The Best of Crimes

by K. C. Maher

  Back on the phone, Helen says, ‘Local, this afternoon,’ and to me, ‘Between four and five?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  She adds the delivery fee to the price and hands me the Post-it.

  ‘Thank you. That’s great.’

  Phone still in hand, she asks what to write on the card.

  ‘To the star soloist,’ I say, ‘from her admiring neighbor.’

  She repeats my words to her partner in Scarsdale and hangs up. ‘Amanda will be thrilled! If you don’t mind my asking, are you attending the concert tonight?’

  ‘Yes, Madison’s father reminded me that Amanda has no one else.’

  Helen tells me that the middle-school choirgirls all receive the same bouquets backstage. She expected Gil to buy Amanda’s along with Madison’s.

  ‘No, Gil and I agreed that I’d get Amanda’s.’

  ‘It’s small,’ Helen says. ‘Little white lilies and purple asters.’

  I’m signing the credit card slip when Nina Malloy enters, looking heavier and pastier than when I saw her at Christmas. Swinging beside me, she takes my wrist, and then my hand, telling Helen, ‘I noticed Walter here from across the street.’

  I take her other hand. ‘It seems like years.’

  ‘More like two months. Where have you been hiding?’

  I know just what to say and don’t mind saying it. ‘To be honest, Nina, I was wondering if you’d been hiding from me.’

  Her mouth opens before making a pleased little smirk. She drops my hand and I drop hers. Now she’s tracing little circles on my shirt.

  ‘If you keep doing that,’ I say, ‘I could end up in trouble.’

  ‘Why not tell Sterling she can’t have it both ways?’

  ‘I do tell her that. About once a week. Maybe you can talk to her.’

  ‘Maybe I will.’

  Helen finishes wrapping the small bouquet in cellophane, ties it with a satin ribbon, and asks me to write a card, then stores it in a box with many others.

  Nina says, ‘The middle-school concert—Amanda, right? What a nice neighbor you are.’

  I smile as if we share a secret. Why did I find her so obnoxious before? I’m more attuned to people after all these months of being alone and out of work—and struggling with my feelings. I know now that Nina’s delighted by my attention and expects nothing more. She’s already waved goodbye.

  Before I can even ask, Helen is handing me a big yellow rose plucked from a metal bucket.

  ‘You read my mind, thanks.’ I give her five dollars, she protests, but I’m outside.

  Nina’s crossing the street and I call her, a hand behind my back. Can she advise me on a matter of taste? Curious, she walks toward me.

  ‘What’s your opinion of showy gestures?’

  ‘That depends. Oh, well—’ She laughs. ‘Absolutely.’ Rose to her nose, she thanks me and walks away, hips swaying.

  *

  Back at home, my anxieties mount. What if Amanda doesn’t want me there? What if the roses embarrass her? On the low orange couch, I sink into a warm pool of sunlight. I’m sleeping there when she runs in from the kitchen. ‘Walter, look! Look, come on, look. I can’t believe this! I love you!’

  We find a vase. She starts to apologize for last night.

  I touch the top of her head. ‘Hush, honey.’

  ‘Are you really coming tonight?’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Besides, Gil invited me.’

  She puts each rose in the tall vase, naming one, ‘Amazing,’ another, ‘Magnificent,’ and so on . . .

  She asks if I’ve smelled them. I lower my face to the half-closed petals. ‘A soft powder and, maybe, melon? Definitely intoxicating.’

  Her face bright with pleasure, she says she’s never smelled anything like them. She must get ready and jumps up to kiss my cheek before carrying her roses home.

  When Gil pulls into her driveway, I’m watching from my bedroom window. Amanda runs outside, dressed in a flowing black skirt and fitted white top. Her hair is twisted up on her head and lovely curled tendrils frame her face and neck. She’s hopping up and down. Laughing, she lifts her skirt a bit to show bare feet. A particular ache tells me I’ll remember this sight of her, dressed for the concert, all my life.

  Amanda runs inside and Gil gets out of his car. So does Madison, a nice-looking, round-faced teenager with short dark hair. She follows Amanda, who won’t let her in. Within a minute, maybe less, Amanda returns, lifting her hem again, showing off little black shoes like ballet slippers. Still no sweater or jacket, though.

  Twenty minutes later, as I’m scrutinizing myself in the mirror, Gil returns from dropping off the girls and honks. I’m wearing a simple-looking pale gray shirt of woven raw silk, black slacks, and short black boots with hiking soles.

  Do we have time to drink a beer first?

  No, Gil wants good seats, and with time to spare, he pulls into the middle-school parking lot. Faculty members meet us in the hallways. Each one says hi to Gil and asks me about Olivia. The teacher who told Sterling and me that Olivia would start eighth grade on probation says being in Maine should keep her independent streak within safe bounds. This town is too close to New York City and too full of kids with unlimited funds. I whole-heartedly agree and wonder why I didn’t realize this myself. After asking about Olivia, each teacher tells me that Amanda’s work is outstanding. They praise her talent and achievements in one subject or another. They’re all so proud of her. What a good thing I’m doing—wait until I hear her sing.

  I once heard Barbara Bonney sing this part in concert with Yo-Yo Ma. But Amanda’s young, natural presence enlivens the happy melody. Her voice is splendid and joyful. Her shy curtsy conveys that nobody’s more surprised than she is at the applause.

  Everyone congratulates her. Everyone, I’m certain, feels just as I do. Later, when I tell her this, she swats my shoulder. ‘You love to think I’m shy, because when I was little I was afraid of you.’

  Twenty Three

  The middle school held the concert on Thursday evening because many families start their spring vacation Friday morning—Gil, his wife, and daughters included. But after her sublime solo, Amanda is eager for a regular school day.

  Before leaving, she knocks on the door. Will I look after her roses while she’s gone? For a second, I think she’s teasing, but no. Would I please change the water and cut the bottom of each stem slantwise?

  Yes, and my sister Emily used to put a drop of apple cider vinegar in the water to fight bacteria.

  Smiling, she skips outside and I follow, standing in the road while she does cartwheels around me. The air has turned mild overnight. Amanda hugs me before scooping up her backpack. She wobbles her head and grins. ‘See ya around four.’

  Inside, the phone rings and I answer without looking.

  Sterling says, ‘Nina called last night to say you bought her roses.’

  ‘One rose. She stopped in the florist’s while I was there.’

  ‘I know that. But she went on and on about how charming you are. Handsomer than ever. Kind, witty, and wise. So, tell me, Walter—since when?’

  ‘Since always.’

  ‘No, I mean since when are you kind to Nina?’

  ‘She caught me in a good mood.’

  ‘It certainly sounds like it. Are you seeing someone? That was her guess.’

  ‘No, but you suggested that, remember? While you’re seeing Kevin.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it. Nina says everyone considers you the perfect gentleman, going to hear Amanda sing.’

  ‘How’s Olivia?’

  ‘She’s spending the week at some god-awful skateboard competition. Apparently, I’m the only one who minds her traveling with her boyfriend.’

  ‘Does Kaye approve?’

  ‘Yes, because I don’t.’

  ‘Is that why you called?’

  ‘Nina talked about you like you’re the Second Coming. If you refuse to work, at least walk around town and say, “Howdy” to ev
eryone. Or soon they’ll start wondering if you’re a deviant.’

  ‘A deviant?’

  ‘It’s abnormal to do nothing, Walter. Until last night, nobody saw you for months. But they saw Amanda, looking more gorgeous by the minute.’

  ‘So what.’

  ‘So if you continue to stay holed up, people will wonder. She was spectacular and you were gracious. But in a small town, you can’t stand out too much. Like, popping into glorious view and then disappearing. Today, you’re a hero. Tomorrow, you’ll be suspect. Unless you get out and about—see and be seen.’

  ‘Maybe I should walk up to people and just announce I’m not a deviant. Such as, “Whatever you may be thinking is all wrong. I’m Mr. Normal.’’’

  ‘Shut up and get a puppy. Make it your best friend.’

  ‘Actually, Sterling, a puppy’s a good idea. Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Also, I’m happy to remind you not to worry. You’ve always been fascinated by Amanda. I watched you watching her for ten years. And, you’re no more deviant than I am.’

  ‘What a relief.’

  ‘It should be. I’m coming home soon.’

  ‘You’ve been saying that since you left. But if and when you return, Sterling, you need to know—I don’t feel the same way.’

  ‘Don’t decide that until I get there.’

  Twenty Four

  After school, Amanda drops her backpack at her front door. I stand outside, watching as she does another series of cartwheels, this time describing a square. Whereupon, she stands feet apart, and straightens her green and brighter green striped sweater over skinny black jeans. Her long silky hair is a dazzling stream that flows around her in the late-afternoon breeze. Her eyes find mine.

  During the next few seconds, Amanda once again undoes everything I’ve ever assumed about thirteen-year-old girls. She smiles at me and it’s clear she’ll always possess the same delicate beauty. Even time won’t undo her.

  We go inside and she sits at the kitchen table, where her roses have opened, halfway to full, heady bloom. She finds her iPhone and takes a close-up photo of them. The rule is—no photos of me; no photos of us. Although, I now have a photo of her and Madison on my phone, taken after last night’s concert. Handing me her phone, she asks if I’ll take a picture of her with the roses.

  After several shots (which I resolutely resist sending to my phone), I ask if she’d like seltzer and bitters.

  ‘Do you? Let me fix it.’ She’s up and moving, her vivid new Adidas leaving an after-image as she glides across the floor. I balance on the stool that’s her favorite seat.

  ‘Cheers,’ she says. ‘To a whole week off.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Seven days together—nine, including next weekend. ‘Have you spoken with your mother recently?’

  ‘She called me at lunch but when I told her about my “Trout” solo, she had to go. She won’t visit, don’t worry. She didn’t even mention spring break.’

  ‘How would you like to visit Briarcliff’s animal shelter? It closes at six.’

  Her drink on the counter, she leaps up, squealing, and pulls me off the stool, into the TV room.

  ‘Really, really, really?’ She pushes me onto the couch and, facing me, slides her thighs against the sides of mine, her knees pressing against each of my hips. She’s not allowed to sit like this. She’s not allowed on my lap. But she’s holding my face between her hands, her forehead tipped against mine, and I cannot at this moment order her off. Her sweet, thrilled breath overwhelms me. And I focus all my might on not touching her skin or hair or placing a pulsing palm behind her head. All of which does nothing to impede the rush of every forbidden impulse.

  Amanda’s voice is a whisper. ‘Walter, this is serious!’

  The excitement I feel running through her compounds my own. And I demand: ‘Be still!’

  ‘Just tell me.’ Her fingers push through my hair, against my scalp, and my neck falls backward. Several delirious yet static seconds pass.

  ‘Do not move.’ My voice is guttural.

  And Christ—I am beyond overwhelmed. My mind leaves my body. Thank God, she obeys. Thank God, she does not move. We’ve gone through this before, but never with this urgency. Never have I drifted to this hairsbreadth brink. Perhaps she detects my desperation—Finally, I’m ready to speak. ‘You have no idea, honey. Let me up.’

  ‘First, tell me,’ she rests her fingertips against my temples, ‘are we getting a puppy?’

  ‘Yes. We’re getting a puppy.’ She slides off me and I shoot up, halfway out of the room before I call over my shoulder, ‘Don’t move, Amanda. Or wait, no—watch TV.’

  Upstairs, I lock my bedroom door. Trembling, I select clean underpants, jeans, and a long-sleeved V-neck. No shower, but a thorough washing at the sink. I dress quickly, check myself in the bathroom mirror, and shut off the lights. To calm down, I alternate slow, shallow breaths with long, deep ones. Nevertheless, my blood is racing. Once I’m confident I appear calm, I grab my wallet and keys before leaping downstairs. The shelter is forty minutes away. But they’re expecting us.

  ‘You changed your clothes.’

  I look at my shirt as if it decided to wear me. ‘We’re going out. You look lovely unless you want a jacket.’

  She doesn’t. We hop in the new Accord. The traffic is sparse for a Friday evening—all the schools are on break. She sings a Real Miranda song. Always before, she sang these songs like the actress, note for note. But now she plays with vibrato and sends her soprano skittering into a dusky contralto.

  ‘Isn’t it strange that nobody on The Real Miranda has a little wonder dog?’

  Scarcely thinking, I say, ‘A cute, smart dog might be distracting. My guess is that before long, Iris with Miranda in tow will save someone whose superpower fails. In the end, they’ll learn that their classmates’ superpowers aren’t as reliable as friendship and loyalty.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. But what about Sam’s bilocation? They have to keep that.’

  ‘In history, several Christian saints worked miracles using bilocation. But as far as miracles go, it’s probably easy to fake.’

  ‘Walter,’ she swats my thigh. ‘Don’t say that. A wise man once told me a lot of impossible things are possible in theory.’

  ‘I doubt he was wise, honey, but even so, there’s an enormous difference between theory and reality. Now—,’ I turn onto a lane that becomes a long driveway leading to a huge stone house. ‘—this is it.’

  Inside, a woman in overalls shakes my hand. Her name’s Michelle.

  A door opens and a young man wearing a Rasta tam pulls a leash connected to a growling, tiny black puppy. The young man’s name is Trevor and he calls the dog Skipper, but he says the pup knows that’s not his real name. ‘He’s little but smart.’

  The animal shelter task force found him in a ditch on the parkway.

  ‘A baby!’ Amanda cries, and the puppy breaks away to jump into her arms.

  Michelle says that Trevor’s the ‘animal task force’ for all of Westchester.

  The puppy is licking Amanda’s face and Trevor says it’s best if she keeps him on the leash. She nods and tucks the thin coiled line beneath the little dog, while cooing and stroking its fur. Cradling the animal in her arms, she goes outside while I sign some forms, receive copies, and make an unrequired but generous donation to the shelter.

  Strapped in the car, Amanda’s holding the dog in her lap. ‘At first I wanted to call him Sam but that’s not his name. Samson is.’

  At Chester’s Paw, a pet shop in a strip mall, Samson is welcome to try out different cages. The store’s proprietor, a man named Mike whose crevassed face reveals a lifetime of sorrows, professes his belief in Jesus but takes the subject no further. I give him the papers verifying that Samson’s had his shots. Mike raises scarred eyebrows and extends his hands.

  ‘May I?’

  Amanda hands over Samson, who whimpers as he leaves her hands. Mike sets him on the counter, rubs him, tugs his legs and ears, and pr
esses several points on his belly. The puppy is now calm and quiet and Mike pokes around inside his mouth. ‘Name any of your household breeds and this little guy belongs to their tribe. He’s a super mix. You can’t do better than that. But you’ll get him fixed, no?’

  ‘The shelter has him on their calendar,’ Amanda says. ‘They do it for free.’

  ‘Briarcliff.’ He approves.

  I buy a heavy metal crate for Samson’s ‘dog house’ (the only way to housetrain him, Mike says). Also: a plaid red bed that fits perfectly inside the crate; a month’s worth of designer puppy food; a stiff metal brush; a red leather collar and a woven leash; rubber dog toys; rawhide chews; and a training manual. Mike puts on Samson’s new collar, whose shiny metal tag is imprinted with ‘Samson Jonette,’ a county I.D. number, and Amanda’s address and phone number. Samson is not used to walking on a leash, so Amanda holds him while I sign us up for puppy school every Monday and Thursday evening, seven to nine.

  ‘Right here,’ Mike says, ‘side entrance and up the stairs.’

  I make two trips carrying the stuff to the car while Amanda skips beside me, holding Samson. ‘Puppy school, Walter!’

  In the car, she buries her face in the puppy’s fur and murmurs. At a traffic light, she leans over and kisses my cheek. ‘Thank you. Thank you so, so much.’

  When we reach Oak Grove Point, Amanda and I need to eat dinner but she’s coaxing the puppy to trot beside her as she walks between the driveways and up the pavement to the turn-around. They play in circles and I scan the twilit sky.

  She’s laughing and Samson’s barking. I unload the car. With the metal crate balanced in one arm against my chest, I open the kitchen door and set it down. Then I go back outside. Amanda stands with one hip cocked. Samson’s twined the leash around her ankles. She steps free easily and for a second it’s as if I’m the ground beneath them. Then I’m the wind in the air and the first few stars in the darkening sky. Amanda calls my name.

  Indoors, Samson, like Amanda, is not allowed up the stairs or even on them.