The Best of Crimes

by K. C. Maher

  Thirty

  Samson is the smallest and naughtiest dog in obedience training. After our sixth week, and final class, Mike gives each dog owner a final tip. He has asked Amanda and me to bring Samson downstairs to Chester’s Paw. He clips Samson’s claws for the second time and recommends signing him up for the next training session. He says it’s not uncommon for such a young puppy to ‘fixate’ on a girl like Amanda and be jealous of her father.

  I claim not to have noticed this but say, now that he’s mentioned it—of course. Gladly then, I pay for another session. Mike won’t take money for clipping Samson’s claws. The first clipping should have been enough, now that I’m walking him outside. The problem isn’t his claws, Mike says. It’s that Samson still isn’t civilized.

  Driving home along the dark, empty parkway, I keep recalling how Amanda called me ‘Daddy’ in the class. The mixture of annoyance and affection with which she said it sounded so much like my daughter—and not Amanda—that Olivia hovers over my shoulder. Her phantom presence almost absolves me. My love for Amanda began with their friendship.

  Before I can recoil from this ludicrous justification, Amanda asks if she’s a good liar.

  ‘I wouldn’t call the roles you play—to avoid questions you can’t answer—lying. It’s more like being an actress.’

  ‘No, I’ve been lying all my life. If I can’t answer a question about my mother, why not say so? Instead, I lie. But I feel terrible for lying. Especially because I don’t just lie about what I’m doing. I lie about my feelings.’

  ‘Do you lie to me?’ I regret these words before they’ve left my mouth.

  She sputters in mild derision and chides Samson to stop squirming. ‘If I ever lied to you, Walter, you’d know it. The only time I let down my guard is with you.’

  ‘And the only time I let down my guard—’

  ‘You never let your guard down with me! You put up boundaries everywhere.’

  ‘Without some boundaries, I would hurt you, honey.’

  ‘Yeah. In ways that wouldn’t show up for ten years, if ever. And that means never. Because even though you obey every rule, you worry. And every time you worry, you add a bunch more rules. Like you’re—like you’re my Prude Daddy.’

  ‘Maybe I am.’

  ‘No, God, I’m sorry I said that.’ She shakes her head. ‘I get frustrated.’

  (She gets frustrated?) ‘If you want, go ahead and call me “Prude Daddy.”’

  ‘Wait, you’ve never seen the music video, have you? It’s been trending all year.’

  ‘You’re right, I haven’t seen the video. But I can imagine.’

  ‘Prude Daddy has this girl taunting a guy into saying she’s his “One Sweet Baby.”’

  ‘Damn it, Amanda. It’s a stupid joke.’ But I’m the stupid one. I missed the ring of backward slang; I had thought—naively—that if she called me “Daddy,” we’d be safer. Which makes me even stupider.

  We may not, as she claims, read each other’s mind, but we often feel what the other feels. But to look at her now, an alien from outer space would feel her sadness.

  ‘Walter, I don’t know what else to do—I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay, hon—When I call you honey, does it sound condescending? I use it as an endearment. But it just occurred to me that it might sound, I don’t know, belittling.’

  ‘It does not sound belittling. Nobody else thinks of me like that. I’m either Amanda or Ms. Jonette, or worse.’

  ‘Didn’t your mother have a nickname for you when you were a baby?’

  If Amanda weren’t so unhappy, she’d roll her eyes. But she stares at her hands, petting Samson. ‘Jade called me Mandy until Cheryl threatened to fire her. Whatever my mother calls me means “shit” or worse. And, double-shit—I forgot she’s coming this weekend. Wanna know why she’s been away for four months?’

  ‘Why?’

  Amanda readjusts Samson and says, ‘Cheryl slaps me. But when she was so awful at Christmas, I slapped her back. Nowhere near as hard as she slaps me. But whenever she calls or texts, she wants to get this straight: Never again!’

  ‘I’m not advocating this, Amanda, not even as a last resort. But you should know that one anonymous phone call—’

  ‘Would land me in foster care. I lie all the time but nobody’s fooled. Everybody knows about Cheryl unless they’ve decided they don’t want to know.’

  ‘They know about us, too.’

  ‘They know you do good things for me. They know I’m happy. I went from being “at risk” to being first in the class. You’re the only one with doubts.’

  ‘Maybe for now. But it wouldn’t take much for people to get ugly ideas.’

  ‘So what? We’re amazing. So amazing we can live by our own rules.’

  ‘We’re going to try. But even if your mother continues doing what she’s always done, in four months you start high school. Your whole perspective will change.’

  ‘My feelings won’t.’

  I pull into the garage and don’t move, eyes fixed straight ahead. I’m on guard against condoning false hope—hers or mine. When my pulse slows somewhat, the best I can muster is: ‘Everything changes.’

  ‘Walter, shush. If nobody hears you, maybe the world will leave us alone.’

  ‘If we hold our breath, maybe time will forget about us.’

  I expect her to laugh. But in the garage, inside the car while Samson whines, Amanda and I sit within a pall of loss. I touch her shoulder. We’re fighting the same sensations, eyes stinging.

  When I look at her, though, she’s mastering the situation. I can see her working her way through a process she’s developed over the course of her life. Her lips press together and she blinks very fast, because crying won’t help. She straightens her shoulders and—making it look easy—smiles. From somewhere within she’s eked out genuine happiness, because her inner light shines at full radiance. Her voice lilts. ‘Thing is,’ she says, ‘you and I will always be great together, no matter where we end up.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  Usually, we walk Samson just before she and the dog go to her house for the night. But without a word, we agree the puppy has been semi-obedient for hours and deserves an early walk. Besides, we could use some fresh air. Amanda opens the car door and Samson bounds out, straining the leash, pulling her.

  We stroll through the wooded path to the clearing. Face-to-face, we clasp each other’s hands and lean back to gaze at the sky. Suddenly, our unique helix feels indestructible. Our combined will spirals above the trees. Hands clasped, we roll through the cold dark night, side by side.

  Thirty One

  The rhododendrons are still in bloom. The public schools in New York continue through most of June. Today’s May 5.

  When it’s time to tell Amanda I’m going to Yale and will live in New Haven, I don’t expect her to understand. But I hope she believes my real motive. Because the painful truth is, unless I make this sacrifice, we’ll lose what we’ve shared. If I stick around, we’ll both regret it.

  Every time I catch myself worrying about how she’ll be without me, I remind myself: Amanda’s been taking care of herself since kindergarten. And, what a miracle we’ve shared!

  When I step back and look at how very smart and sensible she is, how generous, strong, and loving, I see that she does not need me. Once she comes into her own, at eighteen, nothing and no one will be able to stop her.

  I fill out forms for law school while Samson slobbers against the bay windowpanes. I’ve already sent Yale my first year’s tuition.

  Sterling phones. I pick up and she asks what I’m thinking. I really can’t say. Samson whines and I tell her, ‘I like the dog. Getting him was a good idea.’

  ‘How do you think I’ll look as a redhead?’ She’s at a hair salon.

  ‘How red?’

  ‘Oh, you don’t care, do you?’

  ‘It’s been a long time, Sterling.’

  ‘Not that long. Have you talked to Olivia recently?’r />
  ‘Last Wednesday night, briefly.’

  ‘How did she sound?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Even my mother admits she gets keyed-up and acts silly.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘She does this rhyming thing. Mother and Karl say she’s pretending she’s a rapper, but it sounds compulsive to me.’

  ‘How much time do you spend with her?’

  ‘Not much. She claims I’m toxic.’

  ‘Give her some time, Sterling.’ A woman at her end says, ‘Let’s have a peek.’ And then, ‘Oh dear, darling! You must have porous hair. We’ll need to rinse this out and find something to tone it down.’

  *

  Cheryl has phoned Amanda to say she will definitely be home for the weekend. It could be a false alarm, but Amanda hides her clothes and stows her bicycle in my garage just in case. She wants Samson to be a secret, too.

  ‘If Mom knows we have a puppy, or even that you have a puppy, she’ll make me feel bad.’

  ‘Don’t worry. And I won’t mention that when we take him to puppy school, everyone thinks I’m your father.’

  Amanda imagines her mother’s outrage and grins. ‘What could she do? Nothing.’

  ‘Not without changing her ways.’

  ‘Promise—no more talks with her. Don’t ring the doorbell and say, “Here’s my new friend, wanna pet him?”’

  ‘Don’t worry, honey.’

  We prepare. Come Saturday morning, all of Samson’s stuff is at my house, and Amanda is wearing old clothes.

  We walk Samson up and down the Point. We tie him to a fence and shoot baskets. I teach her to do a lay-up. After an hour, she’s pretty good. We eat lunch and then dinner in my backyard, so we can listen for Cheryl’s car.

  After dinner, we drink tea. The days are growing longer. Holding Samson on her lap, Amanda stirs honey into a pot of Darjeeling. I add milk to my brew of Earl Grey.

  She says, ‘You know, this doesn’t qualify as a real adventure until we see a pride of lions.’

  I remind her we just arrived at this savannah. Unable to suppress my curiosity, though, I say, ‘Tell me again, honey, which savannah is this?’

  ‘We’re in Tanzania, darling. In fact, we’ve been here for weeks.’ She adjusts an imaginary sunbonnet. I start to ask, what century, when we hear Cheryl’s SUV. Amanda gives Samson to me and he jumps from my hands into her vacated seat.

  She tells him to be good, and kisses my cheek.

  Inside, I put Samson in his cage. He whines and I remind him that he’s spent all day with her. I mop the kitchen floor, listening to Rahsaan Roland Kirk’s Bright Moments.

  Upstairs, I’m racked by a sensation of the present moment immediately becoming the past. In Olivia’s room, I find her old laptop loaded with videos of the girls through the years. I watch them as preschoolers chasing dragonflies and catching lightning bugs. First grade through fifth—they run through water sprinklers and blast each other with bright-colored, high-powered water guns. I watch them collide on saucer-shaped sleds. They build a snowman that falls apart and throw snowballs at the camera. They’re ten and eleven on Halloween. Amanda’s wearing a rummage-sale dress of aging lace, the skirt to her feet. She faces a mirror while Olivia plants half a plastic hatchet in her head with hair-glue and wire netting. My curly-haired, mischievous little girl pours fake blood over Amanda’s head. It seeps from her hair and drips down her beautiful face and neck, staining the dress.

  That evening, without having looked at the Jonette house, I sneak Samson through the backyard and down the hill. For more than an hour, we walk along the aqueduct, in the golden light of nearby houses. The next morning, before my run, I walk him again, going through the backyard and down Sunnyside Lane. He whines and strains at the leash for Amanda. After my run, I listen to him bark, let him out of his cage, and watch him hurl himself against the kitchen door. He’s lapping water from his dish when pizza is delivered across the lane. Amanda hates pizza.

  I remember I should cancel the meeting with Glen Engle. It occurs to me that a weekend text might reach him before Heather Crosby has a chance to sort through her boss’s inbox. Within a minute, Glen replies that he wants to meet as planned. He has time. I reply that I won’t change my mind. His response: that’s why he wants me on board. I agree to the meeting, having hit upon a further purpose—he should hire Sterling. She’s just what he needs and vice versa.

  *

  At noon on Sunday, I drive Samson to a dog park. He’s chasing a brindled beagle-like dog while a heavy white-haired woman sitting in a chair yells, ‘Igor! Igor, come here!’ My phone pings. Amanda has sent a text: Cheryl and Greg are talking about working at a golf resort in Wisconsin. If they do, I’ll have to go to high school there!

  She’s included an emoticon referencing ‘The Scream.’

  I reply: Try not to worry, honey. It hasn’t happened yet.

  5. FLIGHT

  Thirty Two

  May 2015

  It’s the third week of May. Amanda’s eighth-grade graduation ceremony has been scheduled for the last week in June. The seventh-grade girls’ choir will sing Whenever You Remember. Her mother has promised to attend. Amanda cannot quite believe, however, what else her mother has promised: that shortly afterwards, Cheryl, Greg, and Amanda are moving to the Wisconsin Dells, where Greg owns the Alta Vista Resort. Or to be precise, part of it.

  Amanda shows me its website. The resort boasts a first-rate, eighteen-hole golf course, known as Whitewater Canyon. But the main attractions are twenty-six water slides, some indoor and some out. These, as well as water roller coasters and a pool with a wave machine, are surrounded by a vast complex of condominiums.

  Greg plans to manage the resort while Cheryl works as head golf pro. Amanda laughs at the idea. And, she laughs at my decision to attend law school. Because right now, the life we share ending like that—is absurd.

  Isn’t it?

  Yes, but . . .

  She maintains her perspective brilliantly. I, however, falter. More often than not, Amanda senses this. That’s my impression anyway, when she says, ‘We don’t know the future, Walter. Nobody does.’

  She’s so insistent that when I merely start to tell her about the trust fund—that she has money for boarding school if she doesn’t like Wisconsin—Amanda hops up and claps her hands over my mouth. ‘We agreed,’ she says, ‘not to admit the future until it’s here.’

  I nod and tell her that at some point she must allow me to explain a financial arrangement in detail. ‘It’s a trust fund,’ I say. ‘Mostly, you just need to sign some forms.’

  She nods and smiles and says, ‘But not now.’

  So far, I’ve nodded in misty-eyed agreement. When we do say goodbye, the finality will force us to feel rigid, numb, and matter-of-fact.

  Last night, thunderstorms rolled in, but this morning the rain stops and starts in spurts. Samson empties his system beneath the porch. No need for a leash. He won’t run off. In fact, he’s already pawing to get back inside. Amanda refuses to use an umbrella. ‘Kids don’t, Walter.’

  And, she’s not interested in a ride.

  ‘Fine, but if there’s a sudden downpour, honey, I’m coming after you.’

  She dances away from me, off the porch. ‘I love walking in the rain, especially when it feels as if I’m walking between raindrops.’

  She’s wearing her faded denim jacket with Miranda on the back, skinny orange jeans, and turquoise high-top sneakers. From upstairs, I watch her round the last mound of shrubbery. Instead of turning promptly onto Sunnyside, as she usually does, she leans down to talk to someone behind the wheel of a silver Volvo.

  I recognize the car. That is, I should recognize it but my mind balks. I see myself fleeing. But I haven’t moved. I’m still watching Amanda, who straightens and tosses her hair behind her shoulder. I press my hand against the windowpane for the sensory memory of touching those silken, tawny strands. She’s turning sideways, pointing to Olivia’s bedroom where
she knows I always watch her.

  She waves and disappears. The Volvo proceeds uphill. My hands and feet freeze. The Volvo is Sterling’s.

  My nervous system has halted operations, keeping my body alive but inert. I’m still at Olivia’s window. My heart pumps out of control as I step blankly downstairs, paste a smile on my face, open the door, and cross the porch.

  A woman with screaming orange hair in corkscrews has emerged from the Volvo. She runs, arms open, although her smile wavers at the edges. Sterling shrieks and hurls herself, almost knocking me down.

  ‘Walter! Why did you let me go?’ She shakes her head. Her orange hair quivers. ‘I know, I know: You don’t make other people’s decisions. I should have been grateful for that. And I was—I am. But I’m home now, my love, and so, so sorry.’

  She locks me in an awful embrace. Her hands cover and muffle my ears. We’re on the porch but Samson is barking in the kitchen. The Volvo is packed full.

  Sterling’s not here for a little chat and then toodle-oo. Even if she were, it would still be ghastly.

  She pulls me through the front door. I follow Samson’s bark and lean against the refrigerator, which does no good. Nothing short of violence will make Sterling pause.

  Between a quick kiss and one I fear might never end, she says how much she loves me, and that only I, who am immune to jealousy, would allow her such an idiotic escapade. God help her! Is she ever sorry! She lost control. ‘It took me forever to get it back. But never again. I’m sorry, too, for taking Olivia away. But that was for the better. You know that, right?’

  ‘Oh-oh,’ she says. ‘Look at the puppy! So cute!’ And, by the way, she’s so glad I’m meeting with Glen Engle next week. Heather told her.

  Meanwhile, I can’t stop blinking. She shakes her peculiar head and pulls me away from the refrigerator to clasp her hands behind my neck. I don’t dare push her away—even when it seems she’s attempting to suck my face off.

  I counter my mental frenzy by forcing my body into near paralysis. Closing my eyes, I re-experience all those life-or-death longings for Amanda. The marvelous girl flickers inside me, lifting me close to the sun. Yet Sterling keeps grasping and plunging me into a cold and bottomless sea. She’s drowning me right here in the kitchen.