by Terri Kraus
Oliver let out a short laugh, wondering what she wanted.
“I think texting is the way the young people would do it. I might still use pebbles.”
“You’re a traditionalist, Oliver-not- … I mean, Oliver. I like that.”
Oliver felt a pang of loss at her interruption in using his nickname.
“Listen, I want to apologize for making you feel bad, or nervous, the other night. I had no right to do that.”
“It’s okay, Samantha. It really is.”
“I still feel bad for getting upset. I just want to say that I accept who you are. I really do.”
“Well … thanks.”
“And I like the way you are.”
“Thanks.”
“I like you. You like me. Right?”
Oliver knew he could think about this one for a long time and not come up with a clever answer. “Sure. I like you.”
“Well, then, it’s settled,” she said, her voice happier than it had been when they last spoke. “Let’s just see what happens. Maybe nothing. Maybe something. Okay?”
Oliver felt no relief at all. “Sure. That’s okay with me, too,” he said with more enthusiasm than he felt.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PAULA HEARD THE familiar tapping. She checked on her daughter—sound asleep—and hurried to the door.
“I was hoping you would stop by,” she said.
Taller hurried to close the door. She watched his eyes as they went from window to window. All the blinds were down, tight to the windowsills.
“I was hoping you were hoping. A lot of hoping,” he said.
“Did you have dinner? I have half a sub sandwich. Some diet soda.”
He shook his head, took her hand, and led her to the sofa. He tossed her knitted afghan to the side. “It’s scratchy,” he said.
“It’s okay. I only use it when I’m cold.”
Both of them knew what Taller would say next. Paula could see in Taller’s face that he hated himself for being so predictable.
“I’ll keep you warm.” His words were honey, slow and presumptive.
“I’d like that,” Paula said, whispering in his ear, leaning against him, her hand against his hard chest. “I like being warm. I like your sort of warm, Taller. Keep me warm as much as you want.”
“I’ll keep you warm all night,” he said.
She knew he was lying to her, lying to himself.
To Gene Pratt, the brightness of the lights at the Eat ’n’ Park on Route 30 was all the reason he needed to keep his baseball cap on indoors. His mother, dead now nearly fifteen years, had been an absolute stickler for hats off indoors. She would have been driven to distraction by the new sense of etiquette, of how proper, respectable manners might be ignored.
His younger brother, Steve, and older brother, Henry, sat opposite him. The restaurant, more or less equidistant from all the brothers’ homes, was Gene’s suggestion. The bright lights were cause for him to mentally note that he would not make the suggestion again.
Three cups of coffee were delivered, and the Pratt brothers all made a lemony grimace when they first tasted the beverage.
“Good Pittsburgh coffee from Miss Cohen has ruined us, hasn’t it?” Gene said.
“Yep,” both brothers agreed.
Henry stirred another creamer into the coffee, knowing it would not improve the taste. “So you two want me to find a church for us?”
His brothers nodded.
“And you’ll go?”
They nodded.
“And what you and Pastor Barth talked about made you feel better?”
Steve spoke first. “I guess I knew I didn’t need a church pastor to do it, but Gene and I talked about it. It was time to give it up. Oliver started it by givin’ us the job. It was the first time that somebody knew what we did and took a chance on us. And then we knew that we had to do somethin’ about it. Maybe there’s somethin’ about that church we’re workin’ on that’s changin’ us somehow—makin’ us better. More Christian or somethin’. Then there was Pastor Barth, like it had been planned. If that’s the way God works, then we better stay right with Him. I don’t want to be on His bad side. I mean, He could just as easily kept us confused. Or does the Devil do that? Well, whatever. We need to stay right. And that means goin’ to church, right, Gene?”
Gene sipped his coffee, grimaced, then muttered, “That woman has ruined coffee for me forever. That ain’t right. It just ain’t.”
Rose grabbed for her glasses. She squinted at the clock—almost 10:30 p.m. She had been in bed for nearly an hour, knowing she would probably not find sleep for hours more. There was nothing on TV, and Rose had never been much for reading or for crafts.
She padded downstairs, pushing and patting at her hair as she did. A few clean dishes rested in the drainboard. She put them away and wiped clean the counter with a dishcloth. She walked to the front room and peered out to the street, watching two cars as they passed her house. She picked up the TV remote, pointed it at the TV, then put it back down. She walked back into the kitchen, took out an old envelope from the shoebox filled with scrap paper and a pencil, and walked to the refrigerator. She opened the door, stared, shut the door, then scrawled: butter, milk, cottage cheese, orange juice.
The phone rang, scaring her a little, and she squinted at the clock again.
Who could be calling this late? I hope it’s not Oliver.
“Hi, Ma.” It was Taller. “Sorry to call you so late, but I haven’t talked to you for a while.”
If her younger son had been in the room with her, Rose would have shaken her head in rebuke, tightening her lips and narrowing her eyes. But he was merely a voice on the phone, so she waited a moment, then replied. “Are you in trouble, Tolliver? Do you need money or something? I hope you don’t, because I can’t give you any. Lord knows, I’ve given you enough in the past. And you’ve never paid me back, Tolliver, do you remember that? Never? And I have never asked you for it.”
She heard him take a deep breath, a loud, deep breath, and then loudly exhale. It took a long time.
“Well, what it is then, Tolliver? Why are you calling?”
“I can’t call to say hello? If this was Oliver, would you ask him why he was calling?”
“He’d never call this late. Unless it was an emergency or something. He’s a good boy.”
She heard him mutter something.
“What? What did you say?”
“Nothing, Ma. I didn’t say anything.”
Silence over a phone always proved to be very silent.
“Then what?”
Taller inhaled again. Rose imagined that he was in trouble again … and was trying to figure out a way to tell her without making her angry or upset.
He’s had a lot of practice. Wrecked a couple of cars. Got picked up for drunk driving. What else could he do to give me heartache?
“It’s not me, Ma. Not this time. I know I gave you some troubles back then. But not for years now, right? And as for paying you back, yeah, well, I want to—but like I said, put it in your will that I owe you money and Oliver will get it from my share. Unless you really need it now.”
“No. I don’t need it.”
“This time, it’s Oliver, Ma. Not me. He’s in trouble.”
“Trouble? Is he hurt? Tell me, Tolliver, tell me!”
“Hold on a second, Ma. Nothing like that. But … he is in trouble.”
“What do you mean, trouble? Why? How?”
Rose heard Taller take another breath and exhale, in dramatic fashion.
“That woman.”
“Paula?”
Taller answered quickly. “No. Not Paula. Good grief, not her. That woman in Pittsburgh. Samantha Cohen. He’s … dating her. They’ve been out to d
inner, he takes her out to lunch, and she’s always at the jobsite. I thought you should know.”
“Oliver?”
“Yes, your son, Oliver. He’s dating that Jewish woman in Shadyside. I know they’ve been out to dinner a bunch of times. And he’s gone to her house and spent the evening. To me, that’s dating.”
“My Oliver? I don’t believe it. He would never do that. Never. Not to his mother.”
“Ma, I can’t make you believe anything you don’t want to. And I didn’t want to tell you about him and Samantha. But I thought you deserved to know. You deserve better than him lying to you.”
“Oliver?”
“Yes, Ma, he’s dating a woman of another faith. And from what I hear, she’s a loose woman, with a lot of men in her past. A lot of men, I hear tell.”
“My Oliver?”
Rose couldn’t believe her ears, couldn’t believe Tolliver was telling the truth, even though it sounded like he was.
“Just don’t tell him that you heard it from me.”
After they had hung up, she wondered if the note of glee she heard in Tolliver’s voice was real or not. She told herself that it was only something she imagined hearing, the news being such a shock to her system and all.
Samantha dialed the number she had on her cell phone for Cameron Dane Willis and the office of Three Rivers Restorations. Samantha had met Cameron through her friends Alice and Frank Adams years earlier, when one of her property flips on Mount Washington was used for a short segment on the television show Three Rivers Restorations. The show had planned to feature Samantha’s current project—not just a ten-minute “before and after” report, but a full-blown half-hour piece. The television crew had shot the “before” footage just after Samantha had purchased the church.
“Hello? This is Cameron.”
Surprised at hearing the television host’s voice, Samantha stumbled on her words. She had fully expected to have to leave a message on voice mail after a certain hour. Samantha’s bewitching hour was 9:00—unless the caller ID indicated the caller as someone she might want to talk to, regardless of the late hour.
“Who is this?” Cameron asked.
Samantha marveled at how pleasant the host sounded even though it was late at night. “Samantha. Samantha Cohen,” she managed to say.
“Sam! How are you? I was going to call you tomorrow. Really. How funny that you beat me to it,” she said.
“You mean I didn’t wake you?”
“Good heavens, no. Peter, the baby, just went down. Chase is over at a friend’s house. Ethan is out giving an estimate to a potential client. And Riley is still up, jabbering on in her bed. So that means that Mom is still up.”
“I don’t know how you do it—a baby, a toddler, a teenager, and all the rest. When do you sleep?”
“Sleep is highly overrated. And once they’re all in college, I’ll catch up. What’s on your mind? You ready to have us come back and do the ‘after’ photography on ‘Blue’? You said summer, and I have yet to hear of a renovation that was finished ahead of schedule.”
“No. We’re not done. Getting there, though. Things are really starting to shape up. It’s actually beginning to look like a restaurant inside. Maybe a month. More likely two. You weren’t planning on doing any in-progress shots, right?”
“No. Not on a project like yours. Not that it’s not a wonderful project, but viewers seem to like watching homeowners in the middle of chaos. On commercial projects, no one has to live in it, so there’s not as much drama. No dose of reality.”
“Well … there is someone living there. In the church. Sort of.”
“Who? How?”
“You met him—Oliver Barnett, the general contractor.”
“The cute one? From Frank and Alice’s job in Butler? He’s the general on this project? The cute cabinet-and-booth guy—with his real handsome brother?”
“That’s him.”
“He lives there?”
“Well, sort of. During the week, he stays in the basement. With his dog. Goes home on the weekends. But … I know that’s not what you mean.”
“No,” Cameron replied, obviously relieved.
“But I do have a question for you. Not a building question. Not about the show, either.”
“Then you’ve got me,” Cameron replied. “That’s all I know about. Unless you want to talk about diapers and how to get baby puke off your most favorite cashmere sweater.”
“No, not about that either. But … well … you know when you talked to me about faith and church and finding Jesus as the Messiah and how I was real polite and blew you off.”
“You didn’t blow me off,” Cameron replied.
“Yes I did,” Samantha said. “And unless you want me to lose all respect for your judgment, your memory, and your personal code of ethics, you’ll agree with me, because we both know it’s true.”
Cameron’s laughter was the type that could not be disguised or silenced. “Yeah. You did blow me off. I remember. You were nice about it. But you did.”
“Of course I did,” Samantha replied. “But since you’re smart about this religion stuff, I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Well, that cute contractor is the same sort of person you are. I mean, like a real Christian or whatever it is you call yourselves. Born again, right?”
“Some of us use that term. Christian or Christ-follower is okay too.”
“I really like the guy, Cameron. I mean, I really, really like him. He’s very special—unlike anyone I’ve ever known. We’ve been out a few times. And we’ve never gone all that far. You know …”
“Like to California?”
It was Samantha’s turn to laugh. “You know very well what I mean.”
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
“And he says he won’t, because of what the Bible says. And, of course, that just makes him all the more desirable.”
There was a pause. “So what’s the question, then?” Cameron asked.
“What can I tell him so that he’d think it would be okay for him and me … for the two of us to be … together. You have any advice?”
Then there followed a much longer pause, as one of the parties tried to quickly figure out the right words to say.
Rose jabbed hard at the buttons on her phone. She had hated giving up her old rotary phone. Somehow dialing when angry was a much more satisfying experience than merely jabbing at buttons. Yet this was the only option she had.
She looked at the clock. Nearly 11:00.
Way too late for making phone calls … except for now.
“Hello.”
At least he doesn’t sound sleepy … like I woke him up.
“Oliver? This is your mother calling.”
Rose nearly always identified herself when calling her sons.
“Ma? What’s the matter? It’s … what?—past eleven. Are you okay?”
She loved hearing his voice, but her anger made her ignore that pleasure. “You know why I’m calling,” she said, her words icy and clipped.
There was a moment, then Oliver responded, “No, Ma, I have no idea. Unless it’s the church-project thing again. And that topic is closed. I’m sorry, but I need the work. So does Taller. And it’s not a church anymore. I don’t want to upset you, but this is nothing that can be changed. So I guess you’ll just have to live with it.”
“Oliver,” Rose said after waiting for him to finish, “it has nothing to do with that. All my life you’re the good son, the son I can trust, the son who never did one thing to hurt me. You were always such a good boy. And now it’s like the Devil is using you, Oliver. Yes, you heard me. The Devil. How else can I explain it?”
She paced back and forth in the kitchen, tethered to the wall in the hallway where the phone was hu
ng. She didn’t want to pay for the extra-long cord or a cordless phone so her walk was abbreviated—three steps forward, then three steps back.
“Explain what?”
“You’re dating that woman. That Jewish woman. How can you do this? How can you kill your mother’s dreams without even a hint of remorse? And what about Paula? Are you just using her? Are you having sexual relations with her, Oliver?”
“No!”
“No to which one, Oliver? With the Jew? Or with Paula?”
“With neither one.”
Both of them were quiet. Rose knew that Oliver was a smart boy and had figured out who had told her about his social life. So she lied … just a little.
“Tolliver didn’t say a word about this, Oliver. I figured it out on my own. And I want to know if you enjoy hurting me.”
Again, no response. Rose waited.
“Ma, I’m not going to talk about this with you. I am not. And I don’t hold Taller responsible. You have your ways of getting information. So this conversation is now officially over.”
The line went silent and dead.
For the first time in her life, her dearest son had hung up on her, leaving her with an acrid taste in her throat—a taste she didn’t like one bit.
After a moment or two, the silence on the phone was broken when Samantha, never the most patient at waiting for anything, said, “I’m sorry, Cameron. It’s late, so maybe we can talk about this some other time. I should let you go.…”
“No, Sam, it’s okay. I think Riley’s finally asleep. I was just thinking that maybe you should be asking a different question.”
“Different question? What do you mean?”
“Well, there is the whole issue of faith, an issue larger than your physical attraction to Oliver, and his to you. How do you feel about the difference in the way you two view God—specifically Jesus?”
“Oh, that doesn’t bother me at all,” Sam answered quickly. “I mean, I’m Jewish, but I’m not orthodox or anything like that. My mother always took a very serious approach to religion. My father—not so much. He keeps the Shabbat—the Sabbath—and some of the other traditions, but not like my mother. And even though I went to Hebrew school and all, I’m more of an observant Jew. After college, when all my Jewish friends were making their pilgrimages to Israel, where did I go? To France, of course. Paris was much more alluring than the Wailing Wall. My attendance at temple has been, shall we say, sporadic at best.”