Peter Abrahams - A Perfect Crime

“Go on,” Nora said. “Spill it.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

Nora nodded. “Okay, pal.” She swung away and walked off toward her car. Francie wanted to call out to her, Nora, Nora, and just let whatever happened after that happen. But she didn’t. She hadn’t done any damage yet, not to Anne or Em, and that was the way it had to be.

Francie went home. The answering machine was beeping in the living room. She switched on lights, listened to the message. “This is Roger,” said Roger. He hated speaking to machines-she heard it in his voice. “Things are… promising. Vis-a-vis Bob Fielding. I’ll be here for another day or two. No need to pick me up.” Long pause. “And good luck. I’m referring to the tournament. If you’re still alive.” Another pause. “In it, that is. Good-bye.”

Francie saw the future: Roger in some condo in Fort Lauderdale, she staying here. Just a few hours ago that would have seemed if not ideal then much better than what she had. But now there would be no Ned to complete the imperfect picture. Even if he did leave Anne, no Ned. She told herself that a few times, then went upstairs, stripped off her warm-ups and her tennis clothes, lowered herself into a hot bath. No Ned. But what if he did leave Anne, and then some time went by-how long? six months? a year? more? — and after that he called her? Was that okay? No. Why not? She was trying to answer that question when the phone rang. Francie picked it up, expecting Roger.

“How’s Saturday night?” Not Roger, but Anne.

“Saturday night?”

“After the match. For our little foursome. I thought we could try Huitres-am I saying it right? Ned loves seafood.”

“Are you sure you’re going to be able to play?”

“I’m on my feet right now! No pain. Maybe it’s all mental, like they say. Your confidence is rubbing off on me. That’s what Ned thinks.”

“He said that?” Francie said, wishing she could have phrased it as “Does he?” or just kept her mouth shut.

“No, but it’s what he thinks. I can tell. So how about it?”

Never. “Roger’s out of town right now. I’ll have to get back to you.”

“Okay. But I’ll go ahead and make the reservations. I hear it’s a pretty hot place.”

It had been hot, as Francie recalled, the year before; then cursed herself for the thought. “Sounds nice,” she said. “Take care of that ankle.”

“I told you. No pain. We could go out there and whip ’em right now, you and me.”

Call waiting sounded. “I’ve got another call,” Francie said.

“Then bye. And thanks again.”

Francie pressed the button. “Think if this were France,” said Ned. “Or Scandinavia.”

Her mouth went dry. “Where are you?” she said, thinking Anne might walk in on him any second.

“Back in the car,” Ned said. “I forgot the goddamn milk. Serendipitous because it gives me a chance to call you.”

But he’d never called her at home before. “What are you doing, Ned?”

“What I should have been doing from the start. As I would have done, I hope, in France or Scandinavia.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve been there. You know, better than I, how the Europeans handle this kind of… situation. There’s no either/or. We could be open, semiopen at least, like Mitterrand, and no one would think twice. And above all, no guilt. That’s the part I’m cutting out-the horrible guilt, the headaches. Is love something to feel guilty about, Francie? They understand these things in Europe.”

“Would Anne?”

“Why not, under those circumstances?”

“Here in America, Ned. Would Anne?”

Silence.

“Would Em?”

Silence.

Would Roger? she asked herself, the most worldly of the three, certainly the one with the most experience of Europe. Possibly, she told herself. But they weren’t Europeans; they lived not in a land of complaisance but of either/or. “Then that answers that,” Francie said, “doesn’t it?”

“You’re letting guilt run your life,” Ned said. “And there’s nothing to feel guilty about-you’ve got to see that.”

“I don’t. There is-and there could be a lot more. That’s what we’ve got to prevent.”

“Then just tell me you don’t love me.”

She couldn’t.

“And even if you did”-his voice broke-“even if you did say it, even if you meant it, I wouldn’t give up. I’d make you love me again.”

Francie covered the mouthpiece with her hand. She didn’t want him to hear her crying.

“Francie? Are you still there? Francie?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you’d hung up. Don’t hang up.”

“I’m not.”

“I should have called you at home long before this. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to-I memorized your number, even though I never used it. I’ve been so fucking careful, I almost forgot what this is all about.”

Francie covered the mouthpiece again.

“Francie? Are you still there?”

She mastered herself. “I’ve got to go.”

“Why? Is he there?”

“No.”

Pause. “Where is he?”

“Out of town.”

“Then why do you have to go?”

“I just do. And Ned?”

“What is it, angel?”

His first term of endearment. “Don’t call me that. And don’t call here anymore. Not here, not at the office, nowhere.”

“You don’t mean that, Francie. You couldn’t. I’m not some stranger. I know you.”

She hung up. It rang again, almost immediately. Had he not only memorized her number but entered it in his speed dialer? How did that reconcile with his spycraft? Suddenly she saw him in a new light, knew what must have been happening inside his head for months, months of struggling against his own spycraft, fighting the urge to call, the urge to see her, the urge to live with her. Francie saw him in a new light, but she let it ring.

After it stopped, she got out of the bath, dried herself. There she was in the mirror again: nothing normal or composed about her now.

She put on her nightie, went down to the kitchen, brewed tea. Found herself brewing tea, more accurately, although she seldom drank it, didn’t like it. Brewing tea and thinking of Mackie, a Scottish baby-sitter hired by her parents when she’d been small. Mackie drank tea from morning to night, following a strict ritual, a ritual Francie followed now. Mackie: her red arthritic fingers wrapped around a china cup, her pale eyes squinting through the steam, her opinions. Mackie had many opinions-about Catholics: hypocrites; dogs: diseased; men: nasty-opinions that had given Francie nightmares and gotten Mackie fired. But the warm cup felt good now in Francie’s hand, and so did the hot tea inside her. Men are nasty, dear; don’t you ever be trusting them. But Mackie, what about Daddy? Now that’s a sharp question, isn’t it, dear? Some, not I, don’t you know, but some, might even say the kind of question a Jewish lawyer would be asking, not a sweet-tempered lass such as yourself.

There was a knock at the front door, perhaps one in a series only half heard. Roger? Home on some earlier flight, with sudden news, good or bad? Francie went to the door, put her eye to the peephole. Not Roger, but Ned. Ned with flowers in his hand, irises, fucking irises of course. She leaned her head against the door. He knocked again.

Francie opened up.

He smiled. “I like your nightie,” he said. “It’s so chaste.”

Francie, forcing herself not to glance furtively past him at the neighbors’windows like some cartoonish sloven that Grosz might have painted, said, “What do you want, Ned?”

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“Go deliver the milk.” Francie closed the door in his face.

But she didn’t go away, just stood there. He knocked again. Francie didn’t move. He spoke, quietly, but she heard. “That wasn’t nice, about the milk,” he said.