The Best of Crimes

by K. C. Maher

  ‘Walter, she doesn’t deserve you.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure.’ My tone is teasing and she blushes. ‘Merry Christmas, again.’ I regret ever having been cold or critical toward her. I simply didn’t know better.

  At home, I check my phone and find that Olivia has sent a photo of Karl and her dressed up to see The Nutcracker Suite.

  For Christmas, I sent her four tickets to the ballet in Bangor. Also, a black velvet dress that’s a little too tight, but that’s how she likes her clothes to fit—so every curve shows. For his part, Karl wears a white T-shirt topped with a maroon smoking jacket. I’m still looking at the photo when she phones and says that Karl found the jacket in a vintage shop in Bath, which is where his dad’s indoor skateboarding park is.

  ‘You may not like The Nutcracker, sweetheart, but I wanted to give you something you wouldn’t choose on your own.’

  ‘We’re flipping, Daddy. Karl’s been playing Tchaikovsky on the piano instead of Rachmaninoff. And, we watched a DVD of the San Francisco Ballet performing it. Most of all, though, I love the dress. All I got you is a book.’

  ‘That’s a book in the package you sent? I was afraid it might be socks.’

  Olivia giggles. ‘Mommy gets you socks. The book is about Lehman Brothers going down. The author writes for Rolling Stone.’

  ‘I’ve heard it’s supposed to be great.’

  ‘Except you already know the story.’

  ‘Not even half. I had a great boss at Lehman, who told me upfront that I wouldn’t be able to change the culture and not to bother trying. So, now I’m thinking of going to law school.’

  ‘Karl says banking crimes are so complicated, nobody can figure ’em out.’

  ‘The people committing them know what they’re doing. Did Karl read this book?’

  ‘He read the part of it that was in Rolling Stone. I just sent you another photo.’

  ‘I see that. You look beautiful, both of you. Are those new shoes?’

  ‘Granny gave them to me.’

  ‘Does Mommy approve of your wearing high heels?’

  ‘Of course not. Daddy, did you know Granny has a boyfriend? She and Professor Emerson went to Palm Springs for Christmas. You wouldn’t like Chill—Karl’s mom’s boyfriend. He smokes weed all day while Amy works. She’s an emergency room nurse and works long shifts, double sometimes. Chill fools with his grow lights and watches old Westerns. “Classic films,” he says.’

  ‘Who’s driving you to Bangor?’

  ‘Amy always drives. But first, we’re eating dinner at a fancy restaurant.’

  ‘Will you call me next week, Olivia, for New Year’s?’

  ‘I’m calling you now, Daddy.’

  ‘Can you visit? When’s your next vacation?’

  ‘I can’t come for spring break. I told Amanda. I’ll come when school gets out.’

  ‘Summer’s a long time from now.’

  ‘I love you, Daddy. And I love my Christmas presents.’

  I say something agreeable and we hang up. It makes me sad that Olivia won’t call next week (and she’s made it clear I’m not to call her), but perhaps I deserve it. I first thought of tickets to The Nutcracker and a black velvet dress as presents for Olivia when a fashion catalog arrived in the mail for Sterling. A girl Amanda’s size modeled the dress. I spent most of an afternoon imagining zipping it up Amanda’s lovely warm back, holding her hair in one hand and then pushing the pearl button in and out of the loop at her nape. We would have loved going to the ballet together. But I’m doing my best to keep things—appropriate.

  Five minutes later, Sterling phones. She and Kevin are staying at Kaye’s house while she’s in California with Roy Emerson.

  ‘Thank you for the antique tiles, Walter. Kevin says they’re from the late nineteenth century. He thinks he’s seen them before.’

  ‘I’m glad you like them. Just don’t use them around food.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They used to use uranium to make that color.’

  ‘I’m not worried. They’re beautiful. You and I are going to have a remarkable home and everything in it will refer to us.’

  ‘You know how I hate that.’

  ‘You won’t hate our home. It will be refined, not ostentatious. Have you opened your present? I hope it inspires you.’

  ‘The dollhouse?’

  She sighs. ‘It’s an architectural rendering, but fill it with dolls if you want. At least you’ll be doing something.’

  ‘You have no idea what I do.’

  ‘You read about Leonardo da Vinci.’

  ‘Goodbye, Sterling.’

  ‘Wait. I’m sorry. In a few months, I’ll be home.’

  ‘I miss Olivia. You and I might be able to start over—or we might not.’

  ‘Don’t be so negative. When I come back I’ll make up for lost time.’

  It’s always been easy to ignore Sterling’s provocations. But I’ve changed. ‘Have you ever considered going back to work? The banks are in desperate need of your assistance.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You were great at your job, Sterling.’

  ‘After fifteen years I doubt I could just pick up where I left off.’

  ‘You had a significant presence. And you still know people.’

  She’s crying, and it sounds as if she may start wailing. I’m about to hang up when she says, ‘Wait!’

  So, I wait.

  ‘Without me, Walter, you might never do anything again.’

  ‘Merry Christmas to you and Kevin, and see you in the spring, perhaps. In the meantime, remember who’s providing all the money to fund your lifestyle up there.’

  ‘I’ll call you next week.’

  ‘Let’s get through the winter. Then we’ll talk.’

  ‘You need me, Walter. You think you don’t, but you do.’

  I hang up and take another shower.

  Eighteen

  Christmas afternoon, I receive a FedEx envelope. Inside is a winter greeting card—moonlight on snowdrifts. Printed in pen is a quote from Leonardo da Vinci: He who does not punish evil, commands it to be done, legibly signed, Glen Engle, who hopes to see me in the New Year. Glen Engle didn’t send this. He doesn’t want to see me. And nobody I worked with would connect me to Leonardo da Vinci.

  Then I remember that Heather, Glen’s assistant, once worked at Lehman and was Sterling’s friend. Chances are, she asked Heather to send this in the hope that I would phone Glen and make amends. Unlikely perhaps, but Sterling is as upset now about me being out of work as she was the day after I was fired.

  Downstairs, I admire the four oversized cupcakes I baked yesterday with the remaining red-velvet cupcake batter. Contained in fluted green paper, they smell delicious. Their rich dark red tops are full, rounded mounds. The aroma reminds me of Amanda.

  I’m reading the frosting recipe when she sends a text.

  Cheryl’s cramming years of mother-daughter stuff into every minute! We’ve already had two screaming matches!

  I text back: I’m here if you need me, honey.

  A minute later, Amanda phones. ‘I’m locked in the bathroom,’ she whispers. ‘I might have to hang up any second. Did the red food coloring stain your kitchen?’

  ‘The cleanup was easy.’ I don’t notice my lie until I’ve said it and quickly tack on a happier truth. ‘There was enough batter left for four cupcakes. They’re very tempting.’

  ‘Will you wait for me? Cheryl won’t leave until tomorrow. She wants to go now, but if she did, it would mean she was a bad mother.’

  No trace of irony.

  ‘Of course, honey. See you tomorrow.’

  *

  The next morning, when I return from my run, all their lights are burning. Hours later, just past noon, Cheryl charges from the house dragging her luggage. She turns around screaming, but Amanda closes the door. Cheryl doesn’t care. Inside her new car, she turns around carefully before peeling away.

  Five minutes p
ass and Amanda appears at my door wearing pajamas.

  ‘Get your clothes from the garage, take them home, and come back dressed as usual.’

  ‘Can’t we pretend it’s Christmas morning? We’ve been up all night too excited to sleep.’

  ‘No. From now on, I’m on heightened alert. Your mother laughed at my talk.’

  ‘Told you.’

  ‘Yes, you did. Hurry so we can exchange presents and frost the cupcakes.’

  She knows what I’m giving her—white figure skates. She saw me buy them at the White Plains ice rink. So, she admires the silver wrapping paper and red satin ribbon before carefully peeling away the tape. Laughing, she laces one of the skates and stands, balancing on her bare foot. She arches her back and reaches up, over and behind to grasp her raised ankle, her leg forming an arc. I’m amazed she can do this. Almost immediately, she topples. She steadies herself on the one blade, her fingertips, lightly grazing the floor, helping her to balance.

  ‘Nobody can spin on a rug, Amanda.’

  She shakes her head and pulls on the other skate.

  ‘Wait,’ I say. ‘We’ll have someone at the shop check the fit.’ They have a machine there that stretches the leather. ‘Leave the guards on, though. The blades are very sharp.’

  Sitting beside me on the floor, she hands me a flat, square package wrapped in tissue paper and decorated with stick-on stars. Instead of kissing her, I kiss the wrapping and set the present on the coffee table. ‘I’m saving the best for last. Let’s see what I got myself.’ I rip red and white paper from a large box.

  ‘Hockey skates, Walter! If only I had gotten them for you!’

  ‘Anyone can buy skates. I’m guessing that you’re giving me something that very few people, if any, can buy.’

  She nods, bright and happy. ‘Nobody can buy this.’

  While I carefully unwrap the flat package, Amanda sings under her breath. It’s a classical song in German. Before I ask about it, however, I’m unfolding a long tightly knit scarf of blue and gray.

  ‘It’s herringbone,’ she says.

  ‘It’s beautiful, Amanda. You didn’t make this, did you?’

  She did. Jade taught her to knit straight stitch when she was six. ‘I never made anything, but I remembered enough for Margo to teach me how to make this.’

  Spreading it between my hands, I say, ‘It’s so soft—and perfect.’

  ‘The yarn’s alpaca,’ she says. ‘Margo’s mother gave it to me from her store. It’s supposed to be very warm but lightweight. The knitting isn’t perfect.’ She points to two tiny holes. Margo, who has enrolled to study poetry at Sarah Lawrence College, wanted Amanda to go back and fix her mistakes. But she barely had enough time as it was.

  ‘It’s the finest scarf I’ve ever seen.’ I move to hug her, but she climbs into my lap. I push her off as if she’s on fire, because I am.

  Sometimes, when I push Amanda away, she acts hurt. But this afternoon, she uncurls her long lithe body and rolls onto the floor, saying, ‘We feel the same.’

  ‘Maybe our rapport is deeper than that. Feelings change over time. But you and I . . . ’

  ‘I know.’ Amanda’s voice is low and ripe with potential.

  What the hell is wrong with me? Talking to her like that! I stare out the window for a second, composing myself, and then leave the room.

  She finds me sitting at the kitchen table, facing the bay window. From behind, she wraps her arms around me and lays her head against my shoulder. ‘Don’t be sad.’

  My fingers touch hers, layered over my chest. ‘The rink in Elmsford is open until six. Want to go?’

  *

  The shop adjusts our skates. Amanda can’t get used to her super-sharp blades. She clings to me the way she did that first time we went skating, but then, skating is our excuse to cling together. At closing time, nobody’s in much of a hurry. I’m faint from hunger and buy pistachios in the shell from a vending machine.

  Halfway home, Amanda pulls a bottle of greenish-black nail polish from her bag. ‘Margo gave Madison this but their mom won’t let either of them wear it. She’s so strict, it’s stupid.’

  ‘I have to agree with her. You’re too young for Goth.’

  ‘It’s just a little nail polish.’ She tosses the bottle behind her, into the back seat.

  ‘You know those girls who spend their time on Main Street?’

  ‘The ones who wear lots of make-up and not enough clothes? Say what you mean. Are you afraid I’ll look slutty?’

  ‘Damn it, Amanda! How can you say that?’

  ‘Because you’re warning me not to look like the slutty girls on Main Street.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. My worst thought, if you must know, is a wish to keep you a girl forever. Is that sick enough for you?’

  ‘Oh, please.’ She plays a phantom violin and hums a lugubrious tune. She continues to play, and at a stoplight, I nudge her shoulder. ‘I’d cry but I forgot my handkerchief.’

  *

  Tonight we eat a quick dinner. I load the dishwasher. Amanda makes the frosting, following Madison’s recipe, and I fix a pot of tea. We drink orange pekoe and eat our cupcakes while watching the season opener of The Real Miranda.

  A character named Sam has shown up with the best superpower: bilocation, the ability to be in two places at once. The twist is that Sam is a pretty girl when she hangs out with the girls. But around the boys, Sam is all bro and basketball. The camera shows Sam laughing, fighting, and bro-ing out at one end of the cafeteria while simultaneously showing off a floaty new skirt with an asymmetrical hem at the other.

  Amanda says, ‘They use minimal computer imagery. Multiple cameras, hair, make-up, and clothes help. But mostly, it’s the actor’s gestures and expressions.’

  ‘The acting is excellent.’

  ‘Does that mean you like the show?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘Is bilocation possible?’ Amanda asks.

  ‘Lots of impossible things,’ I tell her, ‘can be proven to be possible—in theory.’

  ‘But not in reality.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Nineteen

  It’s Amanda’s first day back at school and she refuses to accept a ride, even though the temperature has dropped below freezing. After watching her skip down the hill in her white down jacket and knee-high leather boots, I put my coffee cup in the sink and get my coat.

  At the New Rochelle Honda dealership (not the one in nearby Mount Vernon, where I test drove the car last week), a salesman shakes my hand. ‘The Accord rates higher for gas mileage than any other car this year—in any price range.’

  ‘I just want something reliable and generic.’

  He murmurs approval. ‘A vehicle like this blends in. You’ll save on traffic tickets.’ He leads me to a metallic gray sedan, New York plates, black interior, and lists its selling points.

  I interrupt. ‘For a fair price, I’ll pay in full. Today.’

  ‘Ah.’ He straightens his tie and signals for the branch manager to join us. For full payment, the branch manager says, he can include ‘an incredible deal’ on a high-end sound system.

  ‘Yes, but I want the car for transportation, not parties.’

  ‘You never know . . . ’

  The salesman gestures to his colleague—he’s got this.

  The next day, after Amanda has danced her way down the hill, I call a taxi to take me to New Rochelle to complete the transaction. An hour later, and I drive away in the new gray Honda Accord.

  Thinking I should prepare Amanda for this, I park it in the backyard, behind the tall hedge. But at 4:30, after she has tossed her backpack uphill and thrown it on her front steps, she runs to my front door.

  She grabs my hand and pulls me in her excitement. ‘Walter! Wow! Come on!’

  At the backyard fence, she opens the gate, and runs to the car. ‘You bought this for us!’ She swings open the front passenger door, slides into the seat, and flips the windshield’s sun flap. ‘We’re going inco
gnito!’

  I laugh and stand back. And—Christ! She flies into my arms. Her legs wrap around my waist and her lips fill my ear with sweet bated breath. ‘I love it, Walter! I love you.’

  Her hands at my neck nearly bring me to my knees. I stagger, rushing with desire from her delectable weight and warmth and extraordinary joy. It astounds me that I’m able to contain the upwelling inside me. My vision blurs as I pry her loose and set her on her feet.

  ‘Amanda,’ I tilt her chin.

  ‘The car is awesome and you bought it just for us. We can go anywhere now and not get caught!’

  ‘Caught driving around?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Someone sees how much you drive me around in the Mazda and starts wondering.’ She slaps my arm. ‘You know that.’

  I step back, and I don’t know what else to do: shake my head? Put up my hands? I recall her looking through me when bicycling past the barber shop, and how her apparent total indifference stung me more than I dared to admit. Now she’s hugging and thanking me, and I smooth her hair.

  ‘Of course, I know, honey. That’s exactly what this car is for. So that we can go places and do things—without people jumping to conclusions that are none of their business.’

  4. PLEASURE AND PAIN

  Twenty

  January–May 2015

  On a fiercely cold Saturday, we drive north to Bear Mountain. And are the only ones ice-skating, buffeted by a harsh wind. Within the bone-chilling blasts, we cling to each other even more than usual. I slip behind her, nearly delirious from contact. Holding her shoulders, I lean forward, brushing my face against her beehive hat. ‘Let’s go to the Lodge and get warm.’

  Amanda twists around and shouts above the gale, ‘Not yet! We still have an hour.’

  So we keep skating as fast as we can, staving off frostbite.

  Inside the Lodge, feeling nearly weightless without our skates, we relax in the narcotic warmth. I find a brochure about a glassblowing workshop here on the grounds. Amanda questions the young man at the front desk, while I linger behind a Christmas tree left up too long, the better to watch her. She’s stuffed her hat and mittens inside the sleeve of her jacket, which trails after her on the carpet. Her hair swings one way, her body the other.