O+F

by John Moncure Wetterau

  “Hi,’’ he said, stupidly.

  “Oliver . . .”

  “You look like you’ve had a hard time. I brought coffee.’’ He pointed back to the log.

  “The worst is over,’’ she said. “I’ve left him. I’m still at the house—but only for a little while. Conor’s staying with a friend.’’

  “What are you going to do?’’

  “I’m taking the girls to the West Coast. Seattle, I think. I need a clean break. If I stay here, Conor will keep hanging around and using the girls to keep me down.’’

  “Oh,’’ Oliver said. “Seattle is supposed to be a good place. I like the Northwest. Shit.’’ They sat on the log, and Oliver handed her a cup. “From Mr. Bagel,’’ he said. “There have been changes in my life, too.’’ He paused. “I got married,’’ he blurted out. “I have a daughter, five weeks old.’’ Francesca put her cup down on the sand and took two steps toward the water. She stood with her fingers to her lips in a prayer position. Oliver explained what had happened.

  “How wonderful to have a baby,’’ she said in a low voice. “Emma—how wonderful.’’

  “She is,’’ Oliver apologized.

  “Are you happy?’’

  “I guess so,’’ he said.

  She turned. “Oh, Oliver!’’ She opened her arms, and this time it was she who was consoling. A part of him wanted to scream with fury, but a deeper part became calmer as she held him. There were big problems off in the future—impossible problems—but they were their problems.

  “God, I love you,’’ he said, stepping back.

  “It’s a strange time to feel lucky,’’ she said, “but I do.’’ She looked at his wedding ring. “I’m a bad woman now, too—along with everything else.’’

  “Bad to the bone,’’ Oliver said. He reached down for her coffee and handed it to her. “Some bones,’’ he said. He sat on the log and shook his head. “Damn . . .” They were quiet for a minute. “When are you leaving?’’

  “In three or four weeks. I’m going to drive out, bring as much as I can with me. I’ve got to get a better car—something that will pull a small U–Haul trailer and hold up.’’

  “The money is there if you need it,’’ Oliver said. “Jennifer wants to buy a house in Cumberland or North Yarmouth. I’m going to use some for a down payment, but there will be plenty left—ten, twenty, thirty thousand—just call Myron and he’ll send you a check.’’

  “I have enough to go on. And Conor will pay child support. I can work, you know. Did I tell you I was a registered nurse?’’

  “No.’’

  “Yeah, I went through a program after I got out of college. I only worked for a year before I met Conor. I’m glad I did, now . . . It’s nice to know about the money. I don’t know what’s going to happen, really. I just know I’ve got to move.’’ She paused.

  “I wish I were moving with you.’’

  “Never leave someone for someone else,’’ Francesca said. “You’ve got to live through these things.’’

  “That’s what Mark says—my friend, Mark. Anyway, take the money if you need it; I know you won’t waste it. I wish I could help with the moving, but I don’t think I’d better.’’

  “You are helping, just by being you. Emma’s going to need lots of money, you know.’’

  “Not for a while. Listen, how am I going to find you?’’

  “My folks will know where I am: Richard Boisverte in Edgewater, near Daytona. Conor will know—because of the girls. I’ll send you a card when I have an address.’’ She covered one of his hands with one of hers. “You’re right—it’s probably not a good idea to see each other. I’m a bad woman now; I could be a very bad woman any moment.’’

  “Damn,’’ Oliver said again. They were quiet again.

  “I’ve got to go,’’ he said, standing up.

  “I think I’ll stay here for a bit,’’ she said. “I want to watch you walk away.’’

  “Be careful,’’ he pleaded.

  “Bye, Baby,’’ she said.

  He looked at her for a long moment. She smiled for him, the smile that entranced him the first day he saw her in Becky’s. Her mouth traveled slowly down, along, and up a complex curve, sexual at its center, sensitive at its corners, wholly alive and in the moment. He nodded in the Japanese manner, the way he had that day. Then he smiled quickly—an American promise laid on top of the Japanese one—and left. He looked back from the top of the bank at the end of the beach. She was watching him, unmoving. He lifted one arm high and walked out of sight. A hundred yards farther, he followed a smaller path to a clearing overlooking the water. He dropped to the ground and lay in a fetal position on his side with his knees drawn up and his hands between his legs. He hurt too much to cry. He just wanted to survive. There was only one level of feeling beneath his love for Francesca; he had to get there. The hard cold ground was anesthetic and numbing. Half an hour later, he brushed himself off, an animal on the earth, needing food and warmth.

  “Where have you been?’’ Jennifer asked.

  “I ran into a friend who’s moving,’’ he said. “Sorry to be so long.’’

  “Emma’s asleep again.’’

  “Cold out there. Bagels,’’ Oliver said, raising the bag. “I’m hungry.’’

  16.

  Emma turned over. Emma crawled. Emma made smiling googling noises when Oliver came home and picked her up. Jennifer had three months of maternity leave, and she arranged to work part time for six months after that. Oliver did not get life insurance, but he worked steadily at the hospital. He took another smaller project to round out the week and to try and get a few bucks ahead.

  Francesca did not come into Oliver’s mind while he was busy. Sometimes he thought of her when he was extra tired. She was a reassuring presence, even though she was far away. Sunday mornings, when he went out for bagels and a paper, he often wished that he were driving to Crescent Beach to bring her coffee. Instead, he would sit for a minute in his Jeep remembering the calm that they shared. Then he would drive home, play with Emma, and do things around the apartment.

  On the Wednesday after Labor Day, Jennifer met him at the door. “I found it, today!’’

  “Hi, Scrumptious, how’s Ms. Perfect?’’ He held Emma high. “That good, huh? Found what?’’

  “A house!’’ Jennifer said. “It’s just right. I’m sure you’ll like it.’’

  “Oh, yeah? Where?’’

  “North Yarmouth, about two miles from Gillespie’s. It’s on a dirt road—off Route 9.’’

  “I like Gillespie’s,’’ Oliver said. They sometimes drove out there to buy vegetables and eat donuts at outside tables that overlooked the Royal River.

  “It’s a real Maine house with an ell and an attached barn, not too big, perfect for a garage and tools and stuff. We could get a doggie for Emma.’’

  “How much?’’

  “They’re asking one-twenty. The house needs painting. There isn’t much land with it—four acres.’’

  “Four acres is a lot,’’ Oliver said. “I mean, not in the middle of Kansas, but . . .”

  “It’s about half field and half woods,’’ Jennifer said.

  “I guess we ought to go look.’’

  “Let’s go!’’

  “Now?’

  “Of course, now. If we want it, we have to make an offer fast. It just came on the market. My friend Martha who works in real estate called me this morning.’’

  “O.K., let me get an ale. You drive.’’ Oliver put four bottles of ale, bread, and a piece of cheddar in a day pack. “Back later, Verdi.’’

  The house sat up nicely on a stone foundation. Lilac bushes framed the kitchen door. “What do you think?’’ Jennifer asked after Oliver had walked around the house.

  “It looks dry, and it faces south,’’ he said. “One-fifteen. That’s as long as there isn’t anything major wrong—rotten sills, bad water, or something.’’

  “We can get my friend Steve to inspect it,
’’ Jennifer said. “He’s got a business inspecting houses. He’s very good.’’

  “Where are the owners?’’

  “Owner. It’s a guy. I guess his wife died, and he’s moving out of town.’’

  “Too bad,’’ Oliver said. “Looks like he had a good garden in back.’’

  “I saw that,’’ Jennifer said.

  “The house seems all right, but you can’t be sure from the outside. Heating system could be shot. Septic system might not be any good.’’

  “I’ll make an offer contingent on the inspection,’’ she said. “Steve will find anything that’s wrong. He does a radon check and all that. Costs about three hundred, I think. Three-fifty, maybe.’’

  “Worth it,’’ Oliver said. “The driveway is pretty rough, but that’s no big deal.’’ He looked around. “I like it. What do you think, Princess?’’ Emma googled. “That does it,’’ Oliver said.

  “I knew you’d like it,’’ Jennifer said.

  “Let’s go down to Gillespie’s and buy a pie, sit outside, and finish this ale.’’ They drove slowly away from the house and out to Route 9. Jennifer had good bank connections; she was sure she could get a mortgage for most of the money. Oliver said he had fifteen thousand toward a down payment. Jennifer had another ten thousand.

  “Daddy will give us another fifteen. That would leave seventy-five. I know I can get seventy-five out of the bank. We make enough to take care of the rest, fix it up, get furniture and all.’’

  “Maybe we could go easy on the furniture,’’ Oliver said.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t go crazy. We’ll have a housewarming!’’

  “You’re right about the place—plenty of room, but not too big. It would be good to get my tools laid out.’’

  Five weeks later, they slid a check across a glass–topped table. A tired balding man with a red face tossed Oliver a set of keys. “Kentucky, here I come,’’ he said.

  “We want to wish you the very best of luck,’’ Jennifer said.

  “Weren’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all—that’s how the song goes. But, thank you.’’ He stood, pulled a baseball cap down on his forehead, and touched the brim in salute. “I’ll be getting along.’’ He walked out.

  “B.B. King,’’ Oliver said. “Didn’t he sing that?’’

  “Never mind, Oliver; we’re bringing the good luck with us.’’

  “Congratulations,’’ Martha said.

  “Oh, thank you!’’ Jennifer jumped up and hugged her. “Come on, Oliver. We’ve got to move.’’

  A week later, Oliver was sleeping in a new bed, high off the floor. The physical move doesn’t take long, he thought; getting used to it takes a while. He missed knowing that Arlen and Porter were downstairs. Porter had made an extravagant cake for Jennifer the week after she had Emma. Driving home from Deweys to North Yarmouth wasn’t as easy as walking up the hill to State Street. No five minute walk to Becky’s for breakfast, either. On the other hand, he had a good work space in the barn, and it was quiet at night.

  Oliver counted his blessings. Verdi had made his first patrols and was adjusting. The leaves were changing color fast. It was beautiful, really. Jennifer loved the new house. Emma had a room with a baby bed and a playpen right next to their bedroom. There were plenty of projects; that was fun. Old storm windows were leaning against the wall in one corner of the barn. He had to clean them and figure out where they went. There was a wooden ladder missing a couple of rungs.

  Oliver swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. “I’m going to go buy a decent ladder. I want to put those storm windows in.’’

  Jennifer yawned. “Come back soon.’’

  “I won’t be long.’’

  A few minutes later, he was bouncing down the road. There had been a light frost overnight; the air was snappy; it was a good day to get things done. He needed to write to Francesca. Her letter was in the bottom of the toolbox in the back of the Jeep. He knew it by heart. She was renting a house in a section of Seattle called Ballard. Maria was in school. Elena was in pre–school. Francesca was working in a family clinic, lonely, but glad to be starting a life on her terms. It was signed, “Love, F.’’

  He drove to the Yarmouth post office and waited five minutes for it to open. He was going to send her a postcard, but he changed his mind and bought a stamped envelope. He went over to the Calendar Island Motel and wrote her a letter as he ate bacon and eggs and homefries. He described the new house and reported that Emma was crawling and would be walking soon. Work was O.K.; there were nice people at the hospital. He was thinking mainly of Dan and Suzanne, but he didn’t go into it. He signed his own love and then added, “I miss you. I wish I could be two places at once.’’ He tore the page out of his notebook and folded it into the envelope. Crap. He really was two places at once, but he didn’t want to think about it. Better to get to work.

  The morning was warming when he untied the new ladder and carried it from the roof rack. He laid it on the grass and assembled it, tying off the lifting rope. Jennifer put her head out the front door. “Where’ve you been?’’

  “Hi, pretty good, huh?’’ He pointed to the shiny aluminum ladder. “I stopped for breakfast.’’ He pointed to Verdi who was motionless beneath a rose bush by the corner of the house. “I see you. Where’s Princess?’’

  “In her room. Why don’t we bring the playpen out here? Will you watch her? I want to go to Gillespie’s.’’

  “Sure.’’ They took the playpen apart and put it back together on the lawn. Emma sat in the sun surrounded by rattles, balls, and small stuffed bears. Jennifer left and Oliver set up a window–washing station in front of the house. Should I wash them all first, or one at a time as I put them in? he asked himself. One at a time. He cleaned the first and noticed a small lead disk numbered, 7, nailed to the outside face of the bottom of the sash.

  “Aha,’’ he said. “But where is window seven, Emma? Where is window seven?’’ He walked along the front of the house, checking each window for some kind of number. On the end of the windowsill of the fourth window, he found a disk numbered, 3. That makes a lot of sense, he thought. He continued around the end of the house. There was a two on the next window. It did make sense; the starting point was different, that was all. There were two windows at that end of the first floor. The numbering started at the far corner, came around the end, and continued across the front of the house. The windows that looked into the ell at the other end were not fitted for storms, so number seven was the first one on the back side.

  “Looking good,’’ he said to Emma. He took the clean window around to the back of the house and put it in place. The sash fit flush with the outer casing. Metal clips held the window in place. He swiveled them over the sash and tightened them down with a screwdriver. “O.K. Thirteen to go.’’

  He was down to nine when Jennifer returned with a carload of groceries. “I got some cider from Gillespie’s. How’s Emma?’’

  “Having a good time,’’ Oliver said. “A couple of bees checked her out. No harm done. I think she likes it outside.’’

  “That’s my precious,’’ Jennifer said, lifting her out of the playpen. “Oh, you need changing, oh my precious!’’ She looked at Oliver accusingly.

  “Whoops,’’ he said. He unloaded the car while she changed Emma. “Great stuff, this cider,’’ he said, knocking down a glass.

  The afternoons were short in October, but Oliver had the windows in place by four o’clock. Jennifer had cooked a ham and baked two pies. The house smelled good. Emma was asleep. Oliver opened a bottle of Rioja, and they ate, listening to Prairie Home Companion on the public radio station. He would rather have talked about something—Garrison Keillor was too smug for Oliver’s taste—but Jennifer loved him. He was funny, sometimes, Oliver admitted. And the music was good.

  Later, in bed, Jennifer sighed contentedly. “I love it here,’’ she said. Oliver snuggled closer. “I’ve been thinking about two weeks from today,’
’ she went on.

  “Two weeks?’’ he mumbled.

  “For the housewarming.’’

  “Housewarming.’’ He put a hand on her breast.

  “Mmmm,’’ she said. “I want to invite everybody!’’

  “O.K.’’ Oliver moved one leg farther up on hers. He put his mouth against her neck. “Everybody,’’ he murmured. A small shiver went through her. She was wifely now in bed, accommodating, easily satisfied. Oliver did his part; she did hers. They fell asleep peacefully and properly. Oliver did not hear her get up to attend to Emma.

  In the morning they decided that “everybody’’ meant everybody but their parents. The holidays were coming; they would see them soon. Besides, the party might be loud and last into the night, not a parents’ kind of party. “The telephone man is coming tomorrow,’’ Jennifer said. “I’ll call my friends; you call yours.’’

  “O.K.,’’ Oliver said. “I might stop in at Deweys.’’

  At the hospital the following day, he invited Dan to the housewarming. Dan had twin girls in junior high and a devout wife. Oliver didn’t expect him to accept, but he liked Dan and wanted to ask.

  “Saturday after next? Can’t make it,’’ Dan said. “I’m going to see my brother.’’

  “Oh. Where does he live?’’

  “Upstate New York. He works on a farm.’’ Dan saw Oliver’s surprise and continued. “It’s a long story. We’re twins. And now I have twins—strange. Something happened at birth; my brother was born retarded, mentally challenged.’’ Dan rubbed the back of his neck. “We were given up for adoption. I didn’t find out about this until I was grown up.’’

  “No,’’ Oliver said.

  “Dale was raised in an institution and eventually got work on this farm where he gets room and board. It took me quite a while to find him. I go see him every three or four months.’’