Love Is Red (25 page)

I wake with a start. I have no idea how long I have slept. Waking in the afternoon, especially from a vivid dream, is always strange. I'm sweating. The dream, so rich, so real, has already begun to recede, great swaths of it dissolving in the afternoon light. I can feel the sweat cooling on my body. I can hear the birds sing. I will have a swim.

It's not surprising I've been napping. Early this morning I had woken for the express purpose of gloating.
He's mine. His dark hair and his eyes. His earlobes and his nose, his eyelashes. Mine and mine and mine.
I gloat over his smooth back and I gloat over each round cheek of his ass. I gloat over his chest, which contains his heart; this too is mine and every beat a declaration,
I love, I love, I love, I love
. I gloat over the lean length of him, and his penis, curled and soft and sleeping, too
is mine
; his arms that hold me, and each finger and thumb, and his cheekbones and the place between his shoulder and his neck in which I nestle
are mine
. His navel, his chin. His skin, his breath. My heart creaks and groans with the enormity of everything I have. It is too much to bear. I try to rise but his arms,
which are mine
, tighten around me. I can feel him stir and harden against me and wordlessly he is on and then inside me and we are moving together.

Now Sael has gone down into the town—for errands, he said, but I'm pretty sure that he'll have a beer down at the Deer's Head. He likes the jukebox, which plays old-timey tunes; he likes the drinkers with their hound-dog faces. Maybe he wants to casually, or not so casually, mention our engagement.
The ol' ball and chain finally got me. The prison sentence is starting soon. I got life.
Maybe someone will offer to buy him a round, or more likely he'll buy everyone a round, and that will be good because free beer always tastes better. He'll be a man in the company of men.

Again there it is, the cool weight of the ring brooch between my breasts. I have been worried that its pin will prick my skin, but it hasn't yet. I will have to be careful with such an ancient piece of jewelry, with the burden of Sael's heritage.

I could call a friend and share the news but I plan to wait for a day or two. I want to be selfish with this; I want to hold this as my secret gift, and scratching around in the place where I don't want to look, I think I know why this little voice is telling me to wait. When Andrea was
NEW VICTIM BRUTALLY MURDERED!
killed, my life
ROOMMATE WAS IN THE HOUSE!
became public property. My online photos, flattering and unflattering, were now in other people's hands. I took down pictures and links, tried to erase myself, but not in time. Some information couldn't be removed. Some things I had said were taken out of context before I learned to say “no comment.” That's why the little voice says wait, because this news is special. It's my news and his news but not anyone else's news. I don't doubt that I'll be seen as callous, getting engaged so soon after Andrea's
GRISLY SLAUGHTER!
death. At the very least eyebrows will be raised; people will be polite instead of happy. So I'll hold on to this private joy for a while longer before releasing it into the world, where it will get kicked around like a soccer ball, growing grubby and worn.

I think there will be time enough to tell everyone. I think there is nothing but time, the way people in love do.

I am wrong. This is in fact the last day, for so many things.

But I don't know this yet. I only know that it's still pretty hot for the late afternoon and that a swim would be nice.

I crunch down the gravel path, wearing an old black bikini and little white shorts, toward the lake with the woods on either side. In my small cotton bag are the following items: a threadbare towel, an Agatha Christie paperback, a plum, a paper napkin, and my phone. I hope Sael will remember to pick up more plums. We both love them. I know William Carlos Williams wrote the whole “Forgive me” icebox thing, but frankly that's a bullshit apology if ever I heard one. I bring my phone because there's a good patch of reception near the edge of the lake and I might as well check my messages.

On either side of the gravel path long fields teem with insects, the
shhh
and hiss of them creating the obligatory sound of a sleepy country afternoon, a living static. Behind the grasses stretch the woods.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
I learned that poem in school. My teacher told us it was a metaphor for death, but I always thought it was sexy.
Lovely, dark and deep.

I am brimming with poetry today. It's probably the “love” thing.

To get to the lake you have to veer slightly left off the path and duck down beneath some small low branches. Then there it is, with a tiny strip of firm wet sand and the huge mossy trunk of a fallen tree to sit on. This is where we lodge the old canoe, which has provided a good workout for my arms. I step into the water and it's cold and then it's wonderful. There's nothing better than to swim in the late afternoon with the last of the sun beating
down, pushing through the cold and warm pockets of water, and then to stretch on a towel, eat a plum, and read Agatha Christie. I do this until the shadows are a great deal longer and it's starting to grow chilly.

I heave myself up and begin to walk up to the path again. By the side of the road I hear my phone ringing. I've come to the good patch of reception. Sael and I call it treasure hunting.

“Hello?”

“Katherine!” David's voice sounds strange, and almost to himself he says, “Thank God.”

“Thank God”?
“David, I—”

“Shut up, there's no time, is Sael around?”

“Shut up”? Something is very wrong.
“No, he—”

“Where is he?”

“He went shopping, he's probably having a beer down at the Deer's Head. Why? Do you need to speak with him?”
Will you be friends again?

“No,” he says, so quickly that he startles me. My heart speeds up. I hear him take a breath. “Katherine, I need you to listen.”

It is definitely colder now. The afternoon has taken the turn toward evening. Night will soon be here.

“David, what is it?”

“
Listen.
” His voice is not mean, but it's impatient. “I'm on my way to you now.”

“Here?”

“I left as soon as they called me.”

“As who called you? David—”

“The police.”

My heart stops.

“The police called me. They want to speak with Sael.”

“What? Why?”

“They want to talk with him in connection to Andrea's murder.”

“Why would they want to talk with
Sael
?” I should have brought a sweater, or an extra towel. Something for cover, for warmth.

“Listen to me! I don't have much battery left.”

I will myself to be quiet, to concentrate.

“They called me because they couldn't get in touch with him and they couldn't get in touch with you.” Now he sounds angry.

“We told everyone where we were going. I gave them the cabin's address, you've been here before, you know what the reception here is like! And anyway,
you
said you never wanted to hear from us again.”

Fear has made me spiteful, irrational, but David doesn't rise to it, like he's determined to control himself. Somehow this is scarier, as if becoming angry would waste too much time. “The police say they've been trying to call him, that it just goes to voice mail.”

Is this true? I'm trying to think but panic is beginning to buzz like a swarm of bees. “But he has his phone, I've seen him take calls.”

“Katherine”—his voice grows quiet—“I'm telling you what they told me. The police have been trying for at least two days to get hold of him. They may have found some prints that matched.”

It's hard to swallow. “
Prints?
”

He's quiet and then, every word an effort, “It might not mean anything.”

But it means something. David would not have called unless it meant something.

My knees grow loose; the bees hum louder. I sit down on the side of the path. The gravel is cold and pricking the undersides of my legs and there are ants. I don't care.

“Listen,” he says, again. It's unnecessary now, though, to tell me to listen.

I have never listened harder in my life.

In fact I cannot remember a time when I wasn't sitting on a gravel road, clutching my phone to my ear.

“I'm on my way now, the moment I heard I rented a car—”

“You think . . .” I find I cannot finish the sentence. “You think . . .”

This isn't happening, this isn't happening. This can't be happening.

He is silent for a moment and then faintly, as if he's not talking to me now but to himself, “I can't let it happen again, not after Sara . . .”

“Sara?” My voice is not my own. It is a stranger's voice, completely disembodied. “What has
Sara
got to do with this?”

“Katherine,” he says, and his forced calm control makes me want to scream. I will scream in a moment. “Katherine, what did Sael tell you about Sara?”

“He said she was hit by a car.”

On the other end there is only silence.

“David? . . . Hello? . . .
Hello?
. . .”

Into the void.

“Oh my God.” He is almost inaudible but I can hear his incredulity. “Is that what he told you?” There's a sickening hint of hope in David's voice.
Please
, it begs,
please tell me that Sael didn't tell you this. Please take it back.

Now it's my turn to answer his question with a question.
“What happened to Sara?” There is silence, so I ask it again. “David,
what happened to Sara
?”

After he tells me, he says again that he will be here soon. He will be here and the police will be here. I must keep calm. I have to keep calm.

The laughter bubbles up. Keep calm. What a fucking joke. He mustn't know, he mustn't suspect. Sael my lover, Sael my new fiancé, Sael the Sic—

I laugh and laugh and laugh and—

“Stop it!” David barks, shocking me into silence.

“What do I do?”

“You have to keep calm,” he says again. “You have to act natural.”

No. I cannot do this. My cheeks are wet and that's how I know I'm crying. Tears leaking out of my eyes, running down my chin. I shake my head as I sit on the cold small stones in the last of the dying sun. I shake my head.
No.

“Yes,” says David, as if he can see me. As if he can see me shaking my head. “Yes, you can.
I believe in you.
”

“I can't.”

“I believe in you,” he says. “You have to, for me. I know you can do this.”

“I don't think I can.”

“You will. You will.”

“David.” I cannot speak above a whisper. “Hurry.”

“I am.” There's a pause and then he says it.

Says it and it's all I can hold on to.

“I love you,” he says, and is gone.

I am unaware of the stones that cut me, or the ants that trickle around my legs. I don't hear the miniscule drill of the mosquitoes or the birds as they sing good night.

Spots, black and shimmering.

Please keep in touch.

Let's run away.

Let us know how we can contact you.

Hands are numb.

Just you and me.

Breathe.

Who had access to your apartment?

Breathe.

Was she involved with anyone?

Breathe.

She was found dead in her bed, dead in her bed, dead in her bed, dead in her—

A wave of gray.

I thought maybe I was emotionally dead.

Spots.

He's a keeper.

Black spots.

Who had access to your apartment?

Shimmering.

What did Sael tell you about Sara?

Folded over,

There had to be something wrong with me.

knees in the dirt,

The body count has reached twelve.

a searing pain in my gut,

Come to bed, Katherine.

the bitter taste surges up.

Just to sleep.

I guess I went a little crazy.

A hot wave rises,

I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat.

all the delicious breakfast, the plums,

They may have found some prints that matched.

the dark-skinned plums. I will never eat plums again.

Let's get out of here.

They've been trying to get hold of him for at least two days.

I think women felt it too.

Splattering the gravel,

The police say they've been trying him, that it just goes to voice mail.

behind the tree trunk, on all fours,

We strongly advise that you stay in touch at all times.

up and up,

Will you wear this, now and forever and always?

retching, shaking and shaking and retching until

Just you and me.

nothing is left in my body, there's nothing left to be sick with.

You and your roommate, it doesn't fit his pattern.

The stink and misery of it all. Kneeling in the dirt, head down and pounding.

“Sara was murdered,” David had said. “She was found dead in their apartment, and her killer was never caught.”

Hours, maybe years, later, I stand up, wiping my mouth clean as best I can. I rub my eyes. I'm freezing. Night has descended while I was here. Already the stars are prickling out at the edges of the sky. The crickets are loud. I round the bend in the path and, as if from a great distance, see the lights in the cabin windows. I see the lights and I know.

He's home.