Chapter 12
Sunday morning was cold and windy. Oliver waited at the beach, walking back and forth in front of the driftwood log. After half an hour, he poured a cup of coffee from the thermos. Steam curled up and was blown away. He had an interview the following day at the Fundamentalist hospital; he ought to iron a shirt. Wear a tie? Francesca appeared, walking with long strides.
“Hi,’’ she said.
“Just in time,” he said, holding his cup in the air. “I was going to drink yours. What’s the matter?’’
“Conor and I are having trouble. God, that smells good!’’ Oliver handed her a cup. “Mmm—nice and hot.’’
“I’m sorry,’’ Oliver said.
“I don’t want to bother you about it…”
“It’s no bother.’’
“Conor didn’t get home until very late. I had trouble waking him up to watch the girls. I probably shouldn’t have come.’’
“Do you want to go back? I’ll walk with you to the gate-house.’’
“O.K. Just a second. Let’s enjoy this.’’
Oliver refilled his cup. “Getting nippy,’’ he said.
“Snow anytime,’’ Francesca said. She looked at him and smiled—something to share, their snow. “Conor’s not been happy with me. He plays around. It’s a mess.’’
“Oh.’’
“I don’t know what to do. We’ve been talking about making a change, spending the winter in Costa Rica. He says that his job isn’t going anywhere; he wants a break to decide what to do next.’’
“Oh.’’ Oliver tried for a bright side. “You could practice your Spanish.’’
“We could argue in Spanish,’’ she said.
“What’s his problem? Not that it’s any of my business.’’
“I don’t know. Mommy, I suppose. Conor tends to think that the world owes him a living. Conor’s world is 95% female. He’s cute and needy and out–front about it; there’s always some woman ready to give him what he wants.’’
“Tough life,’’ Oliver said.
“He’s not a happy man,’’ she said, “at least, never for long. He uses that, too—the wounded Conor. Well, somebody tried to save him last night.’’
“Pretty hard on you,’’ Oliver said.
“I married him,’’ she said. “I’d divorce him tomorrow, but it isn’t just me I have to think about.’’
“Damn,’’ Oliver said. “I’d marry you the day after.’’
“Thank you. Would you promise to make me a cup of coffee like this first thing in the morning—for the rest of my life?’’
“Or my life,’’ Oliver said.
“Oh!” There was a tear in Francesca’s eye. He thought she was going to hug him, but she turned and looked toward the water. “I’ve got to finish one thing before I start another,’’ she said. “I don’t think there’s much point to it, but I’ve got to try. I’m going to go with him on this trip.’’
“I’ll see you in the spring, then—I hope,’’ Oliver said. “I opened that account, by the way. I don’t have the number yet, but you don’t need it. If you get stuck for money, call Myron Marsh at Marsh and Cooley and tell him who you are. It would probably take a couple of days, though.’’
“Myron Marsh…”
“He has an office on Monument Square.’’
“O.K. Let’s go,’’ she said.
They walked back side by side. “I like your Jeep,’’ Francesca said when they reached the main road.
“Tried and true,’’ Oliver said. “Room for you and the girls.’’ She did hug him then, squeezing tightly against him. He felt her sob twice. His legs were set like granite posts. He could have held her forever. She stepped back. “Francesca,’’ he started, but she shook her head, no, and put one hand up to his cheek. Her thumb rested across his lips and then withdrew. She seemed to be memorizing his face.
“Bye,’’ she said.
“Bye.’’ She turned and walked away. Oliver sighed heavily, got into the Jeep, and drove in the other direction. His feelings were careening around, but his mind was clear. He and Francesca were together, even though they were apart. What he wanted, how beautiful she was, what might happen—the rush of his feelings did not alter that fact.
He drove aimlessly, passed the mall, and headed north. In Yarmouth, he stopped for breakfast at the Calendar Islands Motel on Route 1. Two dining rooms were filled with elderly couples and the families of L. L. Bean executives. He signed for a table and waited in line. It was pleasant to stand there as though nothing had just happened. He had gotten up in his restored cape with the large addition, fed his golden retriever, and driven three miles for breakfast the way he did every Sunday. He had a slight hangover and a secure future. He was on board.
It really wouldn’t be so bad, he thought—to be on board. What the hell, even a tie… The hostess led him to a sunny table. He ate a large plate of blueberry pancakes with a side of bacon, feeling quite the citizen, practically married, a man with responsibilities.
But—you don’t know her. This wasn’t true, he decided. He knew her where it mattered—in her heart. Boisverte, he knew her maiden name. What difference did it make, where she went to school or what her brother was like? Didn’t she say she had a brother? Conor would never change. Why wouldn’t she leave him? She would—when she was ready. He, Oliver, would be there. The waitress swished away. Nice legs, he registered. Too young, though. You can’t have them all, he told himself as she disappeared into the kitchen.
When he got home, he ironed a blue oxford–cloth shirt and a pair of dress chinos. He washed the dishes and turned on the TV, mostly to avoid the temptation to go to Deweys. The Patriots lost in the fourth quarter.
The next morning Oliver was on the road in time to stop for a bagel. He made an effort to keep crumbs off his shirt and tie. He was confident that he could handle any software needs that the hospital might have; it was the group dynamic that put him on the defensive. He felt false when he made the little gestures required to fit in. He knew how, but he also knew that eventually he would be unmasked and auto–ejected from the group like a splinter from its hand. Maybe the First Fundamentalists wouldn’t be so bad. Here I come, he thought. Love your neighbor. Forgive him his independence. Let’s get this over with.
Gifford Sims was large. He wore a dark suit made from a lasting synthetic material. His black hair was carefully combed; his face was square and unsmiling. “Come in,’’ he said, indicating a chair where Oliver was to sit. He rubbed his chin once and gazed out his office window at the carefully tended parking lot. He was not in a hurry to speak, but he did not seem put off by Oliver. That was one thing about being short—you didn’t threaten people.
“We had someone in Boston doing the work,’’ he said finally. “Expensive.’’
“Ah,’’ Oliver said.
“She worked about twenty hours a week, sometimes more.’’
“I see,’’ Oliver said.
“We don’t work on Saturdays unless we have to—babies don’t always fit into our schedule.’’ Gifford swiveled from the window and watched Oliver. Hard to blame them, Oliver started to say, but he smiled instead, acknowledging the joke. It was a joke, he was pretty sure, although it was hard to tell from Gifford’s expression.
“It appears from your experience that you could handle the work. Are these references current?’’
“Yes, they are.’’
“I have no further questions.’’ Silence. Gifford Sims, conversationalist. Oliver stood.
“Thank you for taking the time. Lovely place…” He waved his arm, vaguely including the hospital and the parking lot. “Well, goodbye, Mr. Sims.’’
“Goodbye.’’
Oliver walked toward the main entrance. A young woman in the hall looked at him seriously. Her hair was blonde, the color of freshly planed maple. She had dark eyes and a compact graceful body. Oliver’s stomach tightened; he straightened and nodded as he passed. At the front door, he said, “So long,�
��’ to the receptionist, a middle–aged redhead.
“Y’all come back, now!’’ Oliver stopped.
“Where you from?’’
“Georgia, honey.’’
“Good deal,’’ Oliver said, “the sun just came out.’’ The hospital, Gifford Sims notwithstanding, had a light atmosphere. Aside from a large painting of Jesus near the entrance, the tone was functional and non-denominational. A sign announced that two babies had been born overnight. The hospital was known for its high–quality birthing. I could work here, he thought. But he had no idea whether he’d get the job. Gifford Sims hadn’t exactly been blown over. On the other hand, there weren’t many people around who could step right in and take over. Most good programmers already had jobs or would want full–time work.
Oliver drove home. In the mail, there was a large flat package from a bookstore and a letter from Myron saying that the account was open. He wrote the number on a card and put it in his wallet in case he should see Francesca. He decided not to send her a letter; she had her hands full. If she needed cash, she knew how to get it. The arrangement gave him a warm feeling when he thought about it. He was useful to her, even if she never touched the money.
There was a gift note inside the package: “This is the guy I was telling you about. Home in one month. Muni.’’ The book was by George Nakashima, The Soul of a Tree. Oliver was immediately attracted to the photographs of walnut, cherry, and chestnut tables. The tops were made from wide slabs that had been left in their natural contours. Where the wood had separated as it dried, Nakashima had inlaid butterfly keys to prevent the splits from widening. The keys were made of contrasting woods—rosewood and oak. Their butterfly or bow tie shapes became design elements, quasi-geometric signatures. Oliver was fascinated.
Later, in Deweys, he tried to explain to Mark. “The tables knock me out. I mean, sure, it’s hard to go wrong with a great piece of walnut. The guy must have gotten every trophy tree in Pennsylvania. But what I love is the way he treated splits. He repaired them with these butterfly keys.’’ Oliver made a quick drawing and showed it to Mark. “The keys improve the look. They add the human touch, so that it isn’t only a beautiful piece of wood—it’s a beautiful piece made even better. He turns a flaw into a strength by acknowledging it, working with it instead of trying to hide it.’’
“Righteous,’’ Mark said. “I want one.’’
“They’re all in collections, now. The guy is famous,’’ Oliver said. “I think that his daughter is carrying on the tradition.’’
“Must be nice to make something that lasts,’’ Mark said.
“You’ve got enough money to make things,’’ Oliver said. “You’ve got an art degree, right?’’
“Yeah, I can draw. But there’s no money in it.’’
“Why can’t you do both?’’
“I try sometimes, but it’s hard to get into it. If I make a good drawing or painting, then what—I’ve got to frame it and beg some gallery owner to sell it for fifty percent of not much? Frig that. It’s not like I’m a frustrated genius.’’
“Just frustrated,’’ Oliver said.
“Look who’s talking. Maybe you ought to forget programming and set up a cabinet shop.’’
“Maybe,’’ Oliver said.
“Speaking of frustrated,’’ Mark said, “how are the ladies?’’
“Not bad,’’ Oliver said. “I’m in love.’’
“Oh, no!’’
“It’s complicated,’’ Oliver said. “Remember Francesca?’’
“Big trouble.’’
“Yeah, I guess. She’s still with her husband, but maybe not for long. He’s a jerk.’’
“A bill–paying jerk.’’
“He’s not right for her.’’
“And you are?’’ Mark set his pint on the bar.
“I am—or could be—if she wanted.’’
“So what are you going to do, put your life on hold?’’
“I’m going to work, save some money.’’
“No indoor sports?’’
“Oh, that,’’ Oliver said. “I don’t know.’’
Mark shook his head. “Well, love is one thing, but I’d keep in practice if I were you.’’
“Maybe I’ll buy a new sweater.’’
“Now you’re talking. What was his name again? George…”
“Nakashima.’’
“The man!’’ Mark drank. “So how did you hear about him?’’
“My father sent me the book I was telling you about.’’
“You never told me about your father.’’ Oliver’s explanation took them through another pint.
“Something else,’’ Mark said. “You’re lucky. My father was a drunk—took off when I was pretty young. He was hard on my mom.’’
“Do you ever see him?’’
“No. She heard that he died a few years ago.’’
“Too bad,’’ Oliver said.
“I don’t know what his problem was,’’ Mark said. “My mom said that he had a bad time in the Korean War. But…”
“How’s your mom doing?’’
“Fine. She’s got a boyfriend with a bike. They tool around Albuquerque, have a good time.’’
“Love it! Look, I’m out of here.’’
“See you,’’ Mark said.
Oliver walked home thinking that Mark seemed more vulnerable than usual. Everybody’s got a story. Everybody’s got some kind of problem. It started raining. He was wet through when he got home.
“Soaked, Verdi,’’ he said. He changed into dry clothes and considered dinner. Instant red beans and rice? The doorbell rang. He went down the stairs and opened the door to the street. Jennifer Lindenthwaite was standing there, dripping.
“Hi, Oliver.’’
“Jennifer!’’
“Aren’t you going to ask me in?’’
“Sure. Come in and dry off. I got soaked, too. Just got home.’’ He led her upstairs and into the apartment. “What’s happening?’’
“Oh, nothing,’’ she said. “Rupert threw me out… I’m pregnant.’’
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