The Transformation

by Terri Kraus

  Samantha closed her suitcase and snapped the locks. “But I like men, Mally. I like them a lot.”

  Mally shook her head. “Miss Sam, shame dat your mum not be here to give you what for, being foolish wid de men. She would have tol’ you. You stay away. Unless dey come wid de diamon’ ring, you stay away.”

  Samantha picked up her bag, bent down to give Mally a kiss on the cheek, then slipped out of the room.

  As if that’s ever going to happen.

  Robert did not wiggle and dance like some dogs, like a three-year-old needing to go potty. No, Robert was different. He simply walked to the door, eyed the door handle intently, as if a dog’s stare could affect the mechanism, and he might bark once, without ever adjusting his gaze.

  The process—the gentle bark, mostly—might be repeated a dozen times over the span of many minutes, until Oliver recognized his dog’s plight and got the message. Today, only a single bark was required.

  Oliver, restless since he awoke, was glad that Robert the Dog presented him a legitimate opportunity to get out of the house. He had two bags and two boxes packed, representing the bare minimum of kitchen items (electric teakettle to heat water, plate, cup, spoon, fork, knife, toaster, peanut butter, jelly, instant coffee, sugar, and crackers) since the kitchen in the basement of the church was ancient and not operational. He also packed a rolled-up sleeping bag with bed linens inside along with a thick pillow. There was a cot in the corner, disassembled—a deluxe unit that Oliver had purchased many years ago when he thought he might get into camping. He never did, really, and the cot, the priciest model the sporting-goods catalog offered, remained hidden in the darkness of a deep closet.

  After packing, Oliver had nothing else to do … until Robert caught his attention.

  Robert could easily be walked off leash, but here, in his home neighborhood, Oliver thought it best to use a retractable leash. Robert seldom pulled on it. Oliver was most concerned about the dog darting out to chase a chipmunk or squirrel and heading into traffic. There was not much traffic in Oliver’s neighborhood, especially on a Saturday afternoon, but Oliver was not a man given to take unnecessary risks.

  The two of them spent a happy hour, walking along the quiet residential streets, Oliver making mental notes of which house needed what sort of work, how he would adjust porches or columns or shutters or windows, noticing those houses that simply needed some form of kind correction or those whose appearance could only be improved with the use of a bulldozer.

  Not more than a block away from home, Oliver heard his name being called by a feminine voice. He was tempted to pretend he didn’t hear, ignore it, and walk a bit more briskly. He did that sometimes. Small talk, idle chatter, except with close acquaintances, unnerved him and made him feel inadequate. It often left him grasping at words he knew were there, but never exactly sure of just what they were.

  His name grew in volume and in insistence.

  “Oliver! I know you heard me!”

  Oliver turned and tried to form a you-got-me grin, as if he had intended to be aloof for a joke. He was pretty certain he was failing miserably at his charade, but it was all he had for an answer.

  He had sort of half-recognized the voice the first time he’d heard it. It was a woman, a single woman—well, sort of single.

  Paula Harris came half-jogging down the street, holding what looked to be a transistor radio in her hand, but bigger, with a thick, stubby antenna. She came up to Oliver and placed her hand on his arm, not even hearing the low growl from Robert the Dog, who would not bite anyone in a million years, unless maybe they were attacking either Oliver or himself, but he would respond in a curious, negative way when strangers broke into his personal space. Oliver had never been sure how far Robert the Dog’s personal space extended but imagined it to be a foot or two.

  Paula was that close.

  “So, what’s this church your mother says you’re making a mockery of? Is it around here? Or do I have to carry a Bible all the time now to ward off whatever heavenly attack will come at you?”

  Robert the Dog sniffed, then sat down, facing away from both Oliver and Paula, waiting.

  “No. Shadyside. The church—the former church—is in Shadyside,” Oliver replied and tried not to look at her hand, still resting on his arm.

  Paula’s face grew animated. “Shadyside? Isn’t that where the rich people live in Pittsburgh? Near the university? With all the cute shops and fancy restaurants?”

  Oliver shrugged. “I guess. I mean … yeah, there are some nice houses in the area. But some normal ones too. Like anywhere. You know. Normal. Like here.”

  “No. Shadyside is not like Jeannette, Oliver. Jeannette is so far from Shadyside … like Mars. And not the Mars in Pennsylvania. The Mars out there,” she said, playfully petulant, pointing to the sky with the almost-transistor radio in her other hand.

  He looked down at his arm. Finally, she released him. He was sure she saw his eyes dart there several times in the past few seconds.

  No one spoke, and Robert readjusted his hind legs, without turning his head one inch.

  “You going to be at church tomorrow?” she asked, her voice a little lower, Oliver imagined, a little softer. He looked at her dark eyes, just for a moment, and her smoothly flowing hair. Oliver was not sure if it would be called “flowing,” but her dark blonde hair was not in tight curls. It was in soft waves and down past her shoulders. He thought the waves might be natural then decided that maybe it was some sort or perm or whatever women do to their hair to give it that look. She was pretty, in a used way, like a classic model of a car that was still a sweet ride, even with a hundred thousand miles on it, he often thought. And then he would chastise himself for thinking ill of poor Paula.

  After all, they once were close—very close. High-school sweethearts. And he still felt great affection for her.

  His mother always called her “poor Paula,” the girl with the bad luck to pick the wrong guy—not Oliver, that is—and get married to that “hoodlum,” as his mother labeled Dave Harris, get pregnant, and then have her husband pick up and leave without so much as a fare-thee-well before the baby was born.

  Oliver found himself half-agreeing with his mother in that moment that Paula was a poor girl for being left all on her own like that … or this.

  “I should,” he replied, his voice more chipper than he intended. “I’m heading to Pittsburgh tomorrow afternoon … or evening. But I guess I should be at church.”

  Paula occasionally attended church. “Hey, then I’ll see you there. Can you come to the middle service? Will you? Please?”

  She did not let him answer but placed her hand on his arm again. This time Robert the Dog stood up, because this time she pressed her palm and fingers insistently against his master’s arm.

  “Bridget is in child care during the middle service. She loves it there. And then you and me can sneak out for a cup of coffee. Could you do that, Oliver? It would be so swell to talk to a human being for a change. I mean … another adult. Could you? We haven’t gotten together for ages. You owe me, Ollie. You do.”

  She squeezed. She did not pay attention to him looking at her hand on his arm. She looked straight at him.

  “I … I guess. Second service would be fine.”

  “That’s swell, Oliver. I love talking to you.” She squeezed his arm. “How long have we known each other, Ollie?”

  “Since we were in school together. Sixth grade? Or was it seventh? When you moved into the neighborhood,” Oliver replied.

  “A long time, isn’t it?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Nice to have old friends. Close friends. Friends you can count on, right? Friends that would do anything for each other.”

  Oliver was not sure if he would do anything for Paula, but she had been in his life for a long, long time.

  The
plastic device Paula held squawked into life. This time, Robert the Dog looked back over his shoulder—not interested, really, but maybe just a bit curious.

  “Bridget. She’s awake. Her monitor. I need to go. See you tomorrow,” she said over her shoulder as she almost jogged back to her small three-bedroom house down the street and around the corner, the house that needed new shutters, a new stoop to replace the old one that tilted a few degrees off plumb, and probably a new roof as well, in Oliver’s estimation.

  Robert the Dog started walking.

  I wonder if my mother set this up. It sounds like something she would do.

  It wouldn’t be the first time Mrs. Barnett tried to negotiate an improved social life for Oliver over the virtually nonexistent one—with women at least—that he currently possessed.

  The din of the band died down, the jukebox in the corner whirred once, and music started to play again, softer than the live version, permitting a conversation at near-normal Saturday-night volume.

  “We never see you anymore, Oliver.”

  “You do too.”

  “When? When was the last time we hung out together?”

  Oliver sat in the dark corner of the booth. Guy Russo, an old friend from high school Oliver had run into, sat across from him, his eyes darting to the bar every few seconds.

  “A few weeks ago. After that soccer game. With your daughter’s team. Over at Lynch Field.”

  Guy shook his head as if a teacher was listening to the world’s third-worst excuse for not doing homework. “That was nearly six months ago. Like last fall.”

  Oliver sipped at his drink. “You’re married. I’ve been busy with work.”

  Guy finished his drink, waved his hand in dismissal, then signaled for another. “That’s not what your brother says. He said it’s been slow. I see him in here all the time. You … you’re like a hermit or something.”

  Oliver did not reply. The waitress brought over another Iron City draft for Guy.

  “So when do you get off work?” Guy asked her as he held a five-dollar bill between his thumb and forefinger, his other fingers extended in some odd show of bar etiquette. “I can ditch this loser here,” he said, pointing his thumb at Oliver. “Have a few laughs. What do you say?”

  The waitress handed back Guy’s change with a withering look. “Oliver, why do you hang out with him?” she asked. “Doesn’t he have a wife and kids at home?”

  Oliver shrugged. He didn’t know how the waitress knew his name, though she did look awfully familiar. And he didn’t know how she knew Guy was married and a father.

  The jukebox stopped, and for a moment, the silence sounded thick and heavy. Then a dozen conversations bubbled up.

  Guy ran his hand over the bristles of his flattop—now back in style, after having maintained the same style for nearly two decades. “Hey, I hear that you and Paula have a date tomorrow. She’s hot. I mean, like for being a mom and all that.”

  “What?” Oliver had no idea that Guy knew Paula, but then there were lots of entanglements and connections he knew nothing about.

  “Paula. Patti ran into her this afternoon. Said she was all abuzz—my wife’s word, not mine—about having a date with you tomorrow during church. I gotta say, Oliver, even I never went so low as to hit up a chick at church. But if it works … hey, maybe I’ll start going to church with you. How’s that sound? Can you see me in church? Looking for the ladies?”

  “Abuzz?”

  “That’s what Patti said she said,” Guy replied, his drink now half-gone. “But, man, you could do worse. That Paula is a real looker. Didn’t you go out in high school? Like, serious and all? And let’s face it, Oliver. You aren’t exactly Mr. GQ of the Year. Or Bachelor of the Year. Or whatever it is. Not like your brother, with his stylin’ clothes and animal magnetism. Maybe you shouldn’t be so choosy.”

  Oliver wanted to say he wasn’t choosy but knew it would come out wrong. He wanted to say he had never made a conscious decision not to be involved or married by now. He wanted to say it simply hadn’t happened.

  But he didn’t say anything. Instead he watched Guy leer toward the bar, pointing with his elbow at a pair of women who had just entered the place.

  “What do you think, Ollie? Should I make the move for both of us?”

  Oliver didn’t speak now, either, not wanting anyone to make any sort of move on his behalf. Not now, and perhaps, not ever.

  The bar at Seven Springs was buzzing with twenty- and thirtysomethings, some mingling, some sitting on stools in clusters around tall tables spread around the dimly lit room.

  “Listen, Samantha, can you give me some time … alone? Like me, alone, back at the room, I mean. Can you stay here in the bar for a while? He’s up here from Uniontown, just for the evening. You know … I need some alone time with him.”

  Samantha looked at her friend. Lois, five years her junior, five inches shorter, and at least twenty-five pounds lighter, had turned back to the cluster of young men gathered at the end of the long polished wood bar. Each had spiky, messy, mousse-held hair and a world-weary, practiced insouciant look that Samantha was certain did not originate in downtown Uniontown, Pennsylvania. A jazz trio, far back into the room, or even in another room altogether, was slowly pushing its way through an odd-tempo version of “My Funny Valentine.” Samantha thought it an odd choice because Valentine’s Day had been nearly a month ago.

  “I can give you … fifteen minutes,” she said, looking at her watch. She watched her friend’s face go from crestfallen to almost angry to confused.

  “You’re terrible.” Lois punched Samantha’s upper arm in a playful fashion.

  “That’s all it’s going to take with that putz. You know that, don’t you, Lois?”

  Lois looked up at her friend, then back to the young men. She shrugged. “Only fifteen minutes?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  “So it’s okay? You’re okay to stay here … until I come back?” Lois asked, hopeful.

  “Sure. Go,” Samantha answered. “Have a wonderful quarter hour. And use protection, for Pete’s sake.”

  Lois turned back. “I don’t think his name is Pete. Something like Bryan, Bryce, or Braden—or something.”

  Samantha did not want to watch the rest of the tawdry details of the assignation unfold. She pushed her drink toward the bartender. “A fresh one, please. White wine. If you have good wine, then I want the expensive vintage this time.”

  She slid a twenty-dollar bill across the bar, appearing as if she would leave most of it as a tip if he did what she asked. He nodded to her, then, with a conspiratorial look, reached under the bar and brought up an unopened bottle of wine. He looked around as he showed her the label.

  “Fine.” Samantha knew it was not a truly noble vintage. A good wine—but not noble. She always mixed wine with tonic when she went out. You can drink a lot and never do anything really stupid … like Lois the schnook.

  She left most of the change from the twenty for the bartender, took the drink with her, and walked through the crowds, through the front of the bar, and through the huge lobby with the massive fireplace—now containing only a modest blaze, since it was at the early edge of spring. She took a single sip of the drink and stepped into the cool evening air, her skin prickling at the sudden change in temperature.

  She could still hear the band and wondered how far she would have to walk to escape the noise.

  Across the parking lot from the lodge was a waist-high wall of rock, holding back a pool of clear water. The wall also held two quarter-a-turn vending machines, each labeled TROUT FOOD and filled with brown pellets the fish obviously enjoyed.

  Samantha seldom, if ever, carried metal change. She stared into the inky black water, the glow from the lodge reflecting in large cones of light. Beneath the surface, she could see sil
very wisps and arrows, shooting through the water, like liquid meteors.

  “I thought fish went to sleep at night,” she said to herself. She raised her glass to the pond, and said, “Mazel tov.”

  She took a sip of her wine, watched the fish for a long moment, then leaned over, extended her arm, pointed her finger, and dipped it into the cold water—an inch, no more. In an instant, a silver blast came at her finger. Samantha jerked back, heart racing, as the trout almost cleared the water, looking for the bug that broke the surface tension of the pool. Somehow she knew—understood—his disappointment, anger, and frustration as he snapped at only air, feeling nothing between his bony jaws … nothing filling his gullet.

  She turned and looked back to the lodge, watching people—mostly young women and young men—ebb and flow in and out of the entry, laughing louder than their jokes warranted. Their braying and shrieking were more obnoxious in the pristine country setting than it would have been in the city—in Uniontown, Pittsburgh, or even Shadyside.

  “Maybe I’m getting too old for this.” She glanced over her shoulder, back into the trout pool, and thought about Monday morning.

  Maybe he’ll come Sunday evening. He seems like the sort of person who gets to places early. Maybe I could drop by … see if there is anything he might need.

  And just as she considered it, she knew she would not.

  It would be much too forward. Men read things into something like that. Like I’m looking for it, or something … well, maybe I am.

  She looked at her watch. “Oy. Only twenty minutes,” she said to the fish.

  Like I’m fulfilling my fate.

  She wondered if the coffee shop was still open and if they still had pie.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ROBERT THE DOG STARED AT OLIVER, who was holding two neckties up for his companion’s inspection. Oliver often placed Robert in these sorts of situations. It was obvious the dog understood there were two choices, two things, two objects, and invariably he would inspect one, carefully, with a double or a triple sniff, then turn his head and repeat the same action with the second item. If he hesitated at one or the other, Oliver would often look relieved and satisfied, toss one aside, and use the second, sometimes whistling at the decision.