Peter Abrahams - A Perfect Crime

“You’ve always hit hard.”

“Not like this. I’m going to write an article for Tennis Magazine‘ Eat Your Way to Power. ’Just a little beefy hip rotation and pow-F equals MA.”

“You’re working on the M?”

“That’s what’s revolutionary about it.”

Nora ordered more beer; Francie signed. “Ready to talk about Roger?” Nora said.

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Does he have that toenail thing, by the way?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

“Meaning you don’t know?”

Francie said nothing.

“Meaning you’re not occupying the same bed? Of course. And that would be your Byzantine way of telling me. How long has this been the case?”

“Some time.”

“That would be months.”

“Many.”

Nora shook her head. “One month is my limit when it comes to abstinence-must be tied to the cycles of the moon, something tidal. After that, I need life support.” She studied Francie’s face, quite openly. “Can’t be good for you, either,” she said. “Someone like Anne, that’s different-modest sex drive at best.”

“How would you know something like that? Maybe she’s in bed with her husband as we speak.”

“Ironing his shirts is more like it,” Nora said. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you had an orgasm? In the company of another human being, that is.”

“What difference does it make when I had an orgasm?

Nuns-”

“You’re not a nun. Answer the question.”

The true answer was last Thursday, and not only one. Francie came very close to saying just that: her lips parted, the tip of her tongue curved up to form the L of “last,” and after that the whole tale-cottage, kayak, little bedroom-would come spilling out. Francie clamped her mouth shut, held it all inside; she could keep a secret.

“What?” said Nora. “What?”

Francie tried to think of some breezy diversion, some bridge to another subject, but nothing came to mind. Nora’s eyes narrowed. “This divorce can’t come too soon.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Francie.

“Why not?”

“Maybe if he had a job again, Nora, but right now it wouldn’t be fair.”

“Fair? You said fair?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe it’s time to consider a boyfriend.”

“And that would be fair?” Francie asked-very close to the first question she would have asked if the real story had come spilling out.

“You’re asking me if cheating on Roger would be fair?”

“If you want to put it that way.”

“That’s the way people put it.” Nora thought, drank more beer, thought again. “Got anyone in mind?” she said.

“No,” said Francie, feeling Nora’s gaze and not even trying to meet it.

A long silence followed. Nora poured the rest of the beer, looking at Francie from the corner of her eye. “Did I ever tell you about my grandmother?” she said.

“Rose? I knew her.”

“But did I ever mention the time I called her number, six months after she died?”

“Why?”

“Because there was something I’d meant to tell her.” Nora rose. “Good luck, kiddo.”

“Good luck?”

“With Anne,” said Nora. “In the tournament.”

Francie went home. The phone was ringing. She picked it up.

“Francie? Anne Franklin. Hope it’s not too late. They just called me with the draw-we play Friday at four-thirty, if that’s all right.”

“Fine.”

“And I was thinking maybe we could set up a practice match before that.”

“Sure.”

“I’ve got a court Thursday at six.”

“Thursday’s out,” Francie said.

“I’m sorry-that’s the only time they had.”

“We’ll just have to wing it,” Francie said.

Francie went to bed but couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking of Nora’s grandmother, kept hearing the chill in Nora’s voice when she wished her luck. That was unbearable: candor, as they said, was the soul of friendship, and she had let Nora down. There would have to be at least one change in Ned’s rules.

Thursday. Francie spent the day in her office, preparing a report (negative) for the acquisitions committee. “… menstrual performance, coupled with an installation consisting of outsize Tupperware (e. g., casserole dish-10 ft. diameter) suspended from a..” She found she’d already typed that sentence, not once but twice, as a quick scroll through the text revealed. She couldn’t concentrate at all. This often happened on Thursdays, but this Thursday more than ever.

The phone rang. Francie reached for it with dread. Once before Ned had called to cancel, at about this same time. But it wasn’t Ned.

“Francie? Tad Wagner here.”

“Yes?” She’d heard the name but couldn’t place it.

“Your insurance agent-classmate of Roger’s.”

“Oh, yes.”

“How’re you doing?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“So I understand. I saw a nice article in the Globe.”

“That was really about the foundation. I wasn’t even supposed-”

“I’m impressed. But the reason I’m calling-now that this career of yours is taking off, have you given any thought to a term policy in your own name?”

“A term policy?”

“That’s the instrument I’d recommend in your case.”

“Are you talking about life insurance?”

“That’s my forte.” He pronounced it correctly-at least Harvard gave you that.

“I have no dependents, Tad.”

Pause. “What about Roger? Word is he’s…”

What about Roger? Roger had supported her for years. And if they did end in divorce, she could change the beneficiary: to Em. “How much does it cost?”

Tad described different options. Francie settled on a term policy for $500, 000 with Roger as beneficiary and hung up. Tad must have been desperate for business: that Globe article was six months old.

Ten to four. Enough. She saved and printed her report. Then she wrote To Ned, with all my love, Francie on a plain sheet of paper. She stared at the words. They seemed alive on the page.

Francie folded the paper, put it in an envelope, taped it to the rewrapped painting leaning against her desk. She’d never written Ned a note before-written communication was out-but this was special. He could destroy the note if he wished. The pleasure of writing it had been exquisite: it made their relationship real. Francie packed her briefcase, picked up the painting, took the elevator down to the garage.

She drove out of the city under a low and fast-darkening sky, planning what she would say about Nora. It was just a question of making him see how close they were, how trustworthy Nora was. Francie was sure he would understand. Her heart grew light and buoyant-she could feel it, high in her chest, like a bird about to fly. She felt as happy as she’d ever been, at least as an adult, until just across the New Hampshire line, when the car phone buzzed. She realized immediately that she’d forgotten to send the goddamn report upstairs to the acquisitions committee.

“Hello?” she said.

But it wasn’t the committee. First a faint background voice, female, said, “Three minutes to air,” and then Ned came on. “Hello,” he said.

“Ned.”

“Hi.” He never spoke her name on the phone. There was a pause, and in it Francie thought: Say you’ll be a little late. He said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t make it today.”

“Oh.”

“Two minutes to air.”

“Really sorry. Something’s come up; I’ll explain later.”

“Something bad?”

“Nothing bad, but I’ve got to go.”

“Bye, then.”

“I’ll call.”

Too late to go back to the office, and Francie didn’t want to go home. She kept driving, wishing she hadn’t said Bye, then like that. Something coming up had to mean something involving Em-a parent-teacher meeting, a dance recital. Em came first. Em was the reason Ned couldn’t get divorced; Em was the reason for secrecy. Francie understood that, accepted it. If she had a child, she would be the same… Francie didn’t finish the thought. A competing one had risen in her mind, obtrusive: If I had a child, I would never take the risk, not for anyone. She shoved this second thought away, back down into her unconscious or wherever it had sprung from. She didn’t have a child: she couldn’t know. And how unfair to Ned. He loved her, he loved Em. Did that make him bad?