“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!’’
&n
bsp; “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.’ ”
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