Peter Abrahams - A Perfect Crime

They came across the lot, Anne in the middle, Roger and Ned on either side, their faces orange under the light. She handed Roger his keys. “Find that hairbrush?” he said.

“No.”

“I think I’ve got one,” Anne said, waiting for Ned to unlock his car.

“It’s open,” Ned said, getting in.

“You’re a trusting soul,” said Roger, unlocking his car.

Anne got in, opened the glove box. Everything exploded back out again, into her lap. “Yikes,” she said, starting to sort through it. “I thought I had a hair-” Francie saw Anne’s hand closing on something, saw her raise it up into the light for a better look: the pressure gauge. She gave Francie a quick smile, private and conspiratorial, through the window.

“I hope this doesn’t offend anyone,” said Ned, dispensing with his elegant little fork and slurping the oyster right off the shell. “The only way to eat them,” he said, patting his mouth with a napkin. He’d ordered a dozen, the others-Francie, Anne, Roger-half a dozen each.

“Not at all,” said Roger. “Boldness is all when it comes to certain of the appetites.”

“I’m sorry?” said Ned, pausing, the next oyster halfway to his mouth.

“You know that old saw,” Roger said, tasting the Montrachet he’d ordered and nodding to the waiter. “ ‘He was a bold man that first eat an oyster.’ ”

Francie could see from the look on his face that Ned didn’t know. “Swift, isn’t it?” she said. “And since the bold man probably wasn’t bold enough to venture into the kitchen, his wife must have tried it first.”

Laughter. Roger raised his glass to her. Ned’s eyes lingered on her face; didn’t he realize those eyes were too obviously appreciative, even loving, if you knew them? Next his foot would be touching hers under the table; she drew her feet under the chair and said, “The bread, please.” Ned passed it to her, his hand moving a little quicker than Roger’s.

The waiter filled their glasses. Anne drank half of hers in one gulp. “Swift,” she said. “Do you know the Marriage Service from His Chamber Window?”

No one did.

She drank some more. “‘ Under this window in stormy weather / I marry this man and woman together; / Let none but Him who rules the thunder / Put this man and woman asunder. ’”

Silence.

“How times change,” Roger said.

Anne looked across the table at him. “Beautiful, isn’t it? I wanted it read at our wedding.”

Roger refilled her glass.

“This is wonderful wine, Roger,” Anne said. She glanced at Ned. “I’ll know something to order from now on.”

“If we win the lottery,” Ned said. Roger’s eyes swept over him; Francie thought Ned’s dark face darkened some more.

Roger turned to Anne. “But?” he said.

She put down her glass. “But?”

Roger smiled. “But Swift didn’t make the grade?”

Anne glanced again at Ned.

“It wasn’t raining on our wedding day, for one thing,” Ned said. “And we were indoors.”

Roger topped off Ned’s glass. “Where was this?”

“Our wedding? In Cleveland.”

“Ah,” said Roger.

“We’re both from Cleveland,” Anne said.

“I’ve never actually been there,” Roger said, sipping his wine. “Have you, Francie?”

“Yes,” she said, stupidly adding, “it’s very nice.”

“I’m sure it is,” Roger said. “And what brought the two of you here?”

“Ned did postdoc work at B.U. We liked it so much, we stayed.”

“Your field, Ned, if it’s not rude to ask?”

“Psychology.”

“You teach at B.U.?”

“I have. Now I’m in private practice.”

“Don’t be so modest, Ned,” Anne said. “He’s also on the radio five days a week.”

“Really?” said Roger. “In what capacity?”

“Ned has his own show.”

“Psychology instruction?”

“More like advice,” Anne said. “It’s called Intimately Yours. Boston Magazine ’s doing a piece next month.”

“Dear Abby of the air?” said Roger.

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Ned said.

“My apologies.”

“None necessary. I just try to help the callers think things through on their own.”

“From what perspective?”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

Roger shrugged. “The usual suspects. Freud? Jung? Adler? Frankl?”

“All and none. I take what I need from what’s out there. I’ve found that sticking to dogma usually makes things worse.”

Roger looked thoughtful. “Taking what you need,” he said. “Sounds interesting. I’ll be sure to listen in.”

“WBRU,” said Anne. “Ninety-two point nine.”

The waiter returned and started clearing the first course. “And what do you do, Roger?” Ned asked.

“Nothing as sexy as that,” he said. “I raise private investment capital. Very drab.”

“What’s the name of your company?”

“That,” said Roger, “I’m not at liberty to say at this moment.” Then he winked at Ned; Francie had never seen him wink before, would almost have thought him incapable of it.

“Finished, sir?” the waiter asked Ned, seeing he’d left three oysters uneaten.

“Yes.”

“Can’t let those go to waste,” said Roger, lifting one off Ned’s plate. “Mind if I emulate you?” he asked, and ate it off the shell; his lips glistened. “You’re so right,” he said. “There’s no other way.”

“Excuse me,” Francie said, and went to the bathroom.

Her face in the mirror: still looking normal. How was it possible, with Roger at his very worst? With what she was doing to Anne? And Ned-why was he asking questions he knew the answers to? Yet there was her face. Normal. Why wasn’t it an ultrasound of what was happening inside, like Anne’s? She splashed cold water on it anyway.

Anne came in, talked to her in the mirror. “Isn’t this fun?” she said. “You never told me Roger was so smart.”

Anne went into the single cubicle, and then came the tinkling sound of her urine flowing into the bowl. “And so distinguished-looking,” she continued unself-consciously, as though they were sisters. “Can I ask you something personal?”

“Sure,” Francie said, and in the mirror her expression changed. It was the eyes: they grew alert, like an animal’s, even those of a dangerous one.

“Why didn’t you and Roger have children?”

Finally, something that made her face change. It crumpled.

“Francie? Have I said something wrong?”

“No.” Face still crumpled, but voice even. “We wanted them but it was a physical impossibility.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. It happens all the time. We got over it.”

Francie heard her tear off a strip of toilet paper. “Em was so impressed with you.”

“It was mutual,” Francie said. Her face began to smooth itself out.

“Really? You liked her?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

Anne came out of the cubicle. “What nice soaps,” she said, and washed her hands. Their gazes met in the mirror. “Do you have any sisters, Francie?”

“No.”

“Neither do I. I always wanted one.”

Francie handed her one of the plush little towels folded on the granite sink top.

“Are you mad at me?” Anne said.

“Why would I be mad at you?”

“The way I played. Will you ever forgive me?”

“I don’t think like that.”

“Oh, I know you don’t, Francie. You’re like a lion-that’s how I think of you — strong, proud, loyal.”

“Stop it.”

“If only you’d told me about that”-Anne lowered her voice-“pressure gauge”-and raised it-“earlier, we would have won that goddamn match.”

“Next year,” Francie said, although she knew she couldn’t bear a whole year of dinners like this, ski weekends, double-dating, conspiracy.