High Crimes

“Look, we know he can get pretty angry. He’s got a temper. We’ve all seen it. You remember when we were driving down to the Cape and this car cut in front of us, cut us off, and Tom just about lost it?”

“He didn’t lose it.”

“Oh, come on, his face got red, he cursed the guy out, took off after him. It was terrifying! You were yelling at him to calm down, and finally he did, but... Remember?”

“Yeah,” Claire said wearily. “So what? He’s got a temper. Does that make him a murderer? Okay, he lied to me about his past — but does that make him a murderer either?”

“Jesus, Claire, how much do you really know about him? I mean, you’ve never met his family, right?”

“Not true. I met his father, Nelson, at the wedding and once after that, when we visited him at his condo on Jupiter Island, Florida. But, look, I think I met Jay’s parents only once.”

“And you’ve hardly met any friends of his.”

“Friends? Guys in their forties rarely have more than a couple of friends, haven’t you ever noticed that? Men aren’t like women. They get married and get buried in their jobs and sort of fall off the face of the earth. Every guy considers every other guy a potential rival. Men his age have colleagues, they have contacts. Maybe they have guys they play sports with or watch basketball or football with. I mean, Tom has plenty of casual friends — everyone likes him. But no old friends, as far as I can tell. Then again, Jay didn’t have any old friends either.”

“Claire, you never met any boyhood friends of his, any college friends. Or anyone who knew him before he moved to Boston. Am I wrong?”

Claire sighed. She traced her index finger down the sweat on the outside of her glass tumbler. “Once in a while he’d get phone calls from an old college friend. Once I remember him getting a phone call from a friend of his in California. No, he didn’t seem to be in touch with any old friends, not on any regular basis. But, Jackie, you don’t seem to be listening to me. There was nothing out of the ordinary about that. Why in the world would I assume he was lying to me?”

“So where is he, do you think? Where do you think he’s gone?”

Claire shook her head. “I have no idea.”

A long silence passed between them.

“Do you remember what Dad looked like?” Claire asked suddenly. “I don’t.”

“Yeah, well, I do. I wish I could forget. He was an asshole.”

“Remember how he smelled — his aftershave?”

“I remember he reeked like a French whore.”

“I loved the way he smelled. Old Spice. Whenever I smell it, it takes me right back.”

“Right back to your happy childhood and our loving dad,” Jackie muttered. “I hope Tom doesn’t wear Old Spice.”

“Dad was a troubled guy.”

“He was a selfish loser. You know what smell I associate with him?” Jackie said. “Seriously. The smell of gasoline when a car’s starting up. You know, partially combusted gas? I remember standing outside the house on the gravel driveway saying goodbye to him, watching him drive off, smelling that smell. I loved that smell. I mean, it’s a bittersweet smell to me, ’cause I never knew if he’d be coming back. I never knew if he was going away for good.”

Claire nodded. They sat in silence again. Jackie snubbed out another cigarette, finished her scotch. “Can you hand me that bottle?” She poured out the rest of the Famous Grouse.

“He’s my husband, and I love him,” Claire said very quietly. “He’s a great father and a great husband and I love him.”

“Hey, I kinda like the lug myself. Is this the end of the scotch?”

8

From the street, the Dunkin’ Donuts in Central Square looked like some high-priced gourmet shop in Concord, the kind that sells forty types of balsamic vinegar and no iceberg lettuce. Its hunter-green façade, with a grid of tiny window panes, had recently been renovated in one of the spasms of gentrification that overcame Central Square every few years. But it would recede, like all the others, leaving the fundamental seediness of the place untouched. Unlovely Central Square, land of a thousand Indian restaurants, home of ninety-nine-cent stores and store-front lawyers and discount jewelry exchanges, would never lose its genuine decrepit proletarian soul.