A Perfect Crime (12 page)

15

A
nightmare that began with cute domestic touches.

“Honey, I’m home,” called Ned in a parody of a sitcom-daddy voice. Not someone who sounded like him, but Ned: beyond doubt.

And a girlish voice responded, “Dad. Don’t be such a dork.”

Francie, motionless in Anne’s living room, her motionlessness that of the dreamer desperate to flee the nightmare but suddenly paralyzed in every muscle, heard the words, heard Ned’s voice, and Emilia’s, Em’s—Em, Em, Em, a warning often sounded, completely missed—heard their voices strangely distorted, as though all sounds but the highest treble and deepest bass had been eliminated. Visual distortion came, too. Colors—the walls, the rug, Anne’s face—veered toward yellow.

“In here,” Anne called back, her eyes brightening. She glanced at Francie with the expectant look of someone about to introduce people certain to like each other, about to bring two positive components of her life together. Francie felt blood rushing to her throat, her cheeks; she blushed like the kind of schoolgirl she’d never been.

Footsteps in the hall. All her senses, all her thoughts in turmoil, Francie glimpsed her face in the mirror over the fireplace. She looked normal, even composed. No trace of a blush, no discomfort, completely cool. How was that possible? She should have beheld an image of terror and shame. Then Ned walked into the room, his daughter, Emilia, Em—with his dark eyes, his erect posture—at his side. He saw Francie, stopped dead, went white: horrified. Horrified for all to see.

Anne saw. “It’s not as bad as it looks, Ned,” she said. “Just a sprain. Please don’t worry. And the great thing, the important thing, is we won the match.”

“The match?” Ned said.

“We’re in the finals! Ned, this is Francie, my new tennis partner. Francie, my husband, Ned.”

Their eyes met. Ned tried to hide what was going on within, but he couldn’t do that from Francie. She saw horror—his first thought must have been that Anne knew all, the second perhaps that Francie had had some kind of breakdown and come to confess—give way to confusion. Neither moved to close the space between them, to shake hands. Francie spoke first. “Hello,” she said, not coming near the right note, unable to remember how to say hello to someone for the first time.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, also hitting it wrong, and adding a faltering little smile that was off target as well.

Francie, aware of Anne’s glowing face, almost a caricature of enthusiasm, tried to think of something to say. She met people all the time, always knew what came after
hello
and
nice to meet you
. But this time nothing did. There was no light remark, no easy meaningless flow. The room and everyone in it grew yellower and yellower, and the urge to bolt from it grew as well, almost overwhelming her. At the same time an inane phrase—
nice to meet you, too
—readied itself in her mind. But
nice to meet you, too
was playacting, a lie. She didn’t want to say it, not unless she absolutely had to, didn’t want to smile and be a villain; she just wanted to get out. The silence went on and on. Surely Anne, so sensitive to atmosphere, would notice, would feel the awkwardness.

“Well, then,” Ned said. “I guess congratulations are in order. As long as you’re not really hurt. Sweetheart.”

“I’m fine,” Anne said, somehow missing not only the silence, the awkwardness, but also the fact that while Ned was speaking to her, while he was saying
sweetheart
, his eyes were still on Francie. “Never better, in fact. Winning a match like that—and it was all thanks to Francie—is just so . . .” Words failed her.“How would you put it, Francie?”

All eyes moved to her. Her tennis self took over, rescuing her.“We haven’t won anything yet,” she said automatically.

“You see, Ned?” said Anne with delight. “That’s my partner, right there. Just like Vince Lombardi.”

“Thanks,” Francie said, and Anne started laughing at the way she said it, but she was the only one.

“Who’s Vince Lombardi?” Em said.

The question was directed at Ned. He licked his lips and quoted: “ ‘Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.’”

“Puke,” said Em, glancing at Francie to see if she really thought like that. Francie caught the glance—this was a child she could like; at the same time, she was aware of the proud paternal smile that flickered briefly on Ned’s face, despite everything.
Em came first.
Again Francie glimpsed herself in the mirror and was stunned to find a smile on her face, too.

“Not that I’m suggesting she resembles Vince Lombardi in any other way, ” Anne was saying. “Quite the opposite, as you can plainly see. In fact, the men on the other courts are always—”

“I’ve really got to get going, Anne,” Francie interrupted, her voice much too loud, or so she thought.

“But Ned just arrived,” Anne replied. “You’ve hardly had a chance to meet. At least finish your drink first. And why don’t you have one, too, Ned? Even if it is that Romanian stuff.”

“I’m not really—”

“Come on, Ned. You wouldn’t want Francie to think you’re a wine snob.”

Ned’s mouth opened. Francie knew what was on his mind:
Francie knows better.
He said nothing, went into the kitchen. Em moved closer to her mother, gazed down at her ankle. Francie had already seen the Ned in Em; now she saw Anne in Em’s graceful stance. “How did you win playing on that?” Em said.

“Your mom’s tough.” The words popped out of Francie’s mouth unbidden. Now her subconscious was defending Anne, shoring her up. Not hard to understand why, like the guilty parent who buys her child an ice cream cone an hour after the spanking. Her next thought was conscious, and she kept it to herself:
she’d better be.

Em was looking at her in surprise.

“She knows that’s not true,” Anne said.

Ned returned with an empty glass. “What’s not true?” he said, an overflow of anxiety in every syllable. Surely Anne heard it, too.

But she did not. “That I’m tough,” she explained, handing the bottle to Francie. “Mind filling Ned’s glass?”

That forced them into proximity. Ned held out his glass. Their eyes met briefly; his filled with pain, then went blank. Francie poured. Their hands, so familiar with each other, almost touched and even at that moment seemed right together, like perfect lovers in miniature, at least to Francie. The two hands right, and everything else wrong.

“Thank you,” he said. And: “Cheers.” He wasn’t good at this, but she was worse.

“Cheers.” She made herself say it, too.

They drank. Francie tasted nothing, wasn’t even conscious of the wetness.

“It happened on the last point,” Anne was telling Em. “Two-six, seven-six, six-love.”

“So you didn’t choke?” Em said.

“Em!” said Ned.

“But Mom always chokes in the big matches. She says so herself.”

“Couldn’t this time,” Anne said. “Francie doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

“Oh, but I do.”

“Don’t listen to her, Ned. She’s very modest. Why, I didn’t even know about her job till just the other day, a job I’d die for.”

Another silence.

“Oh?” said Ned at last.

“Tell Ned about your job, Francie.”

“It’s nothing, really.”

“Nothing! Francie buys all the art for the Lothian Foundation.”

“Oh?” said Ned.

“Is that all?” said Anne. “ ‘Oh?’Men, every time—right, Francie?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Francie said. “In fact, there’s a committee, and—”

“Mom’s an artist,” said Em.

“I know,” Francie said. They all turned to the still life behind the desk lamp. Grapes. And here was the girl, in the room, as though she’d stepped out of
oh garden, my
garden
: a wild card.

“You should see the one she did of Dad—it’s much better. I’ll get it.”

“I—”

But it was too late. Em was flying up the stairs. They watched the long Day-Glo laces of her sneakers flap out of sight.

“She can be a bit wild sometimes,” Anne said.

“She seems like a great kid,” said Francie.

“She is,” said Ned, his voice suddenly thick. Anne shot him a glance. He cleared his throat, drank from his glass, perhaps a bigger drink than he’d planned, because a red trickle escaped from one corner of his mouth, ran diagonally down his chin. He didn’t notice, but Anne did. “Ned,” she said in a half whisper, and mimed a cleaning-up motion, another domestic detail—a wifely detail—that made Francie writhe inside.

“Excuse me,” Ned said, wiping his chin.

And then Em was back with the portrait.

“Really, Em,” said Anne, “I don’t think Francie—”

“It’s all right,” said Francie. She gazed at the painting. So did Ned and Anne, while Em gazed at them. Francie’s eye couldn’t help seeing things. Ned’s sensuality, for example, one of his most obvious characteristics, was completely missing. And perhaps because of the immobility of the pose, and the way his body almost filled the canvas, like Henry VIII in Holbein’s portrait, Anne’s Ned appeared more powerful than in life, even dangerous. She’d missed him, not entirely, but by a lot, yet somehow the resemblance was still astounding.

“Well?” said Em.

“I like it very much,” Francie said.

“Think it’s worth anything?”

“Em!” This time they said it together, husband and wife.

“Is it for sale?” Francie said.

“Of course not,” Ned said. Too quick, too emphatic—and Francie knew at once that he was afraid she might do something crazy, like make an offer, the way she’d called
IntimatelyYours
. Anne noticed: Francie caught her giving Ned a look; he caught it, too. “I wouldn’t want to part with it, is all,” Ned said. “But it’s not my call.”

Anne smiled at him. He smiled back, another faltering smile, even more false than the first, but Anne appeared to miss that.

“You like it ’cause it makes you look cool, right, Dad?” said Em.

“Right. Cool, that’s me.” He tousled her hair. She made a face. Anne laughed.

Francie set her glass down on an end table, not softly.

“Yikes, ” said Anne. “We’re keeping you. ”

“Not at all,” said Francie. Em was staring at her.

“Mind giving Francie a lift, Ned?”

“A lift?”

“To the tennis club—her car’s there.”

“Not necessary,” Francie said. “A cab will be fine.”

“I wouldn’t hear of it,” Anne said.

“No, really,” Francie said, and reached for the phone. Anne covered the receiver with her hand. Their fingers touched.

“You know where it is, Ned?” Anne said. He nodded. “And we’re out of milk, if you get a chance.”

“Thanks for the drink,” Francie said, moving toward the door.

“Thank you,” said Anne. “For driving me home, for being so kind, for everything.” She started to get up.

“Don’t,” Francie said.

But Anne did, hardly wincing at all. “See? It feels better already.” She leaned forward, kissed Francie on the cheek. “We’re going to win this thing.”

Em gave her mother another surprised look. Ned held the door. Francie walked out: a cold night, cold everywhere, except the spot that Anne’s lips had touched. That burned.

“And to celebrate we’ll get together for dinner,” Anne called after her. “The four of us.”

They drove in silence, down the block, around the corner, both staring straight ahead.

“The four of us?” Ned said, speaking quietly, as though there were still some risk of being overheard.

“You and her,” said Francie. “Me and Roger.”

“God.”

Francie sat up straight, hands folded in her lap. What was there to say? She felt Ned’s eyes on her.

“It’s so incredible,” he said. “It almost makes you believe there’s some God. Or anti-God.”

Francie said nothing.

They rounded another corner. Farther now from home, Ned’s voice rose to conversational level. “I thought I was going to have a heart attack,” he said.

“It was horrible.” Francie knew that the full horror of it wouldn’t be apparent for a long time: a series of little revelatory bombshells awaited her.

Ned licked his lips. “I know. But . . .”

“But what?”

“But looking at it rationally, what does it change, really?”

She gazed at him. “I beg your pardon?”

He shrugged. “This just adds the visual component to what you already knew. I have a wife. That wasn’t a secret. Now you’ve seen her. It could be worse.”

“How?”

“Suppose she’d been your sister, for example.”

Her stomach turned.

“Things like that happen, Francie.”

“Not to me.”

Ned’s hand left the wheel, perhaps on its way to touching her, paused, and went back. “We fell in love,” he said. “That’s a fact, and nothing changes it.”

“You’re wrong.”

Ned pulled into the parking lot at the tennis club. Lights glowed in the windows of nearby houses, sparks flew from a chimney and vanished in the night sky. He faced her. “Are you saying you don’t love me anymore?”

Francie didn’t speak.

“Because if that’s the case, I want to hear it.”

She remained silent. She thought she saw tears in his eyes, but then a cloud covered the moon and they were gone. “I love you,” he said. “More than ever.”

“What do you mean, more than ever?”

“The way you were tonight. With Em. With Anne, even. You bring out the best in her.”

“Stop it.”

“And in me. It’s true. You were the only adult in the room. I adore you. I’ll do anything you want, leave Anne, anything.”

“Don’t you see that’s impossible now?”

“Why? Why is it impossible?”

There were two reasons. First, what would be left of him, after? Second, she couldn’t allow it, not now, not knowing Anne—and the girl. Francie gave Ned the second reason.

She watched him absorb it, saw his pain, also saw how young he looked, and more beautiful than ever. Yes, there was no question: he was beautiful. Beauty in pain was something to which she reacted strongly, especially when it was visible to the eye. “Then that leaves us right where we are, doesn’t it?” he said. “Why can’t we just go on like this?”

Francie laid her hand on his knee. “You’re a sweet man, ” she said. “But . . .” For a moment, there was a lump in her throat and she couldn’t get the sentence out. But only for a moment. “. . . where we are is intolerable now, ” Francie said.