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O+F

by John Moncure Wetterau · English · Gutenberg #11005 · 381,583 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: O+F

Author: John Moncure Wetterau


        
Release date: February 1, 2004 [eBook #11005]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11005


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK O+F ***

Copyright (c) 2003 by John Moncure Wetterau





O + F



John Moncure Wetterau



Copyright (c) 2000 by John Moncure Wetterau.

Library of Congress Number: 00-193498
ISBN #: Hardcover 0-7388-5815-3
Softcover 0-9729587-1-1

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons
Attribution-NoDerivs-NonCommercial License. Essentially, anyone is free
to copy, distribute, or perform this copyrighted work for
non-commercial uses only, so long as the work is preserved verbatim and
is attributed to the author.  To view a copy of this license, visit
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0/ or send a letter to:

Creative Commons
559 Nathan Abbott Way
Stanford, California 94305, USA.

Published by:
Fox Print Books
137 Emery Street
Portland, ME 04102

foxprintbooks@earthlink.net
207.775.6860

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
either are the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or
dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This book was
printed in the United States of America.


Acknowledgements:

Cover art by Majo Keleshian. I want to thank Majo, Sylvester Pollet,
and Nancy Wallace for suffering through early versions of the book and
for offering useful suggestions. Thanks to Francois Camoin and the
Vermont College MFA program for giving me a good shove down the road to
fiction. And thanks to Ellen Miller for her consistent encouragement
and support.


for Rosy



1.



Tall. Dark hair. Nose almost straight. Mouth curving around prominent
teeth. Beautiful, Oliver realized as their eyes met perfectly.

"Francesca, sorry I'm late," another woman said, guiding two girls into
the next booth.

"I just got here."

"Hi, Mommy." Francesca's smile turned down, traveled around, and turned
up independently at each corner.

"Hi, Sweetheart. Turn around, now."

One of the girls was looking tentatively at Oliver, holding the top of
the booth with both hands. He waved at her, raised his eyebrows, and
bent to his eggs. Toast. Nothing like toast. He wiped up the remaining
yolk. Where's the husband? Probably one of those jerks in a Land Rover.
A bad golfer. Cheats. Christ. Oliver drank the rest of his coffee and
prepared to leave. As he slid sideways across the green plastic seat,
he again caught the woman's eyes. They were calm and questioning, brown
with deepening centers the color of the inner heart of black walnut. He
stood and nodded in the Japanese manner. No one would have noticed,
unless perhaps for her friend.

He buttoned his coat before pushing open the outer door of the diner.
The air was damp, tinged with car exhaust and diesel. The first flakes
of a northeaster coasted innocently to the ground. Francesca--what a
smile! She reminded him of the young Sinatra in _From Here To
Eternity_, awkward and graceful at the same time. The friend was
heavier and looked unmarried, a career teacher, maybe. Problems on
short leashes yapped around her heels. Oliver shrugged, pulled a watch
cap over his ears, and walked toward the Old Port.

A car pulled over. "Olive Oil!" George Goodbean shouted. "Want a ride?"

"Taking my life in my hands," Oliver said, getting in.

"It's a good day to die," George said.

"Aren't we romantic."

"Artists live on the edge, Olive Oil. Where the view is." A pickup
passed at high speed, hitting a pothole and splattering mud across the
windshield. "Moron!" George reached for the wiper switch.

The street reappeared. "Ahh," Oliver said, "now there's a view."

"Why is it, the worse the weather, the worse they drive?" George asked.

"Dunno. It isn't even bad yet."

"Assholes," George said.

"Yeah. I bought some black walnut," Oliver said. "I just saw a woman in
Becky's; she had eyes the same color."

"You want I should go back?"

"I'm too short for her," Oliver said.

"You never know. Some of those short people in Hollywood have big
reputations."

"They're stars," Oliver said. "I'm just short."

"What are you doing with the wood?"

"Haven't decided--maybe a table."

"I'm getting into casting. You ought to come over; I'm going to try out
my furnace."

"Casting what?"

"Bronze. Small pieces."

"Hey, whoa, let me out." Oliver pointed at the ferry terminal, and
George stopped.

"Yeah, come on over tomorrow morning, if you're not doing anything."

"O.K., I'll see."

George beeped twice and drove into the thickening snow. Oliver bought a
ticket for Peaks Island. The ferry was nearly empty, cheerful with its
high snub bow painted yellow, white superstructure, and red roof. It
was not as spirited as the red and black tugs that herd tankers to the
Montreal pipeline, nothing could match the tugboats--but the ferry was
close; it had the human touch, a dory that couldn't stay away from
cheesecake, broad in the beam, resolute, proof against the cold rollers
of the outer bay. After two long blasts, the ferry churned away from
the wharf. A line of gulls on the lee side of a rooftop watched them
move into the channel and gather speed.

Twenty minutes later, the ferry slowed, shuddered, and stopped at the
Peaks Island landing. Oliver walked uphill to the main street, unsure
why he had come. Habit took him around by his former house. No lights
were on, no sign of anyone home. He continued around the block,
surprised at his disappointment. He hadn't seen Charlotte for six
months and had no reason to see her now. He considered this over a cup
of coffee at Will's. It was natural to check in sometimes with old
friends. I mean, we were married, he told his cup.

_Jealousy is a symptom--like the effects of drought_. Owl told him that
once. They had been standing on the club dock, having one of their rare
conversations. He was telling Owl about Kiersten, how she wouldn't take
him seriously, her smile always for Gary--star everything. Owl's voice
was sympathetic but with a dissatisfied edge, as though he were
impatient with or imprisoned by his superiority, his tenure at Brown,
his aluminum boat, one of the fastest on the sound.

Oliver never thought to ask for an explanation, and then, sadly, it was
too late. It was years before he understood Owl's jealousy
pronouncement. He wasn't jealous any longer, certainly not where
Kiersten was concerned. God, she'd driven everybody crazy.
Territory--now that was different. You want your own territory, your
own mate, your house, your space. It still pissed him off to see his
old garage surrounded by Mike's messy piles of building materials. But
he wasn't jealous. Charlotte was better off without him; she had a
child, finally.

The waitress had a tolerant smile. Thank God for waitresses. He left a
big tip and got back on the ferry.

Snow was drifting against brick buildings as Oliver walked into the Old
Port. He decided to stop for a pint. Deweys was busy; people were
packing it in early, finding strength in numbers. "A Guinness," he
ordered, "for this fine March day." Sam set a dark glass, overflowing,
on the bar in front of him. Oliver bent forward and slurped a mouthful.
"You could live on Guinness foam," he said.

"And the occasional piece of cheese," Sam said. Patti Page was singing,
"_I remember the night of The Tennessee Waltz  . . . _" Her voice, the
fiddle, the stately waltz told the old story: "_stole my sweetheart
from me . . . _" One way or another, sooner or later, we are all
defeated. Oliver felt a swell of sadness and the beginning of
liberation.

"God, what a song," he said to Mark Barnes, who had come up beside him.

"Classic. How you doing, guy?"

"Hanging in there." More people came in, stamping snow from their
boots. Patti Page gave way to Tom Waits belting out, _Jersey Girl_.
"Another classic," Oliver said. Tragedy was just offstage in _Jersey
Girl_, momentarily held at bay by sex and love and hope. "All downhill
from here, Mark."

"Life is fine, my man."

"What? Must be a new dancer in town. How do you do it, anyway?"

"Innate sensuality," Mark said. "One glance across a crowded room  . .
."

"Yeah, right. My rooms are crowded with women in black pants who have
eyes only for each other. Although, I did see a beauty in Becky's this
morning. Had two little girls with her---and a friend."

"What kind of friend?"

"A lady friend, not a black pantser, I'm pretty sure. Francesca, her
name was."

"Francesca? Tall chick? Good looking?"

"I wouldn't call her a chick, exactly. More like a Madonna by
Modigliani."

"Yeah, Francesca. She lives in Cape Elizabeth. I was in a yoga class
with her once."

"I ought to take yoga," Oliver said.

"The ratio is good, man. Francesca. That was years ago. She married
some guy who works for Hannaford's."

"I knew it," Oliver said.

"They can't help it," Mark said. "They have this nesting thing."
Dancers came to Portland, walked around the block a couple of times,
and met Mark. Six to eighteen months later, they married doctors.

"Did you ever think of settling down?" Oliver asked.

"I'm trying, man. Who do you like in the NCAA's? Duke?"

"No way. Robots," Oliver said. "Smug. Bred to win from birth."

"I got a hundred on them." Mark made money helping executives scale the
job ladder. He was amused and ironic about it. They knocked themselves
out; he got the dancers--for a time.

"Hey, Richard!"

"Mark  . . .  Oliver  . . .  The boss let us out early." Pleased with
this statement, Richard O'Grady, who acknowledged no boss but "The Man
Upstairs," shuffled to his customary place at a long table on the other
side of the bar. He was bright eyed, slight, and stooped, a survivor of
diabetes and severe arthritis.

"Amazing smile!" Oliver said.

"A world authority on blood chemistry," Mark said. "You'd never know
it--in here every night drinking scotch."

"Every night but Sunday," Oliver said. "I asked him, one time, where he
got that smile. I thought he'd say something like: it was his mother's.
He said, 'Don't know.' Then he said, 'Use it!' It was like a command
he'd been given."

"Not too many around here that haven't had a drink on Richard," Mark
said. "I'm outa here. Duke, man."

"Boo."

"Oliver," Richard called, "Help me with this plowman's lunch." Oliver
sat on a wooden bench across the table from Richard.

"I'll have a bite," he said. "What's happening?"

"Oh, the usual," Richard said. "Palace intrigue. Too many chemists in
one lab. I shouldn't complain; they do a good job." He bent over the
table and lowered his voice. "One of the supervisors is a bit rigid. I
hear about it, you know. I've tried to talk to her. It's delicate." He
brightened as he straightened. "I'm sending her to a conference in
Amsterdam. Maybe something will happen."

"That would be the place," Oliver said, cutting a slab of Stilton.

"How are you doing? Working?"

"In between programming projects at the moment," Oliver said. "Not sure
what to do next. Sometimes I wonder what's the point of doing anything."

"Oliver  . . ." Richard reminded him, pointing at the smoky ceiling,
"you've got to trust The Man Upstairs. It's His plan." This would be
too corny to take if it weren't coming from Richard.

"I wish He'd let me in on it." Oliver took a long swallow of stout.

"I'll tell you what I do when I feel bad," Richard said. "I find
somebody who's worse off than I am, and I do something to help him out.
Or her out. Works every time." He turned toward Sam and held one
crippled hand in the air. "Over here, Sam, when you can." Oliver didn't
think in terms of other people. He related to them as required, but his
focus was inward. He imagined Richard's process: let's see, I feel bad;
therefore, it's time to find person X who is worse off than I am and
help him out. Or her. He could picture eligible persons, but he
stumbled on the help part. What did he have to offer? Was a dollar bill
going to make a difference? He felt blocked from the part of himself
that might contain helpful things he could pass along.

"I like this chutney," he said, "good with this cheese. What was your
father like, Richard?"

"Great guy," Richard said. He sloshed the scotch and ice cubes around
in his glass. "I'll tell you a story about my father. He couldn't tell
time. Someone gave him a watch, but he didn't want to learn. He was
proud of the watch, wore it every day. He used to go to people and say,
'I'm having a little trouble reading this,' and then he'd hold his
wrist up." Richard raised his arm proudly out in front of him. "And
he'd squint, as if he had eye trouble. 'Oh, it's a quarter to nine,'
they'd say." Richard threw back his head and laughed. "My dad was a
great guy--could barely read, always singing. He worked on the docks."

"Hi, Richard." A thin woman approached. She had dark eyes and bleached
blonde hair pulled into a tight pony tail.

"Hi, Sally. How are you?"

"O.K."

"Do you know Oliver?"

"Seen you around," she said, appraising him. Oliver felt about a four
out of ten, maybe a three.

"Sally works at Mercy Hospital. That cigarette isn't doing you any
good, you know."

"Nag, nag, nag."

"You got one for me?" Richard lit up the room with his smile.

"Oh, Richard!" Sally felt in her purse with one hand.

"What are you drinking?" Richard asked.

"I'll see you guys," Oliver said, sliding to the end of the bench and
standing. Sally took his place. "Thanks for the eats, Richard."

"Stay warm," Richard said.

A plow rumbled by, as Oliver stepped out into the storm. He followed it
along the white empty street. He considered stopping at Giobbi's
Restaurant, but he turned up Danforth and walked to State Street where
he lived in a second floor apartment on the last block before the
Million Dollar bridge.

Verdi was waiting. He jumped from the window sill and made a fuss
bumping against Oliver's legs. "Hungry, are we?" Oliver bent over and
stroked him from head to tail. "Yes, very large and very fierce is
Verdi. Very fierce." Verdi was brown and black, heavyset, with a large
tomcat's head and yellow eyes. He padded deliberately over to the
lengths of walnut leaning upright in one corner of the room and
scratched luxuriously, stretching full length, as though he had been
waiting to do this for some time. "Aieee! Swell, Verdi." Oliver hung
his coat on a peg and gathered up the boards. For the moment, he laid
them on the table. The cat was irritated. "How about some nice pine,"
Oliver said. "Much better than walnut. I'll get you a nice soft piece
of pine. In the meantime  . . ." He opened a can of salmon Friskies.

Verdi ate, and Oliver refilled his water dish. The boards were
beautiful. He'd been right about the color of Francesca's eyes. There
was an actual black walnut, a large one, at the edge of the parking
area behind his building. It shaded his kitchen window during the
summer and dropped hundreds of furry green walnuts that were gathered
by squirrels each fall. Oliver had planted six walnuts in yogurt
containers. He'd let them freeze first, done everything right, but none
of them came up. The seeds were finicky for such a powerful tree. Maybe
they had to pass through a squirrel. "Biology is complicated," he said
to Verdi.

The kitchen had been a master bedroom in the original house. The
appliances, counter, and sink were arranged along one wall and part of
another, leaving plenty of space for a table in the center. The wall to
the adjoining living room had been mostly removed; the two rooms
functioned as one. Steps led to a landing and then to an attic bedroom
with a view of the harbor. There was a fireplace that he rarely used.
In one corner, a small table held a computer system.

Oliver sat at the kitchen table and ran the heels of his hands along
the walnut. He enjoyed making things from wood: easy shelves, chests, a
cradle once for a wedding present. He had a table saw and a router in
the basement, but he kept his tools under a rough workbench that he had
built along one wall of the kitchen. A "Workmate" stood in the living
room near the door to the hall. Usually it was covered with mail.

The touch of the wood was reassuring. Deep in the grain, in what might
be made from the grain, was something iconic and alive, more alive than
what could be said about it. Oliver took particular pleasure in
finishing a shelf or a chest, hand rubbing the surface and seeing the
patterns of the grain shine and deepen. He would have to buy legs if he
were going to make a table. Or learn how to use a lathe. He didn't have
a lathe. Maybe he could make a small box--to hold something special. He
could give it to someone.

Who? A wave of longing swept over him. Who would care? He had an
impulse to put his head down on his arms and give up.

"There are no cowards on this ship!" God, he hadn't thought of that for
years. His high school English teacher had said it, loudly. It was the
punch line of a war story. The teacher had accompanied a couple of his
Navy buddies to the bow of their ship; one of them was bragging that he
would dive. The captain had come up behind them, asked what they were
doing, and then ordered them _all_ to dive. Apparently, it had been a
high point of sorts in his teacher's life.

"No cowards on this ship, Verdi," Oliver said, standing. Toast. Tea.
When Oliver was upset, he turned to food. He had a high metabolism and
ate what he wanted. His body looked chubby on its short square frame,
but there was more muscle than fat under his skin; he could move
quickly when he wished. He had a wide serious mouth with strong teeth.
His eyebrows and hair were black. His eyes were large and dark brown
with lids that slanted slightly across the corners. Women looked at him
and were puzzled by something that was different. He almost never got
into it.

"Oliver Muni Prescott," he had told a few. "Owl Prescott was my
stepfather. My father is Japanese--Muni, his name is--I never met him."
The toast popped up. Oliver buttered it and laid on marmalade. He put
the toast and tea on a tray and carried it upstairs. His mattress was
on the floor next to a window set low in the wall, under the eaves. He
lay down, munched toast, and watched the snow falling and blowing. When
he turned his head, the window was like a skylight. Mother is coming,
he remembered. The image of his mother with her flamboyant blonde hair
was replaced immediately by that of Francesca--quiet, natural, and no
less forceful.

He finished the toast and held the mug of tea on his chest with both
hands. He could see Francesca's eyes in front of him. They were asking
something, and he was answering. Her question was more complicated than
he had thought at Becky's Diner. Were they the same? Was she beautiful?
Was he for real? He relaxed and aligned in her direction. The answer
was reassuring. "Yes," he said. He lifted his head and sipped tea.
"O.K.," he said.




2.


The sky was bright blue, the wind gusty out of the northwest. Oliver
squinted at the fresh snowbanks on his way to Becky's.
Sunglasses--should have worn sunglasses. He had oatmeal and a blueberry
muffin, drank coffee, and listened to the waitresses chatter about
their dates. Francesca did not come in, but her image remained vivid.
He waited, not so much for her as for something in his mood to change,
to see if it _would_ change. It didn't. He continued to feel slightly
excited, as though he had something to look forward to. Francesca had
met him in a central place. Was it a place that they made, sheltered
between them? Or was it a place inside each of them that was similar,
more accessible in each other's company? Wherever it was, Oliver knew
that he wanted to go there again.

He walked home, shoveled out his Jeep, started it, and scraped the
windows, thinking that he'd see what George was up to. He could have
walked, but there wasn't much cat food left. He'd shop, maybe take a
drive.

George had a loft in a warehouse at the foot of Danforth Street. "Hey
there, Oliver" he said, opening the door. "Big day--Foundry Goodbean!"

"I brought some bagels," Oliver said.

George rubbed his hands together. "Come see."

Near a brick wall, a thirty gallon grease drum stood on a sheet of
asbestos-like material. Two copper pipes made a right angle to its
base. One came from a propane tank in a corner; one was connected to an
air blower driven by an electric motor. "Ta da!" George said, lifting
off a thick top that had a hole in its center. Oliver looked down into
the drum. "I used a stovepipe for a form--cast refractory cement around
it." The drum was solid cement around the space where the stovepipe had
been.

"Slick city," Oliver said.

George picked up a small object from a table. "The Flying Lady," he
said. He held it between his thumb and forefinger and swooped it
through the air. Oliver looked closely at a wax figure of a trapeze
artist. Her brown arms were held out; her back was arched.

"Wonder Woman."

"I've got to make the mold," George said, "burn out the investment."

"Investment?"

"Goopy stuff that packs around The Lady. Then I fire it in a kiln. The
wax burns and disappears, leaving a hard ceramic mold."

"Aha," Oliver said, "the lost wax process."

"Me and Cellini," George said. "Here, make something." He handed Oliver
a sheet of wax. "Not too big. I'll cast it with The Lady. There's
knives and stuff." He pointed at one end of the table. "And other kinds
of wax. Use what you want." He began to mix the investment.

Oliver laid the wax on the table. Without thinking, he cut out the
shape of a heart. He cut four short pieces from a length of spaghetti
shaped wax and made a square letter O. It looked stupid. "Can you bend
this stuff?"

"Heat it," George said. "There's an alcohol lamp."

Oliver warmed another piece of spaghetti wax and made an oval O. He
stuck it on the heart and added a plus sign and the letter, F. "A
valentine," he said.

George made a tree of wax, two inches high with a double trunk. He
stuck The Flying Lady on one trunk and the heart, upright, on the
other. Using more wax, he planted the tree in a circular rubber base.
"Let me have that flask." He pointed at a steel cylinder about six
inches long. He slipped the cylinder over the waxes and tightly into
the rubber base. "There." He poured creamy investment into the flask
until the waxes were well covered and the flask was nearly full. "After
it sets, you peel off the base and fire the flask."

They sat in a far corner and had coffee.


"So who's F?" George's eyes gleamed.

"Francesca," Oliver said. "I don't know her, really. She's tall and
married."

George shook his head. "Can't live with 'em; can't live without 'em."
He took a large bite of bagel to ease the pain.

"You do all right," Oliver said.

"Oh, you know  . . ." George threw one arm in the air. "The artist
thing. They're curious. They're all curious, Olive Oil."

"What happened to Marcia?"

"Oh, Marcia!" George rolled his eyes and deflated somewhat. "She had
allergies, it turned out. Dust. What can I say?"

"She was good looking," Oliver said.

"Oh, yeah, Marcia!" George's voice trailed away. "Look," he said, "it's
going to take a while to get the investment ready. Why don't you come
back around seven? Then we'll cast."

"Outa sight," Oliver said.

He drove to Shop 'N Save and stacked two dozen cans of salmon Friskies
in his shopping cart. He found a box of fancy tea biscuits that he
could offer to his mother. She and Paul were stopping in Portland the
next night. They always stayed at the Holiday Inn, but she would want
to come over and make sure that he wasn't living in filth, had clean
towels, and so on. She would sniff around for a female presence, and
then she would look at Paul; Paul would suggest that the sun was over
the yardarm; and they would go to DiMillo's for dinner.

Oliver turned his shopping cart around the end of an aisle, swerved,
and stopped to avoid bumping into Francesca's friend. She was studying
the pasta sauces, one hand resting on her cart, one hand on her hip.
Her jacket was open. Oliver's eyes lingered on her solid breasts and
tight red sweater. She looked at him. He cleared his throat. "Not much
choice," he said. "I found a good sauce at Micucci's--the one with a
great picture of the owner's grandmother when she was young. It wasn't
that expensive, either." He was babbling, starting to blush. Her eyes
narrowed and a small smile pushed at the corners of her mouth.

"Yes," she said. "Micucci's."

"Great place," he said, rolling by, pretending to be in a hurry. God,
the woman was some kind of menace. But she knew about Francesca  . . .
And those breasts. He clung to the cart and let his vision blur as the
red sweater came back into focus. He blinked and joined a checkout
line. A skinny woman in front of him put a gallon jug of vodka on the
counter. "Not a bad idea," he said. She looked at him, smiled as though
she were on a two second tape delay, and then frowned as she
concentrated on paying. Her arms and legs were like sticks. He wondered
what she'd had to put up with and if she had anyone to put up with her.
He didn't really like vodka, but he ought to get something for George.
What do foundrymen drink? Red wine? Ale? The woman picked up energy as
she wheeled her cart toward the parking lot. Keep going. Good luck.

He drove home and put away the groceries. He went down to the basement
and brought up a piece of pine which Verdi ignored. "Really, it's much
better," Oliver argued. The phone rang.

"Oliver? This is Jennifer Lindenthwaite."

"Hi, Jennifer."

"I'm calling for the Wetlands Conservancy."

"Oh, I thought you wanted to take me to Atlantic City."

"Rupert might not like that," she said.

"I suppose not," he said. "Ah, well  . . ."

"Can you do some work for us, Oliver? Our mailing list is in hopeless
shape. We bought a computer, but no one knows how to do anything but
type letters on it."

"You want me to set up a database?"

"I suppose that _is_ what we need."

"How soon?"

"Umm  . . ."

"Yesterday, right?"

"Well, sometime soon, at your convenience."

"As it happens," Oliver said, "I've got time in the next couple of
weeks. How about if I come over Tuesday, say--around nine?"

"Thank you, Oliver. You're a sweetheart. See you then." Jennifer hung
up, and Oliver looked at the computer. "Can't buy Friskies on my good
looks," he said. That was how work came in for him--two weeks here, six
months there. He got by, barely.

The day drifted along. He took a nap, watched a basketball game on TV,
and cleaned, minimally, for his mother's inspection. At seven, he
walked down to George's.

"Foundrymen's Red!" he said, holding up a liter of Merlot. "Foundry
workers, I should say."

"Good timing." George rummaged for glasses, found one, and handed it to
Oliver. "The guest gets the clean glass." He washed one for himself and
filled them both. "Cellini," he toasted.

"Pavarotti," Oliver responded. "And other great Italians. Did you know
my mother is Italian?"

"Some people have all the luck."

"Yeah," Oliver said. "She was a singer when she was young."

"Probably cooks, too," George said.

"Yeah."

"Jesus, Olive Oil."

"She's coming through this weekend. She and Paul, her husband. They go
to Quebec every year."

"Good eating in Quebec."

"You bet," Oliver said. "She likes to dress up. They have a good time."

"Wow," George said. "I don't think my mom has bought a dress in twenty
years. Says she's too old for that foolishness."

"My mom is too old, but it doesn't stop her." He looked at the furnace.
"So, what are we doing?"

"We're set," George said. They crossed the loft, and he handed Oliver a
propane torch. "I'll turn on the gas at the main tank. You light it.
There's the blower valve." He pointed to a round handle mounted between
the blower and the pipe that led to the furnace. Oliver lit the torch
and knelt by the furnace. George stood by the propane tank. "Hope this
works. You ready?"

"Do it."

George opened the line, and Oliver angled the torch tip down into the
furnace. Nothing happened for several moments. There was a whooshing
sound, and George said, "Holy Mama!" A blue flame, the size of a beach
ball, was bouncing under the wooden ceiling joists. Oliver
concentrated. Air. He reached back and grabbed the blower valve,
twisting it counter-clockwise. Almost immediately, the blue flame
lowered. He continued opening the valve. The flame pirouetted
irregularly down an invisible column, drawn toward the furnace.

"Air," he shouted. "Not enough air until it got way the hell up there."

"Keep going," George said.

The flame reached the top of the furnace and began to whirl in a tight
spiral. It plunged inside, roaring and spinning at high speed. The
floor shook. "Jesus," George said.

"It's like a Goddamn bomb," Oliver said.

George put an ingot of bronze into a carbon crucible and gripped the
edge of the crucible with long tongs. He lowered the crucible to the
bottom of the furnace. "Put the top on," he said. Oliver lifted and
pushed the top over the furnace. The roaring became muffled, contained.
It felt safer. "Nice going, about the air," George said. "I thought we
were going to burn the place down."

"Physics," Oliver said. George looked down through the hole in the top.

"Nothing yet." He stood back. A few minutes later the ingot began to
slide toward the bottom of the crucible. "There she goes," George said.
"It's working." He opened the door of the kiln, and, using a different
set of tongs, extracted the flask. He set the flask, glowing cherry
red, upside down in a flat pan of sand. He shut off the gas and
unplugged the blower. "The top," he said, handing Oliver a pair of
heavy gloves and pointing. Oliver worked the top over one edge of the
drum, tipped it down, and rolled it onto three bricks.

George reached into the furnace with the long tongs. He lifted the
crucible from the furnace and walked with careful steps to the flask.
Holding the lip of the crucible over the flask, he tipped his body to
one side. The bronze poured like golden syrup into the hole where the
wax had been, quickly filling the mold.

George lowered the crucible back into the furnace. After the roaring,
it seemed unusually silent. "Intense," Oliver said. "Now what?" George
picked up the hot flask with the second pair of tongs and dropped it
into a bucket of water. There was a burst of sizzling and bubbling, and
it was quiet again.

"The temperature shock weirds out the investment. It changes state--to
a softer stuff that we can get off the bronze." George poured the water
into his bathtub and refilled the bucket with cold water. "Still hot,"
he said.

They drank wine while the flask cooled. When George could hold the
flask, he pushed the investment out of the cylinder and chipped at it
with a screwdriver. A hip appeared. "The Flying Lady," Oliver said.

"Damn!" George said, chipping and prying. Gobs of oatmeal colored
investment fell away. "Not bad!" George held up the Lady and the heart
on their bronze tree. "We cut them off and

polish. . ."

An hour later, filled with wine and a sense of accomplishment, Oliver
walked up Danforth Street. The bronze heart was solid and heavy in his
pocket. He warmed it in his hand, feeling the O, the plus sign, and the
F over and over again, a mantra said with the ball of his thumb. When
he got home, he placed the heart on one of the walnut boards, fed
Verdi, and went to bed.

He lay there remembering the bronze pouring into the heart. A bit of
him had poured with it, and an exchange had taken place: something
bronze had entered him at the same moment.




3.


"Mythic," Oliver said to Paul Peroni, the next afternoon. They were
sitting at the kitchen table with his mother. Paul was weighing the
heart in his palm as Oliver described the bronze casting. Oliver's
mother took another tea biscuit.


"Never too old for a valentine," she said, seeming to note the absence
of a female presence in the apartment.

"Yes  . . .  No  . . ." Paul answered them both. He was medium sized,
sinewy, and graying--surprisingly light on his feet for someone who
installed slabs of ornamental marble.

"It's so nice to see Verdi again. Kitty, kitty," she called. Verdi
stretched and remained in the corner. "Oh well, be that way," she said,
straightening. Lip gloss, touches of eye shadow, and her full wavy
blonde hair broadcast femaleness like a lighthouse. The good body could
be taken for granted. You might as well assume it, the message flashed,
cuz you sure as hell weren't going to be lucky enough to find out. She
and Paul were well matched. "I knew I was onto something, our first
date," she'd told Oliver. "I was cooing about Michelangelo and Paul
said, 'yes, but he used shitty marble.' "

She looked pointedly at Paul. "Sun's over the yard arm," he said.

DiMillo's was uncrowded. They sat at a window table, ordered drinks,
and talked as boats rocked quietly in the marina and an oil tanker
worked outward around the Spring Point light. Oliver's mother bragged
about his niece, Heather, and her latest swimming triumphs. She
complained about the long winter and how crowded the Connecticut shore
had become. "It may be crowded," Oliver said, "but you get daffodils
three weeks before we do."

Oliver sipped his second Glenlivet and looked back from the darkening
harbor. "I wish I had known my grandfather," he said to his mother. "I
remember when he died. I was eight, I think."

"Yes, you were in third grade," she said. "It was sad. He was living in
Paris. When he wrote, I called him at the hospital--but he didn't want
me to come. He said that he wanted me to remember him as he was."

"When was the last time you saw him?" Oliver asked.

"Oh  . . .  I  . . ." She looked at Paul. He raised his eyebrows
sympathetically. "I guess I never told you that story," she said to
Oliver. "It was a long time ago. My sixteenth birthday, in fact." She
sighed.

"It was at Nice, on the Riviera. He arranged a party on the
beach--wine, great food, fireworks  . . .  After the fireworks, he gave
me a bamboo cage with a white dove inside.

"'This is your present, Dior,' he said. 'You must let it go, give it
freedom.' I opened the cage, and the dove flew up into the dark. 'Very
good,' my father said. He hugged me. Then he said, 'Now, we will say
goodbye. You are grown, and I will not be seeing you and your mother
any more. Be good to your mother.' He hugged me again and just walked
down the beach--into the night."

Oliver watched tears slide down his mother's cheeks.

She lifted a napkin and wiped away her tears. "He was very handsome."

"No need of that shit," Paul said.

They were silent.

"Paul's right," Oliver said.

"My mother packed up and brought us back to New Haven. We lived with
her folks for a while."

"Good old New Haven," Paul said.

"Now, _your_ father  . . ." She smiled at Paul.

"He liked the ladies," Paul said.

"What did he do?" Oliver asked.

"He was a stone mason, made his own wine, raised hell. Fought with
Uncle Tony until the day he died. They were tight, though--don't let
anybody else say anything against them. Bocce ball. Jesus." Paul shook
his head and held up his glass. "Life," he said.

"Yes, life." Oliver's mother raised her glass.

"Coming at you," Oliver added.

"Us," Paul said.

They touched glasses and got on with a shore dinner of lobsters and
clams.

Oliver said goodbye in DiMillo's parking lot. He walked home imagining
the sixteen year old Dior Del'Unzio with her mouth open as the white
dove flew upward and then with her hand to her mouth as her father
walked away. "No need of that shit." He was glad Paul was around to
take care of his mother. She was vulnerable under the big smile; Oliver
often felt vaguely guilty and responsible for her.

She had done the same thing as _her_ mother: hooked up with an exotic
stranger--Muni Nakano, proper son of a proper Japanese family in
Honolulu. But, his mother hadn't stuck around for sixteen years. She'd
come back from Hawaii to Connecticut, pregnant, and eventually married
Owl Prescott. They raised him and Amanda, his half sister. His mother
had made a go of it in New England. Only once in awhile would she show
signs of her Italian childhood. "Topolino mio," she used to call him
when he was little and she'd been partying.

He poured a nightcap and put on a tape--Coltrane and Johnny Hartman.
I'm wasting my life, he thought suddenly. What am I going to do? He
knew that he needed to change, but it seemed hopeless. He looked at the
walnut boards. Maybe a box . . .

He sketched a little chest with a hinged top. He erased the straight
bottom lines and drew in long low arches. "That's better." The top
should overhang. Should its edges be straight or rounded? Straight was
more emphatic; he could always round them afterwards.

He could make each side from a single width of walnut. Dovetailed
corners. A small brass hasp and lock. Why not? He could make the whole
thing out of one eight foot piece and have two boards left over for
something else or for extra if he screwed up the dovetails.

"Here you go," he said to Verdi. He replaced the offending piece of
pine with the original scratched walnut. "Nothing but the best for Team
Oliver." He looked at the heart. "Team O." Verdi forgave him without
moving. "Bedtime," Oliver said.

On Monday, Oliver cut pieces for the sides, top, and bottom of the box.
He bought a dovetail saw and made several cardboard templates for the
joints. It was a way of thinking about them. They were tricky, had to
interlock perfectly, one end male, one end female.

"What have you been up to?" Jennifer Lindenthwaite asked on Tuesday
morning.

"Making a box," Oliver said.


"Oh, that's exciting."

"It's harder than it looks--for me, anyway."

Jennifer wanted him to look at her and not at an imagined box. She was
a solid blonde, Nordic, with broad cheeks and a big smile. "I worry
about Rupert when he does things around the house. Something usually
goes wrong."

"Ah  . . ." Oliver said. "A minor flaw."

"Rupert is wonderful," she said. "Now, the mailing list. Hi, Jacky."
Oliver turned and was astonished to see Francesca's friend in the
doorway. "Jacky is one of our volunteers. She does a lot of the mailing
list work. I thought you could work together on this. Jacky, this is
Oliver Prescott."

Jacky stepped forward. "Jacky Chapelle," she said. She had strong
cheekbones and dark blonde hair, cut short and swept back. Her eyes
were hazel colored. She had a winged messenger look that lightened her
direct, almost blunt, expression and her powerful shoulders.

"Uh, hi." Oliver shook her hand. "Did you find any pasta sauce?"

"Eventually."

"Oh," Jennifer said. "You know each other."

"Not exactly," he said. Jennifer looked at him closely. _Hell is being
in one room with two women_, Owl said. Oliver cleared his throat.
"Where's the computer?"

"Just down the hall." Jennifer led them to another room. "Let me know
if you need anything."

"Well," Oliver said as they were left alone.

"You don't look like a programmer," Jacky said.

"Thank you."

She showed him a box of file cards--the mailing list. "Here is what we
have. It would be nice to be able to print mailing labels, and we need
to keep track of who has contributed."

"Sure," Oliver said. "And probably some other things."

"Yes," she said. "Some of the members are summer people. We need to
know their winter addresses."

"What's winter?"

"Labor Day to the 4th of July," she said.

"The Maine we know and love," Oliver said. "We can keep individual
winter start and end dates for each name, use defaults if we don't have
the information."

"Right," she said. "Ideally, the list would interact with other
programs someday. It has members on it, and people who aren't members
but who are interested. Also, media people. And legislators. Sometimes
we send special mailings. I suppose we'll need some kind of type code."

"O.K.," Oliver said. They discussed requirements and agreed to meet the
following Saturday morning. Jacky left, and Oliver gave a thumbs up
sign to Jennifer who was talking on the phone.

Not a bad little job, he thought, driving back to Portland. He'd been
itching to ask Jacky about Francesca, but something had stopped him. He
wanted to know Jacky better. She was sure of herself and moved
comfortably. Her breasts were invading his consciousness; he found it
hard to think about Francesca at the same time.

That afternoon, he began cutting the dovetails. It took concentration;
hours went by. But when he fit the first two ends together it seemed as
though it had been only a few minutes. "All right!" he said, leaving
the attached pieces on the table.

Verdi came in looking satisfied. The weather was warmer, much better
for prowling. More snow was possible, but the chances were against it.
Oliver put away his long johns for the winter. "Probably too early," he
said to Verdi, "but so what."

The next morning, as he waited for a seat in Becky's, he saw a familiar
figure in a booth. She was facing away from him, but he was fairly sure
it was Francesca when she turned her head. She stood and walked toward
him, following the man who was with her. Francesca, yes. The man was
tall and blonde with a wide forehead and a long triangular face. He had
an easy vain expression, as though he had a full day ahead of being
admired. Francesca's head was down. She walked carefully. As they
passed, her eyes met Oliver's and he realized that she had already
recognized him, had known that he was there. Her face was resigned with
traces of humor around the edges. He was struck by her calm, so much
like his. They shared a moment of this calm--the briefest of
moments--but it felt as though it expanded infinitely outward around
them. Did she raise her eyebrows? He thought he saw her flush, but she
was past him before he could be sure. He remembered the bronze heart,
and warmth stirred in him. When he got home, he put it in his pocket
and rubbed his thumb over the O, the plus sign, and the F.

By Saturday, he had programmed a prototype design for the mailing list.
In the early days of programming, every detail had to be laid out on
paper before you sat in front of a computer. It was too slow and
expensive to rework code. Now, you could make changes easily. It was
more efficient to show a customer a quick design that could be used as
a starting point for discussion and improvement.

He tossed a canvas shoulder bag containing notes and diskettes into the
Jeep. Verdi took up a position behind the bare forsythia bushes. "Go
get 'em," Oliver said. His house was on the south side of the hill
overlooking the harbor. The first crocuses were popping up, several
days ahead of the ones at the Conservancy. He was early; no one was
there.

Ten minutes later, Jacky drove up. She got out of a red Toyota truck
and waved one hand. "I've got the key," she said. "Did you get anything
done?"

"Yeah, a start," Oliver said. He installed the software while she made
a pot of coffee.

"Coffee's on," she said, carrying a cup for herself. "Mugs are in the
cupboard above the sink." Oliver decided against a joke about a woman's
role in the office. He walked down the hall and poured his own. He
looked at his hiking boots, light colored jeans, and dark plaid shirt.
It was Saturday, for God sake. Every day was Saturday for Oliver as far
as clothes were concerned. What difference did it make? Jacky was
wearing tan jeans and a denim jacket, open over a mahogany colored
jersey. She was a big woman. His eyes were at the level of her
collarbone. Her jacket would swing back easily. Stop it, he told
himself.

She objected to his mailing list screens. "Cluttered," she said. She
was right. He explained that he had jammed everything in as a
beginning, so that they could see what they were working with. She was
clear about what she wanted. Forty-five minutes later, they were back
outside.

"Beautiful day," he said. She smiled enigmatically and turned her
ignition key.

"Damn," she said.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing happening." She turned the key several more times.

"Pop the hood," Oliver said. The hood sprang open just as the words
left his mouth. He felt for the second latch and leaned his head over
the engine. "Try it again." He could hear the solenoid clicking. "How
about the lights?" The lights were fine, plenty of juice. "Don't know,"
he said. "Could be the starter. I don't think a jump will do it."

Jacky called triple A. An older man went through the same procedure and
then hoisted the truck behind his wrecker.

"Ride home?" Oliver asked.

"If you don't mind," Jacky said. "South Portland."

"Right in my direction," Oliver said. He drove into the city and
pointed out his house as they approached the bridge. "Back soon,
Verdi," he called out the window.

"Verdi?"

"My cat." They crossed the bridge, and Jacky directed him to a quiet
street in a residential neighborhood. He stopped in her driveway
intending to back out and return the way they had come.

"You look hungry," she said.

"I am." He was surprised.

"I have something for you. Come in." She slid out and walked to the
front door without waiting for an answer. He followed her into a house
which was sunnier and more spacious than it appeared from the front. A
long living room opened to a sun porch at the back. "I have a double
lot," she said, showing him the porch. Two large willow trees framed
the end of the yard. "High bush blueberries," she said, waving at a
stand of bushes that ran along one side. "Salad garden over there.
Flowers. Fun."

"Nice," he said.

"I had a craving for rare steak last night. I could only eat half of
it, though. It's in the refrigerator." She led him to the kitchen.
"There's mayo, mustard, horseradish--if you're feeling wild. Bread's in
there." She turned. "Oh, there's ale in the bottom of the refrigerator.
I'll have a glass." She left the room.

"Do you want a sandwich?" he called after her.

"No, thanks, I'll just nibble," she said. A door closed.

Oliver opted for horseradish, not a usual choice for him. "Not bad," he
said when she came back, "the horseradish." Jacky took a long swallow
of ale. She had taken off her jacket and washed her face.

"It's been a good truck," she said.

"Starters go," Oliver said. "Toyotas are fine. Where do you work?"

"I'm a banker," she said. He sat straighter.

"Fooled you," she said.

"I wouldn't have guessed. I thought maybe you were a teacher." When I
saw you with Francesca, he almost added.

"Bankers are discreet," she said. She looked at him directly. "Are
you--discreet?"

He considered. "Yes." He was apologetic for some reason.

She approved. "You look like someone who keeps things private."

Well, it was true. He confirmed with a nod and took another bite of
sandwich.

"Have you explored your sexuality, Oliver?" Whoa! His throat closed,
and he sat there chewing foolishly.

"I was married," he managed to get out.

"I didn't think you were a virgin. I mean, for instance, have you ever
been restrained?" She spoke quietly, but Oliver felt the tension
ratchet up a notch.

"Restrained?" Jacky left the kitchen and returned with a pair of
handcuffs which she placed on the table.

"Oh," Oliver said. "No."

"It takes a lot of character and trust," she said, matter of factly.
"Not many can do it. Would you like to see how they feel?" He hesitated
and felt something inside him start to slip, to accede to her. "Hold
out your hands," she said. Her eyes were large. He held up his arms
without taking his eyes from hers. She smiled and closed the handcuffs
around his wrists. "There," she said. "How do they feel?" She watched
him, still smiling.

"Not bad," he said.

"You like them, don't you?" He swallowed. "Come with me," she said.
"I'll show you something." He followed her into a large bedroom. She
opened a dresser drawer and took out a long belt. Oliver held his hands
near his waist feeling foolish and short of breath.

"Are you the sheriff?" he asked.

She laughed and came toward him. "Much better than that," she said. She
looped the belt through his arms and pulled him slowly across the room.
"Let me know if you are not O.K. about this." He heard it as a
challenge. She dragged a chair over without letting go of the belt.
"Put your hands over your head." He raised his arms, and she stepped up
on the chair. She passed one end of the belt through a heavy eye bolt
that was screwed into the ceiling and which he hadn't noticed. She
buckled the belt so that his arms were held above him.

"Much better," she repeated, stepping down and placing the chair back
against the wall. She studied him. "You look very nice, Oliver. Just a
moment." She went out to the kitchen and came back with their ale. She
drank some of hers and said, "Let me know if you are thirsty." He
nodded. She was happier. Her color was higher. Good looking, actually,
he thought.

She read his mind. "Yes--you are feeling new things now." She moved a
step closer. She arched her back and slowly rolled her shoulders. "Do
you like my body, Oliver?" He reddened and swallowed. "How sweet! You
blush," she said. "You are my captive. I can tease you now  . . ." She
went to the dresser and took another swallow of ale. She tugged at the
bottom of her jersey, tightening it against her breasts. She moved
closer and swiveled slowly from side to side. "Mmmm," she said. "You do
like me!" Oliver's mouth opened and he began to breathe harder. He
nodded dumbly.

Jacky stepped back and looked him up and down. "Very nice," she said,
"but you have a lot to learn. Would you like to? Learn?"

"Yes," he said.

"Nothing leaves this room," Jacky said. "I don't even tell my
girlfriends about this." That was a relief, he registered in a far
corner of his mind. She brought over his glass and held it to his lips.
"Yes?" He nodded, not trusting his voice. She tipped the glass enough
for him to take a small sip of ale. "I am in control," she said,
looking down at him. She was close, almost touching. She smelled of
honeysuckle. "You will learn to please me, to care only for _my_
pleasure. You will suffer for me. When you are good, you will be
rewarded. But you must prove yourself." There was a practiced sound to
her words.

To his surprise, he wanted to prove himself. He wanted to please her.

"Well?"

"Yes," he promised.

"You will serve me without question. Then, you will be happy." She
freed him. "Come back Friday at six o'clock. Bring a heavy wooden ruler
that you have decorated. You are to buy it at an office supply store,
saying that it is for your mistress. You may go. Oh, and take the rest
of that steak sandwich with you." She went into a bathroom and closed
the door.

Oliver drove away shaking his head. What was that all about? He
couldn't deny the urge he had to surrender to her, to obey her. It
pulled at him like an undertow as he crossed the bridge. He walked down
to Deweys.

Mark was holding up one corner of the bar. "Hey Buddy, how's your love
life?" Intuitive bastard.

"What love life?" Oliver said and listened to Mark crow about Duke.
Mark could probably explain this sexual strangeness, but it was none of
his business. After a Guinness, Oliver felt more like himself, but as
he walked through the Old Port he passed an office supply store, closed
for the weekend, and he remembered the ruler. Decorate? Could you even
buy a wooden ruler any more? It was disturbing. Too much. He put the
experience in the back of his mind and resumed working on the box and
the mailing list program.

On Wednesday, he entered the office store and asked if they sold wooden
rulers. An elderly lady with exaggerated make-up showed him a blue box
in a far corner of the store. "We sell mostly plastic ones," she said.
"But some prefer these. They last." He bought an eighteen inch ruler
with an inlaid brass edge. "For my mistress," he said, "yuk, yuk." The
woman gave him change without replying.

He sprayed the ruler with black paint he had in the cellar. "I wouldn't
call it decorated," he said to Verdi the next day. The dovetail
template caught his eye. He took it down to the cellar and found a can
of Rustoleum.Using the template as a stencil, he sprayed a pattern of
triangles along both sides of the ruler. The reddish brown color on the
black background gave it a Navajo look. _If you're going to do
something, do it well,_ he reminded himself, pleased. That was another
of Owl's sayings; one that Oliver had made his own. Poor Owl. He had
not done something well the night he disappeared from his boat. Did he
have time to regret that he never won the Bermuda race? Was it a relief
or just a stupid accident? Oliver imagined dark water closing over Owl.
He shivered and put it out of his mind.

On Friday, Oliver nearly backed out. But the ruler glowed on his
kitchen table like a promise. "I don't know," he said. He took a
shower, put on clean clothes, and parked tentatively in Jacky's
driveway. He rang and waited. When she opened the door, he held the
ruler up in both palms. She looked at it and asked him in. Her eyes
were bright.

"Wine, Oliver." She pointed to glasses on the kitchen table. He poured
Washington State Chardonnay for each of them and held up one glass in a
silent toast. "Salud," she said. She turned the ruler over in her hand
thoughtfully. "Did you say it was for your mistress?"

"Yes," Oliver said. "The saleslady didn't say anything--probably
happens every five minutes."

"Good job," Jacky said, looking at the ruler.

"Kind of raw out," Oliver said.

"An indoor kind of night," she said. "Finish your wine." She spoke
gently but firmly. Oliver looked at her and felt the same urge to yield
that he had before. He was ready for her to tell him what to do. He
wanted her to. "Yes," she said as he put down his glass. She waited.
His eyes opened and a little thrill ran through him as he surrendered
to her. "Go in the bedroom and strip to your underwear. Kneel on the
floor with your hands on the bed."

She sipped her wine. He did as he was told and waited. There was a
beige shag carpet under his knees, a pale pink bedspread under his
arms. Jacky went into the bathroom and came out a few minutes later
wearing a red cotton nightshirt, open in front. She put the cuffs on
his wrists and placed a blue rubber ball in his right hand.

"Squeeze this," she said. "And if what I give you is too much, let it
go." She weighed the ruler in her hand and cracked him across the ass.
His body surged forward against the bed and he grunted. "It was a long
week," she said. "A long week." Crack. He grunted more loudly and
squeezed the ball. "Yes," she said, hitting him again, harder. To his
astonishment, he began getting an erection. She reached underneath him
and felt it. "You like it, too, don't you?" He grunted and then made a
louder noise of pain as she hit him. Each blow rammed his cock into the
mattress. He hung onto the ball as she hit him faster and faster,
stopping finally to get her breath.

"Very good," she said after a moment. Pain had spread across his body;
his mind reeled. "Stand up." This wasn't so easy. He lost his balance,
lurched against the bed, and stood with his feet wide apart. "Over
here." She hooked him to the eye bolt and slowly pulled down his
shorts. "You please me," she said. Oliver's senses were spinning. "You
present yourself well," she said. She put her hands on his chest,
feeling his nipples through his T-shirt. "Mmm," she said brushing her
fingers down his sides and trailing them over his hips. Her cleavage
was close to his mouth. Honeysuckle. She stepped back.

"Watch me," she said. She played with her body, rubbing her breasts
slowly and hitching up her nightshirt. She took a vibrator from the
dresser and stood directly in front of him. She brought herself toward
orgasm, looking into his eyes, making small noises. He began to whimper
in sympathy, encouraging her. A broad smile spread slowly across her
face. She tipped her head back, closed her eyes, and cried out.

"Oh," Oliver cried out with her. She came back to herself and took
several breaths.

"That--makes a girl feel better," she said. She held the vibrator in
front of his face. "Clean," she ordered. He touched it with his tongue.
She shook her head and put it firmly in his mouth, waiting and smiling
while he sucked on it. "Very good," she said, removing it. "You are
learning your place." She was pleased, light hearted. "You like this,"
she said. Oliver felt himself smiling. He nodded helplessly.

"You will come back next Friday for more training. You are to save
yourself for me." She cradled his balls with one hand. "Do you
understand?"

"Yes," he said.

"Yes, Mistress."

"Yes, Mistress."

She squeezed him gently. "Good. Now go--and behave yourself."

"I will," he promised. "Mistress," he remembered. She released him.

Oliver dressed and drove home. He was oddly elated. _Save yourself for
me._ An order. An implied promise. Another thrill ran through him.




4.


Oliver worked on the mailing list all week. He tried not to think about
Jacky, although she came into his mind regularly, especially at night.
Her big eyes held him before he fell asleep; her body was just out of
reach.

When he wasn't sitting in front of the computer, he worked on the
walnut box. He finished the dovetails. Fitting the bottom of the box
was a puzzle. He had cut it to rest inside; it had to be supported just
above the low bottom arches. He didn't want to put screws through the
sides of the box, and if he put supporting ledger strips on the inside,
the bottom would be raised too high. He fastened a small block to the
lower inside of each corner. The blocks strengthened the feet of the
box and supported the bottom just above the arches. He was satisfied
with that solution, but when he pushed the bottom down on the blocks it
did not fit perfectly flush against all four sides. The cracks bothered
him.

By Friday, after much experimenting, he had made tiny moldings to cover
the cracks. "Thank God for routers," he said to Jennifer Lindenthwaite.
"Took me about five tries, but I did it."

"I wish Rupert had your talent," she sighed.

"It's not talent; it's pig-headedness."

"Pigs are sweet, really," Jennifer said. "They get a bad rap." She
stood. "Let's see the program."

She liked what he'd done and asked him whether Jacky had approved it.

"Jacky said that, as long as I included everything that she wanted, you
should be the judge--since you would have to use it and train others to
use it."

"It looks good to me," Jennifer said. "I'll have Mary mail you a check
on Tuesday. We pay bills on Tuesdays."

"Thanks."

"It was good of you to help, Oliver. We may have to call on you again.
I think you should be entitled to a member discount. We have some nice
trips lined up this summer--day trips, and a canoe trip: Marsh, Myth,
and Earth Mother."

"Sounds buggy," he said.

"Oh, Oliver! Tents, silly. No-see-um netting."

"The cry of the loon across the night," Oliver interrupted.

"Right," she said. "Drumming for Gaia is a popular trip. Sometimes I go
along--quality control, you know."

"Inspector Jennifer," Oliver said. She reached for his arm, to shove
him or to slap him, but she stopped herself.

"Marshmallows," she said.

"Now you're talking. I'll let you know," he said, ducking out.

"We'll put you on the mailing list."

"Great," he called over his shoulder.

He went shopping for hardware. He found brass strap hinges and a hasp
and a lock that were well-matched. He would inlay the hinges--a pain in
the neck--but the brass would be fine with the walnut.

Oliver made progress on the box. He was pleased that evening as he
described it to Jacky. She listened quietly and waited for him to
finish. They were sitting on the couch in her living room. She was
wearing a black silk blouse that fell loosely over white jeans. She
stretched her legs, wiggled her toes in leather huaraches, and looked
at him closely.

Oliver felt the moment approach. He had been in a different world all
week; it was time to return. Jacky's face was firm and concentrated,
her eyebrows raised slightly. He looked into her eyes and felt again
the thrill of surrendering. He was hers. He wanted to be hers. He gave
himself to her utterly.

That evening and the ones that followed, once or twice a week,
continued the pattern. She beat him and humiliated him, bound him to
her pleasure, taught him how to massage her after a hot shower and how
she wanted oral sex. It was an alternate universe that existed only in
her house and only for a few intense hours at a time. His reward was to
be allowed to come at her command as she counted slowly to twenty or
twenty-five. If he came too soon or not at her number, she whipped him
with a riding quirt. "You are not thinking of _me. _ You are doing this
for _ME! _" He learned to think only of her as he masturbated, or, less
often, as she worked him with her hand. When he dedicated himself
completely, she counted him to orgasm at the perfect moment; she was
pleased; there was no whipping.

They went out to dinner several times, a normal experience--at least
externally. Beneath the conversation, Oliver was well aware of what was
coming after dessert. She would encourage him to be assertive and then
she would pull him back, reminding him of his place with a glance or a
small smile, a good natured cat and mouse game.

She told him about the two older brothers who had bullied her on the
basketball court. She was a power forward in high school but too small
for the team at the University of New Hampshire. "Same game, different
scale," she said. "I should have been a guard." Oliver was impressed.
She had trained to be a referee and still reffed high school games.

"You just like the uniform," he teased. "The black shoes."

"You'd like one of them on the back of your neck," she said. "I know
you, Oliver." He was rewarded that night.

Late one afternoon, toward the end of June, Jacky called. "I need you
to come over," she said and hung up. This was unusual; their meetings
were always planned in advance.

"Oh, oh, Verdi. She's not happy."

Things were going well for a change. The Wetlands Conservancy had asked
him to recommend and install an accounting system. They'd gotten a
generous donation, Jennifer told him, from a bank. "Did you know that
Jacky Chapelle is on the Board?"

"I didn't," he said, surprised.

Jacky smiled when he asked her about it. "Community money," she said.

"Small community," Oliver said.

"Keep it in the family," she laughed.

The marinas were filled with white boats. Bikers and pedestrians were
crossing the bridge in both directions. Oliver parked in Jacky's
driveway. "Hi, Bubbles," he said. That was a mistake.

"I've had a disappointing day."

"I'm sorry," he said instantly. Her eyes narrowed and she pointed to
the bedroom.

"Everything off."

He undressed quickly and knelt by the bed. She gave him the rubber ball
and handcuffed him. "Bastards," she said and swung the ruler. Oliver
groaned for her. He had learned to wait out the initial blows. When she
hit faster, she didn't hit as hard. It seemed that groaning sped her up.

"Don't bullshit me, Goddamn it!" What? She cracked him hard twice,
paused for breath, and then hit him twice more. "Bastards," she said
again. She took her time, winding up for each swing, not speeding up.
Oliver began to groan for real. He squeezed the ball, but he was losing
control. He thought of getting up and running away, but he was
handcuffed and naked.

"Cry, why don't you?" She cracked him again. She was deliberate. "Cry!"
Boys don't. "Cry!" Crack. "Who am I?" Crack.

"Mistress," he managed.

"Damn you." She hit him again. A hot tear squeezed from the corner of
his left eye.

"Cry!" Crack.

"Please," he said. Crack. "Please." Tears began to fall.

"Yes," she said. "More." Crack. He fell forward sobbing, helpless,
howling each time she struck him. He cried so convulsively, so hard,
that he didn't register the moment when she stopped and began to rub
his shoulders, comforting him. He hadn't cried like that since he was a
baby.

"Get up on the bed and turn over." She took off her jeans and panties,
put them on the chair, and came back from the dresser with a condom.
Oliver lay on his back, numb and floating, as she teased and rolled the
condom into place. Her eyes were huge as she straddled him. "Fifty,"
she said.

He wiggled into position and gave himself to her voice and the long
slow thrusts of her body. At thirty, her voice cracked. By forty, she
was whispering and beginning to tremble. At forty-five, she gasped
sharply and slumped forward. She caught and braced herself with her
hands on his shoulders, crying out with each new number as he strained
up into her. At fifty, he exploded; a blind white jet took them
drenched and mingled into the universe. He heard her laughing in the
nebulae, and then he collapsed. She lowered herself forward. A button
dug into his chest. Her hair pressed against his cheek. Awkwardly, he
brought his arms over her head and cradled her as best he could.

She was half off when he awoke. She removed the condom and came back
wearing a white bathrobe. "You are beautiful," she said, pulling tight
the cotton belt of her robe. He felt his cheeks glowing. "Beautiful.
Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you." She nodded and released the handcuffs. He dressed
slowly, feeling each movement of his body as though it were for the
first time. Jacky watched silently. He always left as soon as he was
dressed. "Good night--Mistress." His voice was quiet.

"Behave yourself," she said, looking at him thoughtfully.

He was on the bridge before he realized that he was driving and had
better be careful. He was hungry. Alberta's. Why not? He found a
parking spot, walked into his favorite restaurant, and got the last
open table, in a far corner of the upper level.

"How are we, tonight?" Claudine asked, smiling broadly. She knew
perfectly well. Women always do. Oliver imagined a sign over his head,
visible only to females: "Spent Male."

"Hungry," he said.

"You've come to the right place. Good halibut tonight, lime and ginger
sauce."

"I think it's a red meat night."

"Lamb? Lots of garlic, rosemary and Dijon crust? New potatoes?"

"Sold. I'll have a glass of Kendall Jackson Merlot." Claudine brought
him a large glass of wine, extra full. Oliver was a regular. He ate
there once a week or so on nights when he wanted to think. They left
him alone to make notes and sketches, to stare out the window at the
quiet street. He tipped well and felt that everybody was winning in the
exchange--so what if he were spending all his money.

Candlelight gleamed from glasses and warmed the walls. The room was
formal and cozy at the same time. He ate slowly, feeling calm and
unburdened. He ordered espresso and Death By Chocolate, then lingered
over Courvoisier. Verdi was aggrieved when Oliver finally got home.
Oliver made a great fuss over feeding him and apologized for the
unforgivable delay. He climbed the stairs to bed in a warm swirl. The
next morning he was very thirsty.

Jacky was called away on business the following week. The week after
that, in her kitchen, when the moment came, Oliver looked into her eyes
and felt no impulse to surrender. She reacted immediately. "Not
tonight," she said. And then, "That's all right. It doesn't have to
happen every time." They chatted, and he carried her smile home across
the bridge. It was warm, a bit troubled.

The week after that, she asked if he would meet her for dinner. "Oh,
boy," he said.

"Let's go to one of _your_ places, for a change," she said. They agreed
on Alberta's.

Oliver was early. He sat by a window and sipped a glass of wine. He
took a moment to recognize Jacky when she arrived. She was wearing a
broad-brimmed straw hat that covered her face, a low-cut magenta summer
dress, and leather sandals.

"You look terrific," he said. She took off her hat. There were extra
swirls in her hair and a small diamond post in each ear. Lip gloss
accented the color of her dress--a pale but deep pink, fresh and
elegant, white but tinged with the sadness of departing light; there
were babies in it and the silver of moonlight on old barns. "Some
dress!" Her breasts moved toward him.

"Would you like something to drink?" Claudine's voice straightened him.

"Can you make a martini?" Jacky asked.

"I'll try." Claudine glanced at Oliver, amused.

"Dry, please. One olive." The door opened and George Goodbean entered.
He was thinking about something and didn't notice them until he was
passing their table.

"Holy Moly!" he said, looking at Jacky.

Oliver introduced them. "Holy Moly means he wants to paint you," he
said to Jacky.

"Really," George said. "Who wouldn't?" He threw his arms in the air.
Claudine dodged around him and set a martini in front of Jacky.

"Perhaps we can talk about it another time," she said, smiling.

"Yes," George said. "Yes." He walked up the stairs to the upper level.

"He's been known to burst into arias," Oliver said.

Jacky sipped her martini. "Ah  . . ." She put the glass down carefully.
"I like him."

"He's a good guy," Oliver said. "Good painter." He told her about the
casting adventure, leaving out the bronze valentine.

Midway through dinner, Jacky reminded him of their last session on her
bed. "That was very special," she said. "You please me in so many ways,
Oliver." She put down her fork. "I've been transferred. That's why I
was in such a bad mood that night. We acquired a bank. I'm supposed to
run it, turn it around. I thought I could get out of it, but I
couldn't."

"Transferred?"

"Maryland," she said. "It's a promotion, really."

"Oh," Oliver said. He put down his fork. "Damn."

"Come with me." It was part command, part question.

"No--I can't." He knew it was true as soon as he said the words. Am I
crazy? he thought, looking at her closely. "It is you who are
beautiful," he said.

She tapped the fingers of one hand on the table. "Are you sure, Oliver?
Money is no problem." He nodded slowly.

"Oh, Oliver  . . ." She brushed away a tear. He had never seen her cry.
"Oh." She shook her head. "Who trains who?" she asked the window in a
tight voice. Oliver swallowed. He couldn't speak. This was happening
too fast.

"Sex," she said, looking back at him. "There's sex and there's
love--two different things. Sometimes they overlap. Sometimes, if
you're real lucky, they overlap a lot. Most people settle for a little
of one or a little of the other." She pushed her chair back. "I love
you," she said. She stood up. "Oh, well."

She regained control. "Good night, Oliver." It was a dismissal.

"Good night," he said obediently and bent his head. The mistress word
wasn't there any more. He felt terrible--honest, but terrible. He tried
to fix the image of her walking away down the sidewalk. He had an urge
to run after her, to sink to his knees with his arms around her hips,
to make her happy, but a dumb veto held him in his chair. It wasn't
right, or it wouldn't have remained right. He stayed seated and
finished his dinner. Claudine was tactfully silent.

He paid and climbed the stairs to George's table. "The lady's gone.
I've taken the high road," he said gloomily.

"My God, Olive Oil, she was  . . ." George's eyes expanded. "I mean,
bazumas!"

"Yes," Oliver said. "Bazumas."

"That dress! That color!"

"How about a little Courvoisier, George?"

An hour later, he lurched home and put on _La Traviata._ George had
diverted him with a long story about how his father had made his whole
family jump through hoops during his last years and then had snuck off
to Atlantic City and spent most of his money before he collapsed. "The
old goat," George said, annoyed all over again, partially approving.

Sad glorious voices filled the apartment. Oliver began to hate himself.
What the hell good was he to anybody? The walnut box caught his eye,
shining and complete. It angered him, refuted his mood. He put it on
the floor. "Fuck it," he said and lifted his right foot high over the
box. Verdi let out a loud warning meow. "What?" Oliver demanded of the
cat. "What's the matter with you?" The cat took two steps forward and
let out another long low sound of protest.

"Huh?" Oliver bent over and put the box back on the table. "All right,
all right." He opened it. The bronze valentine stared up at him.
"Shit," he said. Verdi rubbed against his ankle. "Fucking box," Oliver
said with a certain amount of pride. He scratched Verdi between the
ears. There was nothing to do but go to bed.

The phone rang. He answered, but the person on the other end was
silent. He knew it was Jacky. "I'm sorry," he said. She hung up.





5.


Jacky's transfer left a hole in Oliver's life. He tried to explain it
to Mark Barnes without getting into details. "I mean, we were going in
different directions anyway. She wanted a lot  . . ."

"Yeah." Mark laughed. "How it goes."

"But I got used to seeing her. She has a house in South Portland. I
used to go over there sometimes on weekends--nice place, garden out
back, blueberries, the high bush kind. I pruned them. We'd have a glass
of wine, get into it  . . .  Now, nothing. And the hell of it is: I
don't feel like seeing anyone else."

"Used to take me 18 months to get over a relationship," Mark said. "Now
it's 18 weeks and dropping. You know what they say about falling off a
horse."

"Climb back on--right." Oliver said. "All very well for you. I'm not,
like, in demand. I got lucky, was all."

"Come on! Just cuz you're four feet, two  . . ."

"Five feet, two," Oliver said. "Don't you forget it."

"Ork. It doesn't mean shit," Mark said. "Do I look like Mr. Studley?"

"How _do_ you do it, anyway?"

"Fabric, man. They're helpless for fabric. You got to buy stuff they
want to touch. The ladies have _no_ imagination; if they can't touch
it, it doesn't count." Mark drank and smiled. "I spend a fortune on
shirts and sweaters. 'Oooh,' they say. I hold out my arm for the feel.
'Yeah, nice--silk and cashmere,' I say. 'Alpaca,' or whatever the hell
it is. Next day, I mail it to them. Would look better on you, I tell
them."

"I don't have a fortune," Oliver said.

"Shop around," Mark said. "Linen. You got to start somewhere."

"Yeah," Oliver said.

For the hell of it, he checked out Filene's Basement, but he couldn't
find anything that didn't have the executive leisurewear look. The next
day he was in Freeport and stopped at the Ralph Lauren factory outlet
store. He bought a linen bush jacket that was radically marked down. It
was dyed a dark sandy color and looked as though it would last. The
traditional cut made it seem less trendy. Maybe that was why it had
been marked down.

Oliver was lonely, but he continued to feel as though a weight had been
lifted from him. The crying fit at Jacky's had liberated him. He
wondered why. Why had it felt right, somehow, to be punished by her? He
missed the sex, ached for it, but he didn't miss the beatings. He just
didn't feel guilty any more.

Guilty. As soon as he thought the word, Oliver knew that he was onto
something. He realized that he had felt guilty for as long as he could
remember--so long, in fact, that he didn't register it as guilt; it was
just the way he was. Why should he feel this way? He couldn't be
sure--this was murky territory--but he suspected that it had to do with
his mother. She seemed to hover around the edges when he thought back.
He wondered if he hadn't, at a very young age, taken on responsibility
for _her_ problems--with Owl, with him, with life. Maybe he had felt
that they were his fault, somehow. Whatever it had been, Jacky had
beaten it out of him. Probably that was why she picked him in the first
place. She had sensed his need, matching hers.

He continued to work at home and at the Conservancy. One afternoon,
Jennifer talked him into the "Drumming For Gaia" trip.

"I can't drum anything," he said.

"Oliver, you like music. I know you do." It was true. "We have a
teacher--a Master Drummer. A lot of people have never drummed before,
and they always have a good time."

"I don't have a drum."

"We sell them--simple ones. I have an extra one. I'll bring it for
you." She was enthusiastic and meant well. He couldn't say no.

The morning of the trip was cool and foggy. The group was to meet at
the Conservancy and then be bussed to Wolf Neck State Park. Jennifer
spotted him as soon as he drove in.

"Morning! I love your jacket." She reached out and felt it between her
thumb and first two fingers. That Mark.

"Morning, Jennifer. Yeah, it's nice. Linen," he said, but he was damned
if he was going to mail it to her.

"I brought your drum; it's in the car. I'll get it." She skipped over
to a white Volvo and took a drum from the back seat. "You're going to
love this." He accepted it, feeling foolish. She handed him a wooden
striker. "You can hold it any way that is comfortable." She took it
back and tucked it between her left arm and side. "Like this, or
straight up, if you're sitting."

"O.K., I get it," Oliver said.

"We'll be leaving in about ten minutes." He took a seat near the front
of the bus and tried to look relaxed. The drum was shaped like a
miniature conga, handmade with a skin head that was lashed tight. He
rested it on his lap and watched cars drive in. Twelve or fifteen
people got on the bus, most of them his age or younger, mostly women in
twos and threes.

Jennifer bounced in and sat beside him. "We'll pick up a few more on
the way. There's another group coming down the coast. I hope it doesn't
rain. Think positive thoughts, Oliver."

"What are they?"

"Oh, Silly," she slapped him on the arm. "Don't worry; you'll have fun.
_I_ am going to have fun!" She passed around a box of name labels and a
magic marker. "Aliases permitted," she said.

Forty-five minutes later, they stepped from the bus and gathered around
tables standing in a grassy field. Oliver had been there before. The
ocean was just out of sight through trees and down a steep bank. Paths
wound along a narrow wooded peninsula with views of islands, tiny
coves, wetlands, and pine groves. Picnic tables and grills waited in
small clearings. It was a popular place in winter for cross-country
skiing.

The second bus arrived. People milled about reading each other's name
tags. Oliver helped carry folding chairs from the back of the bus. A
van drove up. Its horn tooted twice, and a short round man popped out.
He was holding a stick adorned with feathers and bells. He stamped it
on the ground and shook it. When he had everyone's attention, he said,
"Bogdolf's the name; merriment's the game!"

"Good grief," Oliver said.

"Shhh, he's the Lore Keeper," Jennifer explained. She stepped closer
and whispered, "He's expensive, but he brings in extra contributions;
he's worth it."

"Good morning, fair folks," Bogdolf said, twinkling. "Good morning,
Jennifer. Have we time for a story?"

"Yes," Jennifer said. "Raul will be here at eleven for the drumming.
For those of you who don't know," she raised her voice and addressed
the group, "this is Bogdolf, Lore Keeper. I've asked him to speak to us
this morning." She sat in one of the chairs. Oliver sat next to her.
The others made themselves comfortable, and Bogdolf took a position in
front of them.

"Drumming For Gaia," Bogdolf said. "Fine. Very fine. I don't often have
an orchestra. Oh, we're going to have fun this morning. Ba, ba, boom!"
He made a pirouette and stamped his stick playfully. His eye fell on
Oliver, and he pointed at him with the stick. "Let me hear it, son." He
made striking motions with his stick. "Ba, ba _boom!_ Ba, ba, _boom! _
Let me hear it now." He had twirled his way directly in front of
Oliver. His eyes were sharp and blue beneath shaggy gray eyebrows. He
smiled happily, letting the group feel his joy. Oliver felt Jennifer's
foot on his; he stopped staring and struck his drum three times.

"Yes," Bogdolf said, spreading his arms approvingly. "The power!" He
looked upward and staggered back several steps. He looked again at
Oliver and made a commanding motion with the stick. Oliver struck the
drum three times. "_Gaia, _" Bogdolf said. Oliver felt a pat on his arm.

"A long time ago," Bogdolf began, "in the time of the Water People . .
." He paced back and forth as he told the story. His voice rose and
fell. He was on the verge of tears. He laughed. He whispered.
Threatened. Trembled. Finally: "And _that_ is how the little drum saved
the Water People." He looked at Oliver. Jennifer's foot pressed down.
Oliver struck his drum three times, and there was loud clapping.

"Gaia!" someone called. Bogdolf bowed modestly and made his way to the
coffee table where he was soon surrounded.

"Whew!" Oliver said.

"I'm sorry," Jennifer said. "I didn't know you were going to be the
orchestra." She giggled.

"First time for everything," Oliver said. They took a walk and watched
an osprey bring fish back to a nest of sticks high in a tree on an
island just offshore. They got down to serious drumming for an hour
before lunch and then for several hours afterwards. They warmed up with
straightforward Native American rhythms. Oliver found that he could
contribute as long as he played the most basic beat.

In the afternoon, they got into a Latin groove. Raul assigned parts and
demonstrated the son clave. Oliver, another drummer, and a boy with a
triangle were to play just the clave. Thank God for the other drummer.
Oliver and the boy followed him through the center of the complications
as the group got into synch and began to rock. He felt a duty to do it
right, to keep the beat, keep the faith. When they broke up for the
day, he felt refreshed. They continued sporadically on the bus, but
later, when Oliver was by himself, he couldn't recapture the beat. This
irritated him.

"I bought a book," he told Jennifer the following week. "I guess I'm
not musical. It just isn't inside me naturally; I need help to hear it.
Anyway," he explained, "if you take 16 even beats, numbers 1,4,7,11,
and 13 are the son clave beats. So, it is asymmetrical within the 16
beats, but symmetrical outside; the pattern repeats every 16 beats.
That's what gives it that rocking quality--the train leans one way and
then pulls back and leans the other. Ba, ba, ba--baba. Ba, ba,
ba--baba."

"There you go," Jennifer said, "who says you aren't musical?"

Oliver changed the subject. "How's Rupert doing?"

"Rupert  . . ." She shrugged, frustrated. "Sometimes I think he doesn't
even see me when he looks at me."

"Do you think you'll have kids, someday?" It just popped out of his
mouth.

"I hope so. We've been trying."

"This could be the weekend," Oliver said hopefully.

"I don't think so," she said. "Rupert's at a stamp collectors'
convention  . . .  You want to go to a movie Saturday afternoon, maybe
have a drink?" Her eyes opened wide. Now _she_ was surprised at
herself. Oliver blinked.

"Jesus, Jennifer. That sounds a lot like a date."

"Well--yes! Rupert is always telling me I should go out more, get out
of the house."

Oliver liked Jennifer. She was easy to be around. She was earnest in a
way that he understood. He found it hard to say no to her, which is
why, on Saturday night, he found himself on top of her while she kissed
him and pulled at his belt buckle.

He objected weakly, and she said, "I don't care. I don't _care_,
Oliver. I've never done this before. I need you." She clamped her mouth
on his and put the matter out of reach. She was as purposeful in bed as
she was in the office. She took him inside her and urged him on, as
though something might pull him away at any moment. It was fast and
satisfying. He barely registered that she was both softer and stronger
than he thought before she sighed and rolled him to one side. She had
that special full and contented woman's smile.

"That was so good," she said. She put her fingers on his lips. "Shhh.
I've got to go, now." She dressed quickly. "Will you be in on Monday?"
He nodded. She bent over him and put her hand on his chest, as if to
measure his strength while at the same time keeping him in place. She
lingered for a second. "Good night, Handsome."

"Good night." And she was gone.

The next day, Oliver stayed around the house wondering what he was
getting himself into.

On Monday, when he and Jennifer were alone, she blushed and said, "God!
That was wonderful, Oliver. But--it will just have to be a lost
weekend." She lowered and then raised her eyes. "I feel like I took
advantage."

"It was terrible," Oliver said. "There ought to be a law against it."
She threw her arms around his neck and just as quickly stepped back.
She bit her lip.

"I can't get used to you," she whispered.

"I'll be done, Wednesday," Oliver said.

That was that. A month later, he saw her with Rupert at the Maine Mall,
on the other side of the Food Court. She looked normally married and
involved in what they were doing. Oliver went in a different direction,
feeling lonely, remembering how tightly she had held him. He stopped at
Deweys. "I got back on," he informed Mark.

"Nice going. Quick work!"

"It was the linen jacket," Oliver said.

"No shit?" Mark was pleased. "There you go. This one's on me."

A few weeks later, Oliver was waiting for a seat in Becky's, standing
by the door, when Francesca came in with her two girls. Oliver looked
at her and all doubt left him. It was as if they had arranged to meet.
"Hi," he said.

"Hi." She was tanned, wearing a large white "Harbor Fish" T-shirt over
dark brown cotton pants.

"Mommy, I have to go to the bathroom."

"It's right over there, Elena--the first door." Francesca pointed and
put her free hand on the other girl's head. "Stay with me, Maria."

"Takes two hands--motherhood," Oliver said.

"Two aren't enough, really." Her voice was low and easy. An elderly
couple passed them on their way out. Oliver waved at their table which
was being cleared.

"Why don't you take it?"

"It's crowded, today. Thank you," Francesca said. "Why don't we share?"

"Sure," Oliver said. "Is anyone joining you?"

Francesca tipped her head to one side and ran fingers through her hair.
She looked at Oliver and shook her head deliberately. There were no
words, or too many, to explain. "My lucky day," Oliver said. She
smiled--tribute was tribute, even in Becky's at rush hour. Maria tugged
at her hand.

"I'm hungry."

"Let's eat, then," Francesca said, moving toward the table. When she
reached the booth, she said, "Mr.  . . .  is going to eat with us."

"Oliver."

"Mr. Oliver."

"No. Oliver Prescott is my name. Oliver Muni Prescott. But--Oliver,
please."

"I see." She laughed. "I am Francesca Malloy. This is Maria. And here
is Elena." She held an arm out to Elena who was pleased with her
conquest of the bathroom. "Elena, this is Oliver. We are sharing a
table, today." Elena stared at him.

"I'm almost as big as you," she said.

Maria leaned toward her. "Stupid--you're supposed to say: 'How do you
do.' "

"How do you do, Elena," Oliver said. "You _are_ a big girl. Strong too,
I bet."

"Very," she said.

"You have such pretty girls," Oliver said to Francesca.

"I am from Ecuador," Maria said. "Elena is from Colombia." She gave the
names their Spanish sounds. Oliver wanted to put his arms around her
and keep her from harm forever. "We have two mommies." She
concentrated. "We _each_ have two mommies. We are sisters, now."

"Lucky girls," Oliver said.

"Where's _your_ mommy?"

"Connecticut," Oliver said. "Far away."

"Oh." Maria nodded sympathetically. One corner of Francesca's wide
mouth curved up; the other curved down. Her eyebrows were raised.

"Lucky everybody," Oliver said, including himself. He felt the rings of
calm again, rippling outward from their table.

"Something to drink?" One of the regular waitresses laid down menus.

"Coffee for me," Oliver said.

"Tea. Juice for the girls--orange."

"I want apple," Elena said.

"Please," Francesca said.

"Please."

"One apple, one orange." The waitress swept away.

They talked about how the summer was nearly over. They talked about
learning how to swim and how hard it was to eat a lobster. Oliver
didn't ask about her husband. She didn't ask about his work. They
stayed with what mattered: themselves, lunch, the girls, the moment.
When they said goodbye, there was a lovely quiet between them. They
were together in the act of parting.

Oliver was giddy walking home. He looked at the walnut box and the
bronze heart. "She's the one," he said to Verdi who was staring at him
from the window sill.




6.


If Francesca weren't married, Oliver would have been after her in an
instant. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't think of a way to give
her the box and the valentine without putting her in an awkward
position. He placed them on the mantelpiece in the living room. The
walnut and the bronze gave him a warm feeling; they signalled a future
or at least a connection with her.

He might have hustled a programming project, but the thought of
business meetings sent him across the bridge to Crescent Beach. The air
was fresh and salty, softened by the waxy smell of beach roses.
Children played. Dogs chased Frisbees. Waves curled and crashed along
the sand. In September, in Maine, time has a way of crystallizing and
standing still. Oliver soaked up the sunny shortening days. He was
rested and tan, increasingly coiled for some kind of action.

He received a postcard from Jacky saying that she was living in a motel
but was about to move into a house. Her job was a lot of work but going
well. She missed him. He sent a housewarming card to the new address
and said that he missed her, too. No harm in that. Besides, it was true.

One afternoon in October, when the leaves were beginning to change
color, he came home and heard Jacky's voice on the answering machine.
"Oliver, are you there? No? I'm in town. I'm staying at the Regency.
I'm wondering if you would join me for dinner. I've got a meeting in
ten minutes. Just come to the restaurant in the hotel, if you can, at
six." There was a short pause. "I'll understand if you can't make it. I
know it's short notice. Bye." Her voice softened on the "bye," and she
hung up.

Oliver paced a couple of tight circles and decided to go. He did his
laundry and ironed a white linen shirt. At six, he walked into the
Regency and said to the hostess, "I'm meeting someone  . . ." He looked
around for Jacky.


"Are you Oliver?"

"Yes."

"Ms. Chapelle called to say that she would be fifteen minutes late. May
I get you a drink?"

"Glenlivet, please. Rocks."

Twenty minutes later Jacky swept in, apologizing.

"No problem," Oliver said. "You look well." She was tanned and buzzing
with energy.

"Forgive my banker suit," she said. "No time to change. I talked them
into more money."

"Congratulations."

"Dinner's on me. Mmm," she said, opening a menu.

"So, how's Maryland?"

"Crab cakes are great. Weather's warmer. After that--Maine wins." She
told him about her job and the house she was buying. "And you?"

"Pretty much the same  . . .  I found out what a clave beat is." He
explained and she applauded. "No, like this," he said, clapping out two
bars.

"It's warm in here," she said, taking off her jacket and opening the
top two buttons of her tight blouse.

"Yes." As they talked and drank, Oliver settled in his chair, his eyes
on the opening in her blouse and the lacy rising edge of her bra. A
familiar undertow pulled him down; he wanted to be lower than she was.
She watched, opened her blouse farther, and let it happen. They
finished dinner and drank the rest of the wine. "I'd forgotten  . . ."
he started.

"Oliver," she said, "I have something for you. Why don't you come up
for a drink?" He nodded, yes. She stood, signed the check, and led him
to the elevator. "There's wine in the convenience bar," she said,
shutting the door of her room behind them. He poured two glasses and
sat on a plushly upholstered love seat, waiting for her to come out of
the bathroom.

"That's better, isn't it?" she said, sitting beside him and kicking off
her shoes. Another button was undone. She sipped wine slowly, in no
hurry, enjoying herself. Oliver couldn't stop looking at her breasts.

"Do you know what I have for you?" she teased.

"Yes," he said in a small voice. His heart was beating loudly. He put
his glass on the end table and held out his wrists.

"Look at me, Oliver."

He didn't resist. He gave himself to her eyes.

"Sweet," she said. She took the handcuffs from her roll-on bag and
closed them on his wrists. "Stand up." She unbuckled his belt and slid
his pants and shorts down to his ankles. "How sweet." She reached into
the luggage and held up the riding whip.

"You remembered everything," he said helplessly.

"Have you?" She swished the whip, smiling. She didn't have to hit him.

"Please  . . ." He sank to his knees, desperate to please her, to be
close to her. She took off her blouse and approached with the whip in
the air.

"Much better," she said, shrugging her shoulders forward and back.
"Don't touch, Oliver. Just look." She leaned over him. "You'd like me
to take off my bra, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," he said. "Mistress." His throat was dry.

"I love how you want me," she said. "Can I trust you to--control
yourself?"

"Yes, Mistress." She removed her bra slowly, watching him with
pleasure. He swallowed.

"You are the sweetest love," she said, laughing. She stripped the rest
of the way and guided him to the bed where he devoted himself to her
until she was wet and happy, incoherent, thankful  . . .  From a
distance, he heard her say, "Now you."

"Doesn't matter," he mumbled.

She rolled him over and snuggled his head into her lap. "I'm going to
give it to you for a change," she said. "Here." She leaned over and
placed a breast in his mouth. She stroked him. "Jacky's got you. Suck
me, Baby." She pushed her breast deeper into his mouth and brought him
steadily along with her hand. "I've got you. It's all right." He opened
his mouth wide and drew her in. Love came in with her breast--a strange
new feeling that scared him--but she continued, and he accepted and
then couldn't get enough. She brought him to the top and cried out with
him, "Ohhhh! Yes.  More.  Oh  . . ." His head fell back and he reached
for her hip, clutching, clinging to her as if she were a life raft. She
put the palm of her hand on his forehead. "Baby," she said, rocking him
with her body. "It's all right. I've got you. I've got you." He sighed
and pushed deeper against her.

Oliver awoke in the morning with Jacky leaning over him. She was
dressed and glowing. "Hey, there," he said.

"No need to get up," she said. "The room is paid for. Just leave when
you're ready." She kissed him.

"Mmm, toothpaste," Oliver said. "Where you going?"

"Breakfast at Becky's with my friend, Francesca, and then catch a bird
to Baltimore." Oliver sat up straight in the bed. "No, no," she said
and pushed him down. "I left a card in your pants pocket. Call me
tonight."

"Uh  . . .  O.K."

"Sweet Oliver," she said and left. The door clicked shut, and Oliver
stared at the ceiling. Francesca? Crap! He imagined Jacky describing
their evening in full detail. She wouldn't. But she might well mention
his name. How many short Olivers were there in Portland? He got out of
bed and took a quick shower. Aside from a manageable headache, he felt
loose and relaxed. Jacky had seen to that, for sure. He left the hotel
by a side door and walked home.

"Verdi? There you are. Good old Verdi. I was bad last night. Very bad.
Here you go." He spooned out a whole can of salmon Friskies. "Full
breakfast, this morning. None of those little snackies, no." It was
important to stay on the right side of Verdi.


He considered shaving. To hell with it. He let Verdi out and walked
down to the Victory Deli for a cranberry-blueberry pancake. Jacky. She
knew just which buttons to push. He couldn't help himself. He had been
feeling helpless enough lately without this demonstration of it. She
reveled in his helplessness, rolled in it like Verdi in catnip. I like
it, too, he admitted. I do. I do and I don't. He was so independent
most of the time that it was a relief, a sweet relief, to give in, to
trust her and be controlled by her. But there was also a whiff of
something forbidden about the relationship, something to do with his
mother again. Jacky was a little like her. It was a powerful mix.

He called her at six o'clock. "Hi, how was breakfast?"

"Hi, Oliver! Fun. Francesca's a good buddy."

"Did you tell her about me?"

"Why--no. You're my secret, Sweet; I'm keeping you to myself. Besides,
Francesca's beautiful. Men go gaga over her. She's one of these tall,
dark, silent types. Gorgeous eyes, inner fires. I'd go for her myself
if I weren't so friggin straight."

"Hallelujah!" Oliver said with feeling.

"Thank you," she said. "Poor Franny, she has a terrible marriage. Two
of the cutest little girls. Oliver, I'm hoping you will come visit. I
want to show you the Bay and feed you some proper crab cakes. The
weekend after next would be perfect."

"How far are you from Atlantic City?"

"About two hours."

"I've never been to Atlantic City," Oliver said. "I've been wanting to
see what it's like. I could drive down on Friday, see you on Saturday?
Unless you want to meet me at one of the casinos?"

"You come here," she said. "I went once and it didn't do a thing for
me. All those grandmothers lined up at the slot machines  . . .  Cross
over the Delaware Bridge by Wilmington. I'm in northern Maryland, not
too far from there." She gave him directions, and they agreed to meet
around one o'clock.

"Behave yourself with the working girls," she said. "I'll see you in
two weeks."

"Bye," Oliver said.

Jacky hung up, and Oliver turned to Verdi. "I'm in trouble," he said.

At least she hadn't said anything to Francesca. He paced around the
room. What was happening? He was sliding into a life with Jacky. She
could keep him going while he looked for work; he could work anywhere.
Maybe he would do most of the cooking. What would it be like to wake up
next to her every morning? His head spun. What was wrong with this
picture? Anything? Something.

Atlantic City. When Oliver was confused, he tended to put himself in a
situation and see what happened. He was better at resilience than
calculation; he relied on his ability to pick himself up, dust himself
off, and learn from experience. When he tried to think about the
future, his mind turned off. He needed something more concrete to think
about. Casinos.

The next morning, he bought a book on gambling from the bookstore next
to the Victory Deli. He had never been crazy about cards. He had played
enough poker to know how brutal it was. The smartest and toughest
player won. If you were smarter and tougher, you might as well just
take the other person's wallet. It was worse than that. Not only did
you take his money, but you left him feeling responsible, stupid, and
broken. Oliver didn't want to be on either end of that exchange.

As he read about blackjack, he decided against it. He would actually
have odds in his favor if he could count cards without being caught and
thrown out of the casino. He probably could count cards with practice;
he'd been a math major in college; he was comfortable with numbers. But
it would be a lot of work. And he didn't like the idea of relating to
the dealer as an opponent, an enemy working for the house. The dealer
was just trying to make a living.

Roulette was O.K., but it seemed too mechanical and small in scale. The
best roulette odds were not as good as the best odds in craps. Craps
had a traditional sound to it. Oliver studied craps.

Players stood around an enclosed table and took turns throwing a pair
of dice. On the first throw, the player "passed" if a 7 or an 11 came
up. A 2, 3, or 12 was a "no pass." Any other number became the "point."
The player continued to roll until either the point came up again, a
pass, or a 7 was rolled, a no pass. All players could bet on every roll.

Custom required that a player continue rolling until he or she did not
pass. The dice were then pushed to the next player in turn around the
table. There were many different bets, simple and complicated. You
could bet that a player would pass or not pass or that a number would
be rolled before a 7. The complicated bets had large payoffs and
correspondingly smaller chances of winning. The simplest bet had the
best odds, winning just under 50% of the time. If you played only the
bets with the best odds, you could consider the house edge as a 2%
charge for hosting the game and keeping it honest. You would lose if
you played long enough. But you could get ahead and quit. Maybe.

The stakes could be as high as you wanted. This appealed to Oliver. He
liked the financial Russian roulette quality: win or die. He withdrew
everything but twenty dollars from his bank account.

On his way back from the bank, he stopped at Deweys. It was fun
drinking a pint of Guinness with six thousand dollars in his pocket.
Mark was there, celebrating another executive placement.

"Chemical sales. Houston, poor bastard."

"You ever go to Atlantic City?"

"Sure, man." Mark snapped his fingers. "_Down on the boardwalk  . . .
boardwalk._"

"Where did you stay?"

"Bally's, most of the time."

"What was it like?"

"Bally's?"

"No, I mean the whole thing," Oliver said.

"Good time--if you don't get into it too deep. Have a few drinks, check
out the ladies. Lot of money flying around. They have these hard-nosed
dudes called 'pit bosses' that keep an eye on things, head off trouble
. . .  I usually go on a travel package for a couple of nights. They're
a good deal; the casinos subsidize them. I take all the money I feel
like blowing off and one credit card in case I get stuck or something.
You going?"

"I was thinking about it," Oliver said. "I've been learning how to play
craps."

"Yeah, craps, the best. _Down on the boardwalk_ . . ."

Oliver made a reservation at Bally's and considered what to wear. A
plaid shirt and jeans weren't going to do it; there was something
significant and ceremonial about this trip. He had a summer linen suit
that he'd worn to his sister's wedding, years ago. He bought a mulberry
colored T-shirt to wear under the jacket. He wanted to look like a
star, a player. When in Rome  . . .  He stopped short of buying a gold
neck chain.

He put the cash in the walnut box and then hid the box behind old
sheets in the bedroom closet. The box made a good bank, but he missed
seeing it on the mantelpiece.

Verdi. He couldn't just leave food and kitty litter--Verdi needed to
prowl around outside. And what if he didn't get back right away, for
some reason? Maybe Arlen, downstairs, would look after him. A few
minutes after he heard Arlen return from work, he knocked on his door.

"Hello, Oliver."

"Nice shirt, Arlen. Aloha!"

"Aloha, Oliver." White tropical blossoms and blue sky hung from Arlen's
thin shoulders. He was wearing faded jeans and cowboy boots.

"I was wondering if you could do me a favor?"

"If I can--of course. Would you like to come in?" Oliver entered an
immaculate apartment. Parakeets and finches were hopping back and forth
in large cages near the windows.

"I'm going on a short trip--three days, maybe four, next weekend. I
need someone to look after Verdi, feed him, and let him out once a day.
I know it's a nuisance  . . ."

"But I like Verdi. It will be no trouble. When are you leaving?"

"Friday."

"No problem. Would you like a drink? We don't get to chat often."

"Sure."

"Let me see. I have ale and, of course, the hard stuff."

"You wouldn't have any Glenlivet, by any chance?"

Arlen smiled. "Would Laphroiag do?"

"Damn, Arlen. I'll choke it down. Yes."

Arlen poured two drinks. "Another day, another dollar," he toasted.

"Single malt," Oliver replied, holding his glass high. There was a
moment of reverence after the first taste. "God, that's good!" Oliver
said. "I have plenty of cat food. I'll leave clean kitty litter. You
probably won't have to change it if he goes outside."

"I'd have a cat if it weren't for the birds," Arlen said. "I don't
think enemies should live together, do you?"

"No." Arlen was an accountant for one of the big firms. He had a slim
orderly face.

"Sometimes I think cats are smarter than people," Arlen said, "but I
love to hear the birds. They sing whenever they damn please." He
sighed, leaned back on his couch, and crossed his legs. An embossed
boot swung prominently in front of him, oddly flamboyant.

"Yeah, Verdi's my buddy," Oliver said. "He likes you, too."

"Birds can be your friends," Arlen said. "People don't realize." He
looked out the window. "I had a parakeet once. His name was Tootsie."

"Tootsie," Oliver repeated, sipping whiskey.

"An ordinary parakeet, green and yellow--but Tootsie could sing! A
wonderful singer." Arlen looked back at Oliver. "Parakeets are tough,
you know. They are little parrots, actually, strong birds."

"Really? Parrots? I didn't know that."

"Yes," Arlen said. "Tootsie belonged to William." His voice lingered on
the name, and he looked out the window again. "I was just getting to
know William. He asked me to keep Tootsie for him while he was away one
summer  . . .  I suppose he was testing me."

"Ah," Oliver said, vaguely.

"Tootsie and I got along very well. I tried to teach him to say
'William,' but he preferred to sing." Arlen paused to drink.

"I moved in with William that fall." He uncrossed his legs and crossed
them again, waving the other boot in the air. "To make a long story
short, I moved out three years later. William was away for the night. I
was feeling shitty, and I explained the situation to Tootsie. 'I'm
leaving in the morning,' I told him. 'It's not your fault; it's not
William's fault; it's not anybody's fault. We just didn't quite make
it, that's all. Almost, but not quite.' Tootsie listened to me. You
know how they do, with their heads cocked to one side. He was in a cage
with a fail-safe door; the kind that are hinged at the bottom--if they
aren't positively latched shut, they fall open so you'll know to latch
them." Arlen swirled the whiskey around in his glass.

"In three years, Tootsie never got out of his cage. The next morning, I
got up and went into the living room. 'Goodbye, Toots,' I said.
'Toots?' He wasn't in his cage. I walked over, and there was Tootsie on
the table beneath his cage. He was lying on his side, stone dead."

"No way," Oliver said.

"Stone dead. I don't know how he got out. I don't know what happened.
All I know is that he died when the relationship did. I think his heart
was broken."

"What did you do?"

"I buried him beneath a tree on the Eastern Prom," Arlen said. "I
haven't seen William for years. He moved out of town." One of the
parakeets burst into song. "There he is now."

"Who?"

"William," Arlen said.

"Oh." They drank in silence. "Guess I'll be going," Oliver said.
"Thanks. I'll put a key under the mat when I leave on Friday."

"You're welcome, Oliver. Don't worry about Verdi." Oliver went upstairs
glad to have solved the problem but feeling sorry for Arlen. He was a
decent guy. Usually alone. You'd think he could find someone to be with.

"Arlen will take care of you," he said to Verdi.

Early Friday morning, Oliver retrieved his stash and placed the walnut
box back on the mantel. "So long, Verdi. Don't give Arlen a hard time."
He slid a spare key under the mat and took a last look around. He
hesitated. The box. The box bothered him. What if I don't come back? he
thought. Get hit by a truck, or something.

It seemed stupid, but Oliver was used to following his intuition. He
wrote a note: "Francesca, I made these for you. Oliver." He put the
note, the bronze heart, the lock, and one key inside the box. He put
the other key on his key ring. There was only one Malloy listed in the
telephone book. He wrapped the box with paper cut from two grocery bags
and addressed it to: Francesca Malloy, Cape Elizabeth, Maine. He put
all the stamps he had in a double row across the top. If something
happened to him, the package would get to her.

Feeling better, he skipped down the stairs, threw his carry-on bag into
the Jeep, and headed out of town. He stopped for coffee at the first
rest area on the turnpike. The sun wasn't even up as he got back in the
Jeep. _On the road again,_ he sang, picking up speed and passing a Shop
'N Save truck. "Fuck you, Malloy," he said, leaving the truck behind.
Francesca's husband worked for Hannaford Brothers, who owned the
grocery chain. _On the road again_  . . .




7.


Traffic was moderate. Oliver hummed along, enjoying the oranges, reds,
and yellows of New England in October. He crossed the Hudson on the
Tappan Zee Bridge, bypassing New York, glad to be moving again after
weeks of inaction. His money and what felt like his entire future was
in his pocket.

At five o'clock he cruised slowly through Atlantic City. He found
Bally's, parked, and went to his room. He washed his face, changed into
his outfit, and went back outside. The boardwalk stretched out of sight
along the beach. It was warmer and more humid than in Maine. Lazy waves
collapsed on the sand. Beach-goers and gamblers of all ages strolled
back and forth--studs with oiled glistening muscles, grandmothers with
straw hats and outrageous sunglasses, Afro-Americans, Latinos, Asians.
He was too warm in his suit. He returned to the air conditioned hotel
and entered the casino.

Loud music. Hellish reds and blacks. The women that Jacky had
remembered were seated in front of rows of flashing slot machines. The
women pulled long levers mechanically; win or lose, they pulled again.
Bells rang as an occasional jackpot cascaded from a machine.

Oliver recognized the crap tables--elongated mahogany figure eights,
surrounded by players leaning over the action. Dice rolled, bounced,
and tumbled to a stop on the gleaming green felt. People cheered or
groaned.

The roulette wheels were in a different section. The blackjack dealers
were beyond the roulette wheels. At the far end of the casino, behind
bars, cashiers exchanged chips for money or vice versa. Cashing in your
chips, for real, Oliver thought. He pushed $1000 toward a cashier.

"What do you want?" Oliver hesitated. "Hundreds, twenties, tens, fives,
what?"

"Give me one hundred dollar chip," Oliver said, "the rest, tens and
fives."

"You want to leave some in the cage?"

"Five hundred," Oliver said. The cashier issued him a plastic card with
a magnetic strip.

"Give this to the pit boss when you want more."

"I got these complimentary dollars," Oliver said, "when I checked in."

"Over there." The cashier pointed to a barred room within the main
room. "Promotions." Oliver walked over to Promotions.

"Could I exchange these for chips, please?" A man with a neat mustache
swept up the fake coins. He flicked his wrist and thumb. Oliver's chips
fell on the counter in front of him. Oliver counted. "Wasn't there
supposed to be thirty-five?"

"Yeah, man. You short?" Oliver pushed the chips toward him. "Sorry,
man. Mistake," he said, adding a five dollar chip to the pile without
changing expression. Oliver put them in his pocket and walked toward
the crap tables. That was a scam, he thought. Get away with that once
an hour, your pay would go up--a couple of hundred a week.

He straightened as a feeling shot through him. It was like waking up.
It was time. He approached the front craps table and stood with his
arms hanging down and his weight evenly balanced. Fifteen feet away, a
man shifted sideways so that he was directly in front of Oliver. He was
expensively dressed, medium sized with wide shoulders and a dark
angular face. He stared at Oliver. I see you, he was telling Oliver.
You aren't like the rest of them. I'm watching. He was intense and
deadly. Pit boss, Oliver realized. Well, fuck you. Oliver's spirit and
body fused as though they had been sleeping in separate rooms. For the
first time in years, he felt his whole strength. A slight smile crossed
his face.

The pit boss was called away, and Oliver continued to watch the table.
_They're not getting my money. _ The resolve came out of nowhere, clear
and absolute. A woman left the table. He took her place, bent over, and
placed a $5 chip on the pass line. An older man in a baseball cap threw
the dice low and hard. They bounced off the far end of the table and
skittered back to the center. A two, snake eyes. Most of the players
groaned. Oliver's chip was raked in. He bet again to pass. The next
player threw a six. There was a flurry of bets. A four. Another flurry
of bets. The player reached down with one hand and arranged the pair of
dice so that threes showed on top. He was overweight, red faced with a
closely trimmed white beard. He tossed the dice gently up into the air
so that they stayed together until they hit the felt. They bounced to a
four. "Yes!" Cheers and clapping. The players who had bet that a four
would be rolled before a seven had won. No one had lost. The start of a
good run. Burl Ives / Colonel Sanders arranged the dice again and threw
a six--the point. Uproar. All were winners but those few who had bet
"no pass." Oliver had his chips back.

He stepped away. He had won, and he had lost. He wandered over to a
roulette table. Two Asian women, middle-aged sisters perhaps, or
cousins, or lovers, sat side by side betting large sums on every spin
of the wheel. Their hair was long and lustrous, elaborately wound and
held by jade. Light disappeared into the blackness of their hair and
re-emerged at different points as they tilted their heads toward each
other and toward the whirling ball. They bet on lucky numbers,
sometimes winning big, often losing all. They were indifferent to loss
and satisfied when they won. Their faces were masks--beautiful and
timeless.

Oliver bet $10 on red, a gesture after losing himself in admiration of
the women. The steel ball whirred around the rim and bounced down into
a red numbered slot. Everybody won. He picked up his winnings and
nodded to the pair. They scarcely noticed.

Oliver was ten dollars ahead and hungry. He left the casino and found a
coffee shop where he ate a turkey club sandwich and relaxed. So far, so
good.

As he neared the crap tables again, a bar hostess with long legs in
black mesh stockings asked if he wanted a drink. "Diet Pepsi, please."
She came back a few minutes later with the drink. "Thanks." He put a
dollar tip on her tray.

He moved to a place at the ten dollar craps table. The man next to him
had a name tag on his short sleeved shirt that read, "R. Melnick M.D."
He was pale and sweating lightly. His fingers drummed on a stack of
black $100 chips, twenty at least. He placed four chips on the no pass
line, won, and added to his stack. He left, irritated, as though the
inevitable humiliation was just being postponed.

Oliver bet ten dollars and won. He left his chips on the pass line and
won again. He put one chip back in his pocket and won again. He put two
more chips in his other pocket and lost the rest on the next roll.
Twenty dollars ahead. He kept his original stake in one pocket and his
winnings in the other.

When he lost three times in a row, he went over to the roulette tables
to change his luck. He put one chip on red and lost. He doubled his bet
and won, leaving him one chip ahead. He went back to craps and began
betting larger amounts. He stayed with his system. He was $375 ahead
when he lost three times and headed back to the roulette wheel. He lost
the first three times he bet on red. He doubled his bet again, eight
$10 chips, his largest bet so far. The ball went around and around and
hopped into the double zero slot. Neither red nor black. The house won
all bets. Oliver swallowed. What were the odds that he would lose an
almost even bet, five times in a row? About one out of thirty-two
times. He counted out sixteen chips, $160. The dealer looked at him
with a flicker of interest--one of these guys who would go down with
his system? The ball whined around the rim of the wheel a long time
before it slowed, fell into the center of the wheel, and bounced to a
stop.

Red. Oliver collected his chips, relieved, and put all but one back in
his stake pocket. All that risk on the last spin to win a net total of
one chip. If he had lost, he would have had to bet $320 on the next
spin to have a net win of one chip. And then $640. The dealer had seen
it all before. Sooner or later, the improbable happened, and a run of
losses wiped out the double-or-nothing players.

Oliver put his $100 chip on pass. He lost. He lost twice more and
returned to roulette. This time he won on the second spin. He went back
to craps and lost again. His winnings sunk to $45 and then climbed back
to $120.

"How's your luck tonight?" A young blonde smiled appealingly.

"Not too bad."

"You want to bet a couple for me? You know, have a good time?"

"I'd love to," Oliver said, "but I'm too shot. I'm going to bed."

"I could help with that," she said.

"No thanks, Beautiful--not tonight." She shrugged and moved on. Oliver
went up to his room and was asleep in five minutes.

At 4 a.m. he was wide awake. He dressed and returned to the casino. The
room was mostly dark and shut down. Only one row of slot machines by
the door was active. Overhead lights illuminated a single craps table,
a bright mahogany raft floating in the darkness. Old men held on to its
edges, playing quietly and grimly. Oliver put himself in their place.
Why go to bed? Save themselves for what? They clung to a different kind
of life raft than Jacky had been for him, but it was just as real. He
watched for ten minutes and left. He found an open cafeteria and took a
cup of coffee back to bed. The steam from the cup and the warmth in his
hand were comforting.

Oliver woke up late in the morning. He cashed in all but fifty dollars
of his chips and ate a large breakfast. He walked along the beach to
the Taj Mahal casino and found that it was much the same as Bally's. He
returned to the hotel and checked out. Before he left, he placed a
fifty dollar bet on pass. He would leave seventy dollars ahead or a
hundred and seventy dollars ahead, a winner either way. My kind of bet,
he said to himself. He won. Yesterday's pit boss was not there. Oliver
imagined himself nodding to him--superior, free, out of there. It
didn't matter. He could tell Jacky.

Finding the Delaware Bridge was the next challenge. Two hours later,
Oliver was in Maryland easing around a curve on a gravel driveway.
Stones crunched under his wheels as he stopped in front of a white
colonial. Jacky came out to meet him. She was wearing a Red Sox T-shirt
and a wrap-around cotton skirt.

"Well, well," she said looking at his suit and holding her arms open.
"What have we here?"

"A player," Oliver said, coming close. Her arms drew him against her.
He smelled honeysuckle, and his hands found their familiar places.

"Mmm," she said, "I'll bet you're hungry."

"You win."

Jacky stepped back. "Good. I'm going to show off. I've been practicing
my crab cakes."

"Yumm."

"I thought we'd eat home, relax, maybe go out later  . . .  I'll give
you the Bay Tour tomorrow."

"Finest kind," Oliver said. "Nice house. That T-shirt isn't going to
make you any friends."

"Just because I'm living in Maryland, doesn't mean I'm a traitor," she
said, leading him into the kitchen. "How was Atlantic City?"

"Weird. I won. It wasn't what I was expecting." Jacky took the crab
cake mix from the refrigerator. She turned on a burner under a Dutch
oven half full of oil. "I thought I might get into a big deal
all-or-nothing scene, a go-down-in-flames kind of thing. I brought all
my money." He told her about the pit boss and the icy focus that had
come over him and taken control. "I didn't even drink," he said. "It
was tiring, but I won."

"Very good," she said. She flicked drops of water into the oil. The
drops sizzled and danced. "You're safe now. There's a nice Sauvignon
Blanc in the refrigerator. I think it's time."

Oliver responded to her choreography. He uncorked the wine and poured
two glasses. "To us," Jacky said. Oliver clinked his glass against hers
and sipped.

"Yowzir! You must have gotten a good raise."

"Wait until you taste these," she said, lowering crab cakes into the
hot oil.

The crab cakes were delicious. "What's your secret?" Oliver asked.

"Mustard and capers," she said, pleased. The bottle was quickly empty
and they opened another. Drinking with Jacky usually made Oliver softer
and more open. Today, he began to feel focused again, revved up, not
unlike the way he had felt in Atlantic City. Jacky was smiling.

"Oh, this is so much better," she said. Let me show you the rest of the
house  . . .  I could use some of your special attention." She led him
through a comfortable living room and up the stairs. Oliver looked at
the ceiling in the bedroom.

"No eye bolt," he said.

Jacky giggled. "Funny you should mention that." She opened a drawer and
took out a large bolt. "I thought maybe you could help me with this.
Maybe tomorrow." She laid the bolt on the dresser. "Take your clothes
off, Oliver."

The focus inside him strengthened. He dropped his clothes at his feet
without changing expression, kicked off his shoes, took three steps,
and pulled her to him. "Aren't we strong, today," she teased. He turned
her backwards onto the bed. She fell beneath him and wrapped her legs
around him. "My fierce little man."

This was the way it was going to have to be, Oliver realized. Talk
wasn't going to do it. A counselor wouldn't work. This was their
language.

He pulled up her skirt and curved his right hand between her legs. His
left hand reached up under her head and took a fistful of hair. He
pulled her head down, immobilizing it, and rubbed slowly with his right
hand. Her shoulders strained upward twice in resistance or surprise.
Oliver held her head back and continued to rub.

Jacky adjusted quickly. She pushed up against his hand. "Take them
off," she said. Oliver rolled sideways without letting go of her hair.
He pulled her panties down, and she bent her knees. He slid them over
her feet and then moved back on top of her. "Give it to me," she said.

Oliver entered her, slowly and deeply until she was pinned to the bed.
She made a small gurgling noise. He withdrew and then pushed into her
again. "Oliver?" He increased the pressure on her hair and went on
fucking her silently and slowly. "Oliver?" He didn't trust himself to
speak. He was afraid to speak. She would regain control, somehow.
"Ohh," she groaned. "Sweet?" The question in her voice was increasing,
changing to doubt. His intensity strengthened, feeding on her doubt.

He kept an impersonal rhythm, driving her into the bed with each
stroke, holding his grip on her hair. "Baby," she said. "Fuck me." She
began to writhe beneath him, meeting him, trying to draw him on. Oliver
refused to hurry. "Oliver?" She was pleading, now. Deeply in. Slowly
out.

Jacky began to strike him in the back. She made angry sounds. Her fists
drummed on his back. I--am--in--control, he said to himself. "Damn
you!" she exhaled. She stopped hitting him. "All right. All right." She
went limp.

Oliver continued without varying. She gave up. Her hands went to his
back and her body molded to his. Her breath began to whistle on each
exhale as he drove into her. She came with a sudden release and a
series of falling sighs. Her hands fell back on the bed.

Oliver released his grip on her hair and cradled her cheeks in both
hands. He kissed her for the first time. Holding her lips softly under
his, he began to move faster. Her hands went to his shoulder blades.
Her tongue touched lightly in and out of his mouth. In a minute, he was
done. She stroked his back.

"Oliver?"

He was off her and dressing.

"Oliver, please  . . ." She sat up, uncertain. He saw the little girl
in the strong woman. He wanted to comfort her, but he didn't trust
himself not to give in. She would control him forever. It wasn't her
fault; it was just the way she was. Arlen's words came to him.

"It's not your fault," Oliver said. "It's not anybody's fault. You are
wonderful, Jacky. Queen of crab cakes. The greatest fuck in the western
world. But--I've changed. It won't work." He shook his head. "I wish it
could."

"Why did you come?" She reddened. "Well, go then!" She looked around
and picked up a book from the table next to the bed. "Go!" She threw it
at him. He ducked sideways and walked downstairs. She followed him,
shouting "Go!" As he went out the front door, a glass shattered against
a wall. "Get _out_ of here!" The other glass smashed and he heard her
begin to cry.

The Jeep started and he was on the road again.




8.


Oliver drove a mile and stopped, ears buzzing from wine and the violent
emotion. He saw Jacky again, sitting up on the bed, one hand across her
heart, and he felt a stab of pain and longing. It wasn't too late to
turn around. They could put the pieces back together; he could serve
her, and she would take care of him. Why not? What else was he going to
do? He searched around in the glove compartment and found a Willy
Nelson tape. Might as well have the real thing. _On the road again  . .
._  Shit. He pounded the steering wheel once and kept going.

Philadelphia. He made it past the city and began to wear down. He
didn't need to hurry--Arlen wasn't expecting him home for a couple of
days. He turned off the highway and stopped at a motel. He put his bag
on a chair and lay down for a moment. Had he done the right thing? Or
was he just running away from commitment? He was in a bind. He couldn't
stay in a submissive relationship with Jacky, but the more powerful
that he felt as an individual, the lonelier he became and the more he
wanted her--or someone.

Pie. At least there was pie. Somewhere. He drove down the road until he
came to a diner. Two state cops were drinking coffee at one end of the
counter. A truck driver and three construction workers sat at the other
end. Oliver sat between the two groups and sank further into his
feelings. Thirty-five and what did he have to show for it? Six thousand
dollars and a cat. An old Jeep.

He finished his apple pie and watched the double doors to the kitchen
swing shut behind the waitress. The swinging doors dissolved into dark
water. He saw Owl overboard, holding his head above the waves. "Find
your father," Owl said. Oliver's eyes opened wide. Owl _had_ said that
once. "Someday, you should find your father."

Oliver thought hard. He had to do something. It was good advice. He
made up his mind to try.

"More coffee?"

"Uh--yes. Please."

Oliver took a deep breath and peeled the top from a creamer. He poured
the liquid into his coffee and watched white swirls turn the black to
brown. Owl had done his best for him. He had acknowledged their
difference without really talking about it. He hadn't tried to be
everything to him. Tears came to Oliver's eyes. He stared straight
ahead and let them slide down his cheeks. Wiping them away would have
been disrespectful.

No one seemed to notice.

Oliver returned to the motel and slept twelve hours. The next day he
considered stopping in New Haven, but he decided to drive straight
through to Portland. His mother had not been in contact with his
father, Muni, since she had left Hawaii. She wouldn't know any more
than what she'd already told him. The Nakano's had owned a small hotel
in Honolulu. Muni's brother, Ken, was a teacher. Muni had been a
student at the University. That was it. His mother had split soon after
she learned that she was pregnant. According to her, Muni had wanted to
marry, but she knew it wouldn't work.

Not a lot to go on, but it would have to do.

"Welcome back, Oliver. You're home early," Arlen said.

"Don't get used to it. I'm going to Hawaii." Arlen's jaw dropped.
"Don't worry," Oliver said. "I'm not going to stick you with Verdi.
Thanks very much for taking care of him, by the way. We just had a
chat. He says you're a nice man and you have some Laphroiag left."

"You can't tell a cat anything, these days," Arlen said. "It's not
quite cocktail hour, but I suppose it's close enough."

"Just a drop," Oliver said.

They sat near the birds. "Perseverance furthers," Oliver toasted.
"That's from the _I Ching._"

"Ninety percent of success is showing up," Arlen answered. "Woody
Allen."

"It's true, isn't it," Oliver said. "You just have to keep at it. What
was your father like, Arlen, when you were a kid?"

"Very much as he is now," Arlen said. "Early to bed, early to rise. We
had a dairy farm near Unity. We didn't have a lot of money, but we
always had clothes and whatever we needed for school. If we wanted
extra, we had to work for it. He still has the farm, but he sold the
herd after Mother died." Arlen's eyebrows raised with the memory, then
settled. "He's hung on, doing a little of this and a little of that,
getting by with social security. He sold a small piece of land three
years ago. He keeps saying he's going to sell out and move to Florida,
but he doesn't get around to it."

"Good for him. I never met my father. That's why I'm going to
Hawaii--to see if I can find him."

"Oh," Arlen said. "Well. It's a long flight. But there's no place like
Hawaii. I usually stay over on the west coast, break the trip in two.
The jet lag isn't so bad that way, and the flight isn't such an ordeal."

"Not a bad idea."

"San Francisco is wonderful, of course. Seattle and Portland are nice.
There's a marvelous Japanese garden in Portland, high on a hill
overlooking the city."

"I'll think about that. I'm not sure when I'll be going or how long
I'll be. Depends on when I can get a cheap ticket and what happens."

"I would stay at least a week or two. You might as well make a trip of
it while you're at it."

"I'll call one of those professional cat-sitter people--unless you know
someone who might want to live here for a couple of weeks?"

Arlen rubbed one of his cowboy boots. "Porter might like that. His
situation at the moment is--tenuous."

"Porter?"

"I'll ask him if you like," Arlen said. "He might be up for some peace
and quiet. Porter is trustworthy."

"Any friend of yours  . . ."

"I'll ask," Arlen said.

"O.K., thanks." Oliver sipped whiskey. "My stepfather was a good guy.
He drowned--nearly twenty years ago."

"I'm sorry. Fathers can be bad, too, you know."

"I guess I'll just have to find out. Bound to learn something, either
way."

"A drop more?"

"Sure."

"Fathers, then," Arlen toasted. "I remember when I told mine that I was
gay. I was pretty nervous."

"What happened?"

"He rubbed his chin with both hands in a way he had when he was
thinking. He said: 'They say people are wired that way or they choose
that way. I think you're wired that way.'

"'I am,' I said. 'But I choose it, too.' I didn't want him thinking I
was sorry for myself. My father pointed across the valley.

"'Louis, over there--he's got six boys been chasing everything in
skirts since they were big enough to sit on a tractor. I wouldn't trade
you for two of them.'

"'Two!' I said. 'Three, anyway.'

"'He'd be getting a deal at three,' my father said." Arlen smiled and
lifted his glass in the general direction of his father.

"All right!" Oliver said.

That week, Oliver bought a round trip ticket to Portland, Oregon and a
seven day Hawaiian vacation package that left from Portland. Porter
would be glad to stay in the apartment and cat-sit, Arlen informed him.
The three met for lunch in the Old Port. Porter was round and jovial,
balding with a small spade shaped beard and one gold earring. He was a
baker. His fists bunched like hard rolls when he wasn't eating or
telling jokes. Oliver was well satisfied with him.

Oliver took to walking on Crescent Beach early in the morning. It was
cold, foggy sometimes, but always refreshing. He walked the upper path
that led through woods and across a field to a rocky shoreline. From
there, the path turned eastward, following the shore to the beach and
to the main parking lot, closed at that time of year. One morning he
noticed an unusual arrangement of sticks and rocks near the beginning
of the beach. The sticks were jammed into the sand at odd angles. Small
rocks were piled to suggest barricades. It was like a kid's fort but
more sophisticated.

The next morning, the fort had become a small town with a watchtower at
its center. Two days later, there was only a low wall protecting a
woven matting of driftwood sticks. Oliver imagined an art student
practicing, seeing what things looked like as he or she made them.

On Sunday, Oliver had breakfast at six. The park was empty when he
arrived. The leaves were damp and thick on the ground except for a few
coppery oak leaves, always the last to fall. Tough stuff, oak, Oliver
thought. He stopped to look for the latest sculpture. At first, he saw
only random driftwood. It was as though a storm at high tide had
leveled all traces of beach-goers. It was a loss. He had begun to
connect with the anonymous arrangements; he looked forward to seeing
them.

His attention was drawn to a protected spot below an eroded bank. Beach
grass hung forward over the edge of the bank. A semicircle of thin flat
stones stood upright in the sand. Oliver approached. They stood like
Easter Island miniatures, thin sides facing the ocean. Oliver's
imagination shrunk and stood on the stand looking up at them. Just
then, the sun rose. Golden light swept over the ocean, up the beach,
caught in the overhanging bank, and leaped on across the continent. The
stone people were the first to see it.

"Oliver?"

He jumped. Someone had come along the path. Francesca! "Oh, hi!" he
said. "You scared me. Look at this." He motioned her over and pointed.
"The Early People--they've been waiting for the sun."

"So have I," Francesca said. She was wearing tan jeans and a long gray
sweatshirt. "Brrr."

"Somebody keeps making sculptures here," Oliver said. "I started
noticing them this week."

"Do you come here often?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"I try to walk here on Sunday mornings. Conor takes care of the girls,
and I get some time to myself."

"It's so beautiful, here. Any time of year," Oliver said. Francesca
bent over.

"Cute," she said. "Did you see the little ones?" She put a finger in
the sand behind one of the Early People. There were three very much
smaller stones imitating their elders.

"Pretty good," Oliver said. "I didn't see them."

Francesca straightened. "Let's walk."

Oliver fell into step beside her.

"I haven't seen you in ages," she said.

"I know. How are the girls?"

"Maria has an earache, but it's getting better. They're fine." She gave
him an encouraging look.

"I made something for you--a present."

"Oooo  . . ."

"I was going to mail it, but I didn't want to embarrass you."

"It's been a long time since I was embarrassed."

"It's a valentine."

"Now I'm really curious," she said. What am I doing? he asked himself.
Too late now. Francesca rubbed the end of her nose with her palm. "You
could bring it to me next Sunday."

"Yes. Oh, damn! I'm leaving on Thursday; I won't be here."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to Hawaii. I'm going to try and find my father. I've never
met him. He's Japanese. I am too, I guess. Half."

"Caramba!" Francesca said.

"So I can't be here, Sunday. I wish  . . ."

"Mail it," she said. "I could use a valentine."

"O.K. Will just 'Cape Elizabeth' get to you?"

"Old Toll Road, 420," she said. A lobster boat started its engine in
the distance.

"How tall are you?" Oliver asked.

"Six feet, even."

"I'm five, two. Funny thing is--I don't feel short around you. I did
when I first saw you in Becky's, but now I don't." A quick smile
crossed her face. She turned her head toward the water.

"Careful," she said quietly. He barely heard her. "When will you be
back?" she asked more loudly.

"Don't know. Couple of weeks, I think. Maybe I'll see you out here?"

"Until the snow gets too deep," she said.

"I'll see you, then," Oliver said, stopping. "I'll leave you to your
peace and quiet."

"Be safe," she said. Oliver waved and walked back the way they had
come. The sun was clear of the horizon, promising warmth.

"Yes!" he said. The Early People had an air of being off duty. They had
waited for the sun, welcomed it, and were now free to enjoy it.




9.


Oliver changed planes in Chicago and landed in Oregon at one o'clock,
Pacific time. "Funny thing," he said to a cab driver. "I always thought
Portland was on the ocean. It's a river port."

"The Columbia," the driver said. "Where you from?"

"The other Portland--in Maine."

"Back east. I'm from Worcester, Mass, myself. Long time ago."

"You like it out here?"

"It's all right. Beats shoveling snow."

"It feels a lot milder," Oliver said. "We could get snow anytime in
Maine."

"Friggin snow," the driver said. "Here you go."

"You want to wait a couple of minutes--off the meter? I'll need another
ride."

"Where to?"

"There's supposed to be a big Japanese garden up on a hill. . ."

"I'll wait."

"Be right out." Oliver checked in, left his bag in his room, and came
out feeling light-footed. He had a map in one pocket of his bush
jacket. He unfolded it in the cab. "So--where is it?"

"Washington Park, Kingston Avenue."

"I see it. Great. Let's go." They drove into the city and climbed
through a residential district. The driver stopped at the entrance to
the garden.

"You can get a bus downtown on that corner over there," he said,
pointing.

"Thanks." The cab rolled away down the hill. It was quiet. The
neighborhood trees and hedges were lush. A layer of cloud imparted a
soft gray tone to the buildings and the streets stretched out below.

Oliver entered the park and strolled along paths that were nearly
deserted. He walked up and down through trees, past tiny ponds, mossy
rock faces, handmade bamboo fountains, patches of flowers, and
unexpected views. The effect was both wild and intensely cultivated.
The garden was an homage to nature, a carefully tended frame within
which blossoms fell and birds flitted in their own time.

A light drizzle began to fall. Oliver sat on his heels, warm enough in
his jacket and his canvas hat. The live silence of the garden gradually
entered him, replacing an inner deafness. When he stood, his knees were
stiff, but he had become otherwise more flexible. His plans were not so
important--they mattered, but not to the exclusion of what was around
him.

He caught a bus downtown and wandered through an area of mixed
industry, galleries, and restaurants. He spent time in a leather shop
that sold skins and hides. Oliver had never seen an elk hide. He bought
a rattlesnake skin, five feet long, that had intricate brown and black
diamond-shaped markings. The clerk rolled it in a tight coil and put a
rubber band around it.

Oliver ate in a Japanese restaurant. A scroll hung in an illuminated
recess at one end of the room. The characters were bold, the brush
strokes fresh and immediate. Stringed music twanged of duty,
consequence, and the inevitable flow of time. The waitress, middle-aged
and respectful, brought him dinner with a minimum of talk. Oliver ate
slowly, feeling no need for conversation. He _was_ conversing, he
realized, with each move of his chopsticks, each glance around the room.

The cab ride and the hotel seemed loud in comparison. He turned the TV
on and turned it off. It was better to lie in bed and revisit the
garden. Tomorrow was coming. Another long flight.

In the morning, Oliver's spirits rose as the jet cleared the coast,
high above the ocean. "Here we go," he said to the slim woman seated
next to him. She smiled and resumed reading what appeared to be a
textbook. He had a glass of Chardonnay with lunch, but he was too wide
awake to sleep afterwards. The plane passed above slabs of cloud and
intermittent vistas of empty ocean. Once, a jet slid by below them,
several miles away, flying in the opposite direction.

Hours later, as they descended toward the islands, a general excitement
spread through the plane and the student became talkative. "There is
tourist Hawaii," she said, "and military Hawaii, and everywhere
else--the real Hawaii."

"I'm staying in Waikiki," Oliver said. "I guess that's tourist Hawaii."

"Yes," she said. "But the buses are good. You can get out, go around
the island."

"I will. I'm going to try and look up family I've never met."

"Where do they live?" Oliver had found a listing for Kenso Nakano in a
phone book at the airport.

"Alewa Heights," he said.

She laughed. "Ah--LEV--Ah  . . .  That's the real Hawaii."

"Look at that!" The plane was banking over a large crater with a grassy
center and steep green sides.

"Diamond Head," she said. She wiped away a tear.

"Diamond Head? I didn't know it was a crater. I never saw a crater
before."

"It nice and green, this time year," she said in a different voice,
intense and musical. The tires jerked and the plane slowed with a rush
of engines. They taxied to the terminal. Passengers unlatched overhead
bins and waited in the aisle for the door to open.

"Goodbye," Oliver said to the woman.

"Aloha," she said, "good luck, huh."

"Aloha," Oliver said, for the first time without irony. The word felt
good in his mouth.

He stepped through the door into a perfume of flowers and burnt jet
fuel. White clouds ballooned over green mountain ridges. Heat waves
eddied on the tarmac. The passengers moved quickly into the terminal
and dispersed.

A young woman with brown skin and black hair, dressed in shorts and
halter top, held a sign that read: Polynesian Paradise Adventures. She
put a lei around Oliver's neck and directed him to a bus where he
waited half an hour while other vacationers collected their luggage and
boarded in small groups. The flowers in his lei were white with yellow
centers. They had the same sweet smell that had greeted him at the
airplane door. "Plumeria," the hostess told him.

The bus passed through an industrial area and then along the shore by
several blocks of downtown business buildings, a marina, a park, and a
large shopping mall. They entered an avenue congested with high-rise
hotels and condominiums. "Waikiki," the hostess announced. The bus
stopped in front of a nondescript hotel, and the hostess wished them a
good vacation. "You have your discount coupons," she said.

"Where's the beach?" someone called.

"Over there." She pointed across an avenue choked with cars, taxis, and
buses. "Two blocks."

Oliver's room was spare. The walls were made of concrete blocks painted
a light aqua color. Sliding glass doors opened on a tiny porch. He went
out and sat in a white plastic lawn chair for a moment. He was on the
tenth floor, overlooking a side street. There was a building directly
in front of him and more buildings in the direction of the beach. In
the other direction, he could see a strip of mountain and what appeared
to be a canal a few blocks away. It wasn't Paradise, and it wasn't
particularly Polynesian, though there were palm trees by the canal.

The map that he had been given showed tourist attractions and how to
get to them. He bought a decent map in the lobby and walked over to
Kalakaua Avenue and down to the beach. It was a pretty beach, a gentle
crescent that curved along a green park. In the other direction, back
the way he had come, the sand fronted a strip of hotels. The waves were
quiet, though larger than they had been in Atlantic City. Diamond Head
guarded the far end of the beach. He felt differently about the
postcard view now that he knew its secret. There's a crater in there.

He took off his shoes and socks and walked to the Diamond Head end of
the beach, turning back at a small cluster of expensive houses and
condominiums. The sand underfoot made him feel like a little kid. He
retraced his steps and stopped by the first hotel that he reached on
the beach side of Kalakaua. It was older than the others. A huge tree
shaded a polygonal bar and a courtyard paved with stone. He ordered a
Glenlivet.

"Some tree! What kind is it?"

"Banyan," the bartender said.

"Oh." Hanging roots, dense green leaves, and thick nearly horizontal
branches created an inviting world. Oliver imagined a tree house. He
took a table in the shade and looked out over the ocean. Maybe he
should just be a tourist and forget the whole thing. He'd gotten along
without his father this long; what difference would it make to meet him
now? He didn't know. That was the problem. That was why he had to look
up Kenso Nakano--Ken--on Alewa Heights. Chances were good that Ken was
his uncle.

Oliver rolled the whiskey around in his glass. A very tall man in
shorts trudged past on the sand. He was a foot taller than a tall man.
Long legs held his upper body high in the air. Like a heron, Oliver
thought. Holy shit! Wilt Chamberlain! Wilt looked patient, proud, and
tired. A sports king, still holding his head up. He scored a hundred
points once. No one could take _that_ away from him. A familiar pang
squeezed Oliver. The nothing pang. What have you done? Nothing.

Scotch trickled down Oliver's throat. Wilt kept a steady pace down the
beach. Oliver thought of getting a ticket to another world--the
Philippines, say--and disappearing. He could go to a village on a
remote island and live until he ran out of money. It would be perfect
for a while, and then, to hell with it, he would get kidnapped or lost
in the jungle; it wouldn't matter.

No use. A force inside him would not let go. His spirit assumed a stone
face. Forward.


He awoke the next morning at 4 a.m., out of synch from jet lag. Half an
hour later he gave up trying to get back to sleep. He dressed and
walked toward the shopping mall, stopping at a Tops Restaurant busy
with cab drivers, early risers, and night owls winding down. He had
half a papaya, served with a piece of lemon. Delicious. Eggs came with
two scoops of rice. Eggs and rice? Not bad. Full daylight came as he
finished a second cup of coffee and looked at his map.

Alewa Heights was on the other side of the city. He could find a bus
that would get him close, no doubt, but it was early to be visiting.
Should he call? No. That was too much of a commitment. He wanted to
walk to the address and see how he felt when he got there, leaving open
the chance for a last-minute escape.

He decided to wait a day. Look up Kenso Nakano tomorrow, he told
himself. He walked back to the hotel by a different route and fell
asleep easily.

Later that morning, he walked to Tops again and on to the Ala Moana
Shopping Center. Acres of parking lot surrounded two decks of
stores--mainland chains and local names. There were fountains and
sculptures, a mix of tourists and islanders, and, at one end, a
Japanese department store named, "Shirokya." He spent an hour in
Shirokya admiring the packaging and design, listening to Japanese
music, and feeling proud of the evident care taken with details. _If
you're going to do something, do it well._

He crossed Ala Moana Boulevard to the yacht harbor where rows of large
sailboats were moored behind a stone breakwater. "Salty boats," he said
to a guy who was smoking at the end of a long dock.

"Better be. It's a mile deep right out there." He looked down at
Oliver, amused. Oliver was evidently too short for the Pacific.

He spent the rest of the day poking around Waikiki and considering his
visit to Kenso Nakano. The next morning, he caught a bus to the other
side of the city.

He walked up Alewa Drive in bright sunshine, enjoying the view of the
city and the ocean which grew in immensity as he climbed. The higher he
got, the more vast the ocean became and the smaller the island, until
he began to sense that he was standing on a happy accident, a green
miracle in a marine world. The planes taking off from the airport below
him looked puny. It was an added pleasure to turn away from the Pacific
to the street, to the plumeria, the bougainvillea, and the different
shades of green. Doves called. There was little traffic.

The street bent higher around a switchback curve. A pickup was parked
in front of a wall and a gate which bore the number Oliver was seeking.
Two heavyset men wearing shorts, T-shirts, and baseball caps were
easing a boulder from the truck bed onto an impromptu ramp of
two-by-sixes. A woman with trim graying hair and tanned cheeks watched.
The planks sagged ominously.

"She hold?"

"Plenty strong."

"Damn--stuck. Excuse me, Mrs. Nakano."

"I've heard worse," she said. Oliver approached and braced one shoulder
against the rock.

"What is this?" one man said. "Who you?"

"Superman," Oliver said.

"You shrunk." There was a cracking noise from one of the planks. "Watch
it!" The other man got both hands under one edge of the boulder, bent
his knees, and heaved. The boulder rocked and began to slide down the
planks. They bowed farther but held as the three of them guided the
boulder to the street.

"One good moss-rock, Mrs. Nakano. Kind of small, though."

"I know you guys like a challenge," she said.

"Where you want it?"

She pointed through the gate.

"We better do it. This start down the road, it end up in somebody's
living room." They walked the boulder through the gate and to one end
of a flower bed. It took three of them to move it without using
crowbars; Oliver helped until it was in place.

"Hard to find a good moss-rock these days," Mrs. Nakano said. "How
about a soda?"

"Too early for anything else," one said. "Sure."

"Thank you so much for helping," she said to Oliver. "Are you thirsty?"

"Yes. I was looking for you. I think. Actually, I'm looking for Muni
Nakano who has a brother--Ken?"

"Oh," she said. "Muni is my brother-in-law."

"My name is Oliver, Oliver Prescott."

"How do you do, Oliver. This is Jimmy. This is Kapono." The others
nodded, and she went inside.

"Superman without a license--serious offense," Jimmy said.

"Batman worse," Kapono said.

"Still--he pretty strong for a midget."

Oliver grinned and brushed the dirt off his hands. There were times to
keep your mouth shut. Mrs. Nakano returned and handed out cans of
Pepsi. "This was good of you guys." She turned to Oliver. "I'm sorry.
Ken is on a trip. Can I help you?"

"Oh." Oliver thought. "I need to find Muni."

"Ken will be back the day after tomorrow. He is coming in tomorrow
night--late."

"I'll call on the phone, then, the day after tomorrow? Maybe around
nine in the morning?"

"That will be fine."

"Thanks," Oliver said. He drained his soda and gave the can back to
Mrs. Nakano. "Good," he said. He waved and started out the gate.

"You want a ride down the hill?" Jimmy asked.

"No need," Oliver said.

"He fly," Kapono said.

When Oliver got back to Waikiki, he had lunch at the banyan bar and
thought about what had happened. Mrs. Nakano was nice. The moss-rock
delivery duo had been most respectful. The house was in an upscale
neighborhood. Ken Nakano was well established, for sure. You couldn't
tell much from the house; like the other houses near it, the side
facing the street was simple, almost anonymous. What was individual was
out of sight. He was glad that he hadn't given Mrs. Nakano his middle
name. Who knows what Jimmy and Kapono would have thought? They were
pretty sharp.

The following day, he took TheBus around most of the island. That's
what it said in big letters on the side: "TheBus." Mountains three
thousand feet high separated the leeward and windward sides. The
windward side was cooler, breezier, and less touristy. Steep sharp
ridges radiated out to a coastal plain. Deep valleys disappeared into
mysterious shade, wilder than he would have thought, so close to a
city. TheBus returned across a central highland between two mountain
groups. They passed a pineapple plantation, long rows of spiky bushes
in red dirt, and a military base, Schofield Barracks. Pearl Harbor
spread out before them--large, calm, and silver, warships moored at
docks, small boats moving about. Then they were back in traffic, back
in the city. He got out at the shopping center and walked to Waikiki.

It had been cloudy most of the day. The wind had begun to blow hard.
Gusts caught the hair of young women and whipped ebony parabolas three
feet over their heads. The women turned their heads like wild mustangs,
laughing--counterpoint to their Asian composure and perfect make-up.
This is it, Oliver thought. I could die right here. I'll never see
anything more beautiful.

He ate dinner in a Thai restaurant. His waitress was another knockout.
Across the room, someone who looked like Gomer Pyle was eating and
joking. It _was_ Gomer Pyle--Jim Nabors. Wilt. Gomer. Gorgeous women.
Oliver began to feel that this was the way things should be, that it
was his due. He was Oliver. He had family on Alewa Heights, he was sure
of it. Tomorrow would tell.

At nine the next morning, Oliver called the Nakano's number.

"Hello?" A quiet male voice. Island.

"Hello, this is Oliver Prescott. Are you Ken?"

"Yes."

"I'm trying to find Muni."

"Michiko told me you helped with the moss-rock."

"Not much. Those guys were pretty big  . . ."

"They my football coaches, phys-ed teachers," Ken said.

"Aha."

"Do you have business with my brother?"

"Not business, exactly. My mother knew him a long time ago. Did he ever
mention Dior Del'Unzio?"

"Mmmm  . . ." Silence. "That _was_ a long time ago."

"My middle name is Muni. My mother told me that Muni was my father and
that he had a brother named Ken. I think you are my uncle." Ken made a
sound deep in his throat.

"Mmmm  . . .  What year were you born? Do you have identification?"

"1958. Yes, I have I.D."

"Mmmm  . . .  Muni lives in Japan, but he is in California, now. I will
try and contact him. I will give him your number."

"Thank you." Oliver gave him the hotel and room number and the name of
the hotel in Eugene where he would be staying for a few days the
following week. "I live in Maine. He could reach me there, after that."
He gave Ken the address.

"I'll see what I can do," Ken said.

"Thank you."

"It may take a while. Muni unpredictable sometimes."

"I'll wait," Oliver said.

"O.K.  . . .  Maybe we get together sometime."

"I'd like that," Oliver said.

When Ken hung up, Oliver felt truly disconnected. Ken had sounded like
a decent guy. Made sense, with a wife like that. My coaches  . . .  He
must be a principal or a superintendent in the school system. Having
finally made contact, Oliver wanted more.

But no one called the next day. Or the next. Oliver thought about
visiting another island, but he didn't want to be away from the hotel
that long. He couldn't sit by the phone for four days, so he explored
the city, checking back for messages at least once during the day.

Honolulu was interesting. With the exception of Waikiki and the
downtown district, it was a residential city. There were distinctly
different neighborhoods in each of the narrow valleys that stretched
two and three miles back into the mountains. Other areas, like Alewa
Heights, were built on the faces of the ridges; at night their lights
reached with sparkling fingers high into the dark. He found formal
gardens, temples, and a red light district with hustlers of every race
and description. He found a dirt alley with mud puddles, wandering
chickens, barefoot children, and a grandmother with two gold teeth. He
discovered small factories and, incredibly, in the middle of the city,
a watercress farm.

He read _The Advertiser_ every morning in Tops. He got to know the city
as well as he could in a few days. But no one called.

At the end of the week, he took a city bus to the airport, preferring
not to travel with the vacation group. He was sad when he boarded the
plane. He sat next to the small oval window and buckled his seat belt.
The buckle clicked together with a finality that seemed to say: that's
it; you did what you could.

The tour package had originated in Eugene. Oliver had chosen to return
there instead of Portland. The cost was the same, and he could see
another part of Oregon. He slept most of the way to the mainland. As he
rode to his hotel in a light rain, shivering a bit, he thought, Hawaii
made me soft. Good place, though. "Aloha," he said, thinking of Ken and
Michiko.




10.


The hotel registration clerk reached under the counter. "Message for
you, Mr. Prescott." He handed Oliver an envelope.

"Thanks." Oliver took his bag to his room and sat on the bed.


Message for: Oliver Prescott

Received by: Jack

Time: 2:15 p.m.

Oliver--I have heard from my brother, Ken. I will be at The Devil's
Churn parking area, tomorrow, Monday, at 10:30 in the morning. Route
101 on the coast, 20 miles north of Florence. Muni


Where the hell was that? He would have to rent a car. How far was it?
Oliver's heart raced. He went back to the lobby and borrowed a map from
the desk clerk. Florence seemed about two hours away.

"Could I drive to here in two hours?" He pointed out the location.

"No problem."

Oliver went back to the airport and rented a car. He could leave early
from the hotel, stop for breakfast on the way, and have plenty of time.
He was still functioning on Hawaiian time; he stayed up late, watched
TV, and wondered about his father. Unpredictable, Ken said.

In the morning, it rained off and on as he drove over the coastal
range. The road curved and swooped through steep-sided valleys. Douglas
Firs grew straight and pointed on every slope; their branches trembled
with moisture; the light was luminous. There was an occasional burst of
dazzling sun and then the clouds rolled in again. Logging trucks owned
the road. Only a few smaller roads met the highway. What would life be
like ten miles to the left or right? A gas station? A tavern? Another
world.

The coastal highway was wide open, almost barren in comparison to the
lush woods. Rain swept in from the ocean. A TV forecaster in a truck
stop spoke of the first winter storm. Lucky Oliver. The windshield
wipers worked well, though, and the rain let up as he eased into a
parking area on a rocky headland. The Devil's Churn. No one else was
there. It was 10:05. He put his head back and closed his eyes.
Francesca came into his mind, tall and calm, and he wished she were
there so that he could introduce her to his father. He had an urge to
start the car, to leave quickly. Francesca looked sorrowful. "O.K.," he
said. She _was_ there, in a way. A car much like his turned off the
highway.

A short man wearing black pressed pants and a gray windbreaker
approached his car. He was wearing a baseball cap that said, "San
Francisco Giants." Oliver got out. The man approached and looked at him
closely. He was clean-shaven, darker than Oliver, thinner, and more
severe. They were the same height.

"You early," his father said.

"You, too." Oliver smiled.

"Come." He turned and motioned with his hand toward a set of wooden
steps that led to the rocks below. Oliver followed him to the steps and
down. Near the bottom, the steps were damp and slippery. A sign warned
them not to go farther: _Danger! Large Waves Come Without Warning!_ His
father ignored the sign and walked to the edge of a deep fissure in the
dark rock. It was twenty feet wide and thirty yards long, narrowing as
it approached a circular grotto eroded into the base of the cliff.

Farther out, a wave broke and raced up the fissure like a suicide
express. Water slammed between the rocky edges, wild and frothing,
seething, lurching, hissing, and sucking. Gradually, it receded.
Oliver's father pointed to the other side and walked to the end of the
fissure where they could look down into the round pool that had been
scoured into the rock. Shiny polished stones waited in its bottom for
the next wave.


His father continued around the pool and then along the opposite edge
on a path six inches wide. The rain had started again. Oliver followed
across a steep bank of short wet grass. The next train roared in, just
a few feet below them. He was terrified. If he slipped, there was
nothing to grab. Anyone who fell in would be torn apart in seconds;
there was no chance of surviving the furious water. There was a
malevolent feeling to the place. Bad things happened here.

His father walked steadily on. Oliver dropped to his hands and knees
and crawled to the end of the path, trying not to look to his left. He
scrambled down to a rocky shingle near the mouth of the fissure. His
father waited, watching him. Oliver stood up, swallowed, and wiped mud
off his hands. "Scary place," he said.

"You not scared there, you an idiot," his father said.

"Shit," Oliver said.

"What's the matter?"

"I just realized that we've got to go back the same way."

"How is your mother?"

"She's fine. She gave me your name--Oliver Muni Prescott."

"Ah," Muni said. "I am glad she is well. She was a beautiful woman.
Smart, too. Didn't stick around to marry me."

"She married Owl Prescott, an English professor. They had a girl,
Amanda. Owl died. Then she married a guy named Paul Peroni from New
Haven, a good guy, a marble worker." Oliver paused. "Ken told me that
you live in Japan."

"Near Kamakura. We have a son and a daughter, grown up, not quite your
age. You are--35."

"Yes," Oliver said.

"You married?"

"I was. For four years."

"You have children?"

"No."

"Mmmm  . . ."

"Large waves come without warning," Oliver said, looking out at the
gray ocean.

"Beautiful here," his father said. Oliver nodded. For the first time, a
suggestion of a smile crossed his father's face as he waved at the wild
shore guarded by The Devil's Churn. "Most don't get this far. What kind
of work you do?"

"I program computers. Used to teach math. I like to make things out of
wood sometimes." That seemed to sum it up. Not a very big sum, Oliver
thought.

"You know George Nakashima? Made furniture?"

"No."

"Mmmm  . . .  He lived in Pennsylvania, died two, three years ago." His
father reached inside his jacket and handed Oliver an envelope. "This
yours," he said.

"What is it?"

"Small present. Maybe it help."

Oliver folded the envelope and put it in a safe pocket. "Thank you," he
said. "But, you don't need to give me anything."

"You only as rich as what you give away."

They stood, not minding the rain. "What are you doing in the States?"
Oliver asked.

"Teaching one seminar at the University of California, Berkeley. I go
back, now." He turned toward the path.

"Teach?"

"Architecture. Japanese kind." His father climbed up onto the path and
walked along the edge, not hurrying, not hesitating. Oliver went to his
hands and knees again. The express exploded past, but he forced himself
to look straight ahead. He was limp when he reached the wooden steps.
At the top, his father was waiting as if nothing had happened.

Oliver exhaled and took a deep breath. "Well  . . ." He didn't know
what to say. His father's eyes were sparkling.

"Maybe you come see us in Kamakura. I will be back there in one month."

Oliver nodded in the Japanese way. His father bowed and walked back to
his car. Oliver watched. He waved as his father drove toward the road.
His father waved back. Oliver thought he saw a smile, and then his
father was gone.

He was getting wet, he realized. He stopped in Florence for a cup of
coffee. There was no sign of his father. He drove back to Eugene and
took a long hot shower. The envelope lay unopened on top of the table
by the TV.

Oliver took a nap and went out for dinner. He sipped Glenlivet, a bit
disappointed--he had learned so little about his father. Also, he was
depressed because the meeting was over; he had accomplished what he set
out to do, and now what? His father was controlled, impressive. Oliver
felt good about that. If he hadn't found out many details about his
father, he had learned something about himself. There was a sternness
in his father--an inner honor--that Oliver recognized immediately. Same
as me, he thought. His father helped put a face on it, made it more
accessible and more acceptable.

But what did his father think of _him_? I didn't wimp out or fall in
and die, anyway, he told himself. Muni had seemed guardedly approving.
Hard to tell. Perhaps Muni had felt himself on trial, as well. He
hadn't shown it. An architect--that was interesting. Oliver had a
strong visual sense that had never found a satisfactory outlet. His
work had always been secondary in some way. Teaching math and
programming had kept him going, but he felt unused, wasted. Maybe he
should have been an architect. At least, now, he knew where his visual
ability came from.

Oliver mused over his drink and avoided opening the envelope in his
pocket. He ate a piece of salmon grilled over alder chips and drank a
glass of Oregon Sauvignon Blanc. The waiter brought a double espresso.
Oliver opened the envelope with misgivings.

There was a check and a note:



Oliver, if I give this to you, it is because you are my son. I can not
know until I meet you. I plan to be back home in Kamakura after the
first of the year. Maybe you will visit. Years after 50 are extra. Who
knows what will happen? My thoughts are with you. Muni



The check was for $72,000. Oliver stared at the numbers. Seventy-two
thousand dollars? A lot more money than he'd ever had before. But the
moment that he accepted the amount, he realized that the money was his
only in the sense that he had control of it. He had it because his
father had saved it. How could he just spend it on himself? The money
wasn't his; it was theirs--his and his father's and probably his
father's parents as well. He replaced the envelope carefully in his
pocket. A door opened in his heart, and another door closed.

It would take time for these new feelings to sink in, but Oliver knew
that something had changed for good. He lingered over the espresso. An
awakened sense of time knocked in his ears and made the present moment
more intense. University students at a corner table might have been
figures on a screen or spread around a vase. It was _right now_,
Eugene, Oregon. He wanted to shout: "It will never be this way again.
We're here! We're alive!" He smiled as he imagined a full moon
appearing from behind a cloud. Francesca was standing on Crescent
Beach, looking up at the moon, her hands clasped behind her. Oliver
stood and bowed slightly to the waiter and to the room.

The next morning he called Porter and told him when he'd be back. He
took a bus from Eugene to Portland. The Willamette Valley was green and
fertile, a nice after-image on the following afternoon as the plane
lowered over the brown Maine woods and the steely blue Atlantic. He
took a cab to State Street and had a reunion with Verdi. Porter had
left the apartment in tidy shape. There was a letter from Francesca.
She had received the box and the heart.




11.


Francesca's note was written on a 3X5 card:



O,

Thank you.

F.



Warmth rushed through Oliver as he stared at her writing. Francesca was
answering in kind; she had accepted his valentine. "What do you think
about that, my friend?" he asked Verdi. "What do you think about that?"
Verdi bumped against his ankle, a sign of high satisfaction. It was
good to be home.

Oliver looked around the living room. The mantle was empty without the
walnut box. He wished that he had a picture of Francesca to take its
place. He unrolled the snakeskin and pinned it vertically to the wall
by the steps, admiring the silver and ivory colors and the dark
diamonds that had curled around the snake.

He went early to bed and spent a long time looking out at the night and
remembering the trip: the gardens and the Japanese restaurant in
Portland, Michiko standing by her moss-rock, Diamond Head, The Devil's
Churn, his father's face--there had been much to see and few words.
What was there to say about these things? Owl had cautioned him more
than once: "_Listen to what people say, but pay more attention to what
they do._" What would he _do_ with the treasures of this trip?

Treasure, literally. One thing he could do was to put his father's
money to work. He decided to open a stock brokerage account. He needed
to get a programming project, so that he wouldn't start spending the
money. And he needed to see Francesca. She was more fun to think about
than job interviews; he drifted to sleep remembering her on Crescent
Beach.

In the morning, he answered two job advertisements that were in the
paper and then ate breakfast at Becky's. The day seemed to have started
without him--jet lag. The booth where he had first seen Francesca was
empty. He imagined her there and felt better, more centered.

He walked to Monument Square and entered one of the big name
brokerages. He left quickly, put off by slick advertisements on the
walls and expensively dressed men exuding earnestness. Farther along
the Square, he found a local firm staffed by a short man with a tired
expression. The top of his head shone. Brown graying hair started just
above his ears, swept back, and hung loosely over the back of his shirt
collar. He was eating a bagel. A grandfather clock stood in one corner.

"I'm thinking about opening an account," Oliver explained.

The man swallowed and raised his coffee mug. "Why?"

"I like your clock." The man gave him a longer look and sipped coffee.

"I bought it at an auction. Never been sorry. Sometimes, you've got to
pay for quality; sometimes you get a deal."

"I like auctions," Oliver said.

"My name is Myron Marsh. I've been called, 'Swampy.' I've been called,
'Mellow.' I prefer, 'Myron.' "

"What! No 'Shorty?' '' The corner of Myron's mouth twitched, but he
said nothing. "O.K., Myron. I'm Oliver Prescott."

"You live around here, Oliver?"

"State Street, near the bridge."

"You know anything about investing?"

"No."

"What kind of money are you talking about?"

"Seventy-two thousand."

"Not a bad start," Myron said. "We could get some good balance with
that." He opened a filing cabinet and handed Oliver a form. "Tell you
what," he said. "Why don't you fill this out and come back with a check
when you're ready. Then we can talk about where you want to go with
this and what we might do."

"Thanks," Oliver said.

"Here's a booklet that explains our fees and general setup."

Oliver went home and read the material. The application provided for
joint ownership of the account. An idea formed. He didn't have a will.
If he died, his money would go to his mother. She didn't really need
it. Why not make Francesca joint owner? Then, if he died, she could use
it for herself and her girls. If she needed money for an emergency, it
would be there. She wouldn't have to do anything, just sign the form
and know that the account existed. She might not like the idea, might
be afraid of strings attached. But there weren't any, really--all she
had to do was sign the form and forget about it.

The idea made him feel good. He filled out the form with everything but
her signature, her mother's maiden name, and her social security
number. He called Myron to check about joint ownership. Either owner
could control the account, but he would be the primary owner,
responsible for taxes. Monthly statements could be sent to each owner.
"No need for that," he told Myron, "just one would be enough." They set
a time to meet on the following Monday. Oliver was assuming that he
would see Francesca Sunday morning on the beach.

On Saturday night, the weather forecast was for light rain and fog.
Oliver could barely see the bridge when he woke up. He made a pot of
coffee, drank one cup, and saved the rest in a large thermos which he
put in his shoulder bag along with two mugs, half a quart of milk, and
a manila envelope containing the account application. Forty minutes
later, he was sitting on a driftwood log near the spot at the beginning
of the beach where he had last met Francesca and where The Early People
had waited for the sun.

It was warm for November. The tide was out. The water was gray,
stippled and flattened by light rain. The air was fertile and salty.
Mist blurred the rocks. A dog barked somewhere beyond the other end of
the beach. Francesca appeared suddenly, holding a black umbrella over
her head. When Oliver could see her smile, he stood and smiled back.

"You made it," she said coming closer.

"Quite a trip," he said. He wanted to hug her, but jackets and hats and
her umbrella made it awkward. "How about some coffee?"

"Coffee? Superb!"

Oliver sat down on the log and poured them each a mug. "Milk?"

"Mmm."

"Say when  . . ."

"When."

He handed her the mug. She sat beside him and shifted the umbrella to
partially cover him. "I love my valentine."

"Good. My friend, George, is an artist. He showed me how to cast it.
What did you do with it? Not that it's any of my business."

"Hid it." Francesca giggled. "Where did you get the box?"

"Made it."

"I wondered," she said. "It's beautiful. Did you find your father?"

"I did." He told her about Hawaii and meeting his father at The Devil's
Churn in Oregon.

"Dramatic," she said. Her eyes were soft.

"It was. It was the way he wanted it."

"Did you feel that he was your father?"

"Yes. We're different. I'm American, and he's Japanese-American, more
Japanese--he lives in Japan. But we were the same underneath--same kind
of seriousness or intensity or something."

"What does he do?"

"He's an architect. He was teaching a class at the University of
California, Berkeley, until the end of the year."

"Is he married?"

"Yes. Two children--a boy and a girl, grown."

"Oliver, you have a half brother and a half sister!"

"It's true. I haven't absorbed it yet."

"Did you like him?"

"Yes. He was pretty impressive. Disciplined. Didn't say much. He gave
me some money--said you were only as rich as what you give away. What's
your mother's maiden name?"

Francesca stared at him. "Boisverte," she said.

"How do you spell it?" She told him and he repeated the letters to make
sure that he had them right. "French," he said.

"Mais oui. Maman married Frankie, and here I am."

"They did nice work. You want more coffee?" He refilled their mugs and
put away the thermos. "Francesca  . . ."

"Yes?"

"You're probably going to think I'm nuts. I hope you won't be mad at
me." He took a deep breath. "I'm putting the money my father gave me in
a brokerage account. I want you to be joint owner, so that if anything
happens to me you'll have the money. Or, if you need some for an
emergency--it will be there." Francesca took a swallow of coffee and
stared out to sea.

"You're a good one," she said. And then, "I'm married to Conor."

"You wouldn't have to pay any taxes on it. I do that. You wouldn't get
statements or anything. It would just be there if you need it. It could
be backup for you and the girls, security  . . ."

"Independence?" she teased.

"Well--yes, if you want it." The fat was in the fire.

"Jacky said you were a sweetheart."

Oliver's jaw dropped. Francesca laughed. "She said that she checked you
out. She had hopes for you, but she said that the two of you were
incompatible for the long run."

"Uh--she's right."

"Don't be embarrassed," Francesca said. "How else were you going to
find out? Look, I love Jacky, but I wouldn't want to be married to her."

The image of Jacky attempting to intimidate Francesca with a whip made
Oliver burst out laughing. "No," he said, sputtering, "no." Francesca
gave him a curious look. "Good looking woman, though," he went on. "Not
as beautiful as you."

She accepted this without comment. It was a quality Oliver liked in
her. Francesca _was_ beautiful. She knew it and didn't make a fuss
about it.

"I want the money to have a purpose outside myself," he said.
"Seriously--it would help me. It makes me feel better. I'm going to get
some work as soon as I can, so that I don't spend it. I have the form
right here." He held his bag under the umbrella and pulled out the
form. "If I can keep it from getting soaked  . . ." He reached into his
pocket for a ballpoint pen. "Can I write on your back? I mean, use your
back? 'BOISVERTE.'" He said the letters as he wrote them. "What's your
social security number?"

She hesitated and then told him. "A very nice number," he said.


"I've always thought so. It will be especially nice if I make it to
retirement age."

"All you have to do is sign," Oliver said. "Here." He handed her the
pen and swiveled his body so that she could use his back.

"Yi! What am I doing?" The pen moved firmly across his shoulder blade.

"A good thing, that's what you're doing--what we're doing," Oliver
said, putting the application in the bag.

"Cute pen," she said.

"It's a space pen--writes upside down or in zero gravity. NASA uses it."

"My father worked for NASA."

"Oh, yeah? What did he do?"

"He was an engineer, called himself a launch pad maintenance man. He
and my mom live near Daytona. He's retired."

"You don't have a southern accent."

"I grew up in Brunswick, just down the road from Bowdoin. My dad worked
on the base for years. He's from upstate New York."

"And your mother?"

"Local gal. She's gotten used to Florida. I don't know if I could. I
mean, you can get used to just about anything; but  . . ."

"Nice in January," Oliver said. "I know what you mean. I grew up in
Connecticut." A harder shower passed over them.

"I love the rain," Francesca said.

"Me, too." They sat and finished their coffee, watching the rain and
absorbing their conversation.

"Bye, Oliver," Francesca said finally, standing with the umbrella.
"You're going to get wet."

"I won't melt." She smiled quickly, understanding it as he meant, that
he would be there for her dependably. She walked back the way she had
come. Oliver stayed, enjoying the calm. Francesca had that effect on
him. When he was with her, he felt that there was nowhere he needed to
go. He was already there, at the center. The world spread around them
at greater and greater distances.

Jacky! He felt a stir of affection and shook his head. He should have
known she would tell Francesca--the big picture, anyway, if not the
details. He hoped Jacky would find someone soon. She wasn't bashful.
There was bound to be somebody in Maryland who would love to oblige
her. Whoever he was, he was going to get a workout--and good crab
cakes. Jacky had been straight with him. Oliver appreciated that. And
he'd been straight with her. Maybe that was why he had a warm feeling
when he thought of her; there was no residue of guilt or things held
back.

He stretched and walked to the main road, taking the track along the
rocks and then though the woods. He had left the Jeep in the approach
area by the gate-house; the park was officially closed. A piece of
paper was folded under one windshield wiper. It had a heart on it,
drawn in pencil. When he got home, he taped it over the mantel.

Myron read through the application the next day and tapped his desktop
slowly. "The co-owner," he said, "will have full privileges."

"Right."

"If she calls and identifies herself and says, "Myron, sell everything
and send me a check," that's what I'll do."

"Right."

"Very good," Myron said dubiously. "Just making sure." He put the
application and the check in a folder. "So, how quick do you want to
get rich?"

"That's a trick question, I bet," Oliver said.

Myron appraised him again. "It is and it isn't," he said. "Rewards are
what you get for taking risk. If you want a big reward right away, you
have to take a big risk. Over a longer period, you can take smaller
risks--the smaller rewards add up; the smaller losses don't wipe you
out. But there's another consideration." He drew a double headed arrow
on the top of a yellow pad. "People have different senses of time."

Myron darkened each arrowhead. "Some live for the future; some live in
the moment; some--most--are in the middle. It's a natural thing. As far
as risk/reward goes, we can keep a given balance in any time-horizon.
We can be risk-adverse, say, short-term or long-term." Myron underlined
the arrow.

"What we don't want to do is mix up the two. Short--term and long-term
investments are different. Not only are the investments themselves
different, but someone who is patient and looks far ahead won't be
happy with in-and-out activity. Someone who is action-oriented, who is
used to seeing results right away, won't wait years for a company to
develop or for interest rates to drop. You see what I'm getting at?"

"I do," Oliver said. "It's interesting. I guess I'm more toward the
patient end. Risk? I don't mind risk. But I wouldn't want to lose more
than half. It's important to me that half, anyway, always be there."
Myron wrote a few words on the pad.

"There are advantages to the patient approach," he said. "Taxes are
lower if you hold securities long term. You can buy into promising
companies cheaply--if you can give them a few years to grow."

"I like that," Oliver said. Myron made another note.

"How about if I get you started, make the first buys?"

"Sounds good."

"As time goes on and you get into it, you may want to take a more
active part in making the decisions. We'll talk as we go along."

"O.K."

"You'll get a monthly statement."

"Just one--to me," Oliver interrupted.

"Yes," Myron added to his notes. "One statement. Call me or drop by any
time."

"O.K. Thank you." Oliver prepared to leave. "When do we start making
money?"

"Soon as the check clears," Myron said.

Should be interesting, Oliver thought, walking home. Myron was a
realist. He didn't seem like someone who would rip you off or make
hurried decisions. Porter came out the front door just as Oliver turned
in from the sidewalk.

"Hey Porter, thanks for taking care of Verdi. I haven't seen you since
I got back."

"No problem. It was a help, actually. And, it gave me a chance to get
to know Arlen better." Porter beamed.

Oliver didn't want to hear any confidences. "How's the baking going?"

"Solid." Porter looked amused at Oliver's unease. "Scones are hot this
year--can't make enough of them. Later, Slugger." He punched Oliver
lightly on the arm and unlocked a sleek black Toyota. Oliver watched
him drive away. Porter was like a character in a comic strip; a six
foot scone in a thought balloon hovered over his car.

Oliver collected his mail. Gifford Sims of The First Fundamentalist
Hospital was interested in talking with him. There were a couple of
bills. A Thanksgiving invitation from Amanda. "Mother and Paul are
coming. Heather has been asking about you."




12.


Sunday morning was cold and windy. Oliver waited at the beach, walking
back and forth in front of the driftwood log. After half an hour, he
poured a cup of coffee from the thermos. Steam curled up and was blown
away. He had an interview the following day at the Fundamentalist
hospital; he ought to iron a shirt. Wear a tie? Francesca appeared,
walking with long strides.

"Hi," she said.

"Just in time," he said, holding his cup in the air. "I was going to
drink yours. What's the matter?"

"Conor and I are having trouble. God, that smells good!" Oliver handed
her a cup. "Mmm--nice and hot."

"I'm sorry," Oliver said.

"I don't want to bother you about it  . . ."

"It's no bother."

"Conor didn't get home until very late. I had trouble waking him up to
watch the girls. I probably shouldn't have come."

"Do you want to go back? I'll walk with you to the gate-house."

"O.K. Just a second. Let's enjoy this."

Oliver refilled his cup. "Getting nippy," he said.

"Snow anytime," Francesca said. She looked at him and smiled--something
to share, their snow. "Conor's not been happy with me. He plays around.
It's a mess."

"Oh."

"I don't know what to do. We've been talking about making a change,
spending the winter in Costa Rica. He says that his job isn't going
anywhere; he wants a break to decide what to do next."

"Oh." Oliver tried for a bright side. "You could practice your Spanish."

"We could argue in Spanish," she said.

"What's his problem? Not that it's any of my business."

"I don't know. Mommy, I suppose. Conor tends to think that the world
owes him a living. Conor's world is 95% female. He's cute and needy and
out-front about it; there's always some woman ready to give him what he
wants."

"Tough life," Oliver said.

"He's not a happy man," she said, "at least, never for long. He uses
that, too--the wounded Conor. Well, somebody tried to save him last
night."

"Pretty hard on you," Oliver said.

"I married him," she said. "I'd divorce him tomorrow, but it isn't just
me I have to think about."

"Damn," Oliver said. "I'd marry you the day after."

"Thank you. Would you promise to make me a cup of coffee like this
first thing in the morning--for the rest of my life?"

"Or my life," Oliver said.

"Oh!" There was a tear in Francesca's eye. He thought she was going to
hug him, but she turned and looked toward the water. "I've got to
finish one thing before I start another," she said. "I don't think
there's much point to it, but I've got to try. I'm going to go with him
on this trip."

"I'll see you in the spring, then--I hope," Oliver said. "I opened that
account, by the way. I don't have the number yet, but you don't need
it. If you get stuck for money, call Myron Marsh at Marsh and Cooley
and tell him who you are. It would probably take a couple of days,
though."

"Myron Marsh  . . ."

"He has an office on Monument Square."

"O.K. Let's go," she said.

They walked back side by side. "I like your Jeep," Francesca said when
they reached the main road.

"Tried and true," Oliver said. "Room for you and the girls." She did
hug him then, squeezing tightly against him. He felt her sob twice. His
legs were set like granite posts. He could have held her forever. She
stepped back. "Francesca," he started, but she shook her head, no, and
put one hand up to his cheek. Her thumb rested across his lips and then
withdrew. She seemed to be memorizing his face.

"Bye," she said.

"Bye." She turned and walked away. Oliver sighed heavily, got into the
Jeep, and drove in the other direction. His feelings were careening
around, but his mind was clear. He and Francesca were together, even
though they were apart. What he wanted, how beautiful she was, what
might happen--the rush of his feelings did not alter that fact.

He drove aimlessly, passed the mall, and headed north. In Yarmouth, he
stopped for breakfast at the Calendar Islands Motel on Route 1. Two
dining rooms were filled with elderly couples and the families of L. L.
Bean executives. He signed for a table and waited in line. It was
pleasant to stand there as though nothing had just happened. He had
gotten up in his restored cape with the large addition, fed his golden
retriever, and driven three miles for breakfast the way he did every
Sunday. He had a slight hangover and a secure future. He was on board.

It really wouldn't be so bad, he thought--to be on board. What the
hell, even a tie . . .  The hostess led him to a sunny table. He ate a
large plate of blueberry pancakes with a side of bacon, feeling quite
the citizen, practically married, a man with responsibilities.

But--you don't know her. This wasn't true, he decided. He knew her
where it mattered--in her heart. Boisverte, he knew her maiden name.
What difference did it make, where she went to school or what her
brother was like? Didn't she say she had a brother? Conor would never
change. Why wouldn't she leave him? She would--when she was ready. He,
Oliver, would be there. The waitress swished away. Nice legs, he
registered. Too young, though. You can't have them all, he told himself
as she disappeared into the kitchen.

When he got home, he ironed a blue oxford-cloth shirt and a pair of
dress chinos. He washed the dishes and turned on the TV, mostly to
avoid the temptation to go to Deweys. The Patriots lost in the fourth
quarter.

The next morning Oliver was on the road in time to stop for a bagel. He
made an effort to keep crumbs off his shirt and tie. He was confident
that he could handle any software needs that the hospital might have;
it was the group dynamic that put him on the defensive. He felt false
when he made the little gestures required to fit in. He knew how, but
he also knew that eventually he would be unmasked and auto-ejected from
the group like a splinter from its hand. Maybe the First
Fundamentalists wouldn't be so bad. Here I come, he thought. Love your
neighbor. Forgive him his independence. Let's get this over with.

Gifford Sims was large. He wore a dark suit made from a lasting
synthetic material. His black hair was carefully combed; his face was
square and unsmiling. "Come in," he said, indicating a chair where
Oliver was to sit. He rubbed his chin once and gazed out his office
window at the carefully tended parking lot. He was not in a hurry to
speak, but he did not seem put off by Oliver. That was one thing about
being short--you didn't threaten people.

"We had someone in Boston doing the work," he said finally. "Expensive."

"Ah," Oliver said.

"She worked about twenty hours a week, sometimes more."

"I see," Oliver said.

"We don't work on Saturdays unless we have to--babies don't always fit
into our schedule." Gifford swiveled from the window and watched
Oliver. Hard to blame them, Oliver started to say, but he smiled
instead, acknowledging the joke. It was a joke, he was pretty sure,
although it was hard to tell from Gifford's expression.

"It appears from your experience that you could handle the work. Are
these references current?"

"Yes, they are."

"I have no further questions." Silence. Gifford Sims,
conversationalist. Oliver stood.

"Thank you for taking the time. Lovely place  . . ." He waved his arm,
vaguely including the hospital and the parking lot. "Well, goodbye, Mr.
Sims."

"Goodbye."

Oliver walked toward the main entrance. A young woman in the hall
looked at him seriously. Her hair was blonde, the color of freshly
planed maple. She had dark eyes and a compact graceful body. Oliver's
stomach tightened; he straightened and nodded as he passed. At the
front door, he said, "So long," to the receptionist, a middle-aged
redhead.

"Y'all come back, now!" Oliver stopped.

"Where you from?"

"Georgia, honey."

"Good deal," Oliver said, "the sun just came out." The hospital,
Gifford Sims notwithstanding, had a light atmosphere. Aside from a
large painting of Jesus near the entrance, the tone was functional and
non-denominational. A sign announced that two babies had been born
overnight. The hospital was known for its high-quality birthing. I
could work here, he thought. But he had no idea whether he'd get the
job. Gifford Sims hadn't exactly been blown over. On the other hand,
there weren't many people around who could step right in and take over.
Most good programmers already had jobs or would want full-time work.

Oliver drove home. In the mail, there was a large flat package from a
bookstore and a letter from Myron saying that the account was open. He
wrote the number on a card and put it in his wallet in case he should
see Francesca. He decided not to send her a letter; she had her hands
full. If she needed cash, she knew how to get it. The arrangement gave
him a warm feeling when he thought about it. He was useful to her, even
if she never touched the money.

There was a gift note inside the package: "This is the guy I was
telling you about. Home in one month. Muni." The book was by George
Nakashima, _The Soul of a Tree._ Oliver was immediately attracted to
the photographs of walnut, cherry, and chestnut tables. The tops were
made from wide slabs that had been left in their natural contours.
Where the wood had separated as it dried, Nakashima had inlaid
butterfly keys to prevent the splits from widening. The keys were made
of contrasting woods--rosewood and oak. Their butterfly or bow tie
shapes became design elements, quasi-geometric signatures. Oliver was
fascinated.

Later, in Deweys, he tried to explain to Mark. "The tables knock me
out. I mean, sure, it's hard to go wrong with a great piece of walnut.
The guy must have gotten every trophy tree in Pennsylvania. But what I
love is the way he treated splits. He repaired them with these
butterfly keys." Oliver made a quick drawing and showed it to Mark.
"The keys _improve_ the look. They add the human touch, so that it
isn't only a beautiful piece of wood--it's a beautiful piece made even
better. He turns a flaw into a strength by acknowledging it, working
with it instead of trying to hide it."

"Righteous," Mark said. "I want one."

"They're all in collections, now. The guy is famous," Oliver said. "I
think that his daughter is carrying on the tradition."

"Must be nice to make something that lasts," Mark said.

"You've got enough money to make things," Oliver said. "You've got an
art degree, right?"

"Yeah, I can draw. But there's no money in it."

"Why can't you do both?"

"I try sometimes, but it's hard to get into it. If I make a good
drawing or painting, then what--I've got to frame it and beg some
gallery owner to sell it for fifty percent of not much? Frig that. It's
not like I'm a frustrated genius."

"Just frustrated," Oliver said.

"Look who's talking. Maybe you ought to forget programming and set up a
cabinet shop."

"Maybe," Oliver said.

"Speaking of frustrated," Mark said, "how are the ladies?"

"Not bad," Oliver said. "I'm in love."

"Oh, no!"

"It's complicated," Oliver said. "Remember Francesca?"

"Big trouble."

"Yeah, I guess. She's still with her husband, but maybe not for long.
He's a jerk."

"A bill-paying jerk."

"He's not right for her."

"And you are?" Mark set his pint on the bar.

"I am--or could be--if she wanted."

"So what are you going to do, put your life on hold?"

"I'm going to work, save some money."

"No indoor sports?"

"Oh, that," Oliver said. "I don't know."

Mark shook his head. "Well, love is one thing, but I'd keep in practice
if I were you."

"Maybe I'll buy a new sweater."

"Now you're talking. What was his name again? George  . . ."

"Nakashima."

"The man!" Mark drank. "So how did you hear about him?"

"My father sent me the book I was telling you about."

"You never told me about your father." Oliver's explanation took them
through another pint.

"Something else," Mark said. "You're lucky. My father was a drunk--took
off when I was pretty young. He was hard on my mom."

"Do you ever see him?"

"No. She heard that he died a few years ago."

"Too bad," Oliver said.

"I don't know what his problem was," Mark said. "My mom said that he
had a bad time in the Korean War. But  . . ."

"How's your mom doing?"

"Fine. She's got a boyfriend with a bike. They tool around Albuquerque,
have a good time."

"Love it! Look, I'm out of here."

"See you," Mark said.

Oliver walked home thinking that Mark seemed more vulnerable than
usual. Everybody's got a story. Everybody's got some kind of problem.
It started raining. He was wet through when he got home.

"Soaked, Verdi," he said. He changed into dry clothes and considered
dinner. Instant red beans and rice? The doorbell rang. He went down the
stairs and opened the door to the street. Jennifer Lindenthwaite was
standing there, dripping.

"Hi, Oliver."

"Jennifer!"

"Aren't you going to ask me in?"

"Sure. Come in and dry off. I got soaked, too. Just got home." He led
her upstairs and into the apartment. "What's happening?"

"Oh, nothing," she said. "Rupert threw me out  . . .  I'm pregnant."




13.


"Gaaaagh  . . .  Jennifer, that's terrible! That's great. I
mean--here's a towel." Oliver whipped in and out of the bathroom and
handed her a maroon towel. "Do you want to take a shower? How about a
cup of tea?"

"Tea would be lovely. I _will_ take a shower." She closed the bathroom
door behind her, and Oliver rushed to fill the tea kettle. The shower
started. Milk? Sugar? Honey?

"Verdi," he called, "Jennifer is here for tea." The words echoed. Verdi
was nowhere to be seen; probably he had taken refuge upstairs. Oliver
paced back and forth from the stove to the fireplace. Why had she come
to him? He felt the future looming, threatening to sweep away the
controlled life that he complained about but that suddenly seemed more
attractive.

The shower stopped. Jennifer stepped out a few minutes later wearing
his Navy blue bathrobe. She was rosy cheeked and much recovered.

"Uh, how do you like your tea?"

"Do you have any chamomile?"

"Umm, no. I should get some herb tea. All I have is English Breakfast."

"Oh, that's fine. Just a little milk, thanks." She sat next to the
fireplace and looked around the apartment while Oliver fixed the tea.

"I don't know," he said, handing her a mug. "Whiskey might be a better
idea." Jennifer took a sip and sighed.

"That's so good. I forgot how nice your apartment is."

"It's large enough," Oliver said. "Walking distance from Deweys--I like
that. So, what happened? You look great."

"I feel great. I'm just starting to show a little--getting into the
fifth month." Oliver counted backwards. "What happened is that Rupert
freaked out when I told him I was pregnant. He became--I don't
know--_distant._ I thought he was just nervous and would get used to
it, but he got more and more uptight. I couldn't take it anymore." She
drank her tea and sighed again.

"So today, I  . . .  I said to him: 'Look, Rupert, _what_ is the
matter? We're going to have a baby. What is _wrong_ with you?' I guess
I should have been more diplomatic. You know--said something like:
'Rupert, I need your affection; I'm feeling all alone here.' But I
didn't _feel_ diplomatic. I was mad as hell, actually."

Owl's words echoed: "_Anger is the outer face of fear._"

"Scared," Oliver said.

Jennifer looked at him. "Maybe so," she said. "I thought we had a
family. I thought we were all set to go."

"Well, sure," Oliver said.

"'So,' Rupert said, 'who's the father?'

"'What do you mean?' I said.

"'It's not me,' Rupert said. I was shocked. Anyway, it came out that he
has a very low sperm count. He knew it all the time and never told me.
I told him that you and I had a one time thing last summer, and he
freaked out.

"'I'm not paying for his kid, bla, bla, bla.'

"I practically begged: 'Couldn't it be like we adopted him--or her?'

"'It's his problem,' he said. He called my baby a problem. How could he
love me if my baby is a _problem?_"

"Good question," Oliver said. "Jesus, Jennifer."

She put down her tea and held her arms out to him. "Come feel," she
said. She loosened the bathrobe and guided Oliver's hand to her belly,
warm and taut.

"Amazing!" Oliver said.

"I'm still getting used to it," she said. "I'm over the morning
sickness."

Oliver withdrew his hand slowly and straightened. "What are you going
to do?"

"Tonight?"

"Well, for starters  . . ."

"I don't know. I just wanted to see you, to tell you. You weren't here
when I got home. I couldn't find a parking place anywhere close." Her
voice trailed off. "I've got a credit card; I can stay at the Holiday
Inn."

"No way," Oliver said. "You might as well stay here. Your clothes are
all wet." A relieved smile brightened her face.

"Thank you, Oliver."

"Music," he said. He was hearing hearing strains from _La Traviata_ in
his mind. He wanted to play the opera, but he was afraid Jennifer would
find it too heavy. He played a tape of Native American flute melodies
echoing down a canyon. Soothing stuff.

"Oh, I love this music," she said.

"Carlos Nakai," Oliver said. "Are you hungry?" He was newly concerned.
There were two of her. Check that--one of her and one of them, a new
one. Jennifer looked pleased.

"I've been so upset, it's hard to tell. I think so, actually."

"I have some red beans and r

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