O+F

by John Moncure Wetterau

  Yes—if he kept going. The truth kept blowing through him. He couldn’t have continued, otherwise. He bounced to a stop in front of his house, went inside, turned on all the lights, and played La Traviata at top volume. He put his toolboxes in the Jeep and covered them with a tarp. He dumped his clothes in piles on the back seat, shoes and boots on the floor. He filled a cartridge box with cassettes and put it in the front seat with the George Nakashima book. He gathered bathroom stuff together and remembered his briefcase and the file box where he kept his credit card information, the brokerage agreement, bank statements, and his passport. He put these in the front of the Jeep and took another look around the house. He added a flashlight and a picture of Emma to the pile in front. Woof and Verdi watched uneasily.

  He made a mug of black tea and sat at the kitchen table with a pen and a pad of paper.

  “Jennifer, I have to leave. I just realized it. It’s better to do it now while you’re away. I don’t think I could if Emma were here. I can’t give you the life you want and that you should have. It will be better for Emma, too, in the long run. I am very sorry to cause you this pain. You have been nothing but sweet to me, and you deserve better. I don’t know where I’m going, but it won’t be anywhere around here—so you don’t have to wonder if I’m going to come driving in. Take care of Emma. I couldn’t do this if I didn’t know it was best for everybody.

  “Here is enough to keep you going for three months. I’ll send more as soon as I can. You can have the house and everything else. I just took my tools and clothes. I’m sorry. Oliver”

  He wrote a check and left it on top of the note. He washed the mug and left it on the dish rack. Woof made a whimpering sound. Oliver patted her. “Take care of everybody,” he said.

  Verdi sniffed at the door. “You want to come with me?’’ Oliver asked, suddenly hopeful. He opened the door and watched Verdi stalk around the end of the house. “No. You’re better off, here.’’ He turned out the lights and drove down the hill. “So long,’’ he said.

  A band of gray was lightening in the east. The wind was still blowing through his chest but without the angriest gusts. He thought of stopping at Becky’s in Portland, but he couldn’t face leaving another familiar place. It was better to drive. Drive where? South. That’s where people go when they leave Maine. Down the turnpike. He pulled off at the first rest stop and nodded at a trucker who was walking back to the parking lot. Take a leak, a cup of coffee. Go.

  23.

  Oliver stopped for breakfast in Chelmsford and then made it south of Worcester before his adrenaline burned down. Massive numbness lay ahead like a fog bank. Stop, he told himself. He found a motel and asked for a room. “Sure thing,’’ the desk clerk said. “That’ll be six hundred bucks.’’

  “What!’’

  “April Fool.’’ The clerk fell over the counter, laughing.

  “That’s me,’’ Oliver said.

  He slept all afternoon, ate at a Burger King across the road, watched the news, and fell asleep again without ever really waking up.

  The next morning, he stared over a cup of coffee and tried to get organized. It was Monday. Jennifer and Emma were home. The damage was done. Suzanne. What a peach she was. He wrote to her, thanking her for being wonderful. It wasn’t just you, he told her. He had to leave Jennifer, too. Suzanne would understand that intuitively. He wrote that he didn’t know where he was going, but that he wouldn’t be back anytime soon. He asked her to send his last check to Jacksonville, Florida, care of General Delivery. He signed it “Love, Oliver.’’ Spring was a good time of year to go down the coast. He wanted to get far from Maine.

  He called Myron and asked him to send a check for ten thousand dollars to the same address. “No problem,’’ Myron said with admirable restraint. “Do it this afternoon.’’

  “Thanks.’’ Oliver paused. “Any word from Francesca, lately?’’

  “Not since those two withdrawals.’’

  “I guess that’s good,’’ Oliver said. “I’ll be in touch.’’

  “I’ll be here,’’ Myron said. Oliver hung up, relieved. He had no plan; he was still numb. Might as well change the oil in the Jeep, he thought. Get something done.

  While he waited for the car, he wrote to his mother, telling her that the marriage was over. Nobody’s fault, he assured her with Arlen’s words. He didn’t want her to be surprised by the news if she happened to call Jennifer. Nor did he want to stop in Connecticut and explain in person. He needed to be alone and somewhere else. His mother would understand, although she would be upset. She acted on her feelings; she knew what it was like, the necessity of it. She must have once written a note to Muni that was similar to the one he had left for Jennifer. He felt more sympathy for each of them.

  He stayed another night in the motel. The desk clerk directed him to a Chinese restaurant down the road where he ate silently and noticed that he had no desire to drink. He was still numb. Eating and breathing and sleeping seemed all he could manage.

  By mid–afternoon the next day, Oliver was in Jacky country. The light was different in Maryland—flatter and more open. It was full spring. As he approached the turnoff to the town where Jacky lived, he admitted to himself that he was not going to stop. It was comforting to think of her. Their passionate relationship had run its course, served its purpose, and, in the end, had left no bad feelings. She was his friend. Be true, she had told him at the housewarming. Well, he had been. For better or worse. Now he needed to be alone. “Be true!’’ he called out the window as he passed the turn. Leaving Jacky’s, he thought—it must be time for Willy Nelson. On the road again . . .

  Oliver drove steadily, stopping early, and taking walks at the end of each day. His mind remained knotted in Maine. He went over and over conversations with Jennifer. She had been consistent, always herself—cheerfully ambitious, social, not right for him. He tried not to think about Emma.

  Three mornings later he found the Jacksonville Post Office. Myron’s check was there; Suzanne’s was not. He endorsed the brokerage check for deposit and mailed it to his bank. What to do next?

  He was feeling more rested. He’d gotten into the rhythm of traveling and didn’t want to wait around for the other check. He bought a road atlas and flipped through the maps over a cup of coffee. Key West looked interesting. Oliver had never been all the way down the coast. But then what? He pictured himself doing a u–turn and driving back up the length of Florida. I think I’ll hang a right, he decided. Arizona. Tucson. That ought to be different.

  He left a forwarding card at the Post Office and turned west. As he settled into the drive to Tallahassee, he let out a sigh and relaxed. He’d made the right decision, although he didn’t know why.

  The lush green South eventually gave way to the Texas plains and then the dry highlands of New Mexico. There was something elemental and down home about New Mexico that was similar to Maine, Oliver found. The Indians were impressive—silent and aware, not unlike the Japanese in that respect. New Mexico wouldn’t be a bad place to live.

  Tucson was a small city in a basin rimmed by desert mountains. The University of Arizona was a modern oasis in the center. Suzanne’s letter was waiting at the Post Office—a check and a note:

  Oliver,

  Everything is the same except you’re not here. I miss you. Don’t worry about me—I’ll be O.K. in a couple of months. There will always be a place in my heart for you. Please be careful. All my love,

  Suzanne

  His heart twisted. He was recovered enough to feel bad. That was better than feeling nothing, he supposed. Oliver mailed the check to his bank and considered what to do. He was far enough from Maine and had been gone long enough so that he was beginning to realize that he didn’t live there any more. He rented a motel room and decided to eat in a real Mexican restaurant, if he could find one. He asked around and was told to drive out East Speedway and look on the left. Fairly far out along a strip of gas stations, discount stores, and used car lots, he spotted a sub
stantial wooden building with a restaurant sign.

  He parked and walked inside to another sense of time and space. The dining room was cool and dark, purposefully shaded from the sun by old timbers and thick walls. It was quiet. It might have been 1800 or 1600. The awareness of time stretched further back than anything he had felt in New England.

  He ordered carne secca, beef flavored with intense dry spices that he hadn’t before tasted. He drank tequila and wine. A stern guitar embraced the silence. At the end of the meal, Oliver had a final tequila. To his astonishment, he began to cry. Tears ran down his cheeks while he sat still, occasionally sipping his drink. When the tears stopped, he dried his face with a cloth napkin and shook his head. Much of the numbness was gone. He hurt.

  For the first time since he had left Maine, Oliver wanted comfort. “Francesca,’’ he said. He wasn’t all that far from the West Coast. He could probably get to Seattle in four or five days. He had been heading there all the time but hadn’t known it. He collected himself and drove back to the motel. He was in pain, but he had a plan—get to Francesca.

  Three long days of driving later, he pulled into the parking lot of the hotel in Eugene where he had stayed when he had met his father. Seattle was only six hours away. The next morning, he bought a bright red shirt and a bottle of Laphroiag.

  As he drove north on I5, he thought about Francesca and what to say to her. He forgot it all as soon as he found a parking place, late in the afternoon, several blocks from her address in Ballard. The city was attractive, bustling, built on hills overlooking Puget Sound. It had been hot in Tucson. Here, it was cool again, although Seattle was milder than Maine.

  He locked the Jeep and walked nervously along a sidewalk. He crossed a street and passed several houses surrounded by large hedges. Children called. He stopped. Francesca was standing at the edge of an elevated lawn in front of the next house. Her back was to him. A tall man stood next to her, his arm around her shoulders. Beyond them, Maria and Elena were kicking a soccer ball. They looked older and bigger. Francesca and the guy were comfortable together, familiar. Oliver was shocked, although he shouldn’t have been. Francesca was a beautiful woman.

  He turned slowly and walked away, trying to get out of sight and catch his breath at the same time. He felt as though he’d been kicked in the stomach. Francesca! He’d been counting on her in the back of his mind and deep in his heart. He turned the Jeep around and drove toward the water until he reached a street that was lined with art galleries and bars. He saw a parking spot and stopped.

  Oliver got out of the Jeep and walked into the nearest bar. Two pints of local ale later, he was able to stretch his legs and try to face the situation. There wasn’t much to it, really. He had driven five thousand miles to get away from Maine, and he’d discovered a happy Francesca. That, at least, was good. But he was in trouble. He kept drinking.

  When the bar closed, Oliver walked out and swayed on the sidewalk. He went to the Jeep and thought about rearranging things so that he could put the back seat down and sleep inside. Later, he thought. Deep need pulled him towards Francesca’s house. He walked back up the hill. When he got to her house, the lights were out. He stood there, half out of his mind. He walked into the dark carport and stopped by a set of wooden steps that led to a side door. There was a doormat on the concrete floor by the steps. Oliver looked at the door, kneeled, curled on the mat, and passed out in his new red shirt.

  He woke up just before dawn. The house was quiet. My God, he thought, what am I doing? He got stiffly to his feet and left as quietly as he could. He was still drunk, but he was able to drive out of the city and find a truck stop where he slept in the Jeep for three more hours.

  He awoke with a bad hangover and ate breakfast shakily. Shaving wasn’t worth it. He drove aimlessly south, back the way he had come. When he reached Portland, he turned toward the coast and drove with more purpose. The Devil’s Churn wasn’t that far from Portland.

  24.

  The hurt that Oliver had felt since Tucson was much worse. Being true had taken him far from everyone, had torn his connections to everything outside himself. He had always been a bit remote, distant from others, an observer; now he was completely alone. He felt an intense pain, a kind that he had never known, a gnawing and ripping internal pain from which he couldn’t escape. He was being torn apart. When he reached the parking area at The Devil’s Churn, he opened the Laphroiag and took two long swallows. He put the bottle on the front seat and got out of the Jeep.

  The sun was setting behind a layer of low dark clouds. Oliver walked slowly down the wooden steps—slippery from spray at the bottom. The surf was high. Waves exploded up the fissure in the rocks, roaring and seething. The violent water matched his internal state perfectly. For a moment, he was suspended in an eerie calm between the two madnesses. He understood for the first time why people committed suicide. The pain hurt too much. End it.

  He moved closer to the edge of the rocks. Large Waves Come Without Warning. So what? Owl disappeared in the Atlantic. One in each ocean, Oliver thought. Another wave bore in. He walked gallantly to the edge and turned to look back. His father was standing on the steps—stoic, concerned, non–judgmental. Come what may, he was with Oliver. A loud whistling sound came from the wave. Oliver took a deep breath, paused, exhaled, and followed his father up the steps.

  At the top, he waved goodbye again as he had the last time Muni drove away. “So,’’ Oliver said. He shivered and shook himself like a dog. “So.” He didn’t know what was ahead, but he knew that he wasn’t going to kill himself. He was his father’s son; he had the same tenacity; he was going to go the distance. The knowledge came from a deeper place than the pain. It gave him secure footing, a place where he could stand and bear the hurt. His father had given him life twice. He stared out at the sea and sky, wondering at the cold dark beauty of it all and feeling deeply sorry for all those who had put guns to their heads or swallowed too many pills or jumped from bridges.

  It began to rain. Oliver drove back toward Portland and stopped at the first motel. The woman on duty looked at him suspiciously. He remembered that he hadn’t shaved and that he’d slept in his clothes. It seemed a long time ago. “I’m all right,’’ he said. “It’s been a long trip, that’s all.’’

  When Oliver awoke the next morning, he was sober and hungry. The intense pain was gone. Only a residual ache reminded him of the storm that had almost gotten him. He took a long hot shower and dressed. Once again he had no plan, but he had something much more precious—time. He ate a large breakfast in a café and thought things over.

  It was better, he decided, to stay away from Maine for a while. Let things settle down. He could help support Emma. He could see her when she was a little older—be at least a small part in her life. Jennifer would be up for that. He didn’t have to work in a bank, for God’s sake. He could find a part–time job or a project with some smaller group. Maybe he could set up a wood shop and make a few things. Thanks to Myron’s investing, he still had most of his original stake. It was there for Emma and for Francesca, if she should need it.

  Oliver paged through his atlas. He liked New Mexico. Portland, Oregon was pleasant. Seattle seemed more interesting. Honolulu? Maybe even Japan . . . But, here he was in the Northwest. He wasn’t ready to see his father or his uncle. He needed to get settled first. He needed to work, to make some money. Maybe even have some sort of relationship, although he was in no rush.Sex was great, but it wasn’t going to rule him any more. Sex got the job done, got the babies made. Aside from that, it mirrored the relationship—whatever the relationship was. He didn’t think there would be any big surprises there. He’d been around that barn.

  “Where you headed?” the waitress asked.

  “Seattle,” Oliver said. At least he’d have one friend there. He smiled broadly, pleased with his decision, and left a large tip by his plate.

  “What’cha doing up there?”

  “Starting over.”

  “I done that
once or twice.” She swept up her tip. “You’re young enough. Good luck to you.”

  “Thanks,” Oliver said. “Thanks a lot.”

  He stopped on the outskirts of Seattle and called Francesca.

  She answered, “Hello?’’

  “Hi, Francesca.’’

  “Oliver?’’

  “Yup, how’re you doing?’’

  “Oliver! What a surprise! I’m fine.’’

  “I’m in Seattle.’’

  “No!’’

  “Yeah. I wondered if you wanted to have coffee or something. I don’t want to be in the way or anything, but I’d love to see you. Lots to tell you.’’

  “Oliver, of course. How could you possibly be in the way?’’

  “I have a confession. Actually, I came to see you a couple of days ago. It was late in the afternoon. You were standing outside your house, with your guy, and I turned around and left. I’m O.K. about it now.’’

  “Oliver, that was my brother!’’

  “What?’’ His mind reeled.

  “Yes, my brother, Giles.’’

  Oliver vaguely remembered Francesca telling him about a brother. “Oh yeah, Giles,’’ he said.

  “He’s a pilot for Delta. He comes by sometimes when he has a layover. Can you come over now?’’

  “Uh, sure—be about half an hour, I guess.’’

  “I can’t believe it!’’ Francesca said.

  “Me neither. Great! See you.’’ Oliver walked quickly to the Jeep and drove to Ballard, struggling to adjust.

  Francesca was waiting in front of the house. They had a long wordless hug. Oliver felt immediately the familiar calm that radiated outward from them, only now he seemed to take a more active part in generating it.

  “You’ve changed,’’ she said, stepping back and looking at him closely.

  “I’ve caught up, I think.’’