A Very Simple Crime (3 page)

After sex I lie awake in the darkness. A victim. I think of Albert. Would things be different if he were here for Rachel to love? As it is, all of Rachel’s energies are focused on me. I am Rachel’s world. Her work in progress. I wonder if Albert knows the dark. Where is his basement? Where is his dark place? But then I see that he was born to the darkness. He has never lived with the others in the top of the house. The basement, the dark, is all that he knows. He is satisfied, I think.

In a moment of sudden clarity, I call Monty from my office. When I tell him my plan and what I need from him, he denies me.

“That’s fine,” I say, not willing to give up this last bit of fortitude I’ve found. “I’ll just hire someone else.”

Monty sighs over the phone. “First of all, I’m a criminal defense lawyer. I don’t do divorces. Secondly, all I’m saying is give it time. I don’t think you’re thinking clearly.”

Oh, but I am, I am. “You don’t understand. She’s . . . She . . . When we have sex, it’s as if she . . . If she doesn’t get it, she gets suspicious.”

“Lots of women get a little crazy when they don’t get sex.”

“No, that’s not what—”

“I know, I know. Listen, all I want to know is, is she forty million crazy? That’s what her old man’s worth. I checked. Are you willing to give up that kind of money? Seriously.”

“I don’t care about the money.”

“You don’t? Not the money, not the house, not the car, not the job? Oh, you thought, after you label his daughter as psychotic in divorce court, her father would say, ‘No, Adam, your job is safe; as a matter of fact, we’re promoting you. Keep the car, too. In fact, keep the house; we’ll put the crazy bitch in a loony bin. I’ll adopt you. You’ll be my heir.’”

But I didn’t care, not then, I really didn’t. “Are you going to file the divorce papers for me, or do I go to someone else?”

In my mind’s eye, I could picture Monty on the other end of the line, grinning one of his famous smiles, all teeth and blindingly white. “Okay, okay. Do this. Wait three months. Three months. Can you do that? If you still feel the same way, I know a guy in family law. One of the best.”

I acquiesced, certain that I would feel even more strongly about it in a few months.

But I didn’t. The months came and went, and I didn’t feel the same sense of urgency. My moment of clarity had passed.

One night, I work late. I am tracking down the lost funds of James Tritt, an important client. I explore curvy electronic paths in my search for Mr. Tritt’s lost money. This is my forte. No human contact is involved, just a faintly glowing computer terminal to light my solitary investigations. I have called Rachel to tell her that I miss her, that I hope to be home soon, but the truth is that I prefer the company of this quietly humming machine to that of my wife. My machine responds to me in ways that I can foresee and easily understand.

My secretary, Grace, has diligently stayed late with me. I imagine, foolishly, that she merely wants to appear ambitious. She drops a stack of folders on my desk.

“How’s it coming?”

I blink at her, having momentarily forgotten how to communicate on a purely human level.

“Well, believe it or not, I think I’m finally on to something.”

Grace moves around the desk. She stands too close to me, leans over my shoulder to see the computer screen.

“What is it?”

“Well, it seems that Mr. James Tritt isn’t always James Tritt.”

“I don’t get it.”

I don’t really want to let her into my electronic world, but at the same time I welcome the opportunity to show off my skills. I press a few keys, and confidential bank documents appear on the screen.

“Sometimes he’s Jimmy. Tritt named his son after himself, and I think that James Junior has been using his father’s identity.”

“How can you know that?”

“If I have James Junior’s social security number, this program lets me look into his personal accounts at any institution. The deposits and investments correspond to the amounts missing from the father’s accounts.”

Grace squeezes my shoulder. The gesture is just that—a gesture, a simple nonverbal communication.
You did it. Congratulations.
All the same, I feel awkward. Grace has been my secretary for only a year, and this is the first time that I can recall physical contact between us. The squeeze lingers a moment longer than it should. Then her other hand joins the first. She begins to lightly massage my shoulders. I try to act as though I am grateful, as if I am at ease with this casual contact, while in fact I am not comfortable with it at all. I put my hand over hers. Pat it lightly and pull away.

“Listen, Grace, I’m almost finished here. You should go home.”

“You sure? I can stay.”

“No, really, you should go.”

“You know, I really don’t mind staying.”

“No.”

Later, I call Rachel again. She answers on the seventh ring. Immediately I recognize the alcohol in her voice. I hear the television in the background. She tries to disguise her drunkenness but overcompensates, pronouncing each word with excruciating accuracy. She sounds like a drunk trying not to sound drunk. I know that soon she will dip into her pharmaceutical supply and augment her drunkenness with a carefully chosen pill. Depending on the pill chosen, I know that when I arrive home later I will be greeted by either a catatonic stupor or the ravings of a maniac whose lunacy is directed toward me.

“I’m just wrapping up. Thirty minutes. No more.”

I try to sound casual, pretend that I don’t know she is drunk. I say a silent prayer for catatonia.

“I love you, too,” I say. It is my catechism to ward off evil. The office door opens. Grace stands in the doorway holding a carton of take-out food. I hang up the phone.

“I thought you were going home.”

“I figured you hadn’t eaten all day. I got Chinese.”

After we’ve eaten, I walk Grace to her car in the underground parking lot. This late at night, the lot is mostly empty. Our footsteps sound lonely. Grace hooks her arm through mine.

“I really appreciate your walking me.”

“I really appreciate the dinner.”

She tightens her grasp on my arm. “You should come over to my place. Have a drink. Unwind a little.”

I don’t respond. I try to imagine what it would be like to enjoy the company of a sane woman. I wonder how my life might be different had I chosen another wife. Did I really ever have a choice? Does Grace carry some silent badge of incipient insanity, some telltale sign that she is unstable? Is that why I find myself attracted to her? Or is she what she appears to be—an intelligent, attractive woman? Is this my opportunity for a second chance? I imagine myself making love to this woman, not submitting to her, but enjoying her body as she enjoys mine. I imagine myself gaining strength and insight from her. I imagine this small infidelity changing me in some intrinsic way. I imagine myself leaving Rachel.

“Oh, come on! It would be fun. Live a little.”

I feel the change welling up inside me. I feel mischievous, giddy, and alive. “Well, maybe just for—”

A horrible moan oozes from Grace’s slack mouth. Her grasp on my arm tightens painfully. Her car is in front of us. The windshield is smashed. The glass is cracked and opaque like a cataract.

“Oh, my God! My car! Jesus Christ. Who ...”

All four of the tires have been mercilessly slashed. Chunks and ribbons of black rubber litter the area. A kitchen knife protrudes from one of the tires. I extricate myself from Grace’s grip. I have to squat down and leverage myself against the wheel to pull the knife out. I put it in my coat pocket.

“I can’t fucking believe this! I can’t even fucking imagi—”

I back away from the car. Away from Grace.

“What are you doing?”

I back away. I look at the ground, because I can’t look at her. My feet carry me away from her. “I’m sorry. I have to.”

“Have to? Have to what? Where the fuck are you going? You can’t leave me here!”

“I’m sorry,” I say. There is nothing else for me to say.

“You can’t leave me here!”

But I can, and I do.

When I get home, all the lights are off. I walk through the dark house and into the kitchen. I take the knife from my pocket and return it to the vacant spot in the cutlery block.

In the bedroom, I submit to Rachel. The sex act is animalistic. She is vicious. She scratches me until I bleed. Scratches herself. She cries out in her climax. Sweaty and blood-smeared, she dismounts me.

Later, we lie facing away from each other. Her breathing is deep and regular. I close my eyes.

“You know that if you ever cheated on me, I’d kill the slut. You know that, don’t you? Then I’d kill you.”

I know. I know. I know. I know.

“I know.”

After reaching my apogee as a professional, after sentencing my son to the subcellar of psychotropic medications, after surrendering myself to the prison of marriage, I seek out the services of a psychiatrist. I do this by looking in the Yellow Pages of our local telephone directory. This strikes me as pedestrian, but I know of no other way to go about it. I, of course, do not tell Rachel.

My psychiatrist is Dr. Salinger, a gray-haired man with a short-cropped beard. He looks, I think, the way a psychiatrist should look. He strikes me as insightful, intelligent. I tell him that I believe my wife suffers from a personality disorder. I tell him that she is in some way damaged. That she carries a malignant gene. That she passed this rogue gene on to our son. I tell him that I wonder sometimes if they both—my wife and son—might not be better off dead. Rachel out of her misery, free of her tormenting mood swings, and Albert saved from the constant darkness.

Dr. Salinger seems not at all surprised by these unwelcome thoughts that fill my head. Thoughts that, I tell him, reverberate in my skull, picking up speed until they are bouncing back and forth like atoms reaching a critical mass.

“Yes,” he says. “I see. I see.” I tell him I cannot see. I have been struck blind.

Rachel’s father, Benjamin Lawson, my employer, dies suddenly and unexpectedly of a stroke a year later. His entire estate is left to Rachel. We are rich. The death strikes yet another blow to Rachel’s fragile world. She deteriorates rapidly. She refuses to leave the house. Any suggestion of venturing outside is met with hostility. Her doctor, who must come to the house to see his patient, prescribes yet another antidepressant, but if the drug has an effect, I cannot see it. Her drinking escalates. Rather than blur her scrutiny of me, the alcohol intensifies it. I am her world.

Years pass and nothing changes. Occasionally I make gestures of fortitude, to gauge if her vehemence has lessened or if my weakness has improved. One day, I find her in Albert’s room. The room is still decorated with children’s furniture, finger paintings Scotch-taped to the wall. Rachel sits beside the bed in a rocking chair. An overflowing ashtray rests on the bedspread that is bright with cartoon figures. A cigarette smolders between her fingers, a glass of raw scotch nestled between her legs. The rocking of the chair threatens to spill the scotch. She pulls at her hair. Twirls long strands of it. I see small bald spots and crusty scabs in her scalp.

I do not like it when she brings her sickness into Albert’s room, mourning for a son who is not dead but may as well be. I open with a mild accusation. “This place smells like a barroom.”

“That’s because I’m drinking and smoking.”

“You’re not supposed to drink with Prozac.”

Rachel thrusts her hand into her pocket. Pulls out a prescription bottle. She dumps the pale green pills into her drink. She waves the glass at me in a bitter toast and swills the mixture down. She spills most of it. She picks soggy pills off her blouse and inserts them in her mouth. “Fuck it.”

“Look what you’ve become.”

“‘Look what you’ve become.’ I haven’t become. This is what has been done to me. I miss Albert. I want to see him.”

“Why don’t you go see him, then?”

“Fuck you. I can’t, you know I can’t.”

“How long has it been since you’ve left this house?”

“I repeat: Fuck you. Bring my boy to me.”

“Not with you like this.”

Somehow, I’ve struck a chord. Rachel lowers her head in acquiescence. She sobs. “Go see him. Tell him his mother loves him. Please, Adam, go see him for me.”

I go to see Albert. Alone. There is some secret, I think, that he is withholding from me. I do not know what it is, only that it is vital.

His room is, appropriately, on the bottom level of the institution. I do not alert the staff to my presence, but go straight to his room. Outside his door, I hesitate. What am I doing here? What are these thoughts of secrets, of solutions? What can this visit bring except pain for me and confusion for Albert? On the door is pasted a piece of poster board with Albert’s name finger-painted on it in a deep mauve color. Rachel taught him how to do that, I remember.

From inside the room, I can hear Albert’s deep-throated moans. I push the door ever so lightly, and it swings silently inward. Albert lies on his bed, a prone giant. He is naked with the bedcovers pulled down just below his waist. An attendant—not a nurse, but a nurse’s helper—stands over his prone body. She is an attractive girl, the attendant. Straight black hair falls over her eyes. I look down and see that her hand moves rhythmically back and forth over Albert’s groin. She holds Albert’s sex organ in her small, pale hand. It is engorged with blood and angrily red. Just as I allow myself to comprehend what it is she is doing to him, a loud gasp escapes Albert’s throat, and then the girl is wiping the viscous fluid from her hand and from Albert’s belly with a clean white towel. She looks up at me and smiles. There is no sense of shame in her expression. No sense of having been caught doing something wrong.