The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [62]
Jesus. She hated that word, madam.
“If he sent it when he said he did, it would be here by now.”
“I’d like to speak with your manager, please.” Charlotte had said, twisting around in her chair to look for someone more important; someone who hadn’t bought a suit straight off the rack at Kmart.
“I am the manager, madam,” he’d retorted, pointing to the plaque on his desk. “See? Vice president?”
“I can read, thank you,” Charlotte had replied, haughtily.
“All I can suggest is that you contact the party involved and ask him when the transfer was sent. Maybe he had the wrong routing number or something.”
Ignoring him, she pulled on her coat and marched off towards the door.
Shit! she thought. Charlotte tried Pavel’s cell for the third time. Where is he?
Even the walk back downtown depressed her. The tall buildings that loomed above her cast cold, dark shadows. Her rhythm was off and she’d fallen out of sync with the traffic lights. This city that she so often turned to for solace and comfort, suddenly felt suffocatingly close and small. What was the matter with her? When she got home, she saw a guy in camouflage pants, peering into the side mirror of a car. He was squeezing his pimples. How could a guy do something as intimate and ugly as squeeze pimples in public? It revolted her.
“Hey! Charlotte, Charlotte!” John the homeless guy was shuffling up the block, dropping his papers, holding his hands out to stop her.
“Christ!” she muttered. He stinks. Charlotte’s bad mood took over; she didn’t care if he was homeless. She just wished to hell he’d take a shower.
“What is it, John?” she snarled. “I don’t have much time.”
Recoiling as if slapped, he lowered his eyes. “Sorry, sorry, Charlotte. Just want you know the UPS man was looking for you yesterday. He left a package at the dry cleaner.”
Charlotte felt so guilty, she palmed him a twenty.
“Thanks, John. And it’s me who’s sorry. Bad day, you know?”
“No problem, Charlotte. I have bad days, too,” John said, as he shuffled back down the block.
Jogging over to the cleaners, she sighed with relief. She liked Brian, the UPS guy who delivered to her door. He was New York Irish, like the old cops and firemen. He also had some kind of oral fixation. In ten years, she’d never seen him without a piece of gum in his mouth. He liked sucking lollipops, too. The problem was, he talked too much. And today, she was in no mood for talk.
After a few quick words with Kim (whose knowledge of English was blessedly limited to words like shirt, pant, and blouse), Charlotte lugged the box home. It was unwieldy: big but light. Recognizing the return address, its contents became even more mysterious. What could her mother possibly have sent her?
Crouching down in her hallway and puncturing the seam of the box with her pocket knife, she pulled out the note. “Dear Charlotte: Just thought you might want to have this. Mom.” The handwriting was spidery. It looked like the pen was running out of ink. She began tearing out the stuffing of white tissue paper.
It must be fragile, she thought to herself. Maybe it’s that Steuben vase I asked for. When she saw what lay nestled beneath the remaining layers of tissue, she sat back and whimpered.
Putting her head between her knees, she tried to breathe in, slowly. It couldn’t be! It couldn’t be! she repeated, over and over again, as if in repeating this plea, it might suddenly disappear. But no. The hair, her own hair, was still there. Clumps of tangled, red hair, leeched of color, and brittle with age. Dragging herself along the floor towards the hall bathroom, Charlotte vomited. She vomited until there was nothing left in her stomach but clear liquid and her own bile.
If only she could sleep. And if only Anna were home. As she lay there on her bed, twisting and twitching, her eyes pinned open, she felt like a runner waiting to sprint at the sound of a starter’s pistol. There was so much adrenaline pumping through her system, not even two milligrams of Ativan slowed her down. All she could see was the murderous look on her mother’s face and