Love Is Red

by Sophie Jaff

  He puts his arm up and a cab materializes on an otherwise desolate street.

  “I can take a subway.”

  “Nah, take a cab.” He’s worried about me. These days all news is bad news. “Here.” He folds some money into my hand.

  I push it back. “I’m an independent woman, mister.”

  “Okay, okay, duly noted,” he says, his tone solemn, his eyes shining.

  He kisses me a final time, and I get in. Then he flings some money and something else in through the window and jumps back before I can fling it back at him. I pick up the money and a little bulletlike object, examine it. It couldn’t be a sex toy, could it?

  “It’s pepper spray, not perfume,” he calls as we pull away. “Don’t spray it on your neck!”

  What?!

  “Text me when you’re home safe!”

  And we’re off into the night.

  “Nice guy,” says my taxi driver. A small bearded guy, he looks Indian. “Your boyfriend?”

  “Not yet.” He will be, though, if I have anything to do with it.

  “Is not good for woman not to have boyfriend.”

  I sigh. My feminist friends would kill me for not making this a teachable moment, but— “You’re right,” I agree.

  “Not with this craziness.”

  “It’s true.”

  “They found another one.” He sounds grimly satisfied, as if this proves his point.

  “Oh God.” It’s like a physical blow.

  “Yes, in her apartment.”

  “Terrible.”

  “You live alone?”

  “No.” Why is he asking me? “I have some big strong guy roommates,” I ad-lib. “They work out all the time.”

  “That’s good,” he says grimly. “You a pretty woman. You don’t wanna live alone right now.”

  “You’re right,” I say.

  Then he turns on the radio and listens to some sports update while I look out the window for the rest of the ride home. Over the still-hot street the moon bobs in a lukewarm sky. Some NYU-student types brave the night despite the warnings. They’re young and underdressed, the girls trilling and shrieking, the guys awkward in pale T-shirts, baseball caps. They are drunk enough not to care, loud and raucous, looking for a fight, brave in a group of friends, enough drinks between them, sweaty and lustful and secretly hopeful.

  I conjure up all the good things about the night—the holding hands, his kiss, I’ve been wanting to do that forever—as I get ready for bed. I’m about to text when my phone lights up.

  Safe?

  Safe!

  Good.

  I had a wonderful night tonight.

  Me too

  The movie wasn’t bad either;)

  Not bad at all

  Okay sweet dreams, see you Sat

  Not if I see you first!

  :p

  I smile. I feel warm inside. Glowing. I get under the sheet. I guess I’m a little sorry that we didn’t go back to his place. But I know that taking it slow is a good sign, and we need to build up trust after the last month of distance.

  Maybe this will all be okay; maybe this will all work out.

  I turn on the radio and hear a late news bulletin. Another woman, Rebecca Lamb, has been discovered, just as my cabdriver told me. I turn off the radio. My closet door is open again. I get up to close it. I’m feeling antsy. It was a beautiful evening. I don’t want to ruin it. There is no rain and there is no one standing in the rain.

  I can’t sleep. Me and the rest of the city. According to one report I heard, the demand for sleeping pills and tranquilizers has risen sky-high. I close my eyes. I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. I visualize myself exhaling the tension.

  The worst thing is how he gets into the apartments through locked doors and closed windows, how he leaves no signs of breaking and entering. My window used to have security bars, but I think the last tenant took them out. I never worried about it before. I’ll have to speak with Andrea.

  Mr. Bob, the unofficial mayor of the block, says this guy is nothing compared to the Son of Sam or the Zodiac Killer—of course Ted Bundy was the worst.

  This isn’t even really bad. You should have seen this city a few decades ago. That was chaos, madness, the pushers, the tweekers, the whores, crime was rife, everyone so fucking neurotic, pardon my French.

  No, the worst thing is the way their bodies are found afterward.

  Think about how he kissed each one of your fingers in the movie. Think about that kiss in the bar. I’ve been wanting to do that forever, he said. He’s taking it slow, which means he might take it seriously, unlike . . . Don’t think about Sael. There’s nothing to think about.

  I ask Andrea the next day about dinner. “If it’s okay, I mean, if that works for you?”

  “Lucas will be thrilled—he loves your cooking.” She looks at me, solemn. “Inviting someone round for dinner, I don’t think you’ve ever done that before. It must be serious.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Relax, I’m just jerking your chain.” She smiles. “He sounds nice, can’t wait to meet him, talk with him, let him know what he’s in for.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  She’s teasing me, but there’s truth in it. I’m careful around Lucas. Andrea has never asked me to be but I am, and I know she’s grateful.

  “It is nice to see you happy, though,” she says. “For a while there you seemed a little stressed out.”

  Oh yeah, that’s when I was fucking around with David’s best friend.

  “Then again, we’ve all been stressed out.” She looks tired, worried, and I know she’s thinking about Lucas, how these murders are affecting him. He had a bad nightmare last night.

  “I was, but I’m better now.” I leave it at that. I’m excited to plan: what to wear, get the necessary groceries, even some flowers, sunflowers maybe? I love flowers but I can’t ever seem to keep them alive.

  On Saturday afternoon, with about an hour to go, David calls. His voice sounds different, without warmth or sweetness.

  “Katherine.”

  I feel cold all over.

  “Katherine?”

  “Yes?” He knows.

  “I have something to ask you.”

  Oh fuck, he knows. “Yes, what’s up?” I’m trying to be casual.

  “You remember my friend Sael?”

  “I think so.” Yes, I believe I do.

  “Well, there’s something I want to ask you.”

  This is it. “Yes?”

  “He called me today and he’s going through a bad time, he’s kind of low.”

  “Oh?” Wait, hold on.

  “I’ve heard him like this before and it wasn’t good. I think it might be about a girl.”

  “Oh really?” Oh God.

  “I sort of don’t want to leave him on his own. I really hate to ask this, but is there any way I could bring him?”

  “Um.” Shit.

  “I would normally never ask this but—”

  “No problem.” I am trapped, cornered.

  “Are you sure? I feel terrible.”

  Believe me, you don’t know about feeling terrible. “Why? Andrea and Lucas will be here, it’s really casual.”

  Sael’s coming. They’ll both be here at the same time. Shit, shit, shit.

  David’s words are all rushing together in apologies and promises. “Katherine, are you sure? I’m so sorry. That would be wonderful.”

  “Absolutely! The more the merrier.” Like the threesome from hell.

  “I’ll bring twice the alcohol.”

  “Damn straight.” Because we’re going to need it.

  “Seriously, a million thanks for this, see you soon!”

  And he’s gone.

  “Fuck my life,” I say to no one.

  They bring not two but three expensive bottles of wine, so that’s good. I haven’t seen Sael since the night of the fifth dinner. He looks well, a little thinner maybe, a little more subdued, but in nothing like the despe
rate state David described.

  “Hey,” he says to me. He’s quiet, his eyes downcast.

  “Welcome,” I say to David, basically ignoring Sael. “Come on in. Andrea, this is David, this is Sael. David and Sael, this is Andrea.”

  “And who’s this?” David is bending down ready to make friends.

  “This is Lucas.”

  Lucas seems shyer than usual. I guess he’s not around many grown men. His thumb finds his mouth. It’s a bad sign, the thumb in his mouth. We won’t get a peep from him for the rest of the night.

  “Thanks for letting me bring Sael.” David and I are in the kitchen now, organizing dinner, getting another place ready. I look out toward the living room.

  Andrea and Sael are in conversation over sweet and low jazz songs from the throats of long-dead singers. Lucas, who seems to be recovering from his initial wariness, is sitting close to his mother’s legs, drawing pictures with his crayons. Sael says something and Andrea laughs, nods her head in agreement.

  “Seems like he’s doing okay,” I hazard.

  “I told him that he better be on his best behavior tonight.”

  “Or?”

  “Or I would beat the shit out of him.”

  “Really?”

  “Nah, but I would toss his phone in the river. Then I would run like hell before he caught up to beat the shit outta me.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Where can I find another bowl like this?”

  “Up on top over there . . . No, on the left, that’s right.”

  “I thought you said right!”

  “Very funny, funny man, now pass it to me.” I like ordering him around; it feels cozy, domestic. I was terrified about tonight but I didn’t need to be. Whether David gave Sael a lecture before coming here or whether Sael is actually subdued by outside events, I can tell that there’ll be no scenes, no drama. Both are being pleasant; the evening is going well.

  Now David leans forward; he obviously likes the apartment. “This is great.” He’s surveying the scene through the pass-through counter window: the warped wooden floors, the tall doors with their little glass transom windows, the rocking chair in the living room with the comfortable oversized cushions, in which Sael leans forward, listening attentively as Andrea talks. “Nice place,” he says.

  “Tell Andrea. She found it, decorated it.”

  “How long had she been living here before you moved in?”

  “Three years, I think, give or take.”

  “How did you guys meet?”

  “A mutual friend introduced us. It was good timing. I needed a place to move into and she was looking for a tenant.”

  In fact, I was going through the most massive breakup. Two years ago I had a decent job and a steady boyfriend. I’d thought we were heading toward marriage and children, and then less than one month later I learned that just because you plan something doesn’t mean it’s going to happen. My position was cut and then my boyfriend, a big tech guy, decided to move to San Francisco. By himself.

  He loved me, but not enough. He wanted a fresh start. I had less than a month to move.

  It’s hard to remember that time. For the most part I was numb, dissociated. The pain flattened me out. It was a struggle to get out of bed, to get out of my sweatpants. I tried to look for a new job. I spent the majority of my days crying, often at inappropriate moments, trying the patience of my long-suffering loved ones. Somehow a friend of a friend heard that I needed a place in a hurry, and after about a week I was sitting face-to-face with Andrea, going through an informal kind of “coffee interview.” Whatever happens, I’d thought, at least I got out of my sweatpants. That has to mean something.

  Andrea is gorgeous, black, with incredibly high cheekbones and a long slender neck. One look at her and a model would declare defeat and drown herself in cookie-dough ice cream. Luckily for them Andrea is a public defender, which means she is noble as well as good-looking. I could easily hate her, except she is genuinely nice and funny and she needs me almost as much as I need her.

  “No one wants to live with a kid,” she’d said over coffee. We had already devoured almost all the cookies. “They think they won’t be able to smoke crack or binge drink during the day or bring strangers home to have leather-clad sex with.”

  “And would they?”

  “So long as they shared the crack.”

  She was so deadpan that it took me a moment to realize she was joking. I laughed. My face felt strange when I did so.

  Andrea smiled. “I happen to love the little guy, but I guess the ‘keeping it down’ at bedtime by seven could be seen as a downer if you’re trying to have a party. The last girl couldn’t take it. I don’t blame her. She was in her early twenties, wanted to have a good time. Said she hadn’t moved to New York just to live with her mother all over again.”

  “Wow, that’s kind of rude.”

  “I said, ‘Good, because I wasn’t looking forward to having a teenager just yet either.’”

  “Then you punched her in the boob?” I suggested.

  Now Andrea laughed. “That’s right, then I punched her in the boob.”

  “Momma?” A little kid appears. His brown eyes are huge and wondering, and he has tiny soft black curls. He stomps over with that particular little-kid determination. He’s holding a faded velveteen pig in one fist. He grasps onto Andrea’s leg when he gets there. Examines me.

  Andrea puts her arm around her son. “Katherine, this is Lucas; Lucas, this is Katherine. Can you say hello?”

  “ ’Lo . . .” My name seems to stump him.

  “Katherine’s a bit of a mouthful. You can call me Kat.”

  Andrea turns to him. “Honey, did your movie end?”

  He shakes his head. His eyes don’t leave my face.

  “Let’s use our words.”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s up?”

  “I heard you.”

  “Oh, you heard us laughing and decided to see what’s so funny?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just grown-ups talking, sweetie. It’s kind of boring.”

  “An-cay he ave-hay a ookie-cay?” I say, raising an eyebrow at Andrea. I don’t want to offer the kid an Oreo till I get his mom’s permission.

  “Yes, I can has a cookie,” he informs me.

  Andrea and I both burst out laughing.

  “You’re smart, mister.”

  “Can my pig have one too?”

  “Well, does he eat cookies?”

  He looks stricken.

  I am merciful. “Well, maybe I’ll give you his cookie and you can show him how.”

  “Okay!” He brightens up. Enchanting through cookie crumbs, he tugs on Andrea’s sleeve. “I like her. Can she stay?”

  “Oh,” I said, embarrassed. “Um, you don’t have to—”

  Andrea had smiled and looked at me. “Want me to give you the tour?”

  It’s hard to believe that was almost two years ago.

  “Come to the table, baby,” Andrea says. “Dinner is ready.” And Lucas gets up and we all sit, and we eat.

  Mismatched bowls on place mats, the sauce, tomato-based and basic, steaming, pasta and some bread. A good smell, a cheerful smell. There’s still a bottle of wine to go. There is candlelight. Talk is easy. I laugh. I feel my shoulders descending. It’s a wonderful evening. Four adults and a child, content on a Saturday night. We do not talk of how many women they’ve found, or Andrea’s job. We speak of broad general things, the weather, movies, books, past summers, and memories. David is kind, Sael is attentive, and Andrea is delighting in their company.

  And just in this moment I am happy.

  After dinner there are strawberries and David insists on pouring a little orange juice over them. “Brings out the sweetness,” he says. It’s a neat trick, but that’s David, cutting the acidity, bringing out the sweetness with his own.

  “Bedtime, honey,” says Andrea, and Lucas asks:

  “Can Kat take me?”

  I g
et up in answer. I’m happy to do it, to let the others bond. I’m happy to let them make her happy. When we are stuffed with cake, we can afford to offer it. I am glutted on relief, on happiness. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Andrea so relaxed; the Sickle Man craziness has really been getting to her.

  Lucas offers me his small hand and I take it into my own. We head off to his tiny room, really more of a glorified closet, home to his little bed and his drawings and toys. Meticulously neat: the less space we have, the neater we have to be.

  Lucas changes and brushes his teeth with his big-boy toothbrush—or, as he says it, his “toofbruf.” I look at all the books; there on the shelves are Dr. Seuss, and Goodnight Moon, and Caps for Sale, and I think that this will be a good chance to talk about the pennies.

  There were more today. I still don’t touch them, as if they’re art.

  I don’t want to touch them, to disturb them.

  That’s what I’m telling myself anyway.

  Eight pennies, all of them facing heads up.

  Heads up, it’s lucky to find a penny heads up, but “heads up” is a message, or a warning. I’d crouched down, peering at the little bronze profiles of a long-dead president.

  I wonder how he got them to stay upright, spaced so perfectly?

  “Kat?”

  It’s Lucas, back from brushing his teeth. I jump. “Honey, you startled me.”

  He just looks at me for a moment with his large brown eyes, as if he can read my thoughts.

  “C’mon, get into bed.” I pat the cover and he gets in. “Lucas . . . I start.

  “Yes?”

  “Before I read this, I have a question to ask you.”

  “Yes?”

  He looks scared, but this can’t go on.

  “I won’t get mad, I promise.”

  He keeps looking at me.

  “Have you been going into my room when I’m not there?”

  “No!” He has an appalled expression, comical on a four-year-old. “You has to knock! That’s the rule.”

  And where would we be without the rules? “You’re right. It’s just that I’ve been finding some pennies in my room. Would you know anything about that?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Sure?”

  He nods emphatically.