by Terri Kraus
“Samantha,” he said, “do you have a minute to talk?”
He thought he saw her cheeks flush, but maybe it was just the light from the stained-glass window—the scene of Jesus before Pilate, the Roman dictator, who was clad in a bloodred robe, his hand pointing out, his expression scornful.
“Sure, O-not-O. Here? You want to grab a coffee?”
“No,” he said, wanting to get the words out before he lost his nerve. He looked at the Pratt brothers, who didn’t seem to be paying them any attention, but perhaps they were better at listening in than he was. “But let’s go outside,” he suggested.
He walked as far as the church driveway, just past the large cornerstone, and stopped at the short decorative wall flanking the port cochere. The afternoon sun was glistening down on the stones, each reflecting myriad beams of light. Oliver leaned against the thick wall.
Samantha stood in front of him, more than an arm’s length away, with an unsettled expression.
He swallowed hard, then tried to look in her eyes. “I want to settle things, Samantha. I owe you that much.”
It was immediately obvious to Oliver that the conversation had begun on a much different note than Samantha had expected.
“Samantha, this won’t work. I mean … us. We won’t work. There’s too much of a difference in our lives. You have a past. Maybe it shouldn’t matter, but I can’t let that go. And … well, you are Jewish. And I’m a Christian. I think we’re kidding ourselves if we say that we can overcome all the obstacles. There is just too much. I l—… like you, Samantha, I really, really do, and I wish that it could be different, but I don’t think it can be.”
As he spoke, Samantha’s face grew more and more crestfallen, as if she were watching a beloved pet pass away, right before her eyes.
“But—” Samantha said, her words at the edge of tears, “none of that matters, does it? Me being Jewish. It’s okay. It would have been okay.”
Oliver stood up and, for a moment, debated taking off at a run, leaving the situation, removing himself from Samantha’s increasing disappointment, and now her tears. “No, it wouldn’t. I mean … it couldn’t. We’re too different in the most important way.”
Samantha stepped toward Oliver, and Oliver almost stepped backward. “I could have been like Ruth,” she said.
“Ruth?” Oliver replied, confused.
“Like Ruth in the Bible. Barth told me all about her. ‘Wherever you go, I will go. Wherever you live, I will live. Your people will be my people.’ She followed her mother-in-law into some strange land. And it all worked out. Barth said that God provided for her, led her to her kinsman redeemer, who bought her freedom, and made her his wife. Why couldn’t that be us?”
Oliver had expected any number of responses from Samantha—from anger to tears to indifference—but never once imagined that she would use a Bible story, quoting verses. He had no rehearsed response ready.
“Yes, but … no, Samantha. It wouldn’t work. It’s not your being a Jewish person that’s a problem. I think your culture and traditions are all very interesting. I’ve always been intrigued by them and would love to know more about them. They’re all over the Bible, in fact. But the rest of the Ruth verse says, ‘Your God will be my God.’ That’s the most important part to me. Unless that would happen, we have no future. You have a right to know how I feel, and I know that I should do the right thing and tell you, rather than lead you on.”
Samantha’s tears turned to something else … closer to anger. Now here was an emotion to which Oliver had prepared a response. Samantha clenched her hands into fists. Oliver would have welcomed it if she had taken a swing at him. That sort of response would be direct and easy to deal with, and over in a few minutes.
But she did not, nor did Oliver expect her to.
“So,” she said, after taking a few deep breaths, “you’ve already decided on all this? Without asking me. Your decision, right?”
“It’s the only fair thing to do, Samantha. I want to do the right thing.”
She glared at him with that intense, crippling glare reserved for scorned women, then calmly said, “I hope you’ll be happy, Oliver. I hope you’ll be happy in your narrow little path. I hope you make your mother happy. You two deserve each other.”
Her glare did not wane, but something in her expression softened, edging toward civility. More tears fell.
He remained silent.
“It’s okay, Oliver, if that’s what you want. Fine. But listen. I still want this project finished. You have to stay on the job. Your work is amazing, so let’s just pretend that this discussion never happened. We can keep it to ourselves, can’t we? Nice and friendly? We’re adults here, aren’t we?”
Oliver nodded, replying quickly, “Sure, I can do that. Finish the job. We’ll be civil to each other. We can be friends.”
“Friends.” Samantha looked away, as if composing herself again.
“Well, then, good,” he answered.
She cleared her throat. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And with that she turned and walked away, crossed South Aiken at the corner, and headed down Westminster to her home, away from Oliver, not looking back even once, not even slowing one step.
Samantha walked quickly around her house and entered quietly through the back door, hoping to make it up to her room via the back staircase and not have to see her father or Mally.
She carefully hushed the door closed, and once in the mudroom, turned toward the stairs.
Samuel Cohen stood in the doorway to the kitchen. “I saw you come up the sidewalk,” he said. “What’s the matter? Is there a problem at the old church?”
“Oh, Daddy,” Samantha sobbed, and he opened his arms to his only daughter.
“Come here, Bubeleh,” he said, and she fell against him, the tears flowing freely now, feeling like a fifteen-year-old with a breaking heart once again.
Oliver was not a man who made snap decisions—not in his work, never in his social life. Decisions were meant to be pondered, evaluated, prayed over. They were not simple choices made by the mental flipping of a coin.
But this decision was. It was quick. It was dramatic. It would solve so many problems. It would make so many people happy: his mother, Paula, her daughter, even Pastor and Mrs. Mosco. It would tie things up in a neat package.
Robert the Dog took his customary nap on the trip back to Jeannette while Oliver’s thoughts rested on a single theme.
It’s time. I can do this. I should do this. It’s the right thing to do. We can grow together—that’s the way it used to be. People did not spend years dating. They found a person who was good and pleasant, and they made the best of the situation. I’ll be rescuing Paula. I’ll give my mother a few more happy years.
He gripped the steering wheel tighter. It will be enough.
He pulled into his driveway and let Robert the Dog out. The dog slowly made his circuit around the yard, as if seeing it for the first time. He came immediately when he was called, walked up the steps slowly, and entered the apartment. Finding a place on his dog bed, Robert circled once, then twice, and lay down, settling his head and chin on his paws. He stared at Oliver as his master changed his clothes and sat at the kitchen table, having one more cup of coffee.
Oliver stared at the black velvet box in the center of the table, tied with an elegant silver ribbon. He picked it up and hefted it, as if the box were filled with some uncertain weight. Standing, he slipped the package into his trouser pocket. After saying good-bye to Robert the Dog, he slowly walked down the steps to the sidewalk and toward Paula’s house, never varying his stride. Patting the lump in his trouser pocket, he smiled.
Once at the door, he tapped softly at the glass, as if the pane might break into a thousand pieces.
Paula came to the door with a bright expression—almost
too cheerful, Oliver thought—and embraced Oliver in a long hug. She didn’t say anything, didn’t express surprise at seeing him, just held him.
“Where’s Bridget?” he asked.
“Oh, she’s with my mother. They went to McDonald’s and then to that Disney movie they’ve been advertising—the one with the talking squirrels. She’s been asking about it for weeks and I just couldn’t bring myself to see another cartoon. So my mother said she would take her. She’ll sleep through it, probably. Maybe they both will.”
Oliver didn’t really hear what she said. “So we’re alone?”
“For a couple of hours, probably. What did you have in mind? We haven’t been alone much, have we?”
“No. But this … what I need to ask, I mean … it needs to be between just you and me.”
Paula sat on the couch and Oliver joined her, sitting so that he could watch her face. He twisted slightly and reached in for the box, pulling it out as gracefully as he could. The bow was matted down now, and he wished he had just carried it in his hand, but it was too late to change the delivery method.
“Here, this is for you,” he said. His words were even, calm … almost without emotion.
Paula’s eyes widened. It was obvious she knew what sort of thing was hidden in velvet boxes of that size. Everyone knew what those sort of boxes held, Oliver thought.
“Is that what I think it is?” she asked.
Oliver thought for a moment, trying to come up with a pleasant or romantic or meaningful response, but the proper words failed him. “I … maybe. I don’t know.”
She took the box, her hands shaking a little, and untied the bow. She carefully placed it next to her on the couch, on the comforter, bunched up under her leg. Slowly she opened the box. The light from the window caught the stones and the ring sparkled, even before the lid was fully open.
Paula gasped.
“It’s time, Paula,” Oliver said. “Marrying you is the right thing to do. And I’m ready. I hope you are as well. We’ve known each other for a long time, and we get along well. And, well … I guess this ring says it all, doesn’t it?”
Paula snatched the ring out of the box and held it up to the light. “It’s beautiful, Oliver. It’s so beautiful.” She slipped it on her finger. “And it fits perfectly. How did you do that?”
“I just guessed.”
Paula held out her left hand, now with an engagement ring on the third finger, and held it up to see how it looked. She didn’t speak for a long time, then lowered her hand and almost threw herself against Oliver, knocking him backward on the couch. Embracing him hard and tight, she wept against his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her and held her as well. There were no words appropriate for this specific moment.
For what seemed like a very long time, the two of them, Oliver and Paula, simply held on to each other, in silence. Oliver almost enjoyed the feeling of protecting her, of holding her and making everything fine and right with the world.
“Oliver, I am so happy. You don’t know how happy this makes me. Like a princess.”
“That’s good,” Oliver replied. “I guess that’s what you’re supposed to feel like. But I’m not sure, since I’ve never done this sort of thing before.”
She was crying, but she looked happy. She kissed Oliver enthusiastically, her tears making the kiss taste salty and quite different.
“Let’s go celebrate, Oliver. Please? Let’s go out. I’ll leave a note for my mother. We can go out for a little while, can’t we?”
“Sure,” Oliver replied. “A celebration would be fine.”
I can grow to love her. I can. I will.
They wound up at Dino’s Restaurant, which was more of a tavern than a restaurant, but Oliver couldn’t even think of eating anything at that moment. They sat at the bar, the only two patrons inside, other than a bartender and a bored waitress.
Paula ordered a white wine and Oliver asked for a beer, thinking that a soft drink would be too … too noncelebratory. If they talked much, Oliver couldn’t recall any of their conversation. Paula chattered on about setting dates and having a simple, intimate ceremony, and maybe just a dinner somewhere—“only for the immediate family and close friends, of course”—and thinking about where they might live as a family.
“Both of our places aren’t big enough,” Paula decided. “A contractor would not want to live in my plain old place, and yours doesn’t have a second bedroom for Bridget. But we could find a house pretty quickly. There are a lot of homes for sale. Would you want to stay in Jeannette? I think Ligonier would be nicer. Maybe near the quaint downtown. It has a gazebo. There are some nice houses there.”
Oliver nodded in agreement. “I’m sure there are.”
Paula was on her third glass of wine, while Oliver was still sipping at his first beer.
“Let’s go for a drive, Oliver. Just me and you, okay? We can be alone. Maybe we could drive out to Twin Lakes again. That’s real private, isn’t it?”
Oliver drove as if on autopilot, Paula snuggled up against him, stroking his arm, holding her hand with the ring up for both of them to admire.
Oliver parked the truck at the farthest corner of the deserted lot, just under a canopy of early-budding oaks and maples. When the engine grew silent, Paula pulled his arm around her shoulder.
“This is so nice, Oliver, almost like we’re married right now, you know? Just like two married people.”
Oliver murmured his approval. Paula’s hand roamed over Oliver’s chest with a new boldness. She kissed him several times, each more passionate than the previous one.
“Oliver, since we’re going to get married, it’s different now. A good different … since we’re going to be together forever.” She drew even closer to him. “I mean, now it would be okay if we … you know … like married people. I know you are old-fashioned and all that. But it would be like sealing our love. Please, Oliver, we could, couldn’t we? You want to, don’t you?”
Oliver sat up, as if waking from a long dream. “Of course I want to. But not here. Not now. Not in the truck, of all places. And not until we’re actually married. That’s what I have always believed. A ring doesn’t change what I know to be right. The Bible says we need to wait. And we will wait. It’s okay. A few months won’t be too hard.”
“A few months? But we’re engaged, Oliver. It’s okay now, isn’t it?”
He gently pushed her away. “No. It’s not. And I won’t cheapen you—or our relationship—for a few minutes of pleasure. I won’t.”
“But, Oliver,” she pleaded, “why not? I don’t want to wait for you any longer.”
He shook his head. Outside, a chorus of crickets and spring peepers began their evening music.
“I don’t want to wait, Paula. But I have to. We have to.”
His words were cemented together with such a stern sense of finality that Paula remained silent, almost a pout appearing on her face.
“Okay,” she finally whispered. “Okay, Oliver.” She slid over to the passenger side of the truck, folded her hands on her lap, and stared straight ahead, into the moonless sky. “Okay.”
He waited for a moment, then reached the keys, turned the engine on, placed the truck in gear, and headed back out to Route 30 and toward home.
Oliver held her tenderly at the door and said good-bye in a most gentle manner, placing his hand under her chin, tilting her head up so he could kiss her sweetly on the lips, softly, like a bumblebee on a flower.
“Good night, Paula. Tomorrow we can tell your mother and my mother. When we’re not so tired. Or, at least, when I’m not so tired.”
Paula felt herself nod in mute agreement.
“Okay, then,” Oliver added. “I’ll call you early. I can be late to work for one morning.”
She closed the door behind him and looked at the ring on h
er finger one more time.
What do I do now?
She walked to the couch and simply fell into it, like a soldier hit with a sniper’s bullet.
What do I do now? Do I tell Taller? Do I tell Oliver? If we wait for a few months to get married …
She brought her fingers to her temples and massaged them.
We can’t wait a few months to get married. By then, everyone will know. Oliver will know. Taller will. Everyone.
She looked over to the pantry. There was a large new amber bottle tucked away on a high shelf.
No. The wine was bad enough. I can’t.
She glanced at the clock on the microwave. Her mother and Bridget would be home soon. She wanted to run away. She slipped the ring off, placed it back in the box, grabbed the ribbon, and put them all in the top drawer of her bedroom dresser.
She let herself fall across her unmade bed.
I could get an abortion. I could. There must be somewhere around here, some doctor who could make this all better.
With thoughts of termination in her head, Paula closed her eyes tight and rolled onto her side. She tucked her knees to her chest, her arms wrapped around her legs, trying not to think of anything until sleep would make it all go away.
Oliver woke to Robert the Dog growling softly, staring at the front door and sniffing the air.
“What is it?” he asked, and Robert turned his head without moving any of his feet, standing his ground.
A soft tapping.
Oliver squinted at his watch. 5:30.
In a flash, he jumped out of bed, grabbed his robe, thinking it might be his mother or a paramedic or some emergency personnel standing outside, not wanting to wake the neighborhood with loud knocking or shouts.
He slapped the door open.