Love Is Red (9 page)

You love going to the gym, feeling your muscles stretching and straining, the way sweat prickles, gathers underneath your armpits, beads on your forehead, collects and then slides down your flushed skin, your breath filling your lungs with oxygen, the rapid fire of your racing heart, the effort of pushing through the pain, and, finally, relishing the release as the endorphins flood through your nervous system, all in this glorious body. The gym is a great place to feel human.

There's a fat girl at the gym. The fat girl at the gym wears a long gray T-shirt. Even here, she's hiding what she can. She runs doggedly on the treadmill. Her pink cheeks pinker, her mouth pursed with effort. She breathes in. She breathes out.

The fat girl is watching TV. She's watching Susie Ranford get interviewed again. Susie Ranford, who started the organization DWHA (Don't Walk Home Alone) after her sister Emily, “Emmy” to her loved ones, was killed late last month.

Susie Ranford is the kind of person whom the media loves. Susie Ranford, the unofficial spokeswoman for the victims' families. A petite, pretty redhead, she's earnest but not boring; she's been touched by tragedy. And is she thin? Why yes, she is. Thin, thin, thin.

The fat girl tries to envision how in maybe ninety days she will look like that; she will stop being a “well, at least.” She has been someone's “well, at least” for as long as she can remember. She'd probably be a “well, at least” to Susie and her now-dead sister Emmy, who probably wouldn't have looked twice at her, or maybe only gratefully for making her appear even more beautiful.

The concerned host, Cynthia—a pretty Asian woman whom the fat girl thinks of as “America's favorite aunt,” with her apple-cheeked face, her chic, streaked black bob and tasteful tailored dresses—has asked Susie to explain the concept of DWHA for the benefit of the viewers, although the fat girl already understands that this service is, in fact, reserved for thin, pretty girls who actually have somewhere to go at night.

Susie's doing fairly well. Her face is drawn and her eyes are red but she's still speaking coherently. So far, so good. Her parents are too devastated to give interviews. Her mother is tranquilized up to the gills; her father turned into a ghost overnight. She must be their mouthpiece. She's a sister, not a mother or a father, not a fiancé, and yet the whole world is reaching out to her. And Susie Ranford has reached back. It's given her a reason, a purpose. She'd rather act than sit in that house; she'd rather be doing, doing, doing so she doesn't have to think about how often her big sister had irritated her, how often Emmy had driven them crazy. How Emmy was too needy, too insecure, how Emmy floated, couldn't commit, couldn't settle down, couldn't be happy. How Susie should have reached out, checked in, how she should have been a better sister, a nicer human being.

Susie Ranford sits in a comfortable off-orange armchair, on a set inspired by a middle-American living room, and speaks in a careful, overly controlled voice. She's intent on getting her message through, intent on saving somebody, anybody, maybe herself.

“If a woman knows she's going back to an empty apartment she should contact DWHA. A volunteer, or a group of volunteers, will come and walk her to her door; then they'll wait for her to check that her apartment is safe before leaving her.”

Cynthia nods, then leans in, confiding. “Despite the support and praise you've received from starting this, there's also been some criticism.” She wrinkles her nose apologetically to indicate that she, Cynthia, would never criticize.

Susie Ranford doesn't rise to the bait. “Yes, that's true.”

Cynthia waits but Susie just stares at her so Cynthia will have to gently prod a little further. “Some would say that it creates potentially dangerous situations, that women trying to protect themselves are inviting strangers into their homes.”

The fat girl thinks about letting a strange man into her apartment, of any man wanting to stay in her apartment.

You would.

Susie Ranford's lips tighten; her right hand grips the chair arm.

“Look, we can't guarantee your safety one hundred percent. It's not a perfect system, but at least it's something, okay? We try to do the most thorough background checks possible on our volunteers. Ideally there'd be a police officer accompanying every woman in the city”—now she speaks with a hint of sarcasm, perhaps suppressed fury—“but of course that's impossible, so we're doing the best we can. We always try to send a group of people so it's not just one person having to safe-walk. Even police officers on their time off have offered to help out.”

“‘Safe-walk'?”

“The word ‘escorting' has some negative connotations so we call it safe-walking.”

The fat girl is used to euphemisms. The fat girl knows something about political correctness. The fat girl who has a “great personality,” who has “beautiful hair.”

“We have the volunteer check in with us before and after the woman has arrived at her destination safely. We also check in with the woman who made the call to make sure she's safe. We try and send at least two people on any walk.”

Because there's a psychopath on the loose, using women as his human canvases. You carve their skin with the ancient tool of the Harvest, a sickle knife, so they call you the Sickle Man. The forensic pathologists concur: no other blade could render those cuts.

Each one bears an individual symbol: a leaf, a cat's eye, concentric circles, three interlocking triangles, their carvings determined by their colors. But all your victims are marked with the small crescent moon, a half curve in a darker circle (always over their left ovary, but that information has not been given out), and all suffered a final slash across their throats.

The fat girl thinks she's safe. The fat girl is sure you only kill the beautiful ones. Her fat has hidden her once again, padded her against the outside world and your attack. Unlike Emily “Emmy” Ranford, who, like all the others, was found naked on her bed. Amid your bloody Morse code alphabet, her personal letter swirled like a seahorse above her right breast.

She's wrong. You like the fat girl. She sees you using the weights, quiet, efficient, focused. You don't grunt, don't make noise. When you see her, your eyes don't slide away in embarrassment, as if to say,
Really?
You
?

She is pink, which is the color of determination, of a bawling infant's face. It tastes of sweat and it smacks and cracks like bubble gum, it shrieks like adolescent laughter, it feels like early mornings, it feels like pushing upward and through, it is a color that pushes back.

“And what do you think of the steps that others are taking? Of the neighborhoods that are enforcing curfews and the groups organizing phone and text check-ins?”

“I think the more people are involved, the more communities come together, the better. We can't just hide in our apartments forever.”

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.