The Best of Crimes

by K. C. Maher

  Nine

  September–December 2014

  By the clock I doze only eight minutes, but I wake refreshed, Amanda’s cartwheels turning inside me. My cell phone rings.

  ‘That was amazing,’ Amanda says. ‘Even before I got to the driveway, I knew you were there. I knew you were watching me. Has that ever happened to you? You know someone’s close and watching you even though you can’t see them.’

  ‘Yes. It’s a coincidence.’

  ‘It was more than that. ’Cause I did those cartwheels especially for you—like we were reading each other’s minds!’

  ‘Ordinarily, you know, Amanda, I don’t get home until 9:00 at night.’

  ‘Really. So it’s really amazing, then, that you were here, watching me at 4:30!’

  ‘Yes, except today was a bad day for me.’

  ‘A bad day? Oh no! Want to come over?’

  When I fail to answer, she says, ‘Or I could come there.’

  ‘Amanda, I need to hang up; I’ve got another call. Can you call me later?’

  ‘Later, alligator.’

  Christ. That poor love-starved child! When she sensed me watching, she reacted with pure joy. In her bittersweet, evanescent childhood, she offers an open heart. I’m here. No one else is. The bedroom phone was ringing and has gone to voicemail. Hearing Sterling’s voice, I tap the mute button.

  After a moment, I hear Amanda outdoors again. She’s cartwheeling or skipping beneath the window. She’s either right below me or across the pavement, tossing her glistening hair around. And why not? That’s what girls do at her age. Before adulthood demands self-conscious purpose. Amanda is enjoying more heady freedom than she’s likely to experience again for decades, if ever.

  I burrow back under the bedcovers and imagine the sensation of balancing upside down and tipping from one hand to the next, then hand to foot, and then upright. I’m only half asleep but dreaming: Amanda and I are rolling in parallel spheres. We roll and collide, and our spheres merge. Free of conscious cause and effect, we simultaneously rise together, weightless, defying gravity in a terrifically gratifying release.

  Hours after dark, my cell phone startles me awake again. Her voice is quick and bright. ‘You said to call again. So I am.’

  Instantly alert, I sit up and grasp for something to say. What I suggest strikes me as perfectly appropriate until I hear myself say it. ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday. Are you free for lunch?’

  Amanda gasps in happy surprise. ‘Yes.’

  *

  Most Saturdays, I sleep until 8:00. But today I wake at 5:00, as if it were a workday, which for me doesn’t exist anymore. It’s drizzling and foggy, but just before dawn I’m on the wooded trail, running fast, taking care to avoid slippery leaves.

  Several times, even though I know Olivia’s happy in Bar Harbor, I’ve pressed her to come home for a visit, because I miss her. But she loves it there. Her new school has no cliques. And she doesn’t want me to visit her, a sad mystery I’ve tried and failed to solve. Even phone calls are too much to ask of her. A daily text—or if I’m lucky, a quick flurry of them—that’s all.

  I should be stricter. I know that. My failing as a father was the same trait that sealed my fate at work: I excel at self-discipline but have trouble imposing rules on anyone else.

  When I realized Olivia was staying in Maine because she wanted to, and not because of Sterling’s drama, I set up a PayPal account for her. Money for clothes, music, and movies. I didn’t want Kaye paying for her, and I certainly didn’t want her depending on Sterling’s unstable moods.

  Unfortunately for me, Olivia’s move to Maine is a milestone in her progression away from childhood, away from me.

  Reaching the park’s first steep incline, I sprint, spurred on by the truth, which I can’t outrun: Amanda fascinates me and becomes more alluring every day. If only Olivia were home, I wouldn’t need to worry about my feelings for Amanda. I would be her best friend’s father, and nothing more.

  As it is, I keep slipping back to my dream of us encircling each other and floating away. Even in my subconscious, I have not—not yet!—strayed too far from decency. I cannot, will not, ignore her. So, here and now, I vow to treat Amanda Jonette with the utmost scrupulousness.

  The trees drip. A scant shower hangs in the air but the sun winks through the clouds, making the peak-color foliage shimmer: gold, red, and purple. I race up the highest crest. And, whoa!—hop right and then left between piles of horseshit.

  At the house, I drink a liter of water and carry a cup of coffee upstairs. My new emails include a video of Olivia and her friend Karl playing on the bay. They recorded each other and have made a split screen of the videos. At the end, Karl’s holding a phone at arm’s length. His other arm rests on Olivia’s shoulder.

  I’m in and out of the shower, a towel wrapped around my waist, and assembling my shaving things by the sink when my cell phone rings. Without checking to see who it is, I pick up and Sterling boo-hoos into my ear.

  ‘Stop that or I’m hanging up.’

  ‘What the hell happened, Walter?’

  ‘You mean my job.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. What were they thinking?’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘A woman I used to know at Lehman. By yesterday afternoon, you were topic number one on the alumni circuit.’

  ‘This woman found you in Maine?’

  ‘My cell number hasn’t changed. Last night, I left you fifteen voicemails. If you didn’t pick up this morning, I was going to ask Mother to try. Why didn’t you call me?’

  ‘Because I’m not ready to discuss whether our separation is ripe for divorce. But when that times comes, I’ll be sure to let you know.’

  ‘God! If only you’d talk to me, Walter! You’d know—no divorce.’

  ‘You sound awfully certain of that. How’s the separation going? I gather from Kaye that you and Kevin are living together.’

  ‘He rented a carriage house. And yes, I’m staying there. Mother managed to make me miserable every day.’

  ‘Poor “Susie.”’

  ‘What are your plans? You need to rent an office. You can’t stay at home—people will suspect. Go to an office every day in a building with several other offices. Nothing has changed except that now you’re working for yourself. Day trading or consulting. Oh, and work your contacts. Didn’t someone at D. E. Shaw call you last year?’

  ‘I won’t work for a hedge fund.’

  ‘It’s an investment bank.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I’m not cut out for it.’

  ‘D. E. Shaw likes quants,’ she says.

  ‘I’m not interested, Sterling. Not anymore.’

  ‘Probability—isn’t that your forte?’

  ‘I’m adept in mathematics. But I’m not a risk-taker.’

  ‘You know people. You’ve done favors for them. At least network.’

  ‘I lost my job because I don’t beat my chest and shout about being the king of the jungle. And after hours, when people act chummy, my timing’s off. I laugh at the things everyone takes seriously. And worry about things they think are jokes.’

  ‘Really. Well, here’s some advice: Being unemployed is not a joke.’

  ‘I haven’t stopped chuckling since they walked me out.’

  She says, ‘Hold on,’ and I hear her murmuring to Kevin.

  ‘Tell him he can go ahead with your dream house.’

  It sounds as if she’s closing a door. ‘Our house,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to lose you. This is just a temporary thing.’

  ‘It’s tedious, Sterling. But I want you to know—we have the money. I plan to take some time off and explore my options, although I’ll be surprised if I don’t end up going to law school.’

  ‘If you wait long enough, you and Olivia can go together.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind that, but you would. Because, my God, what will people think? Tell them to think this—we have enough money; no need for more.’

  ‘Walter, ther
e’s no such thing as “enough money.”’

  ‘Don’t believe it. I’m done.’

  ‘You’re not done with me, though. We’ll get back together. I just don’t know when.’

  ‘If that’s really what you think, then what you’re doing with Kevin is extremely risky. Some people work very hard to stay in love and cannot.’

  She says, ‘That’s why we’re taking a break. So we don’t have to resort to trying,’ but there’s a waver in her voice.

  ‘Anything but that! A bit of consideration, however, might be refreshing. Don’t call to cry on my shoulder. It’s obnoxious.’

  *

  The morning drizzle becomes a downpour while I’m driving into town to buy fresh bread, good cheese, and olives for lunch with Amanda. On the way home, thunder and lightning stop traffic, and the cars inch along.

  By contrast, the kitchen is warm and colorful. Big white daisies in a red ceramic pitcher, a blue checked tablecloth, and white china plates—I’ve gone overboard but Amanda will appreciate it. Hearing her enter the garage, I open the side door. She’s luminous in the darkness where Sterling used to park her Volvo. Amanda bends sideways, wringing water from her hair.

  ‘Come inside and get dry.’

  She stays in the corner and steps out of squishy flip-flops, apologizing for dripping all over the place. Her jeans are rolled up just below her knees and held there with safety pins. Peeling off her saturated hoodie, she says, ‘I lose umbrellas after a few minutes. My mom says if I go without, I just might learn. But I don’t. I never learn.’

  She’s shivering and the hoodie she’s holding drips so much water that a small puddle forms.

  ‘Here, let me take that. I’ll hang it in the laundry room.’ I bring a towel for her feet and another for her hair. ‘Why don’t you borrow one of Olivia’s sweaters?’

  Like a gazelle, Amanda bounds upstairs, and I go about setting our places at the table, salad dishes with arugula, cherry tomatoes cut in half, and tiny wrinkled black olives.

  She returns wearing a burgundy-colored sweater Olivia outgrew. She’s covered her bare feet and legs with red-and-white striped, over-the-knee socks. Her damp hair is fixed in a loose braid.

  We’re having toasted cheese sandwiches prepared with a long-handled press held over the gas flames. I’ve buttered the inside of each metal square and cut the bread to fit. And I arrange the strips of Gruyère so the sandwiches will be thick but not too gooey.

  ‘Are those things for camping? Like making s’mores?’

  ‘They might be antiques. Sterling’s mother had them in Maine.’

  I fasten the presses shut and pass one to Amanda, who holds it too close to the burner.

  ‘Let me take over while you make the drinks. Sparkling water’s in the refrigerator, and if you don’t mind, I like a dash of pomegranate juice in mine.’

  ‘I love pomegranate juice. Is it okay if I make mine half and half?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  Setting the drinks by our plates, she sits at the kitchen table, which was constructed to fit flush with the big bay window. The rain beats hard against the glass. She turns sideways, watching me at the stove where I’m almost finished.

  ‘Walter, what do you think about Persephone?’

  The rims of my ears burn, hearing her say my name. ‘Persephone? Because of pomegranate juice?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess. The devil feeds her three pomegranate seeds in hell, which means she has to spend half the year with him and half with her mother. Which do you think was worse?’

  ‘Her mother was supposed to be very nice. The goddess of summer and bountiful crops.’

  ‘Don’t answer if you think I’m rude to ask, but do you believe in hell?’

  ‘Here you are.’ I pry one toasted sandwich from the contraption onto her plate and the other one onto mine. ‘Why would I think that was rude?’

  ‘Some people get annoyed.’

  ‘Not me. No living person knows what happens after death. Many people say they know, because their belief is so strong. But it’s still just a belief.’

  ‘So . . . nobody knows!’ She beams at me. I’m embarrassed by my preachy explanation, but that’s not the reason I look away. Up until a mere three months ago, Amanda was always shy around me. Now she’s all high spirit.

  She lifts her sandwich and I can’t help warning her not to burn her tongue. She sips her red drink, her eyes wide and teasing over the top of her glass, a flicker of pretend obedience. Eating a forkful of salad, Amanda shakes her head—she’s never tasted anything like it. ‘I try to make salads, but they never turn out right.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have to fix salads by yourself. You shouldn’t have to prepare all your meals and eat them alone. How often does your mother visit?’

  Amanda takes a dainty bite from the toasted sandwich. Eyes closed, she presses her lips together. ‘So delicious!’ Eyes open, she says, ‘You saw her . . . on Wednesday, right?’ Amanda takes a bigger bite and then, ‘Cheryl swears it’s every month. But something always comes up with her boss. If I’m lucky, I see her every other month. Sometimes every three months. Can I tell you a secret?’

  ‘That’s why we have a pact.’

  ‘My mother wants me to act like we’re so close that it doesn’t matter when or for how long she’s here. She believes that and expects me to believe it. But I don’t believe it enough.’ Amanda falls quiet for a second and looks at me. ‘We have an oath, right?’

  ‘I swear to God.’

  ‘’Cause I try not to talk about her. If the wrong person hears that my mother leaves me alone, they’re like—shocked! Obviously, I say, I was joking. Like, I can’t believe they took me literally.’

  ‘Do you know the saying, “Damned if you do, damned if you don’t”?’

  ‘It’s Cheryl’s favorite! You’re never going to win. Nobody’s going to believe you, so stand back and shut up.’

  She takes small bites of her sandwich. The cheese is still warm, and she chews slowly, her eyelids slightly fluttering. She mock swoons, her head touching my shoulder. ‘It tastes so good I might faint.’

  ‘You won’t faint.’

  I nudge her until she’s sitting straight in her own chair. ‘Will you tell me if I yammer on about Cheryl? So I don’t bore you.’

  ‘You never bore me.’ (I look away and swallow. I shouldn’t have said that.)

  She doesn’t notice, though, and takes more tiny bites. I wonder if she knows that she’s always enchanted me.

  ‘I’d love it,’ she says, ‘if I could be honest and be guaranteed there’d be no intervention. On TV, they take the daughter away because the mother’s an alcoholic or a drug addict or having a breakdown. Cheryl’s not like that. But she’s mean. And jealous.’

  ‘Anything you tell me, Amanda, is our secret.’

  She sips her drink. Her legs swing under the table. ‘Maybe that’s why I asked about Persephone. In myths, the girl goes to hell. Or gets swallowed alive. Or turned into a cow.’

  Her fingers fly over her plate when she talks. And when she stops, she watches me. When I don’t say anything, she continues: ‘Did you know I was promoted to the advanced group this year? The teachers say they should have double-checked my score last year, because usually I test really high. But last year, I must not have been feeling well. Sometimes, I don’t think about how I’m feeling. You know, unless it’s so bad I can’t get out of bed. Cheryl says I’m not a baby, that only babies need grown-ups to tell them when they’re burning up and better lie down.

  ‘I just like to complain, and if I complain too much, she drives off without leaving me any money. Her whole thing is, “Don’t depend on anyone.” But Cheryl’s not exactly “Ms. Total Independence.” She’s been chasing after her boss forever, always convinced he’ll marry her in a month or so. But things happen and their marriage goes on the back burner. She swears he really wants to marry her, though.’

  Amanda leans into me. ‘But how can she be so sure when she doesn’t trust anyon
e?’

  This insight surprises me. ‘How did you figure that out?’

  ‘I watch TV shows, or used to, that are all about love and trust. The characters talk and talk about it.’ She dabs the napkin against her lips. ‘Do you remember Jade?’

  ‘I liked Jade. She cared about you.’

  ‘She loved me and I loved her. Even Cheryl says so.’ Amanda reaches under the table and I’m aware of her tugging at the over-the-knee socks. She straightens up and turns toward me. ‘After Jade left, she used to call me from her new job—until Cheryl found out. Oh, wait! I learned something about my father. Not really, but kind of. ’Cause whenever I asked about him, Cheryl refused to answer. But on Wednesday, I asked again and she goes, “Here’s the thing—” She’d been with this guy for a long time and something happened. She knew he was going to dump her. So, to get back at him, she took up with his friend. A few months later, they both dumped her. But I still think she must know which one’s my father. Even back then, it was easy enough to find out. But she says they were both assholes, so it makes no difference. And, that I have to be independent.’

  ‘Your mother’s definition of independence is different from mine. Independence, I believe, means taking responsibility. You’re free in that you decide for yourself. But every decision has consequences, which you accept and nurture.’ I catch my index finger tapping the tabletop and stop it, but I can’t stop myself from talking. ‘If your mother doesn’t trust people, I’m sure she has very good reasons for that. But they’re not your reasons, Amanda. Nobody’s born independent. And until you’re legally an adult, you’re Cheryl’s most important responsibility. That you’re able to take care of yourself is not a justification for Cheryl neglecting you.’

  She gives me a look intended to remind me that I promised not to interfere. Yet I cannot help adding, ‘You know your mother’s limitations and you love her . . . But when the time comes that someone else loves you, and loves you romantically, make sure the person is ethical. You’re smart and perceptive. You’ll know who’s trustworthy. Never let anyone take advantage of you—even if you like the person.’

  Throughout my little lecture, I’ve been clearing the table and loading the dishwasher. Finished, the palm of my hand finds the crown of her head. She tilts back in her chair, her eyes seeking mine. Blood crashes and crests in my head. ‘Want dessert, honey?’ I ask, sitting down.