A Perfect Crime

by Peter Abrahams

  “Your hair looks fine to me.”

  “Thanks,” she said, holding out her hand. He gave her the keys.

  Downstairs, across the lobby, out. The two cars were parked side by side under the full glow of a sodium arc light. Francie unlocked Roger’s, flipped open the glove box, riffled through the contents: manual, warranty, maps, calculator, touch-up paint; pressure gauge. She grabbed it, locked the car, unlocked Ned’s car, opened his glove box. The contents burst out, cascaded to the floor: CDs, tapes, floppy disks, bills, letters, receipts, crayon drawings, crayons, elastics, tokens, and M amp;M’s, which in turn came spilling out of their box in a second flood. Francie scooped everything up, crammed it all back in the glove box, jammed in the pressure gauge, and was just about to lock up when she noticed the front door of the club starting to open. She tossed Ned’s keys on the seat, banged the door shut with her foot, leaned against Roger’s car.

  They came across the lot, Anne in the middle, Roger and Ned on either side, their faces orange under the light. She handed Roger his keys. “Find that hairbrush?” he said.

  “No.”

  “I think I’ve got one,” Anne said, waiting for Ned to unlock his car.

  “It’s open,” Ned said, getting in.

  “You’re a trusting soul,” said Roger, unlocking his car.

  Anne got in, opened the glove box. Everything exploded back out again, into her lap. “Yikes,” she said, starting to sort through it. “I thought I had a hair-” Francie saw Anne’s hand closing on something, saw her raise it up into the light for a better look: the pressure gauge. She gave Francie a quick smile, private and conspiratorial, through the window.

  20

  “I hope this doesn’t offend anyone,” said Ned, dispensing with his elegant little fork and slurping the oyster right off the shell. “The only way to eat them,” he said, patting his mouth with a napkin. He’d ordered a dozen, the others-Francie, Anne, Roger-half a dozen each.

  “Not at all,” said Roger. “Boldness is all when it comes to certain of the appetites.”

  “I’m sorry?” said Ned, pausing, the next oyster halfway to his mouth.

  “You know that old saw,” Roger said, tasting the Montrachet he’d ordered and nodding to the waiter. “ ‘He was a bold man that first eat an oyster.’ ”

  Francie could see from the look on his face that Ned didn’t know. “Swift, isn’t it?” she said. “And since the bold man probably wasn’t bold enough to venture into the kitchen, his wife must have tried it first.”

  Laughter. Roger raised his glass to her. Ned’s eyes lingered on her face; didn’t he realize those eyes were too obviously appreciative, even loving, if you knew them? Next his foot would be touching hers under the table; she drew her feet under the chair and said, “The bread, please.” Ned passed it to her, his hand moving a little quicker than Roger’s.

  The waiter filled their glasses. Anne drank half of hers in one gulp. “Swift,” she said. “Do you know the Marriage Service from His Chamber Window?”

  No one did.

  She drank some more. “‘ Under this window in stormy weather / I marry this man and woman together; / Let none but Him who rules the thunder / Put this man and woman asunder. ’”

  Silence.

  “How times change,” Roger said.

  Anne looked across the table at him. “Beautiful, isn’t it? I wanted it read at our wedding.”

  Roger refilled her glass.

  “This is wonderful wine, Roger,” Anne said. She glanced at Ned. “I’ll know something to order from now on.”

  “If we win the lottery,” Ned said. Roger’s eyes swept over him; Francie thought Ned’s dark face darkened some more.

  Roger turned to Anne. “But?” he said.

  She put down her glass. “But?”

  Roger smiled. “But Swift didn’t make the grade?”

  Anne glanced again at Ned.

  “It wasn’t raining on our wedding day, for one thing,” Ned said. “And we were indoors.”

  Roger topped off Ned’s glass. “Where was this?”

  “Our wedding? In Cleveland.”

  “Ah,” said Roger.

  “We’re both from Cleveland,” Anne said.

  “I’ve never actually been there,” Roger said, sipping his wine. “Have you, Francie?”

  “Yes,” she said, stupidly adding, “it’s very nice.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Roger said. “And what brought the two of you here?”

  “Ned did postdoc work at B.U. We liked it so much, we stayed.”

  “Your field, Ned, if it’s not rude to ask?”

  “Psychology.”

  “You teach at B.U.?”

  “I have. Now I’m in private practice.”

  “Don’t be so modest, Ned,” Anne said. “He’s also on the radio five days a week.”

  “Really?” said Roger. “In what capacity?”

  “Ned has his own show.”

  “Psychology instruction?”

  “More like advice,” Anne said. “It’s called Intimately Yours. Boston Magazine ’s doing a piece next month.”

  “Dear Abby of the air?” said Roger.

  “I wouldn’t put it that way,” Ned said.

  “My apologies.”

  “None necessary. I just try to help the callers think things through on their own.”

  “From what perspective?”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  Roger shrugged. “The usual suspects. Freud? Jung? Adler? Frankl?”

  “All and none. I take what I need from what’s out there. I’ve found that sticking to dogma usually makes things worse.”

  Roger looked thoughtful. “Taking what you need,” he said. “Sounds interesting. I’ll be sure to listen in.”

  “WBRU,” said Anne. “Ninety-two point nine.”

  The waiter returned and started clearing the first course. “And what do you do, Roger?” Ned asked.

  “Nothing as sexy as that,” he said. “I raise private investment capital. Very drab.”

  “What’s the name of your company?”

  “That,” said Roger, “I’m not at liberty to say at this moment.” Then he winked at Ned; Francie had never seen him wink before, would almost have thought him incapable of it.

  “Finished, sir?” the waiter asked Ned, seeing he’d left three oysters uneaten.

  “Yes.”

  “Can’t let those go to waste,” said Roger, lifting one off Ned’s plate. “Mind if I emulate you?” he asked, and ate it off the shell; his lips glistened. “You’re so right,” he said. “There’s no other way.”

  “Excuse me,” Francie said, and went to the bathroom.

  Her face in the mirror: still looking normal. How was it possible, with Roger at his very worst? With what she was doing to Anne? And Ned-why was he asking questions he knew the answers to? Yet there was her face. Normal. Why wasn’t it an ultrasound of what was happening inside, like Anne’s? She splashed cold water on it anyway.

  Anne came in, talked to her in the mirror. “Isn’t this fun?” she said. “You never told me Roger was so smart.”

  Anne went into the single cubicle, and then came the tinkling sound of her urine flowing into the bowl. “And so distinguished-looking,” she continued unself-consciously, as though they were sisters. “Can I ask you something personal?”

  “Sure,” Francie said, and in the mirror her expression changed. It was the eyes: they grew alert, like an animal’s, even those of a dangerous one.

  “Why didn’t you and Roger have children?”

  Finally, something that made her face change. It crumpled.

  “Francie? Have I said something wrong?”

  “No.” Face still crumpled, but voice even. “We wanted them but it was a physical impossibility.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. It happens all the time. We got over it.”

  Francie heard her tear off a strip of toilet paper. “Em was so impresse
d with you.”

  “It was mutual,” Francie said. Her face began to smooth itself out.

  “Really? You liked her?”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  Anne came out of the cubicle. “What nice soaps,” she said, and washed her hands. Their gazes met in the mirror. “Do you have any sisters, Francie?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I. I always wanted one.”

  Francie handed her one of the plush little towels folded on the granite sink top.

  “Are you mad at me?” Anne said.

  “Why would I be mad at you?”

  “The way I played. Will you ever forgive me?”

  “I don’t think like that.”

  “Oh, I know you don’t, Francie. You’re like a lion-that’s how I think of you — strong, proud, loyal.”

  “Stop it.”

  “If only you’d told me about that”-Anne lowered her voice-“pressure gauge”-and raised it-“earlier, we would have won that goddamn match.”

  “Next year,” Francie said, although she knew she couldn’t bear a whole year of dinners like this, ski weekends, double-dating, conspiracy.

  Anne grinned. “Is that a promise?”

  “Francie’s promised we’re going to try again next year,” Anne said.

  “I’ll put it on my calendar,” Roger said before calling for another bottle of Montrachet.

  He went to the bathroom between the entree and dessert, as Francie knew he would. She’d been his wife for a long time, was familiar with his bladder capacity.

  “How awful would it be if I stole one of those soaps?” Anne said.

  “Which one?” Francie asked.

  “Guess.”

  “The oatmeal.”

  “She knows me so well, Ned.” And to Francie: “Do you think it would be all right?”

  “I’m sure they budget for it,” Francie said.

  So Anne went, too. And then they were alone.

  Their eyes met. “You never told me what a shit he is,” Ned said.

  “Didn’t I?”

  “No. Why the hell did you marry him? Or is that out of bounds?”

  “You can ask me anything,” Francie said. “He was different then.”

  “No one changes that much.”

  “And maybe I misjudged him. He seemed so… original to me then.”

  “Original? He’s a throwback, Francie.”

  “It’s not that simple,” she said. She didn’t like the way Ned was looking at her, as though her stock had fallen in his eyes because of the company she kept. “And please, don’t bring out your tool bag. It’s been a long, slow decline, maybe worse since he lost his job, which you knew about, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “I was just making conversation.”

  “Were you?”

  “No.” He smiled, a rueful, boyish smile, and looked… adorable, even at a time like that. Francie reached out with her foot, felt for his, found it.

  “A long, slow decline,” she said. “I didn’t realize the extent of it, until…”

  “Until what?”

  “Till you came in your kayak.”

  Ned’s eyes changed. She knew what he was going to say before he said it, was already thinking the same thing. “I want you,” he said.

  They looked at each other in a way they shouldn’t have, not in a public place.

  “Monday night,” he said. “At the cottage.”

  “Monday?”

  “There’s no show-they’re broadcasting the Pops Christmas concert.”

  Francie thought, We can’t. But she didn’t say it.

  “Six-thirty?” he said.

  Francie thought, No. Ned’s foot pressed against hers; that little touch, through shoe leather and so far from erogenous zones, nevertheless sent a wave of sensation through her so powerful, it almost made her gasp. She couldn’t get that no out, began having counterthoughts like how can one more time hurt? and if I’m saying good-bye it should be in person, and then Roger was back, and Ned’s foot was gone.

  “So,” said Roger, picking his napkin off the chair and replacing it in his lap as he sat down, “what’s the plan?”

  “The plan?” said Francie.

  “Just coffee? Or perhaps something sweet.”

  Francie had coffee, Roger and Ned cognac, Anne a cake called death by chocolate.

  “This is incredible,” Anne said, “but I can’t possibly finish it. Anybody want some?”

  No one did.

  The bill came. Roger took it from the waiter’s hand.

  “Wait a minute,” Ned said. “Let’s split it, at least.”

  “Sharesies?” said Roger. “After you win that lottery. No, this is my treat. Mine and Francie’s, that is. It’s been a pleasure.”

  “But Roger, it was my idea,” said Anne.

  “And a very good one. We’ll do it again soon.”

  Outside a cold wind was blowing. Anne and Francie stood hunched inside their coats while the men went to the parking garage across the street.

  “Do you think it’s true what they say about oysters, Francie?”

  “No.”

  Anne was quiet for a moment. “Then maybe it’s the wine.”

  “What is?”

  “If it’s not the oysters.”

  Francie was silent.

  “Having an effect on me. If you know what I mean.” Anne looked at Francie sideways. “Can I ask you something?”

  “I’m going to kill you,” Francie said.

  Anne laughed. “Sorry. And sorry for saying sorry. But it’s kind of

  … intimate.”

  “Ask away.”

  “In a marriage,” Anne said, “after you’ve been together for some time, if you see what I’m getting at. What do you do to keep him-to keep things stimulating?”

  Francie felt sick.

  “I don’t mean you personally. What does one do? I read in Cosmo — on Cosmo, actually-that some men like dirty talk. In bed, I mean, during…”

  “I don’t think it’s a matter of tricks,” Francie said, realizing the truth of it as she spoke.

  “Then what is it?”

  “Enthusiasm.” That had been missing from her bed-hers and Roger’s in the days they shared it-if not from the start, then certainly since their procreative fiasco.

  Anne nodded; Francie could see she was making a mental note.

  The two cars drove out of the parking garage, stopped in front of Huitres. “Good night,” Francie said. And she thought, Good-bye. Have the fucking strength to make it good-bye, good-bye to you both.

  “Night, Francie,” said Anne, getting into Ned’s car. She smiled over the top of the door. “Enthusiasm-I should have known.”

  Francie went to bed alone. She lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling. Then she got up, found sleeping pills in the back of the medicine cabinet, left over from the bouts of sleeplessness that followed the last artificial insemination. She took two, returned to bed, waited for them to act, which at last they did.

  Anne went to bed with Ned. They lay in the darkness.

  “How were your oysters?” she asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Mine, too. Better than that.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I’ve decided I love oysters.” She moved closer to him, not quite touching. Enthusiasm, but perhaps Cosmo was right, too. Why not come out with all guns blasting, as Francie would? She put her mouth to his ear, breathed into it. His whole body tensed gratifyingly, giving her the courage to go on. In a low voice she said, “I love your cock, Ned. I want to… do things to it.” She reached down his body.

  He stopped her hand. “I’m sorry, Anne. I have a splitting headache.”

  She froze. “That’s supposed to be my line,” she said, the kind of witty remark Francie might make. But she couldn’t keep it up; all the air went out of her, and then her mind started dragging her down a long spiral, down and down while Ned fell asleep.

  A long spiral, all the way back to th
e pressure gauge. Anne got out of bed, left the bedroom, walked down the hall. She heard Em make a noise in her sleep, paused outside her door. Em rolled over in her bed, then lay quiet. Anne moved on, downstairs, through the door that led from the kitchen to the garage. Yes, he had a pressure gauge, but did that mean he had used it? No. But perhaps she would be able to tell whether that little rubber thing, the protector, the guard, whatever they called it, had ever been unscrewed from the valve. Might there not be greasy fingerprints on it, or stripped threads inside? She opened Ned’s trunk, examined the rubber valve guard on the spare. No fingerprints. She unscrewed it. It stuck just a little before giving way, as though this were the first turning, but she didn’t know enough about the subject to make that judgment. She peered inside, could see nothing wrong with the threads. Proving? Nothing. He did have that pressure gauge, he did get headaches sometimes, and over the years she had been less and less sexual with him: it was probably her own fault. Why had she been like that? She didn’t know. Perhaps she would work up the nerve to discuss it with Francie.

  Anne was about to close the trunk, to go back to bed, to try the enthusiasm gambit again, perhaps the next morning or tomorrow night, when she noticed that the map that had been jammed into the wheel well against the spare was no longer there; and the irises: gone, too. Anne searched the trunk, the glove box, under the seats, behind the visors, but she didn’t find them.

  She stood in the garage, thinking, getting nowhere, and her gaze fell on the trash barrels, lined up along the wall. She began with the nearest one. It held two green plastic bags. She took out the first, unknotted the red ties, dug through, found nothing but recent garbage. Then she removed the second bag, was starting to open it as well, when she noticed the irises, crushed at the bottom of the barrel. The map of New Hampshire with the red X in the middle of the Merrimack River lay under them.

  Picking his napkin off the chair and replacing it in his lap as he sat down! Roger lay on the couch in his basement HQ, his mind racing much too fast for sleep. Weren’t they aware that the proper place to leave a napkin while away from the table was to the left of the forks, folded in half, and that only a boor would leave it on his chair? Evidently not: it was symptomatic, emblematic, of the contrast between them and him. Picking the napkin off the chair, replacing it carefully on his lap, because why? Because under it was this little digital recorder, not much bigger than a credit card-birthday gift from Francie, he recalled, so he could record business ideas while in the car-spinning silently away. He rewound it and listened again, editing out background noise-laughter, cutlery clattering on china, chair legs scraping the floor-transcribing it black-and-white in his mind.