Peter Abrahams - A Perfect Crime

Francie lay back on the dock, closed her eyes. But now they didn’t want to stay closed, and she didn’t want to lie down. She rose, toed the end of the dock, dived into the river. The water was at its warmest, warmer than she liked. Francie swam a few strokes, then jackknifed her body as she’d been taught long ago at summer camp, and kicked easily down into the cold layers beneath.

Francie had always been good at holding her breath. She swam on and on close to the bottom, ridding herself of sun-induced lassitude before rising at last, clear-headed, to the surface. She broke through, took a deep breath-and saw that the kayak, having rounded the island, was now bearing straight down on her, only a few strokes away.

The kayaker was paddling as hard as ever, eyes still blank. Francie opened her mouth to yell something. At that moment he saw her. His body lost its coordination instantly; his blade caught a crab, splashing water at Francie’s head. The splashed water was still in midair, a discrete body, when the kayak flipped over.

The paddle bobbed up and drifted beside the upside-down kayak, but Francie didn’t see the man. She dived under the kayak, felt inside; he wasn’t there. She peered down into the depths, saw nothing, came up. A second later, he burst through the surface, right beside her, gasping for breath, bleeding from a gash in his forehead.

“Are you all right?” she said.

He looked at her. “Unless you’re planning to sue me.”

Francie laughed. Their legs touched under the surface. He called her-at work-the next day. She hadn’t been looking for love, had resigned herself to living the rest of her life without it, and perhaps for that reason had fallen all the harder.

Ned awoke. Francie knew he was awake right away, even though he hadn’t moved at all. She was opening her mouth to tell him about oh garden, my garden when he stiffened.

“What time is it?” he said.

“I don’t know.”

He rolled over, checked his watch. “Oh, Christ.” In seconds he was gone from the bed, gone from the room, and the shower was running. Francie got up, put on the robe she kept in Brenda’s closet, went down to the kitchen, finished her glass of red wine. All at once, she was hungry. She let herself imagine going out with him, having dinner somewhere, feasting, then coming back, back to the little bedroom.

Ned came downstairs, knotting his tie. A beautiful tie-all his ties, his clothes, the way he wore his hair-beautiful.

“Hungry?” she said.

“Hungry?” he answered with surprise. “No. You?”

She shook her head.

He leaned over, kissed her forehead very lightly. “I’ll call,” he said.

She tilted her face up to his. He kissed her again, this time on the mouth, still very lightly. She licked his lips, tasted toothpaste. He straightened.

“Rowing back is another matter,” he said.

Then he was gone, the door opening and closing softly. The draft reached Francie a few seconds later.

Driving fast toward the city, Ned realized how hungry he really was. Had he eaten at all since breakfast? He considered stopping somewhere along the way but kept going, one eye on the radar detector; he liked eating at home.

Ned switched on the radio, found their only affiliate, a weak AM station that replayed the shows at night. He heard himself say: “What do you mean by looking him up?” a little too sharply; he’d have to watch that.

“You know,” said the woman-Marlene, or whatever her name was. “Finding out where he is. Giving him a call.”

“To what end?”

“To what end?”

He should have gotten rid of her right there; he had so much to learn about the entertainment part. “For what purpose?”

“I guess to see what happens.”

“Marlene?”

“Yes?”

“In your description of your husband’s good points, I think-correct me if I’m mistaken-you omitted any mention of your sex life.”

“I’ve tried, Ned. To make it more exciting. Nothing works.”

“What have you tried?”

The car phone buzzed and Ned missed the woman’s answer; he didn’t recall it being interesting anyway, although he suspected the question was the kind the syndicators liked.

“Hello?” he said into the phone.

“Dad? Hi, it’s me, Em.”

“I recognized the voice.”

“You think you’re so funny. Where are you?”

“On my way.”

“There’s no dessert.”

“What would you like?”

“Rocky road.”

“Consider it done. Love you.”

“Love you, too, Dad.”

Ned stopped at a grocery store near his house, bought two pints of rocky road, a jar of chocolate sauce, almonds. At the cash register, he noticed some nice fresh flowers: irises, always a safe choice. He bought some for his wife.

His mind on those moans and cries that Francie made, Ned parked in the garage beside his house, sat for a few moments in the darkness. There had to be some evolutionary purpose for those female sounds, some reason important enough to outweigh the risk of attracting predators in the night. Did it have anything to do with the bonding of the couple, its positive consequences for the next generation? Ned rubbed the spot on his forehead, an inch above the right eyebrow where the headaches began, as one was beginning now, picked up the grocery bag, went into the house.

Em was at the kitchen table in her pajamas, busy with her paint set. The next generation. “Guess what this is going to be.”

“The solar system.”

She nodded. “Guess how many moons Saturn has.”

“A lot. Ten, maybe.”

“Eighteen. Which one’s the biggest?”

“That’s a tough one. Triton?”

“Triton, Dad? Triton belongs to Neptune. I’ll give you one more chance.”

“Rocky road?”

“You’re not funny.”

Ned scooped ice cream into two bowls-three scoops in his, he was so hungry-spooned out chocolate sauce, sprinkled on almonds. He raised his first spoonful.

“Here’s looking at you, kid.”

Em rolled her eyes. “Why do old people always fall for that stupid movie?”

“Old people?” He took a bite and almost winced at the pain; ice cream was the fuel his headache had been waiting for.

Anne came into the room, carrying an empty laundry basket. “You’re late tonight.”

“It’s Thursday, Mom,” said Em, before he had to reply.

“When Dad stays late to plan next week’s shows.”

“I forgot,” said Anne.

Ned turned to her. “You look tired.”

“I’m all right. How was the show?”

Did she never listen to it? “Not bad.” He reached into the grocery bag, handed her the irises.

“These are lovely,” said Anne. “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion.”

“For God’s sake, Mom,” said Em, “where’s your sense of romance?”

Ned flossed his teeth, brushed them, took two ibuprofen and a Nembutal, and went to bed. His brain shut down, compartment by compartment, until finally there was nothing but the headache between him and sleep. Then it was gone, and he sank into a dream. A cottage dream: he was lying in the red boat but somehow looking out the window of the little bedroom; Francie reached around him, ran her fingers, those soft, beautifully shaped fingers, up the front of his thigh, higher. He was hard at once, groaned, rolled over, reached for her, almost said, “Francie.” But it was Anne; his hands had known right away, had saved him. The dream broke up in fading pieces, the image of the red boat last of all.

She fondled him. It was nice, familiar, homey. But Anne coming on to him? This was unusual. He tried to remember the last time-her birthday? his? — but couldn’t. As though reading his mind, she said, “I do have a sense of romance, you know.”