O+F

by John Moncure Wetterau

  “Yes.’’

  “Good! I’ll get you a door key in case you have to get in here after hours. We lock the computer room at night.’’

  “Dan, could you come here a moment?’’

  “Be right there,’’ he called to someone in the corridor. “This is Oliver, everybody.’’ The women had all been watching them. “Ruth, Edna, Lillian, Vi.’’ He pointed to each in turn. Oliver smiled four times. “O.K. gang, let’s get to it.’’ Dan walked quickly out of the room, intent on the next problem. Oliver pulled a yellow pad from his bag and wrote names on the final page where they wouldn’t be seen: Ruth, short blonde; Edna, happy; Lillian, glasses, bored; Vi, body; Dan; Suzanne. What a pro, he bragged to himself.

  He looked through the manuals and tried to make sense of the system. The terminals in the computer room were used for data entry—billing information and payments. Terminals elsewhere in the hospital allowed people to look up information. Medical records were kept by hand in a different department.

  The operating system was complicated but not too different from one he had used a few years earlier. There was a job control language that scheduled daily updates and a weekly billing run. A log kept automatic track of all programs that were executed. This gave him the names of the programs. He found Dan at the other end of the hospital and asked him for a password. Once inside the system, he found the source code for the billing programs. A lot of small programs were run in sequence before the bills were actually produced. He took a guess and printed out the last three to be run; the late messages were probably hard–coded in there somewhere. The code was incomprehensible. He couldn’t get anywhere without a book. He said goodbye and drove to the Maine Mall.

  There was only one book on RPG II. It was a language from the dawn of computer history, thirty years old. He took the book to the Food Court and began trying to interpret the code listings. Two cups of coffee later, he drove home. He had made some progress, but there was a lot left to figure out.

  There was a statement from Myron in the mail. Francesca was listed as joint owner at the top. Her name, next to his, gave him a proud feeling. Together. The feeling of connectedness with Francesca was deep and comforting, as long as he didn’t think of Jennifer and the baby at the same time.

  Myron had invested most of the money in some kind of fund. There were small amounts of General Electric, Royal Dutch Shell, Pfizer, Microsoft, and Citibank. A note suggested that he stop in. “Keeping powder dry,’’ Myron wrote. “These blue chips will grow with the economy. We’ll add to them on dips and as money comes in. Waiting for good entry points on some growth companies.’’ What was Pfizer? He’d ask Jennifer. On the other hand, he thought, maybe it would be best to keep quiet about this account—at least for now. He put the statement in his pocket and walked down to the Old Port.

  “What’s Pfizer?’’ he asked Myron.

  “Pharmaceutical company. Solid. The long term outlook for the drug industry is good.’’ Oliver inquired about the fund that was listed on the statement. “Right,’’ Myron said. “It’s a safe place to park cash—government securities only, decent return.’’

  “I was wondering,’’ Oliver said, “if you could hold my statements here—not send them.’’

  “We can do that. Let me make a note. No problem.’’

  “Thanks,’’ Oliver said. “I’ll check in from time to time.’’

  “Or call me,’’ Myron said. “I’ve got my eye on some companies—domestic natural gas, fiber optics, fuel cell technology.’’

  “I’ve heard of fuel cells. What are they?’’

  “They produce electricity directly from a source of hydrogen. You feed them pure hydrogen or a hydrocarbon fuel; you get electricity, heat, and water. No pollution. Very reliable. Cars would be the bonanza market, but there are engineering problems to solve first—to make the cars cheap enough. There are a lot of other applications. Residential power. Industrial power.’’

  “Wowzir!’’

  “It’s a ways off,’’ Myron said. “The people who develop a technology aren’t always the ones who make the big money with it. Developing a business takes a different kind of skill.’’ Myron shook his head. “I’ve been burnt,’’ he said. “You put a winning technology together with winning management—then you’ve got something.’’

  “It’s interesting. Well—do what you think best. I’ll start following these companies.’’

  “No statement?’’ Myron inquired, making sure.

  “Save a tree,’’ Oliver confirmed.

  “Right.’’ A twinkle quickly disappeared. “Right.’’

  Oliver walked up Congress Street. He saw a rack of postcards in an art supplies store window. I ought to send Muni a card, he thought. There weren’t any that he liked, however. Maybe at the Museum. Christmas decorations were already appearing. It was going to be a busy holiday.

  Arlen was collecting his mail when Oliver arrived home.

  “Hey, Arlen, how are you?’’

  “Just fine, Oliver.’’

  “Developments, Arlen!’’

  “I noticed—with a Volvo.’’

  “Jennifer. We must get together soon. She’s great. She’s going to have a baby. We’re going to have a baby.’’

  “Congratulations! I’m happy for you, Oliver. Developments downstairs, as well.’’

  “I wondered,’’ Oliver said.

  “Porter,’’ Arlen said simply.

  “Excellent! The House of Happy Endings.’’

  “Thank you, Oliver. Let us hope so. When is the baby due?’’

  “April.’’

  “Oh, my. Definitely we must celebrate. Whoops, there’s the phone.’’ He waved goodbye and let himself into his apartment. Oliver felt something at his feet.

  “Verdi! Were you out? Well, well, time to eat isn’t it?’’ He closed the front door behind him, and Verdi ran up the stairs. Oliver followed, seeing a can of coconut milk and a smaller can of Thai curry paste. Basil, a bit of chicken, green beans, rice . . . He was almost out of shoyu, but that wouldn’t matter with a curry. Tomorrow he would get shoyu. And more veggies. Jennifer was strong on veggies.

  15.

  Oliver concentrated on programming. He found and successfully changed the late messages. Dan gave him a list of projects which he put aside until he could finish documenting the system. “You have to understand the data before you can work with it,’’ he explained to Jennifer. “The data is everything. Most people don’t know how to lay out a database; they make a mess that just keeps getting worse.’’

  “You did a nice job at The Conservancy,’’ she said.

  “At some point, you have to start fresh,’’ Oliver said. “The hospital can get by for awhile—if they don’t try to change too much. I don’t think they will. I don’t think they want to spend the money. I mean, it works—the present system. I’ll know what I’m doing in a couple of weeks.’’

  “They’re lucky to have you,’’ Jennifer said.

  “They’re good to work with. You’d think that they would be a little screwy—First Fundamentalists and all that, but they aren’t. They’re cheerful, mostly. Practical. The women can’t wear jewelry.’’

  “Keeps them in their place,’’ Jennifer said.

  “Wedding rings are about it,’’ Oliver said.

  Jennifer cleared her throat loudly.

  “Oh, yeah . . .” Oliver said. “We should do something about that—once you get your divorce.’’

  “Was that a proposal?’’ She smiled appealingly.

  “Sure—you don’t mean church and all that?’’

  “No, Silly.’’

  Oliver was relieved. “City Hall,’’ Jennifer said. “We’ll have a nice dinner afterwards. Do something for us.’’

  “F. Parker Reidy’s,’’ Oliver said. “Eat teriyaki and watch shoppers on the snowy street.’’

  “Wherever you like, Dear. Speaking of snow, we’re lucking out—I shouldn’t have any problem getting to Way
land.’’

  “How far is Wayland from Boston?’’

  “Depends on what time it is—half an hour, usually. I take 495 right around the city, no problem. Umm . . . Sweetums?’’

  “Yes?”

  “I was wondering if you would do something for me. I know I’m being awful, but—well—it’s that snakeskin. It gives me a chill when I look at it.” She put one hand on her stomach. “It’s so—deadly.”

  Oliver walked over to the steps and pulled out the thumb tacks that held the snakeskin. “Can’t have you getting a chill,” he said.

  “Oh, thank you. I just can’t help it—how I feel,” she said.

  “Of course you can’t.” Oliver rolled the skin into a coil and put a thick rubber band around it. He hefted it in his palm. “I’ll take it down to the basement. He sealed it in a Ziploc bag and stored it in a toolbox.

  The next day, Jennifer left at noon to see her parents. Oliver had a pint at Deweys with Richard and went to bed early. He lay there, not used to sleeping alone, and thought about the relationship. It was like living with Charlotte again, but Jennifer was more fun. She was a natural mother—not at all bothered by pregnancy. All in all, the relationship was pretty good, but he avoided comparing Jennifer to Francesca.

  In the morning he got up and took coffee to Crescent Beach as though his life hadn’t changed during the last two weeks. There was an inch of snow—not enough to keep Francesca away. As he approached the beach he saw a shiny patch on the driftwood log. A Ziploc bag was taped to the log where they usually sat. The bag looked as if it had been there several days.

  He bent over and saw a heart drawn on the paper inside. “O+F.’’ He tore the bag from the log and removed the paper. It was folded. Inside, a note read: “Missed you yesterday. Leaving Wednesday. Be back in the spring, I guess. I hope you’ll be here.’’

  Oliver folded the note carefully and looked south. “I’ll be here,’’ he said. It was an acknowledgement and a promise. He felt a deep conflict in his loyalties, but it was bearable. The promise came from a different place than his attachment to Jennifer and the baby.

  He stayed a few minutes savoring the coffee and the cold damp air. Gulls circled and dove at the other end of the beach. The geese were long gone. When he left, he took with him all traces of Francesca’s note.

  Jennifer arrived home during the early game. “Hi, Sweetheart,’’ she said. “The roads were fine. Mother is withholding judgment until she sees you, but Daddy is on board. Don’t worry, she’ll love you.’’

  “The Patriots don’t look too good,’’ Oliver said. “I’ll wow her with my knowledge of RPG II.’’

  “I said we’d come down at Christmas.’’

  “O.K.,’’ Oliver said. “Jesus!’’

  “What’s the matter?’’

  “He dropped it,’’ Oliver said. “You’re back nice and early.’’

  “We had a big breakfast around nine. I left right after. What do you think of ‘Emma’ as a name?’’

  “No!’’ Jennifer’s face fell. “Not another one! Get him out of there!’’

  “Oliver . . .”

  “Yes—Emma,’’ he said. “I like it. Why Emma?’’

  “My grandmother’s name was Emma.’’ Jennifer was smiling again.

  “Sure,’’ Oliver said, “I like it. What if it’s a boy?’’

  “I don’t know,’’ she said. “My father’s name is Gene.’’

  “How about Frisco?’’

  “Frisco? But that’s a place, not a person . . .”

  “Nakano. Nakano Prescott, now there’s a name.’’

  “I don’t know.’’ Jennifer’s hands went protectively to her belly. “Nak? Naky?’’

  Oliver raised his voice. “Nakano Prescott stretches, makes the grab, takes a big hit and holds on! The Patriots got something when they signed this guy.’’ He patted her. “Just trying it out—I’m not real strong on Gene.’’

  “Well, we have four months,’’ Jennifer said.

  In April, early on the morning of the 26th, two months after they were married in City Hall and had their celebratory dinner at F. Parker Reidy’s, Jennifer felt the first serious contraction. Six hours later, Emma Dior Prescott wrinkled her nose, squinted, made two fists—triumphantly, according to Oliver—and went back to sleep, breathing on her own. Jennifer was thrilled and tired. Oliver felt a new kind of pang when he saw Emma. She had dark hair and seemed to be clutching part of his heart with her tiny hands, as though she had moved from one support system to another.

  Deweys was barely open when he got there. “One for me and one more for my baby,’’ he said to Sam. “Jenn had a little girl.’’

  “No shit! Congratulations. Hey, the Guinness is on the house, man; you’re going to need your strength.’’

  Oliver drank and relaxed. The winter had passed in a blur. Each day had been filled with work and things to do at home; the months had slipped past scarcely noticed. Jennifer’s growing weight had defined the season that mattered.

  “I have responsibilities,’’ he announced after his second pint. “I must call the grandparents.’’

  He walked home and talked to his mother and to Jennifer’s father. Gene was particularly pleased. “I had my order in,’’ he said. “Does she look like Jenny?’’

  “More like me, actually.’’

  Gene was quick. “Sweet thing! You’re a lucky man, Oliver.’’

  Oliver was supposed to say, “Thank you, Sir,’’ or some such. “It was an easy birth,’’ he said. “I’m going to pick them up tomorrow.’’

  “Fine, fine,’’ Gene said, “we can’t wait to see her.’’

  “Come on up.’’

  “Fine. Dolly will call, tomorrow or the next day.’’

  Oliver’s mother shrieked, sobbed, and made him promise to call the moment that they were ready for a short visit. Oliver agreed and hung up thinking that good news was easy to pass along. He had already written his father and explained the situation, so he needed only to send a birth announcement. “Emma Dior Prescott—April 26th, 1994—7 lbs 6 oz. Looks a little like us,’’ he added beneath.

  He walked to the corner and dropped the card in the mailbox. On his way back, he met Arlen and told him the news. “A major event. I’m happy for you,’’ Arlen said. Oliver took a nap and walked down to Deweys for more Guinness and congratulations. He went to bed feeling as though he had made it through a one–way turnstile. Things were different on this side; there was a lot to do.

  The next day he brought Jennifer and Emma home from Mercy Hospital. Verdi had gotten used to Jennifer. He sniffed Emma for a moment and then jumped to his place on the living room windowsill, settling down as if to say: one more—what’s the difference?

  Emma slept and fed. Jennifer spent happy weeks keeping her close and occasionally preparing a meal or cleaning the apartment. Oliver enjoyed holding Emma and being fatherly, although he sensed that his presence was not entirely necessary.

  Dior and Paul came for a one night visit. His mother liked Jennifer and gushed endlessly over Emma. He and Paul had drinks in the background and talked about work and the Red Sox. It had been how many years since Carleton Fisk had gone to Chicago? One of the all–time great catchers, a son of New Hampshire—the event still felt like the death of an era, almost the death of New England.

  Dolly and Gene were more formal. They were pleased and full of instruction. Gene inquired after Oliver’s life insurance.

  “No?’’ He gave Oliver his most forgiving and father-in-law knows best smile, stopping just short of issuing an order. It happens to all of us; you might as well get with the program—that was the message.

  Jennifer was satisfied with both visits. Nothing really mattered but Emma, anyway. “Isn’t she a doll baby? The most precious doll baby,’’ she would say, answering her own question and thrusting Emma into Oliver’s arms.

  “Yes, she is. Yes, you are,’’ he would say, holding Emma carefully. She was a good-natured baby. Her
hearing was sensitive; she made faces and sometimes cried at loud noises. She liked music. Oliver had fun twirling her around the living room, keeping her high against his shoulder so that she could see the walls spin by.

  One Saturday late in May, he received a note from Francesca saying that she was coming back that week and that the winter had not gone well. Jennifer didn’t ask about the letter, perhaps she hadn’t noticed it. Oliver said nothing. Later that afternoon, he took a roundabout route shopping and walked out to Crescent Beach. The log had shifted position during the winter, but it was close to the same spot. He left a note in their format: “O+F’’ in a heart on the outside. Inside, he wrote: “Welcome back. Much to tell you.’’ That was all he could bring himself to say. If Francesca came out in the morning, at least she would have a welcome. Maybe he could get there, maybe not.

  Sunday morning, he went out for bagels and a newspaper. On his way home, at the last moment, he kept going down State Street. He crossed the bridge, drove to Cape Elizabeth, and walked quickly to the beach. He didn’t know what to say, but he was suddenly glad and hopeful that Francesca might be there. The force of his feeling surprised him. The note was gone. She wasn’t around. She got it anyway, he thought as he hurried back. Probably.

  That week, when he thought of Francesca, he twisted his wedding ring around and around his finger. He worried about her and about the girls. It occurred to him that Emma would be as large as Maria and Elena in a few years. It didn’t seem possible. The following Sunday, he got up early, put on running shoes, and told Jennifer that he would be back with bagels in an hour or so. He bought coffees to go and carried them to the log in a paper bag. The water was cold that early in the season. There was no one on the beach. No note. No sculptures or arrangements. He and Francesca might never have been there.

  A figure appeared in the distance, walking with long familiar strides. He balanced the bag on the log and started toward her. She was wearing a gray sweatshirt and jeans. Her hair was shorter than it had been. Her eyes. Her beautiful mouth. They walked into an embrace that became tighter and tighter. There was no time, no weather, no ocean. Getting closer was all that mattered. Francesca was trembling. Oliver dug his feet deeper into the sand and moved one hand slowly across her back. She let out a deep breath and relaxed against him. When they stepped apart, it was like waking up in the morning.