Love Is Red (17 page)

“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.

 

“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 husband 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.

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.