The Best of Crimes

by K. C. Maher

  But funny, sunny Amanda isn’t smiling. Tomorrow’s the day. She’s attempted to charm me, yet nothing’s changed. I haven’t consented to ignore her mother.

  She’s in the TV room staring at the backyard through the sliding door, the glass etched with frost. I touch her shoulder and she turns, lifting her face, waiting for me to speak.

  I smooth her hair. ‘If I could skip the tête-à-tête, I would.’

  ‘What’s a tête-à-tête?’

  ‘It’s a French idiom, meaning head-to-head, or, more accurately, face-to-face for a private chat.’

  ‘Well, a tête-à-tête sounds fun. Not like having “a word” or giving someone a piece of your mind.’

  ‘Amanda, when I worked at the bank, I dealt with professional negotiators. And I often won.’

  ‘So what, Walter? Cheryl will agree or disagree, but either way she will keep doing what she does. All you’re doing is giving her reason to hurt me, and she doesn’t need reasons.’

  ‘Hurt you, how?’

  ‘You know how! Nothing that shows. In fact, nothing physical anymore now that I’m taller and stronger than her. She’s just mean as hell.’

  ‘I’m sorry, honey. Come here.’ We sit together on the couch.

  Amanda has some sense of what happens to me when she glances at me over her shoulder. I’ve seen her testing the effect. A glance from her and I’m moved in every direction at once. She gets me going like that and kneels on the couch. She cups her hands by my ear and whispers, ‘This thing with us, Walter, is supernatural.’

  She turns on the TV and I wrap an arm around her. She moves her hair and finds my hand, pressing it along the length of her neck. Her lashes flutter. Her eyes meet mine, and I can see her wondering what it would take to stop me from talking to her mother.

  So, I tell her again why it’s an obligation—and still she doesn’t understand.

  If her head continues to rest against my heart, my distress will beat so hard, she’ll hear it. I ask if she would mind fixing us sparkling water and pomegranate juice.

  Freed of the stirring caused by her physical presence, I review what I’m going to say to Cheryl. What I believe to be necessary is this: If Amanda can make me dangerous—me, the nice, quiet father of her daughter’s erstwhile best friend—consider what the next guy might be like!

  Possibly, Amanda’s realized her displays of affection are part of the problem. Because my sublime tormentor, who so relentlessly sneaked past all my barriers, has withdrawn.

  ‘Here.’ She hands me a glass of sparkling water.

  ‘Where’s yours?’

  She shakes her head before throwing herself onto the floor. Turning to look at me, her feet crisscrossing in the air, she says, ‘I’m not thirsty.’

  ‘Will you sit beside me?’

  ‘I’m comfortable like this.’

  ‘All right.’ She stares at the TV, unable to understand why I’m doing this to her.

  ‘Your mother needs to know she’s already caused you harm, but if she continues, people will start to take advantage of you. I need to tell her that, Amanda, for the record.’

  She rises onto her knees and faces me. ‘Cheryl doesn’t keep records.’

  ‘Honey, what if instead of me, some other man wanted to take care of you?’

  ‘No other man is going lure me into his clutches, if that’s what you’re worried about. Do you think I don’t know the world is dangerous?’

  Amanda stands up and I edge forward on the couch, but stop—uncertain what’s right. She hasn’t jumped on me all week. She’s obeyed all the rules! I’m seeing the real Amanda—the part of her that never changes, whether she’s presenting a startling insight or watching cartoons and whistling to match the characters’ vocal patterns.

  ‘Why don’t you say something?’ She pushes me back into the couch by my shoulders, which fills me with pleasure even though she intended it as a rebuke. When Amanda’s angry, her complexion radiates a shimmering heat.

  I stand up, estimating the space between us—not too near, not too far.

  I cannot quiet the storm inside me. When did Amanda’s eyebrows become so dark and dramatic, framing her eyes, which seem impossibly wide apart? They were always the rare and beautiful color of glowing amber, but now they’re almost painfully sharp and deep.

  ‘We’re not like other people, Walter. And we’re especially not like Cheryl. Have you forgotten that? The whole reason we have a pact is because we’re not like her!’ She turns away, but not before I see her gorgeous eyes brimming. Without her jacket, she runs outside and across the street. I wait in the kitchen, as always, but she doesn’t flick the lights. After a minute, I flick my kitchen lights. Another minute and I flick them again. Finally, she flicks her bedroom light once, and then her house is dark.

  I text: JSYK, I would never tell anyone what we share.

  I haven’t had alcohol for months, but now I reach for the bottle of Dewar’s. Then, suddenly, I’m asleep on my feet. Several minutes later, I’m crawling into bed. And when I close my eyes, I see—and feel—Amanda’s head resting in the palm of my hand. I see, too, that my constant desire to support her head is necessary. Her neck is like a flower stem; her head is like the sun.

  The real Amanda seems unreal to me. While I—I just seem insane.

  Sixteen

  The clock reads three in the morning. Unable to sleep, I find myself downstairs wearing only my underwear. I slide open the TV room’s glass doors and stand outside—alone in the stark cold backyard. Alone in the dark silence. A halo surrounds the moon. Coating the flagstone beneath my feet are layers of ice on which my bare soles stick and slip. It’s ghostly cold. My heart beats a plea to the earth and sky: Do not let my passion warp her. Do not let me harm her in any way!

  The longer Amanda and I persist like this, the more my fantasy—that she wants what I want—infiltrates unguarded moments. And even thinking of this soon becomes an evil meditation.

  Amanda’s keenly aware of the unique emotional lines and arcs connecting us. What happens now could determine much of her entire life. And so, I vow and vow again: I will never hurt her. And yet, an awful aspect haunts me.

  After a shivery pause, watching my pale breath disperse into the freezing black atmosphere, I resolve not to distance myself from her just because a vile distortion lies beneath all that is good in me. For if I grew cool now—which I cannot imagine—Amanda would never forgive me. I would never forgive myself.

  And so—just what do I tell her mother? The rush of Amanda’s affection exhausts me. Yet without it, I would die. Amanda knows this. She knows, too, that I love her much more than is defensible. I’ve told her this. But I pray that’s all she knows! Let her never suspect my struggle to keep my sick longings locked inside my feverish fears and dreams.

  What if Cheryl does, in fact, listen to me? If she suddenly became present and attentive to her daughter, it would shatter me. But then sooner or later, I must be shattered. And that’s exactly what I should convey to Amanda’s mother. That despite a disciplined nature and a mostly pure heart, some of my feelings are perverted.

  Indoors, I drink a sobering glass of Scotch but cannot get warm. I take a long hot shower and fall asleep, wrapped in towels beneath the blankets.

  A few hours later, I’m running Rockefeller Park’s longest loop. In the receding night, the bitter air renders everything—the ground, trees, steps, dead leaves, droppings, and boulders—incorporeal shadows. I’m layered in thermal winter running gear. From beneath my woolen cap, sweat streams down my face and neck. The wind’s against me and I started too fast. Returning, I slow my pace and enter Oak Grove Point at a fast walk. And instead of sprinting to the top as usual, I practically stagger around the final turn.

  Amanda’s sitting on my front step, shivering in flannel pajamas, her skin bright from the cold, her long honey-colored hair heavy and wet down her back.

  ‘Why aren’t you inside?’ She knows the door’s unlocked. ‘Are you trying to make yourself sic
k?’

  ‘Don’t be mad, Walter. I’m already sick for being such a brat.’

  ‘You’re not a brat.’

  She’s brought two big grocery bags, which I lift, one in each gloved hand, and set on the kitchen counter. Amanda’s phone pings. It’s Cheryl. ‘Yeah, okay. Mom? I love you.’ She stares into space and looks dispirited. She sighs. ‘My mom will be here in an hour.’

  ‘Has anything changed, honey? Because while I want your mother to know what’s happening in case I get caught—’

  Almost comically, she gasps and covers her mouth. ‘That’s it? That’s why you want it on record?’

  ‘—I can’t imagine what I’d do if she took you away. Do you know if that’s likely to happen? Is she getting tired of chasing her boss?’

  Amanda whoops with relief and joy. She flies toward me, and this time I open my arms and her legs wrap tight around my waist. We spin into the living room and she’s singing. She thought I was tired of taking care of her.

  All my conjecture—that she knows her power over me—was wrong. Amanda’s experience hasn’t prepared her to be adored.

  Sinking damply into the couch, I try to slow my heart. ‘How could you think that, Amanda?’ My chest heaves now that I’ve lifted her off my lap. She pulls off my cap and her fingers comb my sweat-soaked hair. I stop her by pressing my fingers on top of hers. ‘I need to shower and change. And you should go home and get dressed. Do you have a hair dryer?’

  She hates hair dryers. I’m ushering her through the kitchen and out the door when she looks up and says, ‘I’ve always been afraid you’d get tired of me. But I’m much more afraid, so much I don’t let myself think about it, that you’ll get in trouble.’

  ‘I won’t get in trouble for being a good neighbor. But your mother needs to know that. It’s the reason I have so many rules.’

  For once, Amanda approves of this. She says, ‘See you soon.’

  I shower, shave, and dress. When I come downstairs, Amanda’s in the kitchen, wearing an oversized gray sweat suit and dirty canvas sneakers without laces or socks. Before commenting, I remember—all her nice clothes are hidden.

  Her grocery bags contain cupcake ingredients. ‘Madison’s family has this tradition of red velvet cupcakes on Christmas.’

  ‘What are red velvet . . . ?’

  She’s on the phone with Madison, saying the recipe calls for ‘cake flour’ and all she has is regular white flour. ‘Will that work?’

  It will. They, like everyone else, hang up without a goodbye.

  I offer to measure and mix the dry ingredients. Amanda blends butter, sugar, and eggs in the mixer. When she adds the buttermilk, baking soda, vinegar, vanilla, and two ounces of red food coloring, the batter sprays all over. She shrieks and turns off the machine.

  I tell her not to worry. It’ll be easy to clean up, and start to dip a finger into the bowl but she grabs my wrist.

  ‘It’s got raw eggs in it. You could get food poisoning.’

  I tap her head and step back, letting her take charge. Then we hear Cheryl’s car, and we both turn to the window as a new cream-colored SUV pulls into Amanda’s driveway.

  ‘Wait here.’ I run outside and waylay Cheryl, who has yet to unbuckle her seatbelt.

  Without asking permission, I circle around to the passenger side of the car and hop in. ‘Ms. Jonette, Cheryl—Merry Christmas,’ I say.

  And she screeches. My hands are red with food coloring.

  ‘Whatever that shit is, don’t get it on my new car. Greg gave me this for Christmas.’

  ‘It’s cupcake batter with red food coloring. It’ll come off with a little soap and water. We need to talk. I take it Amanda’s warned you.’

  ‘Warned me? She didn’t warn me of anything.’

  ‘Your daughter grows more wonderful every day, and I love seeing her blossom and mature. But, as I’ve tried to explain to you before, I don’t always trust myself around her. Because, even though I’ve known her since she was three, she doesn’t always strike me as the child she is. A lot of the time—and we spend a lot of time together, Cheryl—it’s as if . . . as if . . . she’s thirteen going on thirty.’

  Cheryl tilts her head back and approximates a laugh. ‘Of course, she is! I couldn’t work upstate most of the week except that Amanda copes as well as any adult.’

  Most of the week? My dripping red index finger taps the top of the dashboard. ‘My problem has nothing to do with Amanda coping. Last time you were here, my family had left. Not long after that, I lost my job. So, I’m restless and alone up here with your daughter, who is equally alone and more alluring all the time. Not deliberately, Ms. Jonette—’

  ‘I hate being called Ms. Jonette.’

  ‘Cheryl, then. If I’m unnecessarily formal, it’s because alone with Amanda I struggle to remain—circumspect.’

  She smirks.

  ‘Respectable,’ I clarify.

  ‘Oh, please. You’re perfectly respectable.’

  ‘I care about your daughter.’ My finger pounds the dash harder and faster. ‘Nobody else comes up here.’

  ‘Your secret’s safe.’

  ‘My secret?’

  Cheryl snorts as if amused. ‘Not that it needs to be secret. You’re like a father to her. And she’s like a daughter to you.’

  ‘Except, I’m not her father and she’s not my daughter.’ I’ve rehearsed this conversation using every conceivable variable, none of which sounds right. Plowing ahead, I phrase it as well as I can. ‘There’s no biological taboo between us.’

  ‘That’s what’s so great!’ Bracelets jangling, Cheryl lifts her hands like hallelujah. ‘That’s why you two get along better than any real father and daughter ever could.’

  I try again. ‘It’s difficult, because my feelings are such that I should stay away from her—for her sake. If I could, I would leave. But if I did that, she’d be alone, and that—well, that would be criminal. To abandon her, I mean.’

  Cheryl’s whole body quivers in what I can only assume is outrage. Her voice shakes. ‘Don’t you dare tell me what’s criminal! We’ve discussed this and you agreed to watch out for her. Winter has stranded me, I’m afraid, but once Greg and I are married, Amanda will have a real home.’

  ‘Do you understand what I’m afraid of?’

  In a furious stream, Amanda races from my house and slaps the roof of the new car. Time’s up. Cheryl opens her door to greet her daughter but at my insistence shuts it again. I try to ignore Amanda’s frantic, pleading expression.

  ‘We haven’t settled this.’

  ‘Oh, I think we have, Walter. If you care about Amanda at all—’

  ‘When I’m with her, I can’t control my feelings. I’d die before allowing myself to take advantage of her, but she’s all I think about.’

  There. That’s blunt enough. So blunt, in fact, that I catch a glimmer of comprehension in Cheryl’s small dull eyes. But the faint, fleeting light disappears as she refocuses on her own agenda. ‘Nonsense! You’d never take advantage of her.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Well, Amanda knows you wouldn’t. And, she knows how to take care of herself, so there’s no need to get dramatic. Give me a few months. In the meantime, I’ll do my best to get here more often.’

  Short of grabbing the monstrous woman’s shoulders and describing everything I yearn to do to her daughter—impulses I refuse to articulate even to myself—what else is there to say? Am I ethically bound to admit that I desire her thirteen-year-old daughter in every conceivable way? That I love Amanda to the exclusion of all else?

  I unfold myself from the car, but before crossing the driveway, I glance at Amanda, who’s no doubt overheard more than she should have. She hugs her mother and strokes her fur hat. I recall an early secret Amanda told me—she loves her mother. Mean, neglectful, even abusive, the woman is still her mother.

  Seventeen

  After cleaning up the splattered red-velvet cupcake batter, I eat a sandwich and two flavorles
s oranges. Lift weights to a playlist of jazz trumpeters and read a long essay on the history of Mideast wars. I do the laundry and a few other chores. All of which only adds to my restlessness until I decide to attend the Christmas Eve service at the Episcopal Church, which Sterling joined for social reasons. I wear a suit I bought last year but have never worn. After having it tailored, I realized it was slightly too bright for work.

  The church is crowded. Walking in and out, it’s ‘Merry Christmas’ all around. Everyone seems to know me, although their names elude me—it has been years since I met these people at Sterling’s cocktail parties. I nod politely when they ask after her and Olivia, and promise to pass along everyone’s best wishes.

  Outside after the uninspiring service, I see Nina Malloy and tell her she looks great. I kiss her cheek and do not discourage her from chatting a while, despite the cold. My impulse is to suggest we get together sometime. But, recognizing that I’ll never follow through on the gesture, I don’t mention it.

  When I return home, all the lights are on in Amanda’s house. How strange that I find this alarming.

  *

  Christmas morning, I run, shower, get dressed, and eat. Having straightened everything in the house, I roam from room to room, staring through the windows. Soon, I’ll make my way to church for the noontime service. Wearing a suit last night bordered on a new experience. That’s how far I’ve come from my earlier life. Today I select a different suit, a subtle dark check that also wasn’t quite subtle enough for me at Bank of America.

  *

  When I see Nina after this second service, I tell her I didn’t realize she was so religious. She laughs and says she was going to say the same thing to me. I kiss her cheek again and start to walk away, but turn back. ‘Are you and Sterling still friends?’

  Her tired face awakens. ‘I was thinking of asking you the same thing.’

  ‘We’re still married and still friendly, which isn’t the same as being friends, but please don’t tell her I said that.’