The coffeehouse bustled as only coffeehouses can, young bodies draped over battered sofas, hands clutching chipped ceramic mugs full of hot caffeinated fluid. Bea was curled up on one half of the love seat, the springs sprung, the seat cushion enveloping her comfortably. Jamie was spread over the other half, expansive and open, his arms spread across the arm and back of the seat, slouched down, knees far apart. He smiled and nodded at everyone who passed, at everyone he knew, at everyone. Beatrice let her mind wander, listening idly to the radio that blared rock and roll and witty DJ banter. The waitress came up and smilingly set Jamie’s sandwich and soda, and Bea’s sandwich and hot chocolate on the flat-topped steamer trunk in use as a table.
“Thank you.”
Bea unfolded herself a little, leaning forward to reach her sandwich. She lifted the top piece of rye bread and peered at the contents, checking for wilted sprouts or odd spots on the cheese, mold on the bread. Jamie just took a big bite, chewing enthusiastically. Satisfied with her inspection, Bea took a bite of her own. She chewed slowly, thoughtfully. The waitress bustled past, tray held high, stacked with plates and bowls of sloshy soup and tall frosty glasses filled with thick gloppy milkshakes. The song ended and the DJ came on again. His voice sounded slightly strained, a little rushed.
“I just got handed a note, so we’re having a brief news break here. The police found another girl, raising the count to sixteen. Apparently, there’s a difference with this one… the girl’s still alive. Ahh… apparently, someone found her just moments after the killer left. She was found near the Museum of the Art Institute of Chicago, about half an hour ago. Ah. The name of the girl has not been released yet, nor have any other details. The police are reminding people not to go out alone, and to avoid strangers. We’ll be back with more news as we get it.”
They cut to a commercial, then, as though it were less disrespectful than music. The café buzzed. Jamie sat in a state of near shock, half-chewed bite of sandwich making a lump in his cheek. He looked around at the cheery marigold and scarlet painted walls and cozy beat-up, broken down furniture, the suddenly subdued patrons who buzzed amongst themselves at this reminder of their mortality, at Bea next to him, warm and alive. She was pressed into a corner of the love seat, her face pale. Jamie swallowed and reached over, lifted her forgotten plate from her knee. Her hands, as he took the plate from her, were cold.
“Bea?”
She touched her lips with the tip of her tongue, blinked.
“That was right near… are you ok?”
He picked up one of her hands and started rubbing it with his own, trying to warm her.
“So close…. Oh, God.”
“Jesus. Sweet angry Jesus. He must… It must have happened…”
He trailed off, swallowing.
“That poor girl… Look. Bea. Did you see anything? Hear anything? Like yelling… sounds of a struggle… anything?”
“No. Nothing.”
She swallowed… remembered to inhale and exhale and repeat the process. The color had drained from her face, leaving the skin around her mouth and eyes faintly yellow.
“Look. Look. Drink your… are you ok?”
He rubbed her hand. She looked down at his hands as though they held a small interesting animal, and not a part of her body. She watched with a detached interest, wondering what would happen. It slowly dawned on her… that was her hand. Inside of his. That hand was attached to her wrist, which was attached to her fore arm, which was attached to her upper arm, which was attached to her shoulder. Her blood ran from her heart, down her arm, into that hand. Hers. She could move those fingers if she wanted. She tried it. They moved.
“I’m ok. I’ll be ok.”
They didn’t feel like hers, though. That hand didn’t feel attached to her body. She thought about it, and realized that she didn’t feel attached to her body at all. Separate. Disassociated.
Across the room, a young woman was running her fingers through her close-cropped, dark-dyed hair; describing in great detail both the hair-cutting process as well as her relief at being rid of said hair. She described, and great and excruciating detail, her previous hair care ritual as well as her present much easier hair care ritual. Then she launched into a diatribe about the latest events. Someone spoke up, interrupting her babble.
“The Son of Sam murders were all supposedly directed at young women with long hair, but it turned out he just attacked people in cars.”
“Yea, but long hair is less common now. I mean, that was back when hippies were around and stuff and everyone had long hair. These girls… they all look alike. Like sisters. Or cousins, at least. These aren’t random killings.”
“Well, I don’t care if they’re random or planned or what. I only go places if I’m with someone, and I carry pepper spray with me on my key chain.”
The latest speaker, tall and bone thin, pulled out her key chain as though to prove her words. The pepper spray, in a dark grey nylon case, dangled like a miniature police baton. She pushed her hair, dyed white and black, behind her ears and handed the spray to reaching hands that turned it over, thinking about getting spray of their own.
Jamie took another thoughtful bite of his sandwich, chewed slowly, and put the sandwich back on the plate. He ran his hands through his hair, dark curls standing on end. He looked permanently surprised.
“I can take you home whenever… whenever you want.”
She nodded.
“Look. Bea. Maybe you should cut your hair. Or dye it. Something. Just…Something.”
She shook her head.
“I’ll put it up, keep putting it up. But… it’s part of me. Who I am. I’m not going to change who I am for somebody else.”
“But, look. It’s like gluing a target to your back. A morbid kick-me sign.”
“No. We live with danger every day. It’s part of life.”
The pepper spray passed from hand to hand. Somebody else mentioned a self-defense class his girlfriend was taking. People knotted together in tight little huddles, clusters of friendship and light against the evil that preyed on helpless girls at night, in the big lonely city.
“Look. I’ll make you a deal. If you cut your hair, I’ll shave my head. I’ll let you see my pasty blue-white scalp.”
She grinned at the idea of him shorn of his black curls.
“Little black lamb, shorn of his wool… you’d have to knit me a sweater.”
He laughed.
“So you’ll do it?”
“No.”
She pulled her knees tighter to her chest and watched the other women.