by Terri Kraus
It was then that Robert the Dog started his gentle barking, as if he had urgent business to attend to somewhere else, and Oliver excused himself to take his dog outside. Samantha said she had an appointment this morning, so they both left the church at the same time.
Oliver watched her walk down the street. She turned back three times and offered a cheery half-wave, seemingly happy that he was staring as she headed home.
Oliver wondered if his heart was beating fast because of what he had done or because of what he was anticipating.
Of course, Oliver was no good for anything the rest of the morning. He sat outside the church with Robert the Dog for at least a half hour after Samantha had disappeared into her house. Oliver could barely see the house from where he sat, and could barely see her, but he had stopped seeing movement, so he knew she had gone inside. Robert the Dog must have thought it odd to be outside so long and began, at some point, to nose against the church door, as if telling Oliver that break time was over and someone needed to get back to work.
Oliver did not take the hint.
“Why did I do that, Robert? Why did I ask her out? My mother would say that she’s a horribly wrong choice. There’s the ‘experience’ end of things. I mean, she has probably been with other men. That’s what the Dumpster guy said. And I think he’s probably right … sometimes you just sort of know. Then there’s the religion stuff—her being Jewish.”
Robert looked back over his shoulder. He was standing with his nose to the door but felt he needed to listen to Oliver go on about something or other.
“I have never done this before,” Oliver said. “I mean … she’s the boss. Who asks their boss out for a date? And she’s probably really rich. What business do I have asking her out? Who am I to think that she might be at all interested? Maybe she’s just being nice. Maybe she didn’t know how to say no without hurting my feelings and she’s worried about me finishing this job on time. I bet that’s it.”
Robert stopped staring at the door and slowly circled to stare at Oliver instead.
“You know what I mean, Robert?”
Robert, on occasion, did appear he understood what Oliver was saying. But not today. The dog even tilted his head to one side, like he really wasn’t tracking with Oliver at all.
“I know, Robert. None of this makes sense.”
He stared at his hands.
Especially since the thing with Paula is getting a little more serious. She’s expecting me to call her, too.
He hoped his shocked expression wasn’t apparent to Robert the Dog.
Good grief … Paula. And Samantha.
Oliver didn’t say her name aloud. He didn’t want to upset Robert with this potential duplicity. It was better the dog not know.
Oliver got up slowly, as if the sudden change might disorient him further. He braced himself on the rough-hewn stone wall, and slowly made his way back into the church and the cool blue interior.
Oliver’s phone buzzed, and he slapped at the phone holster on his belt like a twentieth-century cowboy in a staged gunfight in a cheesy black-and-white movie. Since he wasn’t really working but wandering about the church, he felt almost virtuous about getting a call, since a phone call meant he was doing some sort of work.
It was the eldest Pratt brother on the line—Henry Pratt. He sounded harried and at the edge of anger.
“Listen, Oliver, I won’t be able to make it to the worksite today like I said I would. I’d have to borrow my neighbor’s car and I don’t want to do that—even though he borrowed my truck to pick up a refrigerator at his mother-in-law’s place and got it stuck in the driveway and I’m on my way there to get it unstuck. If it’s all the same to you, could I just come by tomorrow mornin’? My neighbor promised up one side and down the other that he’d be back by one this afternoon and now it’s two. I know it’ll be a couple of hours before we get everything straightened out. So is tomorrow okay? Don’t tell me yet if you made a decision or not. Just let me wait till I see you in person. Okay?”
Oliver, almost overwhelmed by the barrage of words, rocked back on his heels a bit, then calmly replied, “Tomorrow is fine. And I haven’t decided yet, so an extra day would be appreciated.”
“That’s swell, then,” Henry replied. “I’ll see you in the mornin’.”
Oliver snipped the phone shut and returned it to its holster.
Robert was at his side, staring upward. “I know. I have to come to a decision on this. But it’s hard, Robert. I don’t know what to do. Not really. Maybe I’ll feel better tomorrow. Right now, I’m too nervous.”
After walking around the church awhile longer, looking at loose ends to tie up here and there, Oliver opened his phone and checked the time.
4:00.
He knew it was absurdly early to start to get ready, but he didn’t know what else to do, so slowly he made his way downstairs and spun the dial on the shower. Hot water took a long time to reach this specific outlet in the old building. He kept his hand under the spray until he felt a hint of warmth.
“Okay, Robert, you can go now.”
Robert stood up and slowly exited the room, head down, as if he had done something wrong. Oliver never liked showering when the dog was standing around. He had the weirdest stare when he inadvertently entered the shower when Oliver was in it.
Oliver dressed carefully. He took out the few articles of clothes that were dressier than most of his work clothes—clean, almost pressed, and not made of denim or flannel. He combed his short hair carefully and applied a few drops of Old Spice, the only aftershave he’d ever bought—one bottle every year or so had been sufficient.
Heading upstairs, he sat in a pew near the area where the pulpit had stood. He opened his phone. 4:30.
Good grief. What am I going to do for over two hours?
Taller walked out of the dentist office feeling like a stroke victim. A large cavity had required filling, and his current dentist apparently loved painkillers, inserting a whole series of shots into his gums and the roof of his mouth. He checked in the mirror before he left, and while his face didn’t look different, it felt semi-paralyzed.
He climbed into his truck and wondered what to do next. He didn’t have any food at home—at least no soft food. He didn’t want to go to a restaurant, knowing he’d slur his words for another hour and probably dribble water all over his shirt or bite his tongue.
He could go to the supermarket, but he wasn’t the sort of man who felt at home there. He only shopped for the barest minimum of supplies—coffee, tea, sugar, cream, popcorn, lemons—and lots of cleaning supplies: paper towels, ammonia, vinegar, three kinds of Fantastic, spray kitchen cleaner with bleach, Comet, Windex, Lemon Pledge, plus laundry detergent (preferably unscented Tide), and a few other items.
He started the truck. Only one person he knew would have soft food and not require him to talk much for a few hours.
In ten minutes he pulled into his mother’s driveway. The light over her sink was on, which was all the evidence he needed to know that she was home. He switched off the engine, pushed in the emergency brake, and checked his face one more time in the rearview mirror. He looked normal but still didn’t feel normal.
He was deliberate with each step up to the back door, debating if he should continue or silently slink away. But then he was at the door, tapping gently at the glass. He heard shuffling inside, then a thumb’s width of curtain was pulled aside and he saw his mother’s left eye, peering out back at him, almost sideways, as if she were trying to minimize her exposure to a potential stranger. When she recognized her son, the curtain flapped down, the door locks clacked open in rapid succession, and the door was yanked open so fast that his mother held onto the handle for balance.
“Tolliver! You’re here! Come on in. I haven’t seen you in weeks. Why weren’t you in church? You said you were coming t
o church. I looked for you. And the pastor said you weren’t in the first service.”
Taller had his story set. He pointed to his cheek. “Toothache. I just got back from the dentist. I’m full of novocaine. Can’t feel a thing.”
Taller’s mother grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. “They don’t use novocaine any more. Alice at the store—her nephew is a dentist—said that he said they use all sorts of new-fangled drugs now.”
Taller shrugged. “Whatever. I’m numb. I dribble when I drink. You have anything soft to eat?”
She hustled him to a chrome and vinyl chair, patched in two places with duct tape that almost matched the original color but was peeling off and sticky at the edges. He sat gingerly, glad he’d worn an older pair of jeans, soon to become work jeans.
“Soup? Grilled cheese sandwich? Meatloaf? Scrambled eggs? Jell-O? Applesauce?”
Taller was more certain now that he had made the right choice in coming back home. “Scrambled eggs. I could eat scrambled eggs. And maybe some white bread toast? With lots of butter so it’s kind of soft?”
Rose hurried to the refrigerator and unloaded eggs, butter, cheese, bread, ketchup, and jam onto the counter. She took a frying pan from off the stovetop where she stored it, much to Taller’s chagrin, and began to cook. She began talking to her son without turning away from the stove.
“How’s work? How’s your brother?”
“Fine. It’s a nice job. And Oliver is fine.”
“He’s desecrating a church, if you ask me. And doing the dirty work for a Jewish woman. That’s asking for spiritual warfare. I bet the Devil is licking his chops over this one.”
Taller didn’t roll his eyes and reply “Mother” in an elongated, exasperated tone like he wanted to, like a petulant teenager. Instead he massaged his cheek and jaw. “Maybe. I haven’t run into the Devil on the job—yet. Just the Pratt brothers. And I would imagine the Devil would inhabit brighter people than them if he wanted to vex us.”
“You can laugh at this, Tolliver. But evil is real. Evil is all around us.”
Taller mimed saying “Even here,” knowing his mother wasn’t looking. He grinned, reminding himself that fighting with his mother was a lose-lose proposition.
“I know, Ma. But I need to work, and Oliver has the jobs. So I do what I’m told. And the Jewish lady who owns the place is a very nice person. I think Oliver might be sweet on her.”
Rose swung around so fast with the spatula in her hand that some of the scrambling eggs flipped onto the floor. “Don’t you even joke about that, mister. You know it’s a lie, and you tell it for laughs—or even worse, to upset me, your mother. Don’t you dare make fun of something like that. That’s evil, Tolliver. Straight from the pit.”
His mother’s snappish, angry response immediately told Taller that this wasn’t an open subject for discussion—ever. “Okay, okay. Bad joke. Won’t mention it ever again.”
Rose stared hard at him, then pointed the egged spatula at him like a laser pointer. “Besides, Oliver is dating Paula. Or, rather, dating her again. You know, Paula from around the corner. Wasn’t she in your class in school?”
“Yeah—and you didn’t like her a whole lot back then. You complained the whole time Oliver was dating her. I remember.”
“Well, she wasn’t from a churchgoing family. And now she’s changed. Anyhow, I think it’s time Oliver settles down. And Paula is a very nice girl.”
Taller wasn’t used to being surprised at his mother’s house. He thought he knew what to expect most of the time. Apparently, he was wrong.
“Paula? Paula with the baby? The divorced Paula?” he said, testing his mother, knowing Paula had a baby and was divorced, but wanting so much to see how his mother handled this dilemma.
Rose did not turn around. “Yes. Paula with the baby. I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Smarty Pants. Just to aggravate your mother, I bet. And you know, as well as I do, that it’s not her fault that no-good bum of a husband left her. She’s young. She can have more children. She’s pretty. Oliver likes her. Pastor Mosco said it was okay if they were to get married. He even said he would love to officiate at the wedding.”
“What? A wedding? They’re talking about a wedding?” Taller felt the earth move slightly.
“It’s too early to talk about a wedding. But they have been out a few times and both of them have nothing but good things to say about each other. They talked about religion and God. She’s born again, you know that, Tolliver? Born again. I’m sure Oliver is thinking beyond just having a good time with a woman.”
Mr. Perfect again.
Rose scraped the eggs onto a plate and added two well-buttered pieces of toast. “Unlike some young people I know who think more about their private parts than they do about obeying God’s laws.”
“Mother,” Tolliver replied plaintively, holding his petulance at bay again.
“You know what I mean. Oliver is a good boy. He needs to have a wife. Paula needs a husband. Her daughter needs a father. I think it all works out perfectly,” she said, easing herself down in a chair at the table.
And what am I? Chopped liver?
She opened a jar of strawberry jam, bought at the local discount store. Tolliver disliked generic food but had little choice.
“Coffee? Do you have any coffee, Ma? Real coffee?”
She jumped back up. “Of course I do. I’ll make a half pot. You’ll drink more than one cup, right? I don’t want to throw any away.”
Taller waved at his mother. “I’ll drink it all, Ma. I need coffee with eggs.”
And as she busied herself with measuring water and grounds, Taller wondered about Paula, wondered what she might be doing tonight since Oliver was nowhere in the area, and wondered if he might take a walk over to her house later, just to chat, to find out about this woman who apparently had beguiled both his brother and his mother.
Yes, he thought, that’s what I’ll do after I eat. Go on a visit to see Paula. Just for a minute or two.
Immediately he regretted not wearing his new Diesel jeans, the ones that were cut leaner and closer to the hip than the ones he was wearing.
I still look good … regardless.
He slowly chewed on his eggs and toast, wondering if the pain shots would be worn off by then.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“I THOUGHT WE might eat at Enrico’s,” Oliver said as they walked down the steps of the great wraparound porch of Samantha’s home. “I’ve never eaten there, but the people at the coffee shop said it was really good. Great Italian food.”
“I like Enrico’s,” Samantha replied. “They’re a member of the ‘Slow Food Movement.’”
“What does that mean?” Oliver asked.
“It means they support local provisioners by using local and seasonal ingredients—you know, pastas made in Little Italy, meat from local butchers, produce grown locally. Fresh and natural, with no preservatives or fillers. Even the wood they burn in their oven comes from local hardwood and fruitwood trees. I’d like to do the same at my restaurant, if I can find the right chef.”
“Wow,” Oliver replied. “I guess I made a good choice, then.”
“A very good choice, but anywhere would be nice. I mean … with good company, noshing at McDonald’s can be a good experience.”
Oliver didn’t rise to the bait. Once, in the past, a long time ago, a woman had said that to him in almost exactly the same words (but without the word noshing) and he’d changed his plans and actually went to McDonald’s. It was a big mistake. He would not do that again, although he pretty much believed Samantha when she said it.
“McDonald’s is okay,” he said. “But the eating part of the meal is over in ten minutes. I think it would be nice to have the opportunity to talk a bit longer.”
She smiles like an angel, he thought as he ope
ned the door to his truck for her. If she was surprised by his show of manners, she did not let on. He waited until she had her feet inside before solidly closing the door.
She smells really nice tonight.
He hopped up into the cab. “The restaurant is almost close enough to here that we could walk,” he said as he pulled away from the curb, “and I’m not saying that because I want to save on parking.”
“I would have never thought that,” Samantha replied.
“Besides, they have free valet service. I drove past earlier.”
Samantha grabbed at his right arm, not to laugh, though she looked like she was about to, and slipped her arm through his.
Two valets met the truck, opened doors, and handed Oliver a claim ticket. Oliver escorted Samantha inside. The walls of the long, narrow dining room were lined with lush color photographs of scenes in Italy, highlighted by droplight fixtures. Cast-iron details gave the space a rustic feel, warmed by its exposed wood-burning oven. A short, stubby man in a tuxedo shirt and black tie escorted them to a table by the window. It had a white tablecloth covered by a paper topper.
Oliver leaned into the table, and Samantha leaned to meet him.
“This is a lot fancier than I expected,” he whispered. “Am I dressed well enough?”
Samantha took a quick look around. “The only people that get dressed up to go to restaurants anymore are the waiters and the maître d’. No one else does. You look just fine the way you are, Oliver-not-Ollie.”
The prices were not as steep as Oliver had feared. In fact, the cost of a dinner here was less than he’d paid at Angelo’s in Jeannette.
Samantha closed her menu quickly.
“You’ve decided?” he asked.
She shrugged. “It’s a gift. Or a curse. I can get to a dish that sounds good very quickly. Why torment myself with a hundred choices that I can’t have? I like deciding. I don’t like an indecisive schnook.”
To Oliver, this was a first. Any girl he’d dated (and the number was not all that large, of course) had never made a dining decision that quickly, unless it was at McDonald’s. But Samantha seemed to have no trouble finding the perfect meal. He liked that.