A Perfect Crime

17

“Where were you?” Anne said.

She was sitting at the kitchen table, foot resting on a chair, ice pack on her ankle. Ned set the milk down in front of her, a half gallon of nonfat and a pint of 2 percent for her coffee, the cartons still cold although they’d been sitting in the car for almost two hours; it was a cold night. “I had a flat,” he said. But two hours!

“A flat?”

“A flat tire.”

“But you know how to change a flat, Ned.”

“The spare was flat, too. And all the gas stations around were those self-service-only kind. I had to walk for miles.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Just one of those things.”

“I was starting to worry.”

“About what?”

“That you’d had an accident or something.”

“I’m fine.”

Anne took off the ice pack, set it on the table. As she leaned forward, an idea came to her; he saw it coming in her eyes. “Why didn’t you call AAA?” she asked.

The unexpected. “Are we still members?”

“I think so. Doesn’t the fee show up on the Visa?”

“Damn. I forgot all about it.”

“Or I could have come and got you.”

“Not with that ankle.” Wasn’t that the whole point of all this, that you couldn’t drive, for Christ’s sake?

“You’re sweet,” Anne said. She held out her hand. He helped her up. “It’s late,” she said. “Let’s go to bed.” She led him from the room. They were in the doorway, almost out, when she stopped and said, “The milk.” Ned turned back, picked up the cartons, took them to the fridge. Em had posted a new watercolor on the door: two big women, almost filling the frame, holding up a golden trophy. It gleamed. The quivering Keith Haring lines radiating from it showed that. At the bottom was written, Go for it, Mom and Francie!

Anne saw him looking at it. “Isn’t she great?”

“She’s got real talent, in my opinion.”

Anne looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve always loved her art. You know that.”

Anne laughed. “I meant Francie,” she explained.

“Oh.”

“What did you think of her?”

He shrugged, and thought at once of Judas. “She seemed nice enough,” he said.

“She’s more than that. She’s so… together. They live on Beacon Hill.”

How disappointing she could be. He nodded.

“I haven’t met her husband yet, but we will after the match. We’re going out to dinner, the four of us.”

That had slipped his mind. Unable to counteract it, he said nothing.

“That’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Oh, sure.”

They went upstairs. Anne used the bathroom first, went to bed, kissing her fingers and pressing them to his lips as they passed in the doorway, blushing only a little. Ned showered, flossed and brushed his teeth, stimulated his gums with the rubber-tipped brass stick, sprayed deodorant under his arms, took as much time as he could, then followed. The bedside light was off. He quietly got in at his side, lay down near the edge, his back to her, hoping she was asleep by now.

But she was not. He knew that, knew her, knew even before her hand lightly stroked the side of his ass, moved around to his stomach, down. At the same time, he felt her nipples pressing into his back, importunate.

Her nipples were hard, but he was not. It took an uncharacteristic amount of effort to make him so; finally she did it with her mouth. That was unusual, too. Then she slid on top of him, cocked her hips over him, settled down with him inside her.

“Your ankle,” he said.

“Hush.”

Anne started moving. Did uncharacteristic events come in threes, like plane crashes? This time they did. He began to go softer, softer and softer by stages-like a goddamned flat tire-with each grinding of her hips. Not a development that lent itself to secrecy, and Anne soon felt the change. She arched back, fondled his balls, and when that didn’t work reached farther, got a fingertip between his buttocks: an insinuating first. What had she been reading? But it did no good. Nothing did, nothing could, not with the image of Em’s triumphant trophy-raising painting so fresh in his mind. Anne and Francie, going for it. His penis slipped out of her and nestled down at its base. DNF, wasn’t that what they said in horse racing? Did not finish.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s all right.”

But it had never happened before. If there was a God, one of the old-fashioned, narrow-minded, judgmental sort, he would now of course be in the process of sabotaging his erectile capacity for life. But Ned didn’t believe in any god like that and, worse, was also psychologist enough to know that such sabotage could be easily accomplished by, and against, the self.

Anne rolled off him, lay on her back. He knew those sensitive eyes of hers were open, staring into the darkness. Had she been close to an orgasm? Yes, of course, and what modern husband could leave her there? Not him. Ned crept down in the bed, began running his tongue down her stomach, lightly and teasingly, he hoped.

“Don’t,” she said, and turned away from him, drawing her knees toward her chest.

Lightly, teasingly: all wrong. This wasn’t about seducing her, for Christ’s sake; the job was to make her come. He should have been direct: licked her like it was the last night on earth, the way he’d just been doing to Francie. He’d been false, pro forma, more like a bad date than a husband, and Anne didn’t miss things like that.

Time passed. Ned heard a siren far away, the furnace firing up in the basement, Anne’s breathing, growing steady and even. He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn’t be fooled that easily.

Another siren; the furnace switched off; and Anne spoke. Startling him: so sure he’d been that she was asleep.

“Did Kira Chang get hold of you?”

“What?”

“You know. Kira Chang. From syndication, or whatever it is. She called while you were taking Francie back to the tennis club. I gave her the cell phone number.”

“Thanks. She did.” Silence, the kind that had to be filled. “Some minor screwup-I’ll take care of it in the morning.”

The furnace switched back on, ran for a while, went silent. Anne was silent, too. The headache started behind Ned’s right eye, where it always did, but this time spread deeper than ever before. Deeper and sharper. What the fuck am I doing? he thought. What the fuck am I doing?

“Ned?” Anne said quietly, and then a little louder, “Ned?”

He was asleep.

Anne slipped out of bed. Having gone to bed naked in preparation for sex with Ned, she put on the long sweatshirt she usually slept in and went downstairs. She didn’t turn on any lights, didn’t need them, knew her own house. Through the kitchen, through the door that led to the garage, a single-car garage where Ned’s car, the later model, had precedence over hers. Anne switched on the garage light, and there was his car. She walked around it, saw just that: his car. All the tires seemed the same, none noticeably flat. What was she looking for? She didn’t know.

Anne opened the driver’s-side door, popped the trunk, where the spare was. She looked inside, saw his roof rack, kayak paddle, a bag of rock salt, a bouquet of flowers-irises, still fresh. The spare lay under the floor mat. She unsnapped the snaps, rolled it back. On top lay the tools-jack, crank, lug wrench-all still sealed in factory plastic. Beneath the tools she found the instructions, also sealed in plastic, and under them was the spare. It had never touched pavement: the manufacturer’s label was still stuck to the treads. That didn’t mean it wasn’t flat, or hadn’t been flat earlier that night. Anne moved to lift it off but couldn’t. It was bolted in place. The bolt had to be loosened first, and the wrench had never been used. So no one had ever removed the tire to try it out.

Anne ran her hand over the spare, prodded it, punched it softly with her fist. It seemed as rounded and firm as the others, but she really couldn’t tell. She stood over the trunk, gazing down inside, gazing at the roof rack, the kayak paddle, the rock salt, the irises, the tools, the spare. Anne had never been good at solving puzzles, had hated math, didn’t like crosswords, was always nervous when people started playing games like Botticelli. She knew what she was seeing had to add up to something, but she couldn’t make it happen. Then she noticed a road map wedged between the spare tire and the wheel well. She tugged it out.

A road map of New Hampshire. So? She unfolded it. Just a New Hampshire road map, territory very familiar to her. She ran her eye over some of the spots-Tuckerman’s Ravine, Franconia Notch, Wildcat, Waterville Valley, Lake Winnipesaukee. Some time passed before she spotted the little red X on a tiny island in the middle of the Merrimack River.

A red X. Meaning? Anne had no idea. But her next thought gave it some: Kira Chang. She closed the trunk, leaving the irises to die.