The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [38]
Dr. Greene had once suggested that Charlotte carried the unresolved issues she had with her mother into her relationship with Vicky, that the two women mirrored one another. Charlotte didn’t like how that reflected on herself. For a long time, she’d assumed it was Vicky’s marriage that had come between them. Now she knew better …
Like her clients, Vicky liked a life that ran as smooth as honey, no surprises, no bumps. The worst bumps she encountered came at 35,000 feet when she flew on the family’s G-5. What was it she’d said to Charlotte when she tried to explain her “need” for the 46-million-dollar aircraft? “There are two things that are important to me, Charlotte: One is avoiding people who might bum me out. And two is protecting my children. Who wants their kids sitting next to some guy who sets his crotch on fire?”
The point was, try and talk to her about real life, about a life that entailed planning ahead, paying a mortgage, taking a taxi, working … Well, you might as well be talking to her about tribal customs in some far-flung region of Kyrgyzstan. Actually, Vicky had been to Kyrgyzstan on a rug buying expedition. Her only decisions seemed to involve choosing between vacations in Anguilla, Lyford or Parrot Cay, wearing Prada or Gucci, and lunching at Swifty’s or Bilboquet.
But it was Vicky’s stinginess that Charlotte truly resented. Forget the fact that she’d turned down Charlotte’s request for a small loan, while she gave millions to charity. Charity was cheap for Vicky. It cost her nothing. It was giving in other ways that had become more complicated. Over the years, Vicky had become suspicious of even the most spontaneous, magnanimous gestures from her friends. Because such gestures carried with them the weight of obligation, of debt. And Vicky didn’t like owing anyone anything.
Sometimes, she had wished that their friendship would simply end in a spectacular catfight. Catfights created new beginnings. They cleared the air. Instead, Charlotte had wasted years pussyfooting around minefields of jealousy and envy, never daring to expose or explore her pain. Why did they share only Vicky’s joys? Why were her own occasional triumphs tactfully ignored by both of them? And when had the talking, the real talking, stopped? That was what Charlotte missed the most.
Then, she suddenly thought of Anna’s shrewd advice over lunch at Boulud. About knowing what to ask for from people. She was right, of course. But part of the delirium, the saving grace of youth, was not knowing. Not caring. Grabbing the things that glittered, she thought. Like the gifts that Anna loved. Things that caught the light and dazzled the eye. That was why she had always found it necessary, even easy, to forgive Vicky. Because Vicky had once seemed so utterly dazzling; so much larger than the small, lonely life Charlotte might have led without her.
“The difference between one friend and none is infinity.” She’d read that in an Irish novel during her trip to Venice with Paul. Even with Anna as a new friend, Charlotte continued to cling to the habit of hoping that something would change with Vicky. But the pain had grown and hardened inside her like some malignant tumor. When Vicky returned from Botswana, Charlotte would finally end it. She would cut Vicky off and shut her down, just as Vicky had done to her countless times before.
22
The early morning grogginess was troubling. It often signaled the beginning of a bone-deep fatigue. Usually the vividness, that almost painful alertness to sensation, that transformed Charlotte after a killing lasted for weeks. It was exhilarating—the intensity of that awareness. The sun shone brighter. Noises were louder. It even inspired her in her work, gave her a certain clarity of vision. But today, she just felt weary, fed up.
The doctor’s appointment at 11:15 loomed over her like some noxious cloud. Cracking her knuckles, she rubbed her eyes. She’d been roaming around Craigslist for hours. She never e-mailed potential “victims” from home. But occasionally, her wanderlust, her need to lose herself