Chapter 6
If Francesca weren’t married, Oliver would have been after her in an instant. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t think of a way to give her the box and the valentine without putting her in an awkward position. He placed them on the mantelpiece in the living room. The walnut and the bronze gave him a warm feeling; they signaled a future or at least a connection with her.
He might have hustled a programming project, but the thought of business meetings sent him across the bridge to Crescent Beach. The air was fresh and salty, softened by the waxy smell of beach roses. Children played. Dogs chased Frisbees. Waves curled and crashed along the sand. In September, in Maine, time has a way of crystallizing and standing still. Oliver soaked up the sunny shortening days. He was rested and tan, increasingly coiled for some kind of action.
He received a postcard from Jacky saying that she was living in a motel but was about to move into a house. Her job was a lot of work but going well. She missed him. He sent a housewarming card to the new address and said that he missed her, too. No harm in that. Besides, it was true.
One afternoon in October, when the leaves were beginning to change color, he came home and heard Jacky’s voice on the answering machine. “Oliver, are you there? No? I’m in town. I’m staying at the Regency. I’m wondering if you would join me for dinner. I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes. Just come to the restaurant in the hotel, if you can, at six.’’ There was a short pause. “I’ll understand if you can’t make it. I know it’s short notice. Bye.’’ Her voice softened on the “bye,’’ and she hung up.
Oliver paced a couple of tight circles and decided to go. He did his laundry and ironed a white linen shirt. At six, he walked into the Regency and said to the hostess, “I’m meeting someone…” He looked around for Jacky.
“Are you Oliver?’’
“Yes.’’
“Ms. Chapelle called to say that she would be fifteen minutes late. May I get you a drink?’’
“Glenlivet, please. Rocks.’’
Twenty minutes later Jacky swept in, apologizing.
“No problem,’’ Oliver said. “You look well.’’ She was tanned and buzzing with energy.
“Forgive my banker suit,’’ she said. “No time to change. I talked them into more money.’’
“Congratulations.’’
“Dinner’s on me. Mmm,’’ she said, opening a menu.
“So, how’s Maryland?’’
“Crab cakes are great. Weather’s warmer. After that—Maine wins.’’ She told him about her job and the house she was buying. “And you?’’
“Pretty much the same… I found out what a clave beat is.’’ He explained and she applauded. “No, like this,’’ he said, clapping out two bars.
“It’s warm in here,’’ she said, taking off her jacket and opening the top two buttons of her tight blouse.
“Yes.’’ As they talked and drank, Oliver settled in his chair, his eyes on the opening in her blouse and the lacy rising edge of her bra. A familiar undertow pulled him down; he wanted to be lower than she was. She watched, opened her blouse farther, and let it happen. They finished dinner and drank the rest of the wine. “I’d forgotten…” he started.
“Oliver,’’ she said, “I have something for you. Why don’t you come up for a drink?’’ He nodded, yes. She stood, signed the check, and led him to the elevator. “There’s wine in the convenience bar,’’ she said, shutting the door of her room behind them. He poured two glasses and sat on a plushly upholstered love seat, waiting for her to come out of the bathroom.
“That’s better, isn’t it?’’ she said, sitting beside him and kicking off her shoes. Another button was undone. She sipped wine slowly, in no hurry, enjoying herself. Oliver couldn’t stop looking at her breasts.
“Do you know what I have for you?’’ she teased.
“Yes,’’ he said in a small voice. His heart was beating loudly. He put his glass on the end table and held out his wrists.
“Look at me, Oliver.’’
He didn’t resist. He gave himself to her eyes.
“Sweet,’’ she said. She took the handcuffs from her roll–on bag and closed them on his wrists. “Stand up.’’ She unbuckled his belt and slid his pants and shorts down to his ankles. “How sweet.’’ She reached into the luggage and held up the riding whip.
“You remembered everything,’’ he said helplessly.
“Have you?’’ She swished the whip, smiling. She didn’t have to hit him.
“Please…” He sank to his knees, desperate to please her, to be close to her. She took off her blouse and approached with the whip in the air.
“Much better,’’ she said, shrugging her shoulders forward and back. “Don’t touch, Oliver. Just look.’’ She leaned over him. “You’d like me to take off my bra, wouldn’t you?’’
“Yes,’’ he said. “Mistress.’’ His throat was dry.
“I love how you want me,” she said. “Can I trust you to—control yourself?’’
“Yes, Mistress.’’ She removed her bra slowly, watching him with pleasure. He swallowed.
“You are the sweetest love,’’ she said, laughing. She stripped the rest of the way and guided him to the bed where he devoted himself to her until she was wet and happy, incoherent, thankful… From a distance, he heard her say, “Now you.’’
“Doesn’t matter,’’ he mumbled.
She rolled him over and snuggled his head into her lap. “I’m going to give it to you for a change,’’ she said. “Here.’’ She leaned over and placed a breast in his mouth. She stroked him. “Jacky’s got you. Suck me, Baby.’’ She pushed her breast deeper into his mouth and brought him steadily along with her hand. “I’ve got you. It’s all right.’’ He opened his mouth wide and drew her in. Love came in with her breast—a strange new feeling that scared him—but she continued, and he accepted and then couldn’t get enough. She brought him to the top and cried out with him, “Ohhhh! Yes. More. Oh…” His head fell back and he reached for her hip, clutching, clinging to her as if she were a life raft. She put the palm of her hand on his forehead. “Baby,’’ she said, rocking him with her body. “It’s all right. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.’’ He sighed and pushed deeper against her.
Oliver awoke in the morning with Jacky leaning over him. She was dressed and glowing. “Hey, there,’’ he said.
“No need to get up,’’ she said. “The room is paid for. Just leave when you’re ready.’’ She kissed him.
“Mmm, toothpaste,’’ Oliver said. “Where you going?’’
“Breakfast at Becky’s with my friend, Francesca, and then catch a bird to Baltimore.’’ Oliver sat up straight in the bed. “No, no,’’ she said and pushed him down. “I left a card in your pants pocket. Call me tonight.’’
“Uh… O.K.’’
“Sweet Oliver,’’ she said and left. The door clicked shut, and Oliver stared at the ceiling. Francesca? Crap! He imagined Jacky describing their evening in full detail. She wouldn’t. But she might well mention his name. How many short Olivers were there in Portland? He got out of bed and took a quick shower. Aside from a manageable headache, he felt loose and relaxed. Jacky had seen to that, for sure. He left the hotel by a side door and walked home.
“Verdi? There you are. Good old Verdi. I was bad last night. Very bad. Here you go.’’ He spooned out a whole can of salmon Friskies. “Full breakfast, this morning. None of those little snackies, no.’’ It was important to stay on the right side of Verdi.
He considered shaving. To hell with it. He let Verdi out and walked down to the Victory Deli for a cranberry–blueberry pancake. Jacky. She knew just which buttons to push. He couldn’t help himself. He had been feeling helpless enough lately without this demonstration of it. She reveled in his helplessness, rolled in it like Verdi in catnip. I like it, too, he admitted. I do. I do and I don’t. He was so independent most of the time that it was a relief, a sweet relief, to give in, to trust her and be controlled by
her. But there was also a whiff of something forbidden about the relationship, something to do with his mother again. Jacky was a little like her. It was a powerful mix.
He called her at six o’clock. “Hi, how was breakfast?’’
“Hi, Oliver! Fun. Francesca’s a good buddy.’’
“Did you tell her about me?’’
“Why—no. You’re my secret, Sweet; I’m keeping you to myself. Besides, Francesca’s beautiful. Men go gaga over her. She’s one of these tall, dark, silent types. Gorgeous eyes, inner fires. I’d go for her myself if I weren’t so friggin straight.’’
“Hallelujah!’’ Oliver said with feeling.
“Thank you,’’ she said. “Poor Franny, she has a terrible marriage. Two of the cutest little girls. Oliver, I’m hoping you will come visit. I want to show you the Bay and feed you some proper crab cakes. The weekend after next would be perfect.’’
“How far are you from Atlantic City?’’
“About two hours.’’
“I’ve never been to Atlantic City,’’ Oliver said. “I’ve been wanting to see what it’s like. I could drive down on Friday, see you on Saturday? Unless you want to meet me at one of the casinos?’’
“You come here,’’ she said. “I went once and it didn’t do a thing for me. All those grandmothers lined up at the slot machines… Cross over the Delaware Bridge by Wilmington. I’m in northern Maryland, not too far from there.’’ She gave him directions, and they agreed to meet around one o’clock.
“Behave yourself with the working girls,’’ she said. “I’ll see you in two weeks.’’
“Bye,’’ Oliver said.
Jacky hung up, and Oliver turned to Verdi. “I’m in trouble,’’ he said.
At least she hadn’t said anything to Francesca. He paced around the room. What was happening? He was sliding into a life with Jacky. She could keep him going while he looked for work; he could work anywhere. Maybe he would do most of the cooking. What would it be like to wake up next to her every morning? His head spun. What was wrong with this picture? Anything? Something.
Atlantic City. When Oliver was confused, he tended to put himself in a situation and see what happened. He was better at resilience than calculation; he relied on his ability to pick himself up, dust himself off, and learn from experience. When he tried to think about the future, his mind turned off. He needed something more concrete to think about. Casinos.
The next morning, he bought a book on gambling from the bookstore next to the Victory Deli. He had never been crazy about cards. He had played enough poker to know how brutal it was. The smartest and toughest player won. If you were smarter and tougher, you might as well just take the other person’s wallet. It was worse than that. Not only did you take his money, but you left him feeling responsible, stupid, and broken. Oliver didn’t want to be on either end of that exchange.
As he read about blackjack, he decided against it. He would actually have odds in his favor if he could count cards without being caught and thrown out of the casino. He probably could count cards with practice; he’d been a math major in college; he was comfortable with numbers. But it would be a lot of work. And he didn’t like the idea of relating to the dealer as an opponent, an enemy working for the house. The dealer was just trying to make a living.
Roulette was O.K., but it seemed too mechanical and small in scale. The best roulette odds were not as good as the best odds in craps. Craps had a traditional sound to it. Oliver studied craps.
Players stood around an enclosed table and took turns throwing a pair of dice. On the first throw, the player “passed’’ if a 7 or an 11 came up. A 2, 3, or 12 was a “no pass.’’ Any other number became the “point.’’ The player continued to roll until either the point came up again, a pass, or a 7 was rolled, a no pass. All players could bet on every roll.
Custom required that a player continue rolling until he or she did not pass. The dice were then pushed to the next player in turn around the table. There were many different bets, simple and complicated. You could bet that a player would pass or not pass or that a number would be rolled before a 7. The complicated bets had large payoffs and correspondingly smaller chances of winning. The simplest bet had the best odds, winning just under 50% of the time. If you played only the bets with the best odds, you could consider the house edge as a 2% charge for hosting the game and keeping it honest. You would lose if you played long enough. But you could get ahead and quit. Maybe.
The stakes could be as high as you wanted. This appealed to Oliver. He liked the financial Russian roulette quality: win or die. He withdrew everything but twenty dollars from his bank account.
On his way back from the bank, he stopped at Deweys. It was fun drinking a pint of Guinness with six thousand dollars in his pocket. Mark was there, celebrating another executive placement.
“Chemical sales. Houston, poor bastard.’’
“You ever go to Atlantic City?’’
“Sure, man.’’ Mark snapped his fingers. “Down on the boardwalk… boardwalk.’’
“Where did you stay?’’
“Bally’s, most of the time.’’
“What was it like?’’
“Bally’s?’’
“No, I mean the whole thing,’’ Oliver said.
“Good time—if you don’t get into it too deep. Have a few drinks, check out the ladies. Lot of money flying around. They have these hard-nosed dudes called ‘pit bosses’ that keep an eye on things, head off trouble… I usually go on a travel package for a couple of nights. They’re a good deal; the casinos subsidize them. I take all the money I feel like blowing off and one credit card in case I get stuck or something. You going?’’
“I was thinking about it,’’ Oliver said. “I’ve been learning how to play craps.’’
“Yeah, craps, the best. Down on the boardwalk…”
Oliver made a reservation at Bally’s and considered what to wear. A plaid shirt and jeans weren’t going to do it; there was something significant and ceremonial about this trip. He had a summer linen suit that he’d worn to his sister’s wedding, years ago. He bought a mulberry colored T-shirt to wear under the jacket. He wanted to look like a star, a player. When in Rome… He stopped short of buying a gold neck chain.
He put the cash in the walnut box and then hid the box behind old sheets in the bedroom closet. The box made a good bank, but he missed seeing it on the mantelpiece.
Verdi. He couldn’t just leave food and kitty litter—Verdi needed to prowl around outside. And what if he didn’t get back right away, for some reason? Maybe Arlen, downstairs, would look after him. A few minutes after he heard Arlen return from work, he knocked on his door.
“Hello, Oliver.’’
“Nice shirt, Arlen. Aloha!’’
“Aloha, Oliver.’’ White tropical blossoms and blue sky hung from Arlen’s thin shoulders. He was wearing faded jeans and cowboy boots.
“I was wondering if you could do me a favor?’’
“If I can—of course. Would you like to come in?’’ Oliver entered an immaculate apartment. Parakeets and finches were hopping back and forth in large cages near the windows.
“I’m going on a short trip—three days, maybe four, next weekend. I need someone to look after Verdi, feed him, and let him out once a day. I know it’s a nuisance…”
“But I like Verdi. It will be no trouble. When are you leaving?’’
“Friday.’’
“No problem. Would you like a drink? We don’t get to chat often.’’
“Sure.’’
“Let me see. I have ale and, of course, the hard stuff.’’
“You wouldn’t have any Glenlivet, by any chance?’’
Arlen smiled. “Would Laphroiag do?’’
“Damn, Arlen. I’ll choke it down. Yes.’’
Arlen poured two drinks. “Another day, another dollar,’’ he toasted.
“Single malt,’’ Oliver replied, holding his glass high. There was a moment of reverenc
e after the first taste. “God, that’s good!’’ Oliver said. “I have plenty of cat food. I’ll leave clean kitty litter. You probably won’t have to change it if he goes outside.’’
“I’d have a cat if it weren’t for the birds,’’ Arlen said. “I don’t think enemies should live together, do you?’’
“No.’’ Arlen was an accountant for one of the big firms. He had a slim orderly face.
“Sometimes I think cats are smarter than people,’’ Arlen said, “but I love to hear the birds. They sing whenever they damn please.’’ He sighed, leaned back on his couch, and crossed his legs. An embossed boot swung prominently in front of him, oddly flamboyant.
“Yeah, Verdi’s my buddy,’’ Oliver said. “He likes you, too.’’
“Birds can be your friends,’’ Arlen said. “People don’t realize.’’ He looked out the window. “I had a parakeet once. His name was Tootsie.’’
“Tootsie,’’ Oliver repeated, sipping whiskey.
“An ordinary parakeet, green and yellow—but Tootsie could sing! A wonderful singer.’’ Arlen looked back at Oliver. “Parakeets are tough, you know. They are little parrots, actually, strong birds.’’
“Really? Parrots? I didn’t know that.’’
“Yes,’’ Arlen said. “Tootsie belonged to William.’’ His voice lingered on the name, and he looked out the window again. “I was just getting to know William. He asked me to keep Tootsie for him while he was away one summer… I suppose he was testing me.’’
“Ah,’’ Oliver said, vaguely.
“Tootsie and I got along very well. I tried to teach him to say ‘William,’ but he preferred to sing.’’ Arlen paused to drink.
“I moved in with William that fall.’’ He uncrossed his legs and crossed them again, waving the other boot in the air. “To make a long story short, I moved out three years later. William was away for the night. I was feeling shitty, and I explained the situation to Tootsie. ‘I’m leaving in the morning,’ I told him. ‘It’s not your fault; it’s not William’s fault; it’s not anybody’s fault. We just didn’t quite make it, that’s all. Almost, but not quite.’ Tootsie listened to me. You know how they do, with their heads cocked to one side. He was in a cage with a fail–safe door; the kind that are hinged at the bottom—if they aren’t positively latched shut, they fall open so you’ll know to latch them.’’ Arlen swirled the whiskey around in his glass.
“In three years, Tootsie never got out of his cage. The next morning, I got up and went into the living room. ‘Goodbye, Toots,’ I said. ‘Toots?’ He wasn’t in his cage. I walked over, and there was Tootsie on the table beneath his cage. He was lying on his side, stone dead.’’
“No way,’’ Oliver said.
“Stone dead. I don’t know how he got out. I don’t know what happened. All I know is that he died when the relationship did. I think his heart was broken.’’
“What did you do?’’
“I buried him beneath a tree on the Eastern Prom,’’ Arlen said. “I haven’t seen William for years. He moved out of town.’’ One of the parakeets burst into song. “There he is now.’’
“Who?’’
“William,’’ Arlen said.
“Oh.’’ They drank in silence. “Guess I’ll be going,’’ Oliver said. “Thanks. I’ll put a key under the mat when I leave on Friday.’’
“You’re welcome, Oliver. Don’t worry about Verdi.’’ Oliver went upstairs glad to have solved the problem but feeling sorry for Arlen. He was a decent guy. Usually alone. You’d think he could find someone to be with.
“Arlen will take care of you,’’ he said to Verdi.
Early Friday morning, Oliver retrieved his stash and placed the walnut box back on the mantel. “So long, Verdi. Don’t give Arlen a hard time.’’ He slid a spare key under the mat and took a last look around. He hesitated. The box. The box bothered him. What if I don’t come back? he thought. Get hit by a truck, or something.
It seemed stupid, but Oliver was used to following his intuition. He wrote a note: “Francesca, I made these for you. Oliver.’’ He put the note, the bronze heart, the lock, and one key inside the box. He put the other key on his key ring. There was only one Malloy listed in the telephone book. He wrapped the box with paper cut from two grocery bags and addressed it to: Francesca Malloy, Cape Elizabeth, Maine. He put all the stamps he had in a double row across the top. If something happened to him, the package would get to her.
Feeling better, he skipped down the stairs, threw his carry-on bag into the Jeep, and headed out of town. He stopped for coffee at the first rest area on the turnpike. The sun wasn’t even up as he got back in the Jeep. On the road again, he sang, picking up speed and passing a Shop ’N Save truck. “Fuck you, Malloy,’’ he said, leaving the truck behind. Francesca’s husband worked for Hannaford Brothers, who owned the grocery chain. On the road again…
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