Love Is Red (26 page)

 

Live in the moment. Live in the now. Live each day as though it were your last. There is no day like today. Feel the fear and do it anyway. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Life is a journey, not a destination. Forever is composed of nows.

You do not rush to joyful red. Instead you let each moment linger there upon your tongue before you swallow, each bead of caviar complete, each throatful of oyster sweet.

She sits, holding his hand. You do not hurry. Under a blanket of stars her scent fills your nose, the warm damp cave of nostril, the waving cilia, nerve cells unlocking tiny keys within the brain; her warm skin, with an unseen sheen of mosquito repellent, sweat, the miniscule splattering of drops of the tomato sauce she made. Her nails caught some of the stony gray gravel dust of the path when she fell to her knees. The deep animal scent of her hair, the dark rich
herness
closest to her skull.

Finally, finally, she blazes red. The dandelion is delicate within its fragile fullness; you pause before you purse your lips to blow. You take your time before you step into the darkness.

She sits, holding his hand. Then she sees you standing still. Oh, beloved, oh, my Katherine. She thinks that you have not seen her, you are so quiet.

“Here!” she whispers. It's a stage whisper, stretched and tight, one word carrying the weight of a thousand cries, strained to breaking point.

As if you could not smell her a mile away. As if you could not see her, your chosen one, in the dark. As if she did not flame as red as the core of the earth. There is doubt and fear and horror but they do not sway her as they once did; still, she burns bright. Still, she is red.

“Here,” and she waves with a wild gesture. It is a wave of a sailor on a sinking ship in a storm-tossed sea, although it is the height of a summer night and there is not even the littlest breeze to lift a strand of her hair.

She does not call loudly. She is fearful of waking him. She is fearful of not waking him.

“Here,” she says and she calls to you, calls what she thinks is your name.

She wonders why you are not running, not frantic.

You smile in the dark as you start up the wooden stairs to the little deck. The corners of your lips, where the muscles pull, cradle the knowledge that soon she will know you by your real name. Your lips are full, are filled with kisses kept for her, and the ends of your lips curl again because finally you see her, and because finally it is time.

Because you are ready, you take your time in climbing up the steps. It does no good to rush.

Now you have reached the top of the stairs and you see him stretched out, even in sleep grasping her hand. It is strange to her that you do not fall to your knees at once to help her. It is strange, your measured walk, your air of calm.

Yes, this is love. Her touch, touching. You bend down to examine him. The man whose hand she holds.

“Thank God,” she says. “Thank God you're here.”

The irony is unbearably lovely.

“I didn't know what to do.” She is defensive. “I drugged him with my pills. Some that I take, for anxiety and to sleep.” She reels off the names. “I'm scared that I gave him too much. Oh my God”—now pleading—“what are we going to do?”

We. We, and now you are a
we
. Despite everything that has passed, she thinks you are bonded together by fear and necessity.

“I didn't know what to do.” She's crying. She's trying to hold on to what is real. Safety in patterns, perhaps she feels there is more truth in repetition.

“You did the right thing.”

“You think so?”

“Absolutely.”

“Yes?”

It is beautiful to be honest with her, and truly she did do what was right, for you. You stand up and look out over the railing. “It's so peaceful here,” you say.

She wonders why you are admiring the scenery when your greatest friend, outed as a monster, lies drugged and the police are on their way. She doesn't understand. She will, though.

“What are you talking about?” she says. Her voice is growing louder with panic. “What do we do? Where are the police?”

You do not answer.

“David, you said the police were on their way!”

You did say that.

“David?” She walks up to you, grabs your arm.

You turn around slowly to face her. “Katherine.”

“David!” She thinks she has your attention again. As if she had ever lost it. “David,
what do we do
?”

“Come here,” you say.

You pull her in. You hug her tight.

For a moment she allows herself to relax. You are tall and firm; you smell warm and clean and sure. You know her so well. You're strong and there; you'll know what to do.

You do.

You wish time could freeze like this: the night, the moon cool and watchful over the lake, the lover sleeping, your beloved's face pressed just underneath your collarbone. The perfect place for weeping.

“Katherine?” you ask as you rock her gently, gently.

“Yes?” She sniffs.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

She's unsure but willing to be comforted. “Yes, David?”

You bend forward and, savoring each syllable, tell her, “That is not my name.”

“What?” She pulls a little apart, still in your arms, to look up into your face. She hasn't heard you. She's exhausted, emotionally spent, worn and ragged. She didn't hear you.

You smile down, down into her tear-streaked face. Your voice is low and loving and a little regretful. Saying good-bye is hard, but greeting the new is joyful. “I have not been David for a while now.”

“David, what are you talking about?”

This time there is a tiny spark, the copper taste, a dawning. Blinking up through her tears, she tries to focus on you. You, the man she knows as David Balan, so calm, so kind, so faithful coming to her aid even after her betrayal, who loves her still.

You lean over and whisper who you are. You bend down and gently form the words with your lips against the cup of her ear, the name she'll know you by.

The name you have been given, an ancient name, a heavy and splattered cloak hemmed with red, encrusted. You name yourself.

It is not disappointing, this moment. The moment of knowledge.

And Eve took of the fruit and ate it and knew of her nakedness.

The moment of understanding. Not full and true understanding, not yet, but the first realization of who you are. And before she can stiffen or draw breath to cry out, your hands press on those very special and sensitive places on her neck, an ancient technique from the East that has served you well throughout the centuries. No drugs for her, no dregs of wine or chemicals to alter, disturb, or corrupt and

her eyes roll back to whites,

her eyelids close, the red velvet curtain

sweeping down over

the first tumultuous act. You hold

the full weight of her lolling,

boneless.

You hold her.

Your love. Your life. Your beginning, your end, now finally in your arms.

You sigh. You wish you could stand here longer, but you have promises to keep and miles before you go to sleep.

After all, there is much to be done.

Head.

Head hurts.

My head really hurts.

My head really hurts and I'm cold. I pull up the blanket.

There is no blanket. I'm on the floor, naked on the floor.

My eyelids are heavy.

Light hurts my eyes.

Blinks.

Red blurs.

Blinks.

Red toenail polish.

Bare toes.

Feet.

There's a young woman crouching next to me, staring down. Strands of her long black hair are matted against her forehead and against her cheek; thin gold hoops dangle from her ears. She wears a mint-green dress, sleeveless and marbled with blood; a strap has been cut to reveal one full striated breast hanging splattered, bare and heavy.

I open my mouth.

The young woman puts one finger to her flaking blue lips.

Shhh.

Cocks her head toward the sliding glass door where the moonlight is shining in.

Downstairs.

I sit up.

I can't.

My head is full of jagged glass and stones.

I try to sit up.

Slowly.

Where are my clothes?

She beckons with her finger; her nail polish is red.

Come.

My legs are shaky,

Trembling.

I reach,

Push on the couch, push myself up.

Standing naked.

Strands of rope fall down.

She crooks her finger.

Come.

I follow her toward the door. She is quiet. I stare at the shape carved into the pale brown skin of her shoulder, two wavy vertical
lines enclosed in a half-moon. Its crusty contours are mesmerizing, oozing black trails down her back.

She points out through the sliding door leading to the deck.

She dissolves through the glass, stands on the other side. Beckons.

Come!

The glass is solid against my palms.

I pull at the sliding door. I pull and pull but there is no strength in my hands; my fingertips slip and slide with sweat. The girl is looking through the glass, eyes widening, opening her hands in the universal gesture of

Hurry up!

With all my strength I pull but I can only manage a thin crack. I close my eyes and pull; then it's a wedge. Not enough room to squeeze through but she's desperate now, her mouth open in silent call:

Come!

Outside on the deck.

It's cold.

Breeze against bare skin.

Cold.

Sael lies motionless.

I move toward him.

A figure sitting next to him looks up.

Her plump face seems familiar, although it's drained of color and almost yellow. Something that looks like it was once blue sweatpants clings darkly to her thighs. Her gray sports bra is stiff and dark with greenish flecks of vomit or bile, and one lace in her splattered sneaker is untied. A thick black gash runs across her throat. Around the folds of her navel is a crusted triangle, each of its points enclosed by a smaller circle.

Her eyes are pinpricks in blue shadows. She raises her hand, palm facing out; there's a cut there too.

Stop!

She points down to Sael, then brings her palms together under her head.

Sleeping.

She hugs herself.

Safe!

Then she indicates herself before pointing to me with her right hand and drawing the index finger of her left along the thick black incision in her neck. She points back inside the house. The indication is clear. Sael will be all right, I'm the one who'll be

Dead!

She tilts her head toward the wooden steps.

Go down!

Another woman stands at the bottom of the staircase. In her late thirties, wearing cargo pants, a black top, her short hair framing her face, its left side a mass of deeply etched spiraling grooves.

She beckons back and forth frantically.

Come!

I put my bare foot on the first step. It creaks. The woman violently covers her mouth with both her hands, terrified at the noise.

Quiet!

I descend as slowly and quietly as possible, trying to place my weight silently. Holding on to the wooden rail to lessen the pressure on the stairs.

Down, down, down.

The woman gestures, frantically.

Hurry!

My unprotected soles are needled and scratched on the stony path. I need to get to the car, but another girl, a redhead, is waiting in front of the driver's door. She also looks so familiar in her denim shorts, her button-down shirt slashed open. I move toward her.

She shakes her head, her palms out and moving back and forth.

No!

Then she lifts one arm and points around to the back of the cabin. I sprint across the gravel, wincing at the pain and at the sharp scratching sounds of the stones. I duck down around the side.

Squatted low is a young woman, her hair dyed a pretty purple, wearing large tortoiseshell frames and a white dress dotted with tiny strawberries. As she crouches the hem rucks up above her thigh, revealing the scabbed outline of a cone enclosing an eye.

You too!

I crouch. She points toward the black tangle of the woods, a black woolen tangle of darkness.

Go!

I don't move. Out there it's only woods in the night.

Again toward the trees.

Go!

I am frozen. There's a ringing in my ears. My heart pounds. My chest aches with suppressed panting. I can't move. I can't.

Her one finger is raised toward the woods. A single way, a single line.

Go!

The sliding door to the deck rasps open above me.

Light spills out.

I hear the deliberate squeak and creak of his footsteps as he walks across the planks to the top of the staircase.

I can't move. I can't move. It's all going black, there's a buzzing in my ears.

Go!

Go!

Go!

I turn and run.