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LEAH:That monster.
The rest of my fifties passed in a bitter blur. I spent money. I went to tropical places. I started having cocktails at lunch just to make the day go quicker. Life, which had seemed to shimmer with opportunities when I was in my twenties and working at Bergdorf’s, now seemed so dull. I had all the money I needed for the rest of my life. I had an apartment on the Upper West Side and a home in the Hamptons. I was still attractive and now that my children were adults, I was free to do whatever I felt like. But somehow that freedom made it impossible to dream. When I was a teenager, I had wanted so many things: three square meals, new clothes, and for my father to keep his hands to himself. Now though, I couldn’t think of a single thing I wanted.
At the time, I felt so unbelievably old, which of course is funny now that I’m old as dust. Back then I was living independently, never having to worry if I was one folded rug away from a body bag. And yet, at the time, I really felt like I was waiting to die.
I began to drink more and more. I liked to spend my evenings lying on the couch in my dark living room in front of the flickering TV. I would tip back rum and Cokes, knowing that I’d hit my sweet spot when I’d start talking to the TV characters and laughing at my own jokes.
Why was I drinking? Just to stop the boredom really. And maybe because I’d been trying to outrun so many things in my life and they were finally catching up. I had played so many parts over the years that I felt like I had fragments of identities floating around my body like shrapnel. After all the drama and the glamour, somehow it had ended with me becoming just another middle-aged woman, alone and invisible, lost to her son.
Everything was coming undone. I stopped telling my daughters if I was dating anyone, stopped telling people I dated that I had adult children. Sometimes I’d tell so many stories that I’d get them twisted and contradict myself. I wasn’t living a consistent life anymore, not even a consistent lie.
That was also the decade when I first started learning about serial killers. In a funny way, I never saw myself as a serial murderer. It was more like I fell into crazy situations where I had to kill myself back to single. But when I started to read more about serial killers, I realized that my terrible childhood probably played a part. But people feel bad for Oliver Twist; they don’t feel bad for Ted Bundy. Not that I really identified with all those sacks of shit who raped and killed women. It’s monsters like them who make monsters like me. And I was never caught. Seventy years of murder and they never caught me. It makes you wonder how many other people got away with it.
And then, in my late sixties, I left New York for the last time. It was December 2001, and I didn’t even recognize New York anymore, the heart had gone out of the city. But I was still sad to leave. New York had been my North Star, always guiding me home from my detours around the country. Diane had invited me to move into her home in Florida. She had just gotten divorced and was feeling sentimental. I agreed, mostly because I assumed I’d die soon anyways and thought it’d be nice to die with a suntan. If I had known I had over twenty years left in me, I might have given it more thought.
Diane thought we’d get closer and that I’d share my stock of folksy wisdom and stories about good ol’-fashioned decent people with my grandchildren. Unfortunately, my grandkids were selfish teenagers and Meemaw had spent her life offing rich guys for money. To make matters worse, Diane and I began to argue. I was frustrated with my daughter. I did terrible things to give her a good life and she wasted it. Sure, she was rich, but she had the same life I had: living off men and her looks. I had given her so many opportunities and she had squandered them all.
After a few years, I moved out. Diane didn’t care by that point because she had a new husband. I was alone in Florida, cut adrift from my life before. And that can be a dangerous way to live.
HauteHistoire:“Okay, we’ve got two very different aesthetics for this TikTok video. First, we’ve got Colorado millionaire’s wife, an aesthetic for those who like SUVs, roaring fires, and doing cocaine in an outdoor hot tub! Think suede boots, a pleated wool skirt and a chunky concho belt, think cozy turtlenecks and turquoise jewelry. The perfect look for a mountain murder!
“Now we’re moving on to our Coastal Grandma look, an old favorite of yours, but I’m updating it to be more of a Coastal Killer look. So, we’ve got our linen shirt, our fisherman’s pants, but we’re adding a net bag for all that wine Daphne’s drinking and a pair of Tory Burch woven slides because no matter how much Daphne’s struggling, I don’t think she’d be caught dead in a pair of Birkenstocks. Especially as Daphne doesn’t need any reminders of her time in the great state of Vermont. This is a look for riding your bicycle next to the beach, contemplating your own mortality and all the men you helped on their merry way!”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
After I left Diane’s house, I bought a condo on Sweetwater Beach in a luxurious building called the Blue Diamond. My apartment was an airy palace with gauzy curtains and a balcony that overlooked the ocean. I sat out there in the evenings, drinking coffee and thinking about death. I had seen it happen so many times, had watched that indefinable spark fade from someone’s eyes, rendering them dull and clouded, and yet I still didn’t understand the whys and hows of it all. It was the same feeling I had the first time I held my son James, unable to believe that I had created life, that I could be so close to the mysteries of the universe and still not understand any of it.
After a couple months on the balcony, I realized that I needed to put down my coffee and do what I do best. Meet some men. I didn’t think it would make me happy but at least it was a good distraction. And who doesn’t love a dinner on someone else’s dime?
If you’re looking for old rich men who are tired of drinking alone, Florida is your El Dorado. There were plenty of fish in the sea so long as you didn’t mind a fish with wrinkles. I might have been in my seventies but I had a trim body, an ass like a peach, and a face that didn’t look like it had melted. Of course, dating at my age meant you had to hear about the wars they fought in (my dating pool spanned World War Two, Korea, and the start of Vietnam) but as long as you were willing to listen to the same old story about how they held poor Shorty’s hand as his guts fell out, then they’d do whatever you liked.
I had all kinds of fun. I spent countless afternoons on yachts and sailboats. I ate the best seafood in Florida and developed a taste for top-shelf rums and tequilas. Men bought me a whole new wardrobe of designer resort wear and gave me brown Louis Vuitton bags that matched their leathery skin. And the best part was that they barely wanted to screw you. If you tired them out a couple times at the start of dating, then they were satisfied that they were still virile. And everyone could conserve their energy for salsa dancing and trips to the Caribbean.
HauteHistoire:“Hello TikTokers, I’ve got a bonus aesthetic for this episode! So this is our yacht girl ensemble, slightly updated for the older lady living her best life down in tropical climes. We’ve got our wide-legged white jeans, our ribbed Breton-striped tank, and the chunky brown Louis Vuitton bag that just screams ‘A new money man bought this for me!’ Like the Burberry bag inSuccession, it’s sure to rub WASPs the wrong way but that’s the fun of Florida; it doesn’t matter. We’ve got the gold Versace sunglasses and some heeled sandals because Daphne doesn’t seem like the kind of woman to favor a sensible shoe even on a boat. This is a sunny look for a shady person and just perfect for a woman getting on the apps in her seventies while trying to leave her murderous past behind!”
One evening I was out with a new guy called Joseph McLaughlin. He was in his late seventies and was originally from Chicago (the Winnipeg of America), where he’d made a fortune in property development before retiring to Florida.
Joe was nice enough although he was tired and seemed to be struggling to hold up his end of the conversation, which annoyed me. Dating was different in your seventies, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be romanced by a stroke victim. Still, we sat on the restaurant patio watching the ocean shimmer in the pink evening light and drank chilled white wine. It was pleasant but forgettable and I was already filing Joe under B for ‘Backup’ in my mental rolodex when he asked if I wouldn’t mind escorting him back to his place.
“I just feel so light-headed. I think the wine might be interacting with my medication,” he murmured, wiping his forehead. I wondered if this was a seduction ploy (if so, it was a poor one) but he really did look weak and clammy so I agreed.
Joe lived alone in one of those modern glass houses that look like nothing. I walked him into the house, my arm hooked in his as he hunched against me. I could feel his body shaking with the effort of standing. It was clear that Joe had lived alone for a long time. Despite being an expensive house, it was barely furnished. The furniture was all nondescript and beige, as if he’d bought it directly from a hotel.
I walked Joe into the living room, a large room that only contained one La-Z-Boy, a giant TV and a bulb dangling from a tilted plastic lampshade. I was just about to ease him down into the chair, already looking forward to leaving this museum of sad old men, when Joe stiffened and made a grunting noise.
Before I could grab him, Joe fell to the floor and started wheezing and clutching his chest. I’m no doctor but you don’t get to seventy-five without being able to recognize a heart attack. His panicked eyes found me, and I could see how afraid he was, how much he wanted to live. I turned around, searching for a telephone to call an ambulance. And then I. . .just stopped. Slowly, carefully, I sat down in the La-Z-Boy and watched him convulse on the floor. He could barely speak but he was moaning, trying to ask why I was doing this. But I couldn’t explain. I hoped he knew it wasn’t personal though. The date wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t that bad.
I didn’t poison him, and I doubt an ambulance would have saved him, but it sure was fun sitting there, knowing I had the power to call for help or not. I felt like a person who had strayed from their faith and suddenly found themselves back in church, experiencing a revelation. I sat there with him, as his wild white eyes began to shut, knowing I was witnessing his final moments in this world. It was thrilling, a dark kind of power that very few people ever discover or feel able to enjoy. I loved it.
Afterwards, I left his house, shutting the door behind me but leaving it unlocked. His cleaner or a neighbor would find him eventually. I walked away, confident that if anyone did see me, they’d forgot me almost instantly. That’s the best and worst part of growing old: becoming invisible.
After Joe died, I found myself wishing more old men would die in front of me. But no matter how much I tried to get their blood pressure up, it never happened again. I didn’t take it any further though. After all, I had come to Florida for the same reason as everyone else: to retire.
ShockAndBlah:
Literal chills. That is so messed up. I feel like I need to listen to five episodes ofMy Dad Wrote a Pornojust to detox from that.
PreyAllDay: