by Sophie Jaff
Not forever, thinks the fat girl, but you can do it for a long time.
“Given how the authorities have handled, some might say ‘bungled,’ the many aspects of this case, and considering all the unfortunate events that have occurred such as the fire in the NYPD forensic laboratory in Queens, the contaminated DNA, do you agree with what some are suggesting, could there be a possible cover-up? There are rumors that the killer might be involved in law enforcement—”
You smile at this. As if a mortal could do what you do. As if you needed others’ help. As if you, the Entity that you are, could ever be caught.
Now Susie Ranford loses it. She’s had enough. “The idea of a cover-up is total—”
The fat girl likes it when other people get angry. The fat girl would like to get angry but this is not allowed. She is not allowed to be fat and angry because it’s her own damn fault. Say it, thinks the fat girl. Say “a fuck load of bullshit.” She ramps up the speed. She breaks into a jog.
“—total insanity. We’re working with law enforcement and they want to find this guy as much as we do. They’re doing everything in their capacity to bring the killer to justice. This idea of the government being involved is nuts. Since my sister was killed there have been two more murders! That’s six women dead! We don’t have time to waste on conspiracy theories. People want to think there’s a cover-up because they feel helpless and scared and out of control, and want to turn on one another. Well, we can’t afford it now, not when this monster is out there!”
Her face is white apart from the spots of bright red in her cheeks; her nostrils flare. Her knuckles have whitened.
Cynthia’s flustered. She’s pushed too far. Susie is deviating from the script. America’s Favorite Aunt can’t seem unsympathetic. She murmurs, “Yes, yes, of course,” and resumes a safer line of questioning. “So, for those wanting to get involved with DWHA?”
The fat girl slugs back tepid water from her water bottle. Keeps jogging.
Susie Ranford is trying to calm down. She has to get the message out. Then she can bid this bitch farewell, go back to her boyfriend’s place, and cry her eyes out for a couple of hours before succumbing to a restless sleep.
“Of course! If you want to volunteer, please check out our website. We’re looking for people, men or women, especially if you have some training in law enforcement and in defense or martial art classes. If you don’t want to walk people home, you can always help with poster duty.”
“There’s been a lot of coverage about these posters. Can you tell us more?”
“The posters feature blown-up photos of the victims. Since DWHA was started, over ten thousand have been put up all over the city.”
“Ten thousand?” Cynthia is incredulous, impressed.
“That’s right. People can take them down or deface them, but we’ll keep putting them up.”
“What inspired the posters?”
“We need to remind women that no one is invulnerable, no one is immortal or immune to this. This doesn’t just happen to ‘other people.’ I used to hear terrible stories and think that that would never happen to me, that will never happen to my loved ones. But it happened to my sister. She was smart and she was strong but she was killed just like all the others.”
Now her voice softens, her shoulders ease down a little.
“We also want the killer to see the faces of his victims, know they were human beings. That’s why we include personal facts about them. These were individual human beings with lives.”
But you know this; you know they had dreams and hopes and passions and longings. They were brimming with life. That’s why you chose them.
The fat girl thinks about the posters. It’s true, the little facts about each victim have stayed with her. Kathleen Walsh was a corporate lawyer who read science fiction books; Jennifer Wegerle was a teaching artist who taught drama up in the Bronx and loved to cook; Melissa Lin, who worked in marketing, was due to be married in less than a month.
“How long will you be putting these posters up?”
“We’ll put them up for as long as it takes. As long as it takes to get him.”
For a moment the fat girl wishes Susie Ranford were her sister. She only has brothers: popular, callous, and finally strangers.
“Well, it’s been an honor to have you here today, given your loss—”
“I’d just like to tell people about the vigil?”
“Of course.”
“We’ll be holding a candlelight vigil on Thursday the twenty-eighth for the victims and their families, starting at seven p.m. in Union Square.”
You know that this will be exactly a month from when they found Emmy.
“People are encouraged to wear white, bring candles.”
“Why white?”
“White is the color of mourning in many cultures, but it’s also the color of innocence, to remind us of the innocent lives taken from us.” Susie gives a watery smile. “Of course, you can wear anything you want to. Your support will be enough.”
“On behalf of myself and all of us here at Wake Up with Cynthia!, I just want to say that it’s been a privilege to have you here today. We want to let you know our hearts and thoughts are with you and with all the victims’ families during this terrible time of loss.” It’s impossible to tell if Cynthia is sincere. The fat girl has seen her show before and knows she’s a great crier.
“Thank you.”
“Your final words for the viewers, especially for our women viewers watching?”
Susie Ranford turns to the camera, her eyes bright and brimming. “To the single women out there, or the women who live alone: Don’t be proud; it’s not worth it. This sick psychopath has now taken six innocent lives and destroyed countless others. I thought it couldn’t happen to me, or to anyone I loved. Now my sister is dead, brutally murdered.” Tears run down her cheeks but she continues to address the camera. “I’m begging you, if you know there’s a chance that you’ll be coming back to an empty apartment, contact us through our app or our website or call our number. Even if it’s during the day—remember that my sister was last seen at a public library in broad daylight. Wait in a well-lit public area, or somewhere with lots of people around, and one of our volunteers will come and find you. You’ll be told their name and a numeric code ahead of time to verify that they are who they say they are. Try to be patient, it might take a little time, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. Don’t be a victim. Stay safe.”
She looks like she’s about to break down completely. Real grief can be messy. Cynthia hastily turns to the camera and starts to repeat the information about contacting the organization.
The fat girl pushes the plus sign, which steepens the incline, her red face redder, her armpits sweatier; with jiggling flesh she reaches for her chance to be a victim, pushes on toward lean, trim, slim annihilation.
She’ll get there sooner than she knows.
10
My mother calls.
“How are you?” she asks.
When I was ten my mother met a well-known heart surgeon thirty years her senior, and when I was eleven she married him. His name was Richard but everyone called him Dick. He was a widower with silver hair. He had an expensive house in a swanky suburb of Washington, DC, and two children, but not really children because they were six and four years older than me and didn’t take much interest in a gawky eleven-year-old. My stepfather never told me to call him Dad, and I never did. I didn’t call him Dick either. I called him Richard.
“So, what’s new?”
My mother has silvery blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a tight smile. She smells bright and clean and efficient, like the inside of an expensive bag. Like winter. After her second husband, Richard “call me Dick,” died, my mother found happiness in dogs and real estate. She’ll call occasionally, or I will. Just to “check in.” It’s more like stocktaking. Alive? Solvent?
My mother and I are not close. We treat each other like tourists who find each other
in a foreign place. We come from the same country, but not the same part of the country. We might have unexpected things in common, but our lives are different, separate, and “other.” We are polite and friendly. We stick to neutral topics and are relieved when the time for talking is over.
But now there’s panic in the city. People are frightened. Even my mother is calling more often.
“I’m good. And you?”
“How’s your roommate?” My mother’s manner is like a folding chair. Theoretically you can sit on it, but it will offer you the minimum of comfort or support. She disapproves of Andrea’s single-mother status.
“Andrea’s fine, Mom.”
“And her son? Is it Luther?”
She’s proud she’s making the effort. “Lucas is fine too.”
I think of telling her about the pennies. There were seven today. I’m torn. It reminds me of Secret Santa, which we used to have at my school. I always hoped Amir, my long-term crush, would pick my name out of the hat. I guess that’s why I haven’t stopped this, picked the pennies up.
I decide not to tell my mother. She would be horrified that Lucas would be allowed into my room at all.
My mother does not ask about my love life. This is good. I wouldn’t know what to tell her if she did. I’ll never tell anyone. It’s better this way.
I haven’t heard from Sael. I’m not exactly glad but I’m relieved. Without the rules, the framework of five dinners, there was nothing. We were so brutally honest; where could we go from there? Still, to be so right is a little disappointing.
But something good has come from it. I’ve started to see David again. During the phase with Sael I hardly saw or spoke to him. He asked me out twice but I found reasons to be busy. I felt too guilty. And after that he kept away too, sensing my uncertain, unhappy signal. However, this past Monday the guilt had faded enough and I reached out and called and now we’re going on a date.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll get away with it. I wonder if this could be easier than I ever considered. Maybe no one has to get hurt—really hurt, that is. Sael fades away and David comes back, and technically I haven’t done anything wrong.
Technically.
David and I are at the movies tonight.
The movies are public. The movies are safe. No one wants to be too isolated these days. He buys the tickets and I buy the popcorn and a Cherry Coke for myself and a Coke for him. You must eat popcorn when watching a movie.
We split up, him to find seats, me to go to the bathroom. When I walk into the theater, he waves to me. He’s sitting up high near the back, the seats I like the best.
“Here you go.” I hand him his Coke. The popcorn is to share.
“Ah.” He settles back. “Popcorn, a Coke, and thou, not a bad combo.”
“Not bad at all.”
“It’s been a while,” he says.
“I know,” I say.
He takes a swig. “When all is said and done, when the battle’s lost and won, Coke cannot be beaten. It’s the drink of champions. And you’re drinking?”
“Cherry Coke. I’m not a purist like some people.”
“No ginger ale, right? It reminds you of being ill.”
I think of my dating profile; I flush, ashamed. He remembered. He cares. Then the previews start and we both fall silent.
It’s a good film, a thriller. A woman detective pursues a killer, and it gets a little scary. People have questioned it; given what’s happening in the city right now, it’s not in the best taste. The theater is pretty empty, but we are not alone. For a few of us it’s finally an excuse to say, It’s only a movie.
David’s arm and my arm are very close. I feel the warmth of his skin next to mine. Closer.
Then he takes my hand. He hasn’t touched me since he walked me home about a month ago. It seems like an eternity. His fingers thread easily through mine. His hand is warm and smooth and large. I didn’t remember but now it floods back. His hand over mine. He holds it for a while; then he places it against his chest. It’s a strange move, an intimate one, more intimate than many sexual things I have done. I look at the movie screen again. I try and concentrate. I can’t. There’s a new sensation: his lips are on the back of each finger; soft, firm, soft, he kisses them separately. My insides weaken, melt, and run together. I sneak a glance at him but he doesn’t take his eyes from the screen. I look back at the screen, heart thudding. It is endless and not endless and I wish it would never stop. I stare at the screen. I don’t see a thing. A breath in my ear, he whispers:
“I love this movie.”
It’s hard to breathe; the skin of my arms breaks out in goose bumps. Gently his fingers stroke the backs of my fingers. All over, I want to feel this all over and over and over and over. It’s a serious hand job, I think. I get the giggles. Hysterical laughter rises up in me, but I can’t laugh. It would sound crazy. I don’t want this movie to end, I don’t want this movie to end, I don’t want this movie to end.
When the movie ends I go quickly to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. Pat it dry with a towel. Try to stop grinning like an idiot. It’s always the quiet ones, I guess.
He’s waiting for me next to a cardboard cutout of some long-ago hero. He takes my hand again and we walk hand in hand and it’s lovely, easy, natural. “That was a great movie,” he says.
“It was.”
“I mean, I have no idea what happened in it, but it was great.”
“Someday you’ll have to tell me what it was about.”
“It might become one of my all-time favorite films.”
We go down the escalator and into the night.
“Drink?”
“Sure.”
Outside, the sidewalk is empty. David whistles softly through his teeth. “Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I always wanted to see what the zombie apocalypse would look like, but without those pesky zombies.”
I look around at the quiet summer street, so unlike the usual craziness of the East Village. No long lines for ice cream, or annoying teenagers hanging about, yelling at the top of their lungs. Not even a large tattooed man waiting patiently while his tiny schnoodle urinates on a fire hydrant. I never thought I would be longing for more people in my way. Now I almost even want a slow-moving tourist pausing just in front of me to take a picture of a building. Almost.
“Let’s go to a place where they play cheap music and sell loud beer?” David suggests.
We end up at a dive bar on Avenue C. It’s not the greatest, but it’s nearby. And open. The first two we went to were closed. There seems to be an unofficial curfew. The city has grounded itself. Not that it will do much good. The dead women have taught us that much, at least. If he wants to enter your apartment, he will. Still, this bar has the requisite Fleetwood Mac on the juke, cheap beer. It will do. We talk; it’s so easy to talk with him, about this movie, and other movies, and from there . . .
He turns to me. “I’m glad we did this.”
“Me too.”
“You know, for a while there I kind of felt that maybe you weren’t that interested.”
“Oh?” Tell him.
“I mean I just got that feeling.”
Now is your chance. “No, it wasn’t that . . .” It was just that I was fucking your friend. “I just . . .”
Tell him. What would I say? What would be acceptable now that we’ve made it to this place after such a wonderful night? What wouldn’t ruin everything?
He laughs. “You look kind of agonized.”
“I . . .”
“Well, the important thing is that we’re here now.” He leans forward and gently but firmly kisses me.
I lean into his kiss.
He holds me tight and nothing exists but this moment. Eventually we both come up for air.
“Wow,” he says softly. “I’ve been wanting to do that forever.”
“What took you so long?”
“Well, the first time we had an audience, which somewhat put m
e off my game, and then, I don’t know, work got crazy, you seemed sort of distant . . .”
“I’m sorry.”
He grins. “We’ll have to work on it.”
I grin back.
He settles the tab, though I protest, and we stand outside.
He sighs. “Now I’m sorry we organized this on a Wednesday.”
“What would you be doing Friday or Saturday?”
“That depends.”
“Hmmm. Would you like to do something this weekend?”
“What do you have in mind?”
I think about the weekend. Restaurants and bars are closing early, clubs too, although we have no interest in them anyway. High, hysterical anxiety is exhaled like carbon dioxide.
I’ve had a crush on this guy at work, but I don’t know, he seems a little off. Usually that’s my type but what with this psycho on the loose, I don’t know . . . y’know?
So, she told me she might leave the city.
Leave her job? And everything?
Yeah, her parents are going crazy.
I know. My parents are freaking out, especially my mom.
For me it’s my dad, I’m a daddy’s girl.
It dawns on me.
“What about a home-cooked meal?”
“Cooked by you?”
“None other.”
He is delighted and touchingly surprised. “A home-cooked meal sounds amazing.”
I grow a little nervous. “Well, I mean, I’d like to check in with Andrea, see what she’s up to, if she wants to join. And if so it will be us four. I hope that’s not too domestic?”
“Sometimes domestic is awesome.”
“Then it’s settled.”
He smiles. He kisses me again. It’s wonderful, and after a long while we pull away, beam at each other.
“You’ll tell me what I can bring?”
“Yourself.”
“Come on.”
“Maybe a bottle of wine.”
“Now you’re talking.”
