The Best of Crimes

by K. C. Maher

I ask, ‘Do you ever buy yourself dessert, a brownie or some candy?’

  Her sandwich and two tangerines in a brown bag, her white ski jacket on, Amanda covers her mouth, and I realize: Those dainty bites and careful chewing? She has a toothache.

  From the bay window, I watch her skipping down the hill. Midway, she moves in a crisscross, tossing her backpack in the air, which until now she only did uphill, coming home. I see her look and wave, although she can’t possibly see me from where she is.

  This extra little dance springs from anxiety, because she knows that on Thursday I intend to speak with her mother. That’s the plan, anyway. Up until this week, Amanda claimed Cheryl was visiting from Thanksgiving morning through Sunday. Then, last night, out of the blue, she said, ‘Don’t blame me if she doesn’t show up until Christmas.’

  *

  After dinner, while I load the dishwasher, Amanda hops on the stool near the counter and swings her legs. I ask her if Cheryl actually said she might not return until Christmas.

  ‘No, but I’ll bet you.’

  ‘When was the last time you told her that I need to meet with her as soon as possible?’

  ‘I say it every time she phones: “Don’t forget, Mom. Walter needs to tell you about our situation.” And Cheryl says, all right, but if something’s wrong, I’d better warn her. And I say, nothing’s wrong. You just want to talk to her.’

  ‘Nothing is wrong, honey. But she really does need to understand the situation.’

  Amanda sulks. ‘Just what’s the big, bad situation, anyway?’

  ‘Your mother needs to know she can’t ignore you. And leaving you here with me has led to all kinds of heightened feelings. She’ll know what I mean.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that? We share the same feelings.’

  I lean against the counter, watching her feet move in midair. ‘It’s not that simple, honey.’

  ‘Because you think I’m a child, right? But I do a lot of stuff most kids I know will never have to do. They live in a garden of verses. I don’t. I’ve always had to figure out what my feelings are and what to do about them. Like, I used to be scared all the time. And then I found out I could use my fear like nervous energy, to get stuff done. Like when I asked the man at the Y if I could help out there. I was so scared, I was shaking. He told me I was too young. So, I nodded and thanked him, and then I walked down the hall and into the girls’ locker room, where I picked up all the wet towels and heaped them in the laundry bin.’

  ‘And then what? Did someone come in and tell you to leave?’

  ‘Nobody noticed me. Except this little girl, probably about three, who’d been whimpering. When she saw me, she began wailing. And I remembered right away—when I was that little and someone forgot about me.

  ‘I knelt in front of her and wiggled my thumb between our faces. ’Cause I used to pretend my thumbs talked to each other, like those thumb puppets, remember?’

  I nod, trying to not appear enrapt while encouraging her to continue. She doesn’t seem to notice, but keeps talking, offering me a personal history I doubt she has ever revealed to anyone else.

  ‘So, don’t laugh. In my “thumb voice” I asked to meet her thumb. Why? Just to say hi. Her thumb bent and wiggled. She stopped sobbing and her squeaky thumb explained that “Brianna” can’t find her socks. And was it okay if her thumb rested inside her mouth. I said, “Great idea.” And, “I don’t know why thumb-sucking bothers grown-ups so much.”’

  ‘Amanda, do you suck your thumb?’

  ‘No, I’ve moved on.’ She looks at me until I blush.

  ‘Don’t you want to know where?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘And I don’t want to tell you, so there! Anyway, back to my story. Little Brianna was sucking her thumb but pointing to her locker. I found her socks and shoes in her backpack and put them on her chubby feet. After that, while she was still sucking her thumb, my thumb asked her thumb to come out. My thumb wiggled and said, “Let’s hold onto each other and go outside in case someone’s waiting for you.” And someone was—her mother or nanny or someone—and they said, “There you are, Brianna! What took you so long?”

  ‘After two more days of me showing up, the man at the front desk stopped reminding me I wasn’t a member. And when I asked the cleaning lady if I could help her fill the dispensers, nobody cared if I filled a bottle of shampoo for myself, a bottle of conditioner, and a bottle of body wash.’

  I gently rest a hand on Amanda’s shoulder, without rearranging her hair or pulling her close. ‘Let’s sit down in the living room.’ She snuggles next to me but I prod her to sit up, saying, ‘The summer before last, you told me that you were helping out at the Y.’

  She nods and drops her head so it rests on my arm. ‘The swimming director, Ms. Zayas, reminds me a little of Jade. She checked the locker rooms at closing and saw what a difference I made. So, she offered me private swimming lessons, saying she’d hire me to be a lifeguard. Then, she found out the Baxters needed a babysitter. Ms. Zayas said she’d get another lifeguard, because I’d make a lot more money babysitting for Leo and Theo. And I did.’

  ‘So by overcoming your fears, good things happened.’

  ‘Yeah, even without anyone caring about me.’

  ‘The swimming director, Ms. Zayas, cared about you. She taught you lifeguarding but recommended you for a better job.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Amanda sighs. ‘She was really nice to me. But that’s not the same kind of caring as you and me. We have feelings for each other.’

  ‘I know, honey. But maybe I should learn from your example. Instead of sitting around the house waiting for you to come home from school, I should make myself useful. Help kids get scholarships. Volunteer for literacy programs.’

  She tilts her face to see mine. ‘You sound sad.’

  ‘I’m not sad—just selfish. I want this time to read, exercise, daydream. I won’t do it forever. But I’m responsible for my feelings, even if they’re not as good as they should be. I try to be careful, something your mother is not. I don’t know what she tells herself. She wants to be your mother but she doesn’t want to stay here and be with you. She’s eager to have me act as caretaker even though she knows it’s not right. I’m going to tell her she has to be more responsible.’

  ‘But we have a pact, and Cheryl’s not part of it.’

  ‘She needs to know how I feel, honey. I care for you more than I should. Most of the time what I feel is good. But too much of any good thing makes you sick.’

  ‘Come on! We’re not talking about ice cream. If you “care too much,” then what’s “just right”? What’s the perfect amount, Walter? Because having you care for me “more than you should” makes me happy. Until you, nobody cared about me except for one random person who let me pick up towels in return for swimming lessons.’

  She stomps off into the TV room. I follow and take the remote before she can switch on something loud and distracting. Beside her on the couch, I say, ‘Don’t be mad, honey. If I don’t talk to Cheryl, we’ll all be sorry.’

  ‘I want you and me to stay like we are. If you tell Cheryl, who knows what she’ll do? We might never see each other again.’

  ‘That’s why I need to talk to her. Because she’s more likely to do that—take you away—if I don’t make sure she understands.’

  Amanda starts to pout, but then throws her arms around me and whispers, ‘I’m making you a Christmas present.’

  ‘You are?’ I kiss the top of her head, fast. ‘Tell me what you want.’

  ‘I want us to stay like we are.’

  *

  At the base of Oak Grove Point, only three townhouses are occupied. Nobody drives up here. Nobody walks among the oak trees but Amanda and I.

  In bed, at night, the temptation I’ve stifled for hours batters me. Even Jesus was tempted. Who’s to say that when the devil’s promise of a fabulous city failed, the source of all evil didn’t lift a spellbinding thirteen-year-old girl onto the Savior’s lap?

>   A voice in my dreams shouts, ‘Blasphemy!’ While I sleep, the voice screeches that my devotion to Amanda is depraved. Then, another dream-voice, which might be the same one, tries to rationalize. Feel all the devotion you can, it says, providing you quell your lust.

  And yet, this whole predicament is more Cheryl’s fault than mine. Not that I’m blameless. I’m guiltier by the minute. But the woman has never taken responsibility for her child.

  Perhaps if she made regular visits, I could regain some moral ground. If she spent just a weekend with Amanda every month, I might sustain a respectful position. My hidden, vile struggle exists in large part because of Cheryl Jonette’s disregard.

  Of course, I have to make a delicate case. I’m not obligated to describe specifics. Such as how my fingers tremble to stroke the hair flowing down Amanda’s back and linger among the soft strands. Or that what I want even more is to slide my hand between Amanda’s hair and neck—and with my palm at her scalp, run my fingers up the back of her head, onto the crown.

  Another man might do exactly that, casually: touch her head; stroke her hair; and even press his hand up the back of her head. But his touch would be lukewarm, not ardent, not ravening. A thousand times a day, my fantasies mix with reality—heaven with earth. The result of which may very well be hell.

  Every night, we sit together with the TV on. I have set up strict rules for physical contact: side by side only (not on my lap!); she can rest her head on my shoulder, but no lower. Yet Amanda squirms, wiggles, and laughs, always in motion. And with each shift of her body, I am forced to readjust myself, maintaining a distance half a step from the brink. And thus our attention flows back and forth between us. Hours later, when she has returned to her own house and flicked the lights, I’m exhausted as well as inflamed. Amanda does all she can to give and get love. She’s too intelligent to be completely innocent, and yet at the same time, she’s light years away from what I want. Obviously, then, I detest myself for wanting it.

  More than anything, I want Amanda to stay exactly as she is. Even at the distended extreme of my discomfort, I want her to remain at the pinnacle of girlhood. If it were my call, I’d keep her there for another few years. Especially after witnessing my darling Olivia revel in hers for scarcely a few weeks. She’s happy now. She’s spending Thanksgiving with Karl, who’s competing at his father’s indoor skateboarding park. But Olivia’s childhood ended when Sterling took her away.

  *

  Speak of the devil, then! Sterling phones and, because it’s after midnight, I answer. She’s sniffling as usual, but for a second, I panic. ‘Is Olivia all right?’

  ‘Of course. Skateboarding with a boy whose father was a skateboarding legend. What could be better? You’ve been out of work for nearly three months. Have you contacted any headhunters?’

  ‘You already know I’m not interested, Sterling. Do you need money?’

  ‘Very funny. I’m sorry, no. You’re more than generous. My concern is what have you been doing?’

  ‘Ask something else, because that’s not your concern.’

  ‘Please, don’t be like that.’ She blows her nose and tells me that Kaye’s dating a man who teaches Walden to senior citizens. ‘Mother knew him in grade school. He moved back here.’

  ‘How nice. What’s his name?’

  ‘Roy Emerson.’

  ‘How fitting.’

  ‘Do you care about me or not?’

  ‘What do you think? We’ve been going in circles for months.’ Like her mother, I hang up.

  *

  Thanksgiving morning, Amanda phones to say her mother isn’t coming. ‘Because of work. Her boss.’

  Five minutes later, she’s at my kitchen door, flouncing about in a colorful flared skirt and fitted ribbed sweater. My plan was half-formed, but seeing her in her new skirt reveals it in full.

  ‘Are you hungry? Because if we eat soon—and you’re interested—we can go ice skating downtown from four to six, when most people are giving thanks and spilling gravy.’

  She flies to me, arms open. I turn sideways and hold her down. But she’s shrieking with glee and doesn’t notice how I’m thwarting her spontaneous leap into my arms.

  ‘That sounds like a yes.’

  ‘It is,’ she says. ‘Yes times infinity.’

  Last week, Amanda found a figure-skating channel on television. Girls in sequined leotards performing dizzying spins, double twists, and astonishing jumps off an angled blade. As we watched, instead of nestling into me, she lay prone on the floor. ‘Did you see that? Look—slow motion.’ She tries balancing near the floor, one leg extended. ‘Except they’re on ice skates and spinning so fast all you see is blur.’

  I haven’t skated in twenty years, but if it’s like riding a bike, I’ll remember how to do it—I was good at hockey.

  Amanda cuts cucumber slices just thick enough to crunch. Now that she’s not restricted to butter knives, the only kind in her house, she creates crisp, delightful salads.

  ‘Amanda, have you ever had wild rice?’

  She hasn’t.

  ‘It’s dark and nutty. I like it on Thanksgiving, but if you’d rather, we can have potatoes.’

  ‘If the rice is really wild, I’ll love it.’

  No doubt. Chicken breasts are marinating in the refrigerator. On the top rack is a pumpkin pie that Madison’s sister made.

  We both knew her mother wasn’t coming. After all, this morning was the first time that Cheryl phoned in two weeks. ‘Christmas, though,’ Amanda says. ‘She always comes at Christmas. And today she was nice enough to apologize for being away so long. And, she even asked how I was getting by. I told her, great, thanks to you. Cheryl goes, “I suppose you’ve been mooching off him like a shameless beggar. Well, tell your friend Walter I’ll sit down with him first thing. But if you’ve been wheedling extras, Amanda, those are your debts.”’

  The woman makes sure her daughter’s aware of how much her existence costs. Amanda’s been taught to add up what people spend on her. So, although she knows I love her—in fact, she wields the power of the beloved so effectively that at any minute I’m liable to fall apart—she remains anxious about what I plan to say to Cheryl.

  ‘My business with your mother has nothing to do with money.’

  ‘She won’t believe that. And I guarantee you, she won’t pay you back. I’m not even sure she could. After all, Walter, you’ve spent oodles on me.’

  ‘Oodles?’

  ‘Madison’s sister Margo says “oodles” all the time. She learned it in college.’

  Earlier this month, Amanda adopted a new routine. Each day, she comes home after school and rides her bike to Madison’s house, where she stays until 6:30 or 7:00. I worry about her riding home in the dark, and have offered to pick her up. She says not to risk it.

  ‘What’s the risk? I like Gil and he likes me. At least, I think he does.’

  ‘Yeah, but Margo can’t stop wondering why I’m spending so much time making a Christmas present for my neighbor. And Madison says it’s because I don’t have a father. I tell them that you’re nice to me and so I want to do something nice for you. Besides, giving is better than receiving. They laughed at that. “Sorry,” Margo said, “but it’s such a cliché.”’

  ‘It is a cliché. But clichés are generally true. That’s why they’re clichés.’

  Amanda giggles. She’ll tell them that.

  The table’s set. We apply finishing touches to the meal. In the dining room, Amanda insists on candles even though it’s sunny and midday. We keep the lights off, and she’s right. The sunlight outside and the candlelight inside fill the room with magic.

  I lower my head. ‘Thanks. Praise. Amen.’

  She swings her legs inside the tall black boots I chose for her. ‘That’s a good Grace.’

  ‘Nobody’s ever complained.’

  She loves wild rice. The salad’s delicious. Fork in the air, she compliments me on the chicken. ‘It’s so . . . tangy.’

  But I notice
her wincing when she chews. It’s that toothache again. ‘We’re taking you to a dentist, young lady. Tomorrow, first thing.’

  ‘Cheryl won’t like that.’

  ‘Then it’ll be part of our secret.’

  She brightens again. ‘Walter, the most obvious thing! You know how I was so afraid that Cheryl would be jealous of all the beautiful clothes you’ve bought me? It’s like . . . man, oh man, why let her see ’em? She’s only here for a few days. Can I put them in Olivia’s room?’

  I start to agree, but the thought of Amanda’s clothing in the bedroom next to mine makes me feel faint. ‘You should put them in our garage. That will be . . . safer. In fact, new rule: Upstairs is strictly off-limits. Okay?’

  She puts her hands in her lap and bows her head. ‘You don’t trust me.’

  ‘Of course I do. It’s myself I don’t trust.’

  ‘But you put limits on everything.’

  ‘Not everything.’

  Her head pops up. Her eyes shine directly into mine.

  ‘We have cuddling limits,’ I say. ‘And I know you understand they’re serious.’

  She tilts her head and bites her lip. ‘I tease you. But I thought we both liked that.’

  ‘I like it too much, Amanda.’ I’ve said this so often that I quickly amend it. ‘Of course, I’d rather feel too much than not enough.’ (Why am I telling her this? Do I expect the child of my twisted dreams to absolve me?)

  She exaggerates a sigh of relief. Or maybe it’s real; I can’t tell. ‘Walter, you and me, we’re different from other people.’

  If only I were the dispassionate man I once was. But I believe she’s right. With Amanda, I’m not the person I’ve always been. I often feel almost free from gravity. For now, I’m here. She’s here. And never will I regret one second with this exquisite girl.

  We clear the table. I load the dishwasher. She finds dessert plates, saying, ‘If you’re sad, I’m sad. And if I’m happy, you’re happy. We share our feelings. It’s not a coincidence. It’s amazing!’

  ‘So amazing we probably shouldn’t talk about it too much.’ I slice a piece of pie for each of us.

  A solemn cast alters her expression, but then she nods. ‘We should just feel. Not blab about what’s happening inside of us or we’ll lose some of it.’