are the more obvious things, a pair of woman's socks in the sock drawer, an earring amid the this and the that. Who
will adopt your plants? Will they notice the bracelet winking at the bottom of the fleshy leaves, or the tiny china ornament that belonged to a dead girl's grandmother tucked into the soil? The grandmother and her granddaughter now both dead, leaving only her mother behind to curse at the sunny, sunny days ahead of her in her bitterly long life.

It is a treasure hunt but in reverse, a multitude of hints and glints and gleams. Each object, used often but hardly thought about, certainly never intended as a symbolic beacon shining out to a uniformed authority. The tiny pillow of lavender, by now almost scentless, at the very back of your drawer. An umbrella hanging behind the door. It has been a challenge slipping these little objets d'art, the opposite of talking points, into this apartment so bright and clean, wood and cream. They are hiding points. They are relics of the dead used as a living tribute, if you think about it in a certain light.

You do.

Quantity over quality is often how men pack. Not you. You pack with care, although you will not be coming back. Still, it's nice to fold and see what fits where. There is something lovely and sad about folding clothes into a suitcase. Jeans and shorts, T-shirts, one or two nice shirts, swimming trunks, boxer briefs, and two pairs of socks, for hiking perhaps.

You'll leave the air conditioner on. It's expensive but you know the people who will eventually enter this place will appreciate it. After all, your Ride probably won't be paying the bill, and it's the little things that count. People don't appreciate the little things enough until they're gone. The cool air, the clean dishes neatly stacked. It will take some time for them to find the objects, if they ever do find all of them. Luckily, you have left them little notes, cryptic clues. That will give them days and weeks and months of argument and analysis but still, possibly, no answers.

The suitcase packed. The appliances unplugged. The fridge basically empty. The floors swept. The dishes put away. The mail on hold. The lights turned out.

On your way out the door you turn back for one last look. This apartment, it had a nice view. You took pride in your decorating skills. You hope Katherine appreciated them when she was here.

And then you close the door.

For a time, you ate the world. For a time you took the city's heart. You held it hot and close against your own.

Well, the countryside will be nice too.

I'm listening to the
brr, brr
of the telephone.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Cheryl, it's Katherine speaking. How are you?”

“Hi, Katherine.” She's wary.

“Could I speak with Lucas?”

“Lucas is out right now.”

“Oh,” I say. I wait for her to tell me where he is or when he'll be back but she doesn't.

“Is there something you were calling about? Some message I can give him?”

I clear my throat.
None of your business.
This feels strange. “I was just calling to tell him that I'll be going away for two weeks and not to worry, that I'll call him as soon as I get there.”

“You're leaving?”

Is she relieved?
“Just for two weeks.”

“I think that will be good for you, given the circumstances.”

“Well, I—”

“Actually, I think this might be a good thing for everyone.”

“I'm sorry?”

“I didn't know how to mention it, but I was growing a little concerned with these calls.”

“Concerned?”
Oh no.

“I've been worried about the effect they're having on Lucas.”

“What effect?”

“He gets very quiet afterward, won't eat, won't talk. It can take hours for him to calm down.”

“I see.”
Oh my God.

“I hope you don't mind me telling you this—”

“Not at all.”

“I'm sure we all just want what's best for him.”

Sure you do.
“Of course . . .”

“Why don't you call in a couple days, once you settle in? Just give him a little break.”

It's not you, it's me.
“Oh okay.” My voice is faint.

“So where are you off to?” She's determinedly cheerful now that the uncomfortable problem of Lucas's dead mother's friend has been dealt with.

“Vermont.”

“I hear Vermont is beautiful this time of year.” She's all sweetness and light. I say nothing, so she continues. “Will you be going by yourself?

“I'm going with a friend.”

“Well, that's nice. The city can be so terrible in summer, and especially now, what with . . .”

“Yes.”

“Well, I'll be sure to tell Lucas you called to say good-bye.”

You'd like it if I said good-bye forever.
“Thank you,” I say, “and—”

“You take care now, enjoy your vacation!”
Click.

“—tell him I send my love,” I say to no one.

We have decided to go for two weeks. Two weeks away from the media and the police and the public, the intrigue and speculation
and conspiracy theories and burning curiosity, because there's something stigmatizing about my story, something sordid, the headlines, and most of all the memories. Two weeks away from the city frying, the sun soaking through and sizzling the cement. The city has turned ugly now, snarling. Before we were all together, united against something, but then a mistake was made, it was the wrong guy, another woman is dead, and things fell apart.

Now we realize the nightmare is not over; it will never be over; no one is safe, no one, no one. The police have lost our trust and then some. It could be anyone. Everyone is suspect, a suspect.

Two weeks. I asked for leave from my temp job. They gave it. I was only filling in anyway. They found someone else. They understand that I have to get away from

THE GIRL WHO GOT AWAY.

Two weeks spared from

SPARED FROM THE SICKLE MAN.

“Are you going to sell your story?” Only Megan is brave enough, awful enough, to ask me. She sighs when I tell her no. It isn't my story, it's Andrea's story, and Andrea is dead and my story is only an experience steeped in her blood.

Now people are leaving, fleeing, flying, running. We're two of them.

We need to be able to contact you
, say the police.
As long as we can contact you.

“Sounds like a good idea,” says Sasha. “I'd leave too if I could.”

“Wait, who is this guy? What's his story?” Liz wants to know. “I thought you were with David.”

David and I went for coffee. It was early in the afternoon. Around four, a strange time, we couldn't find a place that suited so we settled on a diner and ordered coffee. We sat and made a little small talk. Then, at last, I told him. I choked over the words but I got them out somehow. I couldn't look at him while I said it. Then at last I looked up.

He was silent for a long time, his face a mask. Some music played, something from the sixties.

“I know that Sael told you but I wanted to tell you myself and to tell you how sorry I am.”

“That's all you have to say?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. In that case, here's what I have to say,” he said, and his voice was gentle, and quiet and utterly deliberate. “Please understand that I don't want to see you or hear from you or be contacted by either one of you ever again.” He looked at me unsmiling and calm. “Do I make myself clear?”

I was trembling. “Yes,” I said.

He quietly stood up, put some money on the table, and walked out.

I sat there. Songs played. Beads of water formed and fell down the side of the glass.

“Will that be all?” asked the waiter.

“Yes,” I told him, “I think that will be all.”

It's been harder for Sael. I haven't asked him what was said; I haven't dared. It is the one thing we don't talk about.

Now I say, “It feels like we're running away.”

And Sael says, “We are.”

Everyone wants me gone, and not just Cheryl Kaskow. Grief is a burden. It's embarrassing, dirty somehow. People are happy to hear that I'm taking a break.

“It's post-traumatic stress disorder,” everyone says.

“It's going to take time,” everyone says.

“So, Sael, that's an unusual name.” My mother says “unusual,” but she's asking,
Is he like us? White and middle class?
“Well, darling, getting away for a while
does
make sense after what happened.”

That's Andrea's murder, as in “what happened,” as in “after what happened.”

“Call me if you need anything,” says my mother. We both know I won't. She has yet to mention Andrea's name, to ask after Lucas.

Lucas, oh, Lucas.

Lucas may as well be a piece of luggage lost somewhere within the system. The “temporary” feels permanent. I call Andrea's office, I call a law firm that Sael recommended, I call social services, I write emails to
everyone
, and each time I run into the brick wall of:

“Without knowing the wishes of the deceased parent, we cannot proceed.”

The lawyer's couched language:

“It's been temporarily misplaced, but we're doing everything in our power to address the situation.”

But the situation is a little boy who has no mother. An orphaned four-year-old, his life sentence in some lost manila folder. Not that I can help much; I too am adrift.

Sael came with me when I needed to pack my stuff. I won't go back there by myself. We said little. I moved as quickly as possible.
Places soak up the people who live in them. She's gone, but the apartment is sodden with memories. I walk past Andrea's room and realize that I'm holding my breath. Like I do when driving past a graveyard. I take my jewelry, most of my clothes. I don't look in the corner of my bedroom. I don't look to see if I can see the pennies.

What pennies? There are no pennies.

Afterward I get pretty drunk. I get drunk and I cry and cry and cry and Sael holds me. I wonder if I will ever stop crying.

“Oh, fuck it,” says Sael. “Let's get the hell out of here.”

“Okay,” I say. “Okay.”

“Go for it,” says Michelle. “You need the time off, but stay in touch.”

“Night or day, you can call me, you know that, right?” Liz says.

I do. These are my two-in-the-morning friends; these are my girls.

I haven't heard from my father. I wonder if he's still alive. If he cares that I am.

It can't hurt to leave; it can't hurt to get away from the streets that have become the Sickle Man's grisly playground, through which he runs rampant like a rabid dog, where no one is safe out of the apartment or
in
the apartment. If he wants you, he'll get you.

They found another girl today. Ashley Miller. Dead on her bed in a Carroll Gardens studio apartment, still wearing her retro glasses frames when they found her.

Meanwhile, I check under the bed. Meanwhile, I check the inside of the closet. The dreams are the worst. I wake up bathed
in sweat, shaking. Sael is always there. Rocking me back to sleep. Holding me till my eyelids grow heavy again.

I can't remember my dreams, but I know somehow that I soon will.

Two weeks, somewhere new. Somewhere with trees. Somewhere far from here, somewhere I can breathe. So we get in a car and we drive and drive and drive.

Now we are here.

I love it.

The air smells sweeter and the breeze is cooler. My food tastes better. The steaks are more steak-y, the tomatoes more tomato-y. We drink some wine and we drink more beer and we drink gallons of iced tea and lemonade and we combine the two. Sael jokes that we should market this drink; we'd make a fortune.

“Ha, ha,” I say.

We play endless card games, sometimes together, sometimes solitaire. There is no connection to the outside world apart from an old TV set, which sulks in the corner, unwatched. We read books. Sometimes I read passages aloud. Sometimes I don't.

We lie on beach chairs on the wooden deck outside the bedroom. We sprawl on threadbare towels on the dark sand by the lake. We rock on the rocking swing on the downstairs porch. We collapse on old green-and-yellow couches, which squeak in protest.

We take walks; sometimes only gentle hikes, close to home and through bits of wood, and sometimes more ambitious, climbing toward a goal. We swim, suits in the day, skinny-dipping at night under a sky alight with stars, the water cool and lapping. It feels illicit, silkier, siltier.

In the twilight we cover ourselves with bug spray. We light large citronella candles and hope, more than trust, that the mosquitoes will be deterred. They whine but we ignore them—ignore
them and they'll go away. There are fireflies to be seen, sparks in the dark, and once or twice a bat wheeling and circling in the sky. I squeak and cover my hair and Sael laughs.

Down below is the little town, complete with small and homey restaurants, a dark and woody bar with antlers and little signs with hair-raising homilies and a pool table. Some tourist traps, but some real spots. We find a great coffee shop with wonderful coffee. Sael goes there to work.

There's a farmer's market too, if you like that sort of thing, and I do, although Sael could take it or leave it. There seems to be a thriving community, at least in the summer, and some concerts and art fairs not far away. Just in case we get bored, I collect pamphlets, and there are a million little things to do, provided we want to. We don't, though. We aren't bored. We have taken two weeks to get away, to laze about, to heal.

I cook. Easy things: salads, burgers, cold soups. Sometimes I join Sael at the coffee shop and linger over an iced mocha but mostly I stay up at the cabin. I never feel scared in the cabin. I'm not lonely. I am calm. I am safe. I sleep, I take small walks, I wade into the lake. Sael calls it the fishing hole. I read. I hum old pop songs under my breath. Little is required of me. Sael and I are the only two people on earth.

It is beginning to work.

Slowly, slowly, it is beginning to work. I have a little bottle of white pills. I am ready to take them, to do anything to stop the late-night memories or the dreams. I still can't remember them but they leave me sweaty and wrung out. On the first night I took one, and on the second night, but then on the third I forgot and slept deeply. It's a miracle. I don't question it.

The cell phone reception is not good here in the woods and the mountains. There are pockets on the path near the lake, at
certain other spots, but on the whole it's more off than on. I don't miss it: the endless calls from the media, my well-meaning friends, the gossip-hungry acquaintances. Except here I am a week and two days in. Pacing, back and forth, kicking up the gravel, feeling the sun on my arms and the back of my neck.

Please, God, let it be Lucas who answers.

If it's her I'll just say,
Hi, Cheryl. It's been just over a week
—see, see I'm being good, I'm staying away, I'm enjoying the Vermont sunshine—
and I thought I would just check in.

Keep it light, keep it light.

Hi, Cheryl, how are you doing?
I'll pause for her answer and then I'll say,
It's been almost two weeks, so I just thought I'd see how Lucas was doing . . .

Let me speak with Lucas, you bitch.

The receiver is picked up.

“Hello?”

I launch in. “Hi, Cheryl, how are you—”

“Kat?”

I'm thrown.

“Kat?”

“Lucas!”
Thank you, God, thank you.
“Hey, honey! How are you?”

“Okay.” His voice is low, upset.

I shift gears. “What's wrong?”

“You didn't call me for so long.”

“Oh, honey.”
Fuck this stupid woman. Fuck her.
“Oh, honey, I called, didn't Mrs. Kaskow tell you I was traveling?”

“No.”

“Well, when I called she said you were out . . . having fun,” I add lamely.

There's a silence on the other end.

“Where is she now, love?”

“She's taking a nap.”

Thank God.
“Excellent! I get to talk to you all by yourself on the phone!” I sound fake, too bright.