The Best of Crimes

by K. C. Maher

  Amanda skips toward me, displaying a glossy magazine, Bear Mountain Lodge, Then and Now. Flipping to the magazine’s ‘Now’ section, she shows me ads for the dining room upstairs and a downstairs café.

  As if we’re still on the ice, she starts to take my hand but withdraws it, fast. ‘Oops.’ She shakes her head and jumps onto the staircase. The dining room has twenty-one tables with white tablecloths. A waiter seats us beneath a huge leaded window framing a snowy field. The menu includes prix fixe meals as well as à la carte. We order chili, cornbread, and hot cider.

  Amanda reads to me from the magazine. ‘Every room includes a sheltered balcony, allowing guests to appreciate the winter wonderland.’

  ‘Winter wonderland? It says that?’

  ‘No, but it should. Snow glowing in the moonlight. The immense white mountain against the black night.’

  I laugh and ask to see the page. ‘Each room has a sheltered balcony, Amanda. That’s all it says.’

  ‘But wouldn’t it be cool to stay overnight? No school on Monday, remember. It’s MLK Day.’

  ‘Honey, we’re an hour from home.’

  ‘That’s perfect,’ she says. ‘Nobody will come anywhere near here.’

  ‘That’s not what bothers me.’

  ‘We can get separate rooms. On separate floors.’

  I sputter at this. ‘Separate floors? What, in case I’m Jekyll and Hyde?’

  ‘In case? Walter, you always act like a murderous madman could burst out of you at any second.’

  ‘Slight exaggeration. And, how do you even know about Jekyll and Hyde?’

  ‘It’s something people say.’ Amanda lifts a spoonful of chili and wrinkles her forehead while blowing on it. She takes a taste and puts the spoon down. Looks around and sighs wistfully.

  Her gestures reveal both her question and my inevitable answer. (Can we just peek at the rooms?)

  (No.)

  She pushes her red lips together and lowers her eyes, her thick lashes brushing against her cheeks.

  No doubt she hasn’t a clue how her pout emphasizes that, with each passing week, her mouth looks more like a woman’s and less like a child’s.

  Similar expressions arise on weekend nights when we watch TV later than usual. Amanda sometimes asks if just once she can sleep in Olivia’s room. Her house—Cheryl’s house—she claims, might as well be haunted.

  Early on, whenever I denied her, Amanda’s eyes would fill. She would turn away so I wouldn’t see, although, of course I did. These days, she’s the one who upsets me, but she’s long accepted that I always say no.

  Now, in this variation of the game, she leans back in her chair, radiating all of her wild, innocent beauty. I blink. She smiles and shifts sideways, crossing her legs and twirling the top ankle. ‘You’re a hard man, Walter, blaming a girl just for asking.’

  We laugh at that—her movie-starlet dialog.

  I pay the bill. Back outside, we huddle together against the wind, hurrying along the trail to the glassblowing workshop.

  In a clearing, tarps are strung on poles. Bleacher-like seats are set at a careful distance from two roaring furnaces, one closed, one open. I know from the pamphlet that the white-hot fire in the closed furnace burns at nearly 3,000 degrees Fahrenheit. Set up just inside it are sacks of molten glass that serve as raw material. The open furnace, known as the glory hole, is where the glassblowers deposit the worked glass to cool down.

  Two artisans welcome us. My guess is that they’re about my age, although their manner makes them seem younger. Brian tells us that besides being glassblowers, they’re musicians. Luke plays keyboards, Brian guitar and vocals. But they’re serious about glass. They wear leather aprons, wrecked jeans, and faded T-shirts. Brian has a trimmed goatee and mustache. Luke has a tattoo of barbed wire circling his neck.

  The furnaces draw trickles of sweat from my skin. I unzip my jacket and pocket my wool cap. Brian invites Amanda to help him make a paperweight. They’ll use a long pipe to spin the glass. Blowing through the tube is advanced stuff.

  Luke is already blowing a small bubble of glass through a narrow tube. He’s added pigment to make it red. It will become a little rose in the paperweight’s center.

  Brian retrieves a molten blob from the furnace and calls to Amanda. She must slip between his arms to turn the pipe with him. She ducks beneath his bare bicep and I shift to see him cover Amanda’s hands with his before spinning the tube. He turns his head, so that I half hear him make a harmless comment: ‘You thought it would be heavier, didn’t you?’

  But Amanda doesn’t respond.

  Luke pulls the red dollop from the cooling furnace and drops it onto a steel table. He uses tweezers to shape petals.

  Backed into Brian, Amanda calls, ‘Daddy! Come and see.’

  I stand up and Brian releases Amanda to insert the spun glass into the cooling furnace. ‘You’re her father?’ he asks.

  ‘Her mother swears on all that’s holy.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just—aren’t you my age?’

  ‘Thirty-three.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Staring at the ground, muddy from melted snow, Brian kicks one boot with the other. I’m certain he guessed both my age and Amanda’s on sight. For as graceful and lovely as Amanda is, nobody would mistake her for an eighteen-year-old. Nevertheless, he’s more intent on her than on the molten glass. At the steel table, he says, ‘Over here, little girl.’

  Amanda rolls her eyes at me but does as he instructs, dropping the clear blob onto Luke’s tiny rose. I ask how long before we can take it home, but Amanda says that I should make something for ‘Mommy.’

  Brian sits beside her, swinging his leg, while Luke directs me in the creation of a yellow starfish. Before Luke drops the yellow blob on the steel table, Amanda puts on her mittens, says, ‘I’ll wait in the car, Daddy,’ and takes off.

  In a hurry, I go ahead and shape the spun yellow mass with tweezers. It’s comically uneven, but good enough. When I pay for our lessons, Brian suggests I write down our address and he’ll mail us the paperweights. ‘Or, you can come back next weekend. We’re always here. Next time, you’ll be ready for some real glassblowing.’

  ‘Okay,’ I tell him. ‘See you then.’ He mutters at my back, knowing we won’t return.

  Amanda’s waiting in the car. ‘What a jerk!’

  ‘He didn’t know what to make of you.’

  She shudders. ‘Yes, he did.’

  I shudder too, although it probably doesn’t show. ‘You did the right thing, then. Don’t be afraid to tell someone off, if they’re giving you unwanted attention.’

  Twisting her hair, she says, ‘“No” means “no.” Thing is, sometimes I’m not sure what’s happening until after the fact.’

  ‘Don’t wait to make sure, Amanda. If you feel the littlest bit uneasy, say so and leave. If someone accuses you of being rude, tell them you don’t respect people who don’t respect you.’

  ‘All right! I will.’

  ‘And honey, I would be honored if you thought of me as your father.’

  ‘Don’t say that. It’s disgusting.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In public, I might say it ’cause it’s just easier. But you totally are not my father, Walter. The idea’s enough to make me puke.’

  Twenty One

  In February, I receive another FedEx greeting card from Glen Engle, again quoting Leonardo da Vinci: There are three classes of people. Those who see. Those who see when they are shown. Those who never see.

  He hopes for a meeting. Of course, the message isn’t from Glen Engle but from his assistant, Heather, who has signed the card, ‘Soon.’

  Baffling that Sterling would imagine I could be so easily fooled. In the silence that accompanies unspoken communication, I recall another line from Leonardo’s Notebooks: Learning is the only thing the mind never exhausts, never fears, and never regrets.

  *

  After dinner, my confused wife phones. I let it
ring but tell Amanda I’m going upstairs to find out what Sterling wants.

  ‘Whatever it is, you don’t want me listening.’

  ‘No, honey, it’s the other way around. I don’t want Sterling to know you’re here—it’s none of her business. And she’s calling because she wants me to return to work for my old boss.’

  Anxiety constricts Amanda’s pupils and her eyes glow like dark gold, but she continues putting away the dinner things and singing.

  In the bedroom, I phone Sterling and ask what’s up.

  ‘Remember my friend Heather Crosby?’

  ‘Glen Engle’s personal assistant.’

  ‘Well, guess what? He wants to start a hedge fund—and he wants your help.’

  ‘Did you tell them to send me Leonardo da Vinci quotes?’

  ‘Did he really do that? Cool.’

  ‘She’s doing it and signing his name to greeting cards, which she sends FedEx. Christ, Sterling! If you want to work for Glen Engle, please do. In fact, you should work for him. But do not give Heather, Glen Engle, or anyone else pointers to manipulate me. It makes us both look stupid. Furthermore, I’ve told you more than once—my Wall Street days are over.’

  ‘He’s inviting you to set up an honest fund.’

  ‘Honest? That won’t hold up for ten minutes, so stop bothering me!’

  ‘He wants you to devise a foolproof risk-management plan. Nobody else can do that.’

  ‘Anyone who’s honest can do it.’

  *

  Downstairs, Amanda waits for me in the hallway. ‘Can you tell me what’s happening?’

  ‘Of course.’ And I relay the conversation in full.

  Amanda shifts side to side, not looking at me. ‘Is Sterling coming back?’

  ‘No. That is, not anytime soon.’

  Relieved, Amanda throws her arms around me and I stroke her hair. We drift together until my mind swims.

  Our physical contact still requires all my resolve. And yet, my base desires no longer frighten me, because our interaction has acquired a predictable, and therefore reassuring, pattern. We start with give and take, give and take, push and pull, until—stop right there!

  Naturally, my dreams race and nightmares rage, often interchangeably, all night, every night. But when Amanda’s with me, I keep my torments so well hidden they seem almost dormant.

  *

  Late in March, the Wednesday before her spring break begins, Amanda bursts into the kitchen and discards a pair of worn flip-flops. Her hair is wet and her legs are bare. Technically, spring began ten days ago, but our trees have yet to bud. The ground hasn’t thawed.

  I’m making risotto, ladling broth from one pan to another. From the sound of things, Amanda is furious. She dumps her homework in the small study we never use and closes its decorative windowed door. Meaning, she brought it here, but does not want me looking at it.

  She storms back into the kitchen like a menacing whirlwind. I’m slowly stirring the not quite simmering risotto, but stare at her heels lifting until she’s balancing on her toes. Seconds later, she’s pulled the Dewar’s from the top shelf. And begins pouring it in a glass full of ice cubes.

  Stupidly, I ask, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Fixing you a drink.’

  ‘No, thanks, Amanda. Just pour it down the sink.’

  ‘No.’ She hands me the glass, which I set on the counter.

  ‘What’s wrong, Walter? Are you afraid a sip of Scotch will rob you of all your inhibitions?’

  Hearing her say ‘inhibitions,’ I feel my head shake in amused denial. Because I prefer to think of it as not letting anything blur our amazing affinity.

  ‘If I’m wrong,’ she says, arms crossed, ‘drink that down.’

  ‘Honey, I can’t.’

  ‘Then I will.’ She grabs the glass, but instead of chugging the Scotch, coughs half a mouthful onto the floor.

  ‘You see?’

  She runs into the living room. I turn off the stove, leaving the risotto to turn to glue.

  Amanda lies prone on the rug and pounds her feet in an angry rhythm. I crouch beside her and wait. After a while, I bend close to her ear and whisper, ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  Teasing her, I ask, ‘Is this the first time you’ve lied to me?’

  Her body jackknifes up, her feet planted in the carpet, and her fists pressed her hips. ‘You think that’s a lie? What about all the lies you tell me?’

  ‘I’m sorry. What lies?’

  ‘Maybe you really are so warped,’ Amanda says, ‘that you want to be like a father to me. You and I who—were—so special we weren’t like anyone!’

  ‘Come here.’ I move to hold her but she sidesteps me. ‘I’m sorry, Amanda. The way I see it, we are who we are, with or without labels.’

  She backs up and stamps her bare feet. ‘I knew it! I knew you’d end up treating me like everyone else does.’

  ‘Honey, sit down and talk to me.’

  Angrier than ever, she drops her voice to a near growl. ‘I’m the only girl in eighth grade who hasn’t gotten her period.’

  No urge to smile or cringe—I’ll talk about anything with Amanda, and wish I could reassure her. But, obviously, I have no credibility here. In fact, a glance warns me against saying anything other than, ‘Let’s sit on the couch.’

  ‘And talk about what? How people lie? That maybe I’m not the only one? Or that you personally can’t speak from experience, but maybe a storm of hormones is affecting me minus the bloody evidence.’

  I take her fingers and smile. ‘Look into my eyes.’

  Not funny—I should have known better than to joke. She flees. I move slowly and carefully, reaching the threshold just as she opens the front door and slams it behind her.

  I’ve known since this started that Amanda will break my heart. It cannot be otherwise. But this isn’t the end. Not yet. Did I slight her without realizing it?

  Uncertain of what else to do, I salvage the dinner and text her. I pace and wait for an answer that doesn’t come. After nearly two hours of runaway panic, I phone, knowing she won’t pick up, which she doesn’t. Sitting at the kitchen table, I stare out the bay window until she flicks her lights.

  Twenty Two

  Her house is dark at midnight when I step across the driveway and set her homework behind her crooked storm door.

  I wake every hour, stand up, pull the curtain, and stare at her dark house and darker bedroom window.

  Before dawn, I run through the park and, returning, continue past the aqueduct and onto Main Street, which ends near the river. The sun rises behind me and the first rays curiously illuminate a flower shop window. I marvel at roses that are a color I’ve never seen.

  Except in dreams. They’re Amanda’s color, like persimmon, but less orange.

  I sprint home, afraid my lost time will have cost me the sight of her skipping down the hill to school. But an hour before she leaves, I’m waiting at Olivia’s bedroom window. In my deliberate insanity, I desperately will her to appear. Finally, there she is, charging down the hill. She does not toss and catch her backpack in her usual crisscrossing dance. But she does stop halfway, and instead of waving, knowing I’m watching, she extends her middle finger and dashes to the right, out of sight.

  I shower and dress. All I can stomach are a few swallows of orange juice. I clean the house and lift weights, wondering about those roses. But I’m unable to phone the florist or leave the house. If I buy them for her, it could mark the beginning of the end. But how can I not buy them? Of course, they probably don’t even exist—roses that color.

  It’s only 10:15. I’m staring at the ceiling, half asleep. The house phone rings. I pick up without checking the caller. A man’s voice—Madison’s father.

  ‘Gil?’

  He says the girls need to be at the school, dressed for the concert by 7:00 this evening. Madison asked him to drive her and Amanda, so if I’m willing, he’ll drop them of
f and drive back to my house. Parking will be scarce, so why use two cars? His wife is attending Margo’s poetry reading at Sarah Lawrence. He’ll pick me up and we’ll go straight to the auditorium.

  ‘Concert?’

  ‘Amanda didn’t tell you? Madison says she was afraid to invite you. She thinks it’s a lot to ask of a neighbor. Amanda’s the soloist tonight. Schubert’s The Trout.’

  ‘What if she doesn’t want me there?’

  ‘She does.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Walter, the girl doesn’t have anyone else, and it’s her big night. Cancel whatever plans you have, and I’ll get Amanda the same flowers I’m getting Madison.’

  ‘No, let me get them for her. And thanks, Gil. I’d hate to miss this. Amanda’s always been shy with me but with Olivia gone . . . Sometimes she leaves presents for me and disappears when I try to thank her.’

  ‘Buy the lovely soloist some roses. I’ll drop off the girls and come back for you.’

  I look outside for a minute before jumping in my old Mazda and driving to the Main Street florist (nobody in town has seen me in the Accord). Passing the middle school, I listen for her voice. Why didn’t I notice she’s been singing The Trout all winter?

  The florist says, ‘Good morning, Mr. Mitchell.’ When I ask what her name is, her eyes narrow and I have to apologize and tell her I’m terrible with names.

  ‘Helen.’

  ‘Walter.’ She nods. She’s known my name for years. Of course, everyone in this little town knows each other.

  I describe the roses I saw at daybreak and we share a vision. She says that perhaps the first light cast a hue over the yellow roses. Or maybe I’m clairvoyant, because a remarkable new hybrid comes close. She opens a catalog to a vivid, half-pink half-orange long-stemmed rose. Her Scarsdale store has some, if I don’t mind paying extra. They’re rare.

  ‘Can I get a dozen delivered in a long white box this afternoon?’

  She phones the other shop and then nods. Still talking on the phone, she writes the price of a dozen on a Post-it. She looks up, sees my expression, and asks the address. I give her Amanda’s, which for a second I hope is close enough to mine not to arouse suspicion. Either way, the florist, if not the whole town, will know all about this.