The Best of Crimes

by K. C. Maher

  I walk away but reappear almost immediately, interrupting a conversation about how short the new shorts are. ‘Excuse me. When you’re finished, Amanda, meet me at the Sunglass Hut.’

  She wobbles her head and rolls her eyes. ‘Got it. Sunglass Hut in—’ she checks an imaginary watch‘—fifteen or twenty minutes.’

  Three stores away, I find men’s clothing—lightweight, quick-drying jeans in my size and a pair of unbleached canvas sneakers that look like something my father might have worn when he was six. Trying on the shoes, I learn they’re a ‘special retro edition,’ which explains the cost. The jeans, which I don’t need to try on, are ninety percent denim and ten percent wick-away microfiber.

  At a vast Sunglass Hut, I buy the same Ray-Bans I always wear. But I don’t see anything for Amanda. The women’s sunglasses are laden with filigree, ornate logos, even rhinestones. I ask the clerk, a short, muscle-bound man with a shaved head, if he has any frames that won’t fly off a thirteen-year-old girl.

  Perhaps his smirk is all in my mind. Pushing aside a three-way mirror, he opens a drawer and, after digging around, dangles a pair too close to my face. I take them and they’re nice—delicate, plastic, honey-colored tortoiseshell frames with rounded brown lenses.

  In no time, Amanda appears, carrying two big shiny shopping bags. She’s changed into tiny maroon shorts and a little pink T-shirt. Also, sandals of braided orange strips that fasten around her ankles, making the shape and length of her pale smooth legs even more attractive.

  ‘Can you walk around all day in those sandals?’

  ‘Definitely. Guess what brand they are.’

  ‘I don’t know—ankle straps.’

  ‘That’s the style. Remember Crocs? Those giant rubber elf shoes? These are new Crocs, waterproof, cushy, and created especially for Disney World.’

  Now it’s my turn to show off. I turn one foot and then the other, displaying my retro kicks. The sales clerk snorts at me and shows Amanda four pairs of sunglasses, arranged on a ledge, backed by a mirror. Reluctant to put down her bags (or something), Amanda asks me to choose a pair and put them on for her. Fitting the frames to her face and adjusting the stems besets me with desire. (My immunity lasted less than three hours.)

  I step back and she smiles. The clerk scratches the tattoo on his bicep, saying, ‘That brand emphasizes high cheekbones, like yours.’ He’s at least my age and staring at her. So I’m primed when he takes out his phone and raises it to focus the camera. I grab his wrist and squeeze it until I’ve wrenched the phone from his fat hand. Holding it well above his reach, I twist his arm behind him. He tries unsuccessfully to stomp on my feet. When he starts to curse, I release him suddenly and he crashes into a stand-up display of Prada sunglasses.

  At the store’s threshold, I look at his phone and sure enough, the camera’s on. I shut it off. Amanda’s distress radiates from the back of the store, where she’s retreated. Her worry sweeps over me and magnifies my own. Idiot-boy hovers somewhere between us.

  While I’m swiping through his latest photos, Amanda invents a diversion. She’s put on an exaggerated pair of butterfly sunglasses. Addressing a mirror in a theatrical voice, she says, ‘My dear, tell me the truth. Would you mind terribly? I mean, really, truly—terribly?’

  ‘What is this?’ The picture I expected: his plump, naked torso blurred behind his fat hand squeezing his erect penis.

  ‘Get over here.’ And the asshole does.

  I glance at Amanda, now wearing sunglasses adorned with strands of pearls. ‘Cora, darling, I was, like, to die.’

  ‘That you, big guy?’

  ‘Fuck off. Everyone does it.’

  ‘No, everyone doesn’t. Where did you intend to put my daughter’s picture?’

  Sickened, I drop the phone by the register, ready to walk out. But Amanda is suddenly beside me whispering, ‘Please, Walter. I love those sunglasses.’

  The brute gives me a twenty-five percent discount. Amanda puts on her new Smith Optics, saying loudly as I usher her out of there, ‘Thank you, Daddy. I’ll wear them forever.’

  We wander away and find an exit. Amanda looks sophisticated in her sunglasses and thanks me again for them—for everything. ‘But you’re scaring me, Walter! So what if he took a picture of me wearing sunglasses?’

  ‘He was going to paste it onto something obscene. But I’m sorry I sunk to his level, honey. I didn’t handle that well.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ We emerge gasping into the heat and wait for a taxi to pull up.

  Thirty Seven

  In the air-conditioned taxicab, I suggest we order room service for lunch. ‘Unless you want a giant turkey leg.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’ But turning on my phone, I find it has limited Internet access. Instead, it flashes a dozen voicemails and fifteen texts from Sterling. I turn it off and describe greasy-faced people chomping on the steroidal turkey legs that Disney World sells. She’s appropriately disgusted.

  The dolphin motif at the hotel delights her, though. While I check in, she dips her fingers in a big round fountain of pink and blue porcelain dolphins spurting jets of water.

  On the third floor, I give her the key card to her bedroom and she gives me the bag with my T-shirt. I open the door to my room and say, ‘I’m going to change and if you want, why don’t you see if room service has anything we like?’

  ‘Mais oui! C’est parfait! Lunch in our suite, toute de suite.’

  I start to touch her head and stop. Her gaze drops, and then she’s inside her room.

  My own huge sunny bedroom depresses me. Anxiously, I toss the mobile phone in a drawer, and retreat inside the dim bathroom to put on my new jeans and T-shirt.

  When the hotel phone rings, I jump. Amanda, who has never had room service, never even stayed in a hotel before, wants to know if I like club sandwiches and do I think she’d like them. ‘Yes,’ to both.

  ‘Okay, and do you like half-iced tea, half-lemonade?’

  ‘That sounds great, honey.’

  ‘Do you know how expensive this is?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s worth it.’

  I collect my things, tie my canvas high-tops, and knock before entering our dining/living room suite. Amanda turns from the window. She was fighting tears but spontaneously breaks into a glorious grin and giggles.

  ‘Walter, you’re the coolest daddy ever.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Look at you! Ten times handsomer than any movie star and super-cool—’ She leads me to a standing mirror where I’m surprised by my own reflection. The lightweight, slightly stretchy jeans are cut very narrow and hang very low on my hips. A machine-made slash rests near my right knee and a bigger rip rides my left thigh. Meanwhile, Amanda’s stuck her whole hand through the pre-fab hole in the back pocket.

  ‘Put your sunglasses on,’ she says. ‘I didn’t get to see them.’

  I repress a groan, because I already look like the men who take girls to museums in New York. She gets her sunglasses and holds them up while I unfold mine. In the mirror, she says, ‘On three.’

  As if we’re about to jump through a portal, I count to three—and sunglasses on. In the mirror, we’re transformed into a dynamic duo.

  We step away and stand back from each other. Amanda could not look more inspiring if she tried. But she takes off her sunglasses to gawk at me, clutches her heart, and mock swoons.

  I laugh, shake my head, and take off my sunglasses. ‘If I were smart, I’d look like the world’s most scrupulous daddy.’

  ‘Oh, but Walter—’ Her thrilled face grows thoughtful and her eyes enormous. ‘Technically,’ her voice is husky, ‘you’re “on the lam.” That means you’ve broken the law.’

  ‘Technically, yes. But for me, Amanda, this is the best of crimes.’

  ‘Best of crimes, worst of crimes—what’s that from?’

  ‘Times, not crimes, from A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . . Are you
ready for the best of times?’

  Knock-knock, and it’s room service. Amanda’s delighted with the silver domes and Lucite bowls of crushed ice, the fine porcelain plates, and elegant glassware. We eat double-decker sandwiches of Swiss cheese, avocado, and tomato slices on whole-wheat toast, no crusts. The half-iced tea, half-lemonade is served in a Mickey and Minnie Mouse pitcher.

  Amanda eats half her lunch. Her eyes fill. Neither of us looks away, but not one tear spills. ‘Our adventure is a magical goodbye, isn’t it, Walter?’

  ‘We have to say goodbye, sometime. I brought you here because I love you.’

  She stares in the middle distance. Her eyes close, flutter twice, and open. She sits up, determined. ‘Which do you want to do first? Space Mountain?’

  ‘Your choice, honey.’

  ‘Space Mountain. Definitely.’

  We stand up and I’m out the door but she calls me back. We join hands and gaze into the mirror. ‘Look at us!’ she says.

  I embrace her freely. For once, gravity isn’t a factor—and neither is fear.

  Thirty Eight

  In the hot early afternoon, we’re waiting our turn for Space Mountain. Amanda tugs my hand. She looks very serious and says, with what sounds like genuine guilt, that she needs to tell me a shameful secret.

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘I’ve never ridden a roller coaster—not even one for little kids.’ She turns away and giggles. ‘Oh, my God, it’s so embarrassing.’

  I laugh so hard that I have to rest my hands on my knees, catching my breath. Amanda shoves my shoulders. To keep my balance, because I’m laughing even more now, I drop to one knee. She circles behind me and slaps my back. I pivot around and see her giggling, hand raised, ready to slap my face. I’m overcome by fresh fits of hilarity. Amanda attempts indignation, which causes her, too, to break into full-throttle laughter. I scoop together her bare legs, drape her over my shoulder, and stand up, dancing side to side, while her fists jab at my backside. We’re both laughing uncontrollably and I can’t keep her still. She’s squirming and clinging and choking back laughter to speak.

  ‘Shut up! Shut up!’ she yells, sliding down and around me, her arms clasping my neck, so she’s riding me piggyback. ‘Everyone’s staring at us!’

  Indeed, they are. She pulls my hair. ‘How dare you laugh at me! Shame on you!’

  I try to keep her behind me and she tries to twist around as if to free herself, despite her thighs squeezing even tighter around my waist. Finally, I set her on the ground only to double over, still in the throes of laughing fits.

  Back on one knee, I touch her head. She steps so that we’re eye to eye. Our impulse is simultaneous. We clap a hand over each other’s mouth. This lasts two seconds before we fall back into peals of glee.

  The line to Space Mountain has become a semicircle around us. Amanda tries to bite my right hand. I raise it above her reach and wave my left index finger in her face.

  ‘Shame on who? Shame on you, little girl! You promised to behave in public! You promised.’

  She leaps at me. I fold her over my shoulder again and stand. I spin in a circle, balancing her. She’s giggling and shaking. Donald Duck appears and quack-scolds us until I put her down, his huge webbed feet flapping as he stalks off.

  We don’t entirely recover until the steel car we’re strapped into enters the dark of the mountain. The careening ride twists and turns. We cling to each other and scream. By the time the car slows and begins coasting to the end, our hearts are pounding in unison.

  Languorous with relief, we wander hand in hand beneath the bright sunshine, our sunglasses on, our legs loose and rubbery. After a while, we’re strolling toward the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. The line here is especially long, but Amanda’s glad we didn’t schedule a time using the Fast Magic option. She’s happy to wait and I’m perfectly content listening to her history of Captain Jack Sparrow. She prepares me for one steep drop and possibly a ghostly sighting of Blue Beard.

  Donald Duck quacks past us again and I ask her for a translation.

  ‘He says . . . ’ Amanda puffs out a cheek and offers a good but understandable impression. ‘That’s more like it!’

  We climb into a boat and watch robotic pirates drinking from flagons and kicking loose planks around. Amanda snuggles beside me and kisses my cheek.

  ‘Oh, no!’ She’s noticed a little animatronic dog barking on a shipwreck. I assure her that Sterling is taking good care of Samson. ‘She always had a dog growing up. Getting Samson was her idea.’

  Amanda nods, and in the dim light her finger presses my lips. Now that she knows Samson’s being looked after—no more talking.

  She absorbs every amusing detail, every entertaining sight and stunt the same way she takes in every moment in real life. But such freedom eludes me. The future is bearing down, wielding a deadly bludgeon.

  Except—Amanda throws her arms around me while two pirates drag a captured enemy into a transparent cauldron of boiling oil. My anxiety vanishes. Amanda and I are great together. And her touch—whether her innocent wishes require me to vanquish my sick and dangerous ones or not—fills me with admiration, love, and hope. What on earth is more magical than that?

  True, my impulses have tortured me. I have had to maintain my guard against abominable longings. But I’ve succeeded every time. After my initial revulsion at what lurks inside me, I’ve learned to recognize my worst urges for what they are. Admitting this to myself and continually squelching selfish lust makes me a better man. A good man. I’m such a good man, in fact, that society will lock me up for a long time. Whereas, if I had ignored her all these months? Impossible, but if I had—if I had turned her away, that would have been evil.

  After the pirate ride, Amanda decides against Splash Mountain. ‘Because Space Mountain was the best.’ So, we visit the different castles and interact with Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. Also, the wicked stepmother asking a mirror, ‘Who’s the fairest in the land?’

  A young woman dressed like a newspaper boy a hundred years ago is taking photographs of a little girl and her toddler brother. We watch, and I ask Amanda if she wants a picture of us.

  ‘You mean it?’

  ‘The old precautions are no longer necessary.’

  The photographer suggests we sit on a bench but Amanda beckons me down on one knee. I wrap an arm around her and she drapes hers around my neck. The girl photographer says, ‘C’est magnifique.’ In an hour, we can pick up the photo at the Main Street studio.

  We meander through the shops. She buys a Mickey Mouse nightshirt and a beanie with the famous ears. We enter the old-fashioned photo studio. A young man wearing a green eyeshade says, ‘Wait till you see this!’

  Amanda’s stunning and I’m stunned beside her, inside an aluminum frame. The photograph shows how proud we are of each other, and how thrilled we are to be together. I ask if I can buy a duplicate. Of course, but because the photography shop is about to close, the copy won’t be ready until tomorrow.

  Amanda asks, ‘Can we take this one now?’

  Yes, the man tells us; it’s film photography and the shop keeps the negative.

  We eat hamburgers with French fries in a fanciful restaurant, and when we emerge the air is cooler, the light softer. The Disney parade of characters begins just after dusk. Amanda wraps an arm around my waist. I feel the joy spinning inside her, which sends a scythe of happiness swooping through me. What we’ve attained seems so rare and wonderful that the rules of ordinary life—with its systems, codes, and languages—don’t apply. Amanda and I hold hands, our arms swinging when the fireworks begin.

  6. WISCONSIN DELLS

  Thirty Nine

  May 2019

  At daybreak, nobody was awake except Amanda, who wanted to feel the sun’s light and warmth spread over the golf course after Wisconsin’s bitter winter and a long bleak spring. The fairway glistened with dew. She heard Walter saying, ‘After you graduate, honey, fly away. Soar up and go wherever the air currents ta
ke you.’

  It wasn’t a dream. Her mind and body were awake and so attuned to him that everything they shared when she was thirteen whirled inside her, bright and perpetually new.

  They had shared a pact, which had started as a secret friendship and became a unique love. Wherever Walter was, he must be thinking of her.

  Amanda didn’t think of Walter very often. This shamed her. But when she did think of him, she wept until she fell asleep, heartbroken and exhausted. Their time together was so beautiful, and meant so much to her, she almost didn’t believe it was real.

  But you can only be sad for so long and then, maybe for no reason, you get a little happier. So, in the first light of the year’s first warm day, she wanted to recall all that splendor, even if it hurt. How she and Walter had departed from the Magic Kingdom in a boat that took them to the Dolphin Hotel. In their suite, he asked her to excuse him—he needed to answer voicemails. He stopped in the doorway and looked at her. Was she all right?

  She was; she was great.

  He went into his hotel bedroom and closed the door. He stayed there for hours.

  Amanda had refused to worry. They were still at Disney World, still together, and she brushed off her trepidation like dandelion fluff. Although, getting through the evening demanded effort. She couldn’t concentrate on the big flat-screen television, and so she had downloaded A Tale of Two Cities, grateful that the complicated, old-fashioned sentences absorbed her.

  When Walter finally tapped on the door to the suite, Amanda said, ‘Entrez, s’il vous plaît,’ and—‘You don’t need to knock.’ Still wearing the hipster Mickey Mouse T-shirt, he sat beside her and peered at her reader.

  Had she had enough fantasy?

  ‘The perfect amount.’

  ‘We can stay part of tomorrow if you want.’

  She shook her head. ‘It wouldn’t be the same. Today was perfect.’

  Of course, Amanda knew—all those voicemails—that their time was almost over. He looked at her, focusing on her eyes. Amanda recognized the shared impulse to play a staring game, but blinked. She held her reader tight to keep from touching his face.