“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 Sauvign
on 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 fr
iend, 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.
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