THE CRIME

Frank B stared at the woman. The woman wearing only a sports bra and lying motionless. A crime had been committed and he knew the offender.

His brain raced with how he got here and what he’d done. He summoned all the events, not just today's events, but all the events that have led up to this time and place.

It started a month ago. He recalled that day, as if it was yesterday. His truck, the truck he needed. No, that wasn’t right, it was a necessity, a necessity for his business. It was fundamental to his business but not a need. He had other needs.

On the day in question his truck died. An hour later, it was towed to the closest Chevy dealership. As it was rolled off the flatbed various fluids were leaking from underneath. The loss of fluids wasn’t catastrophic, but the reason for the leak was. After 500,123 miles the diesel engine had called it quits and while perusing the lot that held used trucks, he spied her.

Margaret, “but my friends call me Peggy.”

With a welcoming handshake she invited him inside. A plaque on the wall of her office recognized her as the ‘Sales Associate of the Year.’

In less than five minutes he understood why. She was a mix of warmth, sincerity, safety, and, and what…? He remembered thinking I bet she could sell milk to a cow, but it wasn’t a mean thought. By the end of that day, he was driving a 2015 King cab, with only 44,000 miles on it. She had helped him through the entire process, everything including the financing. He kept waiting for her to fleece him. He was vulnerable and she knew it, but never took advantage of the situation. She got him a decent truck, and decent loan. She even helped him move all his tools from one vehicle to the other. When all was said and done, he was grateful.

“Thank you,” he said with genuine sincerity and added, “I’d like to buy you a drink.”

Where the hell had that come from, he found himself asking. He had never before asked a woman out.

“I’d like that,” she said. He was still admonishing himself when her response registered. And when it did his world brightened even more. Those three little words had warmed his heart immeasurably. It had been years since his wife had said those words to him, years.

So, they met. It was a Thursday night. And one Thursday, led to a second Thursday, and that led to a third Thursday. Tonight, was the fourth and he found himself here. Right next to her; the scene of the crime. As he stared at Margaret’s inert form, Locard’s Principle trespassed into his thoughts.

Dr. Edmond Locard, a real-life Sherlock Holmes, had written,

“Every contact leaves a trace…Wherever he steps, whatever he touches, whatever he leaves, even unconsciously, will serve as a silent witness against him. Not only his fingerprints or his footprints, but his hair, the fibres from his clothes, the glass he breaks, the tool mark he leaves, the paint he scratches, the blood or semen he deposits or collects. All of these and more, bear mute witness against him. This is evidence that does not forget.”

The evidence wasn’t the only thing that wouldn’t forget. He would never forget this moment. And could he ever be forgiven. He could blame it on fate, blame it on all the life forces and misadventures had brought him this act, this crime. But he wasn’t that kind of man. He would take responsibility for this crime.

This crime of adultery…

Margaret twitched her nose and returned to that deep slumber, almost a state of hibernation. What the hell is this, isn’t it the man that slips into that state of stupor, after sex and the woman has the energy of a gazelle? Here was a role reversal. She had drifted off to sleep and he was wide awake. His brain, psyche, and body jet-fueled by guilt. He slipped out of bed and drove home.

By the time he reached his driveway loathing and self-disgust were tearing him apart. He tried to justify his actions but couldn’t get there. None of his friends would think less of him. He had needs after all and they hadn’t been met at home. But he’d done wrong and knew it. He had betrayed the woman he promised to love until death do us part. That love was still there, but so was the guilt. The frustration was pushing him over the edge.

When he parked the truck, he found a strange car near the garage. He marched to the back door, propelled by the super-heated steam of anger. He felt like a locomotive on legs. Surging forward with the momentum of thousands of tons. He grabbed the latch for the back door. As he was about to rip the door from its hinges, he heard the squeaky mind-numbing voice of Sponge Bob. What the fuck?

This new development slowed him a bit. He wasn’t sure what he was going to walk into, but he needed to calm down. His work boot hit the floor with more energy than he wanted it to, and it announced his presence. Two more steps and he was in the living room where the TV blared at 100 decibels. He found his wife in her chair and a strange man sitting next to her. She looked up at Frank but didn’t say a word.

“What the fuck is going on here and who the fuck are you?” Frank’s rage was directed at the stranger. “And what the fuck is that?” pointing to the yellow cartoon character.

The man jumped up and stammered. “I’m…I’m Anthony, the new guy.” The woman just sat there, staring at Frank, not saying a word.

“That answers question one, but what about that?” Again, pointing to the TV.

“She likes it.”

“The fuck she does, she likes Animal Planet and the History Channel and CNN. She likes things that stimulate her mind. Not that shit!” He glanced at his wife, still not saying a word.

“She’s a cripple, for fuck’s sake, not a retard. You’re fired! Now get the fuck out.”

“But…but the agency…the agency said I’d be here all night, they promised me eight hours. I’m really sorry…I didn’t know…I swear I didn’t know. I’ll change the channel. Please.”

Anthony’s sincerity calmed Frank. Anthony believed he’d done right, while Frank had done wrong. The man reached into his pocket. Three hundred-dollar bills, money that had come from a job earlier in the day, money that was needed to pay a bill. Pulling his hand from the cotton recess he said, “Here take this, I’m sorry. I’m an asshole, I admit it. But I need you to go. Take the rest of the night off. The agency will never hear about this…not from me.”

Anthony looked at the wrinkled Benjamins. “You sure?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure, I’d give you more, if I had it. I’m sure. Go enjoy your evening.”

“I can stay, if you want, really I can.”

“Anthony” Frank said calmly, “I got this, and now you’re starting to piss me off again.”

“Okay nuff said…bye Mrs. B.” He waved as he walked through the back door.

As the car crunched over the gravel Frank turned off the TV and took a seat in the chair that was still warm from Anthony’s body. He reached for his wife’s hand.

“I’m sorry…I love you.” He pulled her hand to his mouth and kissed each finger.

When he was done, he looked at the hand. The first two fingers formed a V. This was code they had worked out — it had nothing to do with the number two it meant,

“I love you also”, or “I love you too.”

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