Love Is Red

by Sophie Jaff

  “Then I noticed that something was blocking the sink; it wasn’t emptying, not draining fast enough. The water was too soapy to see what was stuck, so I stuck my hand in, fumbling to get at whatever what was clogging the drain.”

  The drain gets blocked so quickly. Shit, I want a garbage disposal; I hate that we don’t have one. I know I should have used a draining plug but it takes too long for the water to go down. It’s probably a piece of tomato, or an olive pit, a carrot.

  Fingers gripped my wrist.

  A hand.

  “It felt like a hand came up from the drain and grabbed my wrist.”

  I notice, as if from a great distance, that the hand has blue sparkly nail polish. The polish on the nails is slightly chipped; there’s a black smeary club stamp on the back of her hand.

  And then the reality of the situation broke through my mad detachment.

  “I screamed and jerked back.”

  Knocking a plate, which smashed on the floor. I don’t know how long I stood there, the shards of broken plate around my feet. Frozen. Panting. Adrenaline flooding through my system.

  “In a moment, I thought, I’ll grab my keys, my wallet, my phone. I’ll run out the door and get in a cab and go, go, go to the neighbors, to the police, to a friend’s house, to anywhere, just away.

  “I didn’t do any of those things, though.”

  Q: What did you do?

  A: “I just stood in the kitchen. Stood and waited and stared at the sink. There was nothing.”

  I waited. I stared at the sink. I picked up a knife that was on the counter. It was a big knife and it sounds corny now, but when I held it, I felt better.

  There was nothing there. Nothing at all. I walked to the sink slowly, knife raised. I must have looked ridiculous, but as some wise person once said, there’s nobody here but us chickens, us and a hand that’s come up from the sink.

  “Nothing. There was nothing there.”

  Q: So what happened then?

  Andrea and Lucas were gone for the weekend, camping upstate with friends for the July Fourth weekend.

  A: “I called David’s phone; it went to voice mail and I hung up. I called Liz’s phone. It went to voice mail too. I thought about going to a bar, or calling another friend.”

  I even thought about calling Sael.

  There was nothing in the sink. My heart slowly resumed its beat. There was nothing in the sink. There was nothing in the sink. Nothing.

  “I picked up the pieces of my broken plate. Slept with the bedside light on.”

  I was awake for a long, long time.

  Now I tear my eyes from the brown leather of the chair and look at this woman, this professional who sits opposite me. Forcing myself to ask the question.

  “Am I losing my mind?”

  I wait to hear the answer.

  Forty minutes later I’m drinking coffee at a little diner nearby. Thinking, or “processing,” as someone more evolved might say. Mulling over what she said.

  I think the very act of reaching out for help shows you know the difference between fantasy and reality.

  My uncertainty makes all the difference. I realize that if I hadn’t said “It felt like a hand . . . ,” that might have been an issue.

  In my view, it would be a good idea if we met again.

  But we won’t. It’s too much money, even with the sliding scale, and maybe there’s something else going on. I let myself think back to the question.

  Would you say that the level of your anxiety heightened when you met Sael?

  The question leads to a darker place, a place where I don’t want to go.

  “I’m fine,” I say aloud, and my voice doesn’t sound scared or tremulous or batshit crazy. It’s the voice of a woman who’s perfectly sane and who is absolutely not having a nervous breakdown. “I just have to get my shit together. I’m fine.”

  I’m fine and I’m going to deal with these pennies today.

  Back in the apartment, I go to my room and for a change go straight to the corner. I bend down. On hands and knees, leaning forward, I check the last penny.

  1996. Right. Good. I knew it.

  Except it’s not the last penny anymore. It’s the second to last.

  But he’s only killed—

  No, shut up, stop it—

  The media coverage was endless and frenetic, a new eruption of panic because he had broken his pattern.

  She was killed not in her apartment but—

  I had heard it first on the radio a few days ago. Natalie Shapiro was only nineteen years old. So far, she is the youngest victim.

  Natalie Shapiro was found dead in a women’s bathroom cubicle at Club23 on Fifth Avenue.

  “She shouldn’t have even been allowed in,” Herman Shapiro, Natalie’s father, had said. “She was only nineteen years old, for Christ sake! She was a child!”

  Her mother had been too stricken to speak. Their baby, naked but for her panties, propped in a stall. She must have been drugged; she couldn’t have gone of her own free will. Friends who might have taken something, God knows what drug, and the music being so loud, the scene was pretty intense. We didn’t see her, but we thought it was okay. Natalie liked to party.

  She was supposed to be at a sleepover party at her friend Chelsea’s house. That’s the thing these days. Go out, drink in the city, and then back to spend the night in New Jersey, safe and sound.

  Jill Blackson, spokeswoman for Club23, had said, “We’re doing everything possible to cooperate with the police and the authorities. We have no idea how she would have been let in when our policy regarding those under twenty-one is strictly enforced.”

  Natalie Shapiro must have had a false ID, the radio reporter had announced.

  1996 was the last penny. There were nine pennies last time I checked. Now the last one says 1991. There are ten pennies now.

  It has to be a coincidence. It has to be. The news reporter informs me that a twenty-four-year-old pharmaceutical rep, Stephanie Dabrowski, was found dead and cold early this morning in her apartment.

  Maybe I’ll deal with them tomorrow.

  The Maiden of Morwyn Castle | PART FIVE

  HE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING, A guard making his appointed rounds on the castle’s perimeter heard a strange and eerie singing. He followed the voice through the castle’s gardens, past stone walls, until he came upon the Maiden. She was dancing under a massive blossoming hazelnut tree, which had been there since time out of mind and was rumored to hold much power. The Maiden was as naked as the day she had been born and danced in a wild way back and forth. She thrust her cupped palms up to the moon, which was full and brimming red in the sky. As the guard approached he heard the words of her song more clearly.

  Blood to blood,

  Vein to vein,

  Keep my love

  From fire or flame.

  Then the guard was much afraid. He crossed himself and began to say a prayer, for he knew it must be witchcraft, but the Maiden heard his whispers and she turned and looked at him. The guard mustered his courage to come forward to ask what business she had unclothed and singing in such a fashion and at such an hour, but she walked to him brazenly of her own accord.

  “Behold,” she said, and held out her hand. His eyes grew wide with astonishment, for there, coiled as a serpent and glittering in her palm, lay a wondrous jeweled brooch. The guard opened his mouth to question her further, but she took his hand and smiled upon him and then he saw she was indeed very lovely, lovelier than any lady he had ever known, even the baron’s daughter. All his words died upon his lips as she took him by the hand and led him beneath the hazelnut tree.

  The guard never did tell about the Maiden, nor about the manner in which he had found her. Indeed, on the morrow he seemed to have forgotten all about it.

  13

  “So drinks tonight? You’re in?”

  Megan, the office gossip, has stopped by my-but-not-really-my desk. It belongs to Cora, who’s on maternity leave. There’s a picture of a h
usband who isn’t mine, and a bobbing cow that isn’t mine. Still, I put a small Yoda figure there so I guess I’m even with Cora, maybe even the winner. It is Yoda, after all.

  “Drinks? What’s the occasion?”

  She looks at me as if I’d just asked her what my name is. “Are you serious? You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  Her little rat eyes gleam in her bony face. I’m a captive audience. “Really?” She can’t believe her luck.

  “Megan, what?”

  “They got him!”

  “What?”

  “The Sickle Man! Where have you been? Under a rock?”

  That’s Megan in a nutshell. Who else would say “under a rock”? But I’m too stunned to take issue with her out-of-date bitchiness. “Are you serious?”

  “Look!” She leans over me, so closely that I can smell sour coffee on her breath, and types “Sickle Man found dead” into the search bar. “There!” She steps back in triumph.

  I scan over the words.

  Reports are

  Police confirmed

  Mother sobs in relief,

  Crowds to celebrate,

  There’s a picture of Susie Ranford practically held aloft by two DWHA volunteers on either side of her. Then there is a white sheet, police keeping people back, ER specialists handling a stretcher.

  “Wow.” I turn to Megan. “Who was he?”

  “Some sicko.” She shrugs. “This guy just did two tours in the army. Was due to go out there again. Lived on Staten Island.”

  “How did they find him?”

  “His neighbors filed a report, said he was acting weirdly.”

  “Awful.”

  Megan smiles, relishing the whole thing. “So the neighbors called the police, who found him hanging from a rod in the closet. Apparently his apartment was filled with the grossest shit, newspaper articles, women’s underwear, fucked-up knives. There was even a note confessing—” She sees my expression. “What’s wrong?”

  “He killed himself?” I think back to the endless analyses from the various criminal experts, the psychologists and psychiatrists. “Doesn’t sound like he fits the profile. Didn’t the police say he would know how to fit in, be more social, less of a loner?”

  She looks annoyed. I’m not a satisfying audience. “Well, I don’t know. I mean, all that army training probably meant that he could break into the apartments really easily and he would certainly know how to kill.” She shivers dramatically.

  “At least it’s over,” I say lamely. I know I should feel glad, but something in me stays oddly flat.

  “So, now that you’re brought up to speed, drinks tonight?”

  “I can’t, I have this gala I have to go to with David.” About ten minutes ago, I would have killed for this opportunity to shut Megan up for once. Now her envy and irritation barely register.

  “Is that who you’re always texting? Your boyfriend?”

  That’s our Megan, so subtle, with true regard for privacy. “Yeah.”

  “But everyone’s going to be going out and partying tonight.” She looks at me pityingly. Clearly I’ve picked the wrong night to attend a gala. She relents. “You can join us later if you want,” she says generously. “I hear people have started already. Bars will be packed. It’s going to be total insanity.”

  She says this like it’s a good thing.

  “Cool,” I say. “Thanks.”

  Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she leaves.

  I sit and I wait. I wait to feel relief, or happiness, or exultation. Instead I feel empty. Strange. A sort of numbness. Disbelief. I guess that’s normal.

  My thoughts are splattered drops.

  They’ve found him. They’ve caught the Sickle Man.

  An ex-army guy. Dead.

  Andrea will be so relieved. Maybe Lucas will stop doing those drawings now. Maybe the ladies will leave. I mean, I correct myself, maybe he’ll stop seeing the ladies.

  In my mind I see the pennies.

  The pennies are no longer pressed against the wall. The pennies lie facedown. Facedown. Facedown in the dirt. Tails up. Bad luck.

  “Stop it!” I say aloud.

  “Talking to yourself?” Alan says as he passes my-but-not-really-my desk. “Not surprised, it’s a sign of insanity.” He winks at me as he goes back to his office.

  I smile. I like Alan. We’ve always shared a gentle flirt, talked about cheesy TV shows we like. He’s got a bit of a tummy, thinning hair, and, from his photos, a beautiful wife and an adorable two-year-old daughter. I’ve tried not to hold it against him.

  Put it out of your mind. I have a gala to go to with David. Our first appearance as a couple, our public announcement of coupledom! I give myself a mental shake and try to focus, try to forget the image.

  Pennies facedown. Dead pennies. Facedown in the dust.

  Think about tonight.

  Tonight.

  14

  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 ora
nge, 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.”