Chapter 14
It was cold and crisp, nearly dark. A neon Guinness sign glowed through a window by the door to Deweys. Oliver shifted the box of pies to one arm and hugged Jennifer with the other. He had a momentary desire to go home and keep the news to themselves.
“Here we go,’’ he said, opening the door. Music, warmth and the smell of ale and cigarettes poured out. Jennifer stepped in ahead of him. They stood for a moment, adjusting to the light.
“Olive Oil!’’
“Hey, George. Jennifer, this is George.’’
“Hello, George. What should we do with the pies, Oliver?’’
“I’ll ask Sam.’’
The bartender pointed at a table pushed against one wall. “The bird is going over there—any time now.’’ Oliver put three pies on the table and stashed the empty box underneath. He ordered a pint of Guinness for himself and a half for Jennifer.
“Prescribed for young mothers,’’ he said, handing it to her and taking her coat. George stared at Jennifer’s stomach.
“Due in April,’’ she said.
“Fatherhood,’’ Oliver said, setting the record straight and sipping his pint.
“Jesus, Oliver… I’ve been making sculptures; you’ve been making the real thing.’’
“It sort of makes itself,’’ Jennifer said.
“Boy or girl?’’
“Good question,’’ Oliver said.
“We could find out, but I don’t really want to,’’ Jennifer said. “Mmmm.’’ She made a face. “This what–do–you–call–it takes a little getting used to.’’
“Guinness,’’ Oliver said. “Stout.’’
“Guinness is a kind of stout,’’ George said. “Some stouts are sweeter; some are a little lighter.’’
“One thing about stout,’’ Oliver said, “it’s hard to drink too much of it. You get full first. Looks like most of the regulars are here. Where’s Richard?’’
“O’Grady? New York. He goes to his sister’s every year.’’ George’s eyes went back to Jennifer. She was wearing a long sleeved turquoise jersey with a revealing scoop neck. The jersey hugged her breasts and then curved slightly out and back into dark slacks. “Athletic momma,’’ George said.
“That’s a title,’’ Oliver said. “You just got sculpted or something.’’
“Painted,’’ George said.
“What do you know about painting?’’ Mark Barnes had drifted next to them.
“Hey, Mark,’’ Oliver said. He introduced Jennifer.
“I’ve seen you somewhere,’’ Jennifer said to Mark.
“Climbing out a bedroom window,’’ George said.
“Was that it?’’ Jennifer smiled.
“Couldn’t have been recently,’’ Mark said.
Sandy staggered into the room, carrying a huge turkey in a roasting pan. She lowered it to the table as the regulars cheered. Sandy had worked in Deweys for years. She was popular—red–cheeked, oversized, hard–drinking, and tolerant. Another woman brought paper plates, plastic utensils, and a carving set. “Go for it,’’ Sandy said.
“Where’s the broccoli?’’ someone called. There was a chorus of boos.
Sandy and her helper made another trip to the kitchen, returning with garlic bread and an oversized bowl of salad. The group took turns hacking at the turkey. George and Mark argued about Giacometti.
George maintained that Giacometti was better than Picasso. Mark would have none of it. “All that angst! He never met a color he didn’t like—cuz the color was always black. My God! I mean, for an Italian!’’
“He was Swiss,’’ Jennifer said.
“That explains it,’’ Mark said.
“I love you,’’ George said.
“I took Modern Art at Bowdoin,’’ Jennifer said. “I did a paper on Alberto Giacometti.’’
“My God,’’ George said, “Bowdoin? They let you out of the Impressionists?’’
“Oh, yes,’’ Jennifer said. “Giacometti was very good. Cute, too.’’
“I knew it,’’ Mark said. “Cute.’’
“How about some turkey?’’ Oliver suggested.
Bringing the pies turned out to be a good idea; they disappeared quickly. Sam presented Jennifer with a pint on the house. She was treated like a queen by many of the regulars—misty–eyed about motherhood as long as they didn’t have to deal with it. Two hours later, she began to yawn. Oliver collected the empty pie dishes, and they drove home, fortified against the cold, pleased to have been accepted as a couple for the first time.
“I like your friends,’’ Jennifer said on the way home. She rubbed her eyes. “It was smoky in there.’’
“We should have left a little sooner, I guess,’’ Oliver said. “How’s Junior?’’
“No complaints.’’
“That was our coming–out party,’’ Oliver said.
“Yep—we’re an item now,’’ Jennifer said, patting him on the knee.
The next day, Jennifer came home with a booklet on how to get a Maine divorce. “Great news,’’ she said, “two or three months and it’s over. I called Rupert. He was feeling guilty and said he’d sign whatever. It’s pretty simple, really. We don’t own much in common.’’
“That’s how it was with Charlotte. We had the house together, but she got some money from her parents and bought me out. Wasn’t all that much equity, anyway.’’
“Where was your house?’’
“Peaks Island.’’
“Oooh,’’ Jennifer said, “that must have been nice.’’
“It wasn’t bad… I like the ferries, but they get to be a pain.’’
“I think we should stay right here until the baby is born,’’ Jennifer said.
“Uh, yeah.’’ Doing anything else had never crossed Oliver’s mind.
“But, afterward, I think we should be looking for a place with more room—don’t you?’’
Oliver rubbed his forehead. “I guess,’’ he said. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.’’
“April 24th, the big day,’’ Jennifer said.
“Spring,’’ Oliver said.
“I should be able to work until then. I get three months maternity leave.’’
“Money,’’ Oliver said. “We’ll see how the hospital gig works out. Hard to tell.’’
“Oliver, let’s not worry about anything. Let’s just enjoy it. God, I’m so glad I’m not at Hilton Head!’’
“We’ve got our own beaches,’’ Oliver said and was immediately sorry as he imagined Francesca walking toward him.
“What’s the matter?’’
“Nothing,’’ he said.
“It has happened fast,’’ she said sympathetically. “Let me fix you some tea.’’ It wasn’t such a bad thing to be fussed over, he thought.
They stayed around the apartment most of the weekend. On Sunday morning, Oliver woke up before Jennifer. It was snowing lightly. He thought of getting out of bed quietly and taking coffee to Crescent Beach. Would Francesca be there? Would she miss him if he didn’t go? If he did go, how could he explain to Jennifer where he’d been? He wanted to share the new developments with Francesca, but he was afraid of hurting her. Maybe it was better to let it be for a while. Maybe Francesca wouldn’t be there. Maybe she was already on a warm beach in Costa Rica, not a snowy one in Cape Elizabeth.
He got up, made coffee, and turned on the radio. The public station was playing a Bach cantata. Oliver repressed a feeling of disloyalty as he took the coffee upstairs. “Love the one you’re with,’’ he repeated to himself from The Rolling Stones.
Jennifer hunched herself up on the pillows and accepted a mug with both hands. “Mmmm,’’ she said, sipping. “Have to do it.’’
“Do what?’’
“Call Mother.’’
“Ah,’’ Oliver said, “me too.’’
“She’ll be fine once she gets used to it.’’
“You mean, used to me.’’
“Yes, Silly. She’s already ex
cited about the baby.’’
“Maybe we should drive down.’’
“Yes, but I’d better go first. Then we’ll go together—maybe at Christmas.’’
“O.K.,’’ Oliver said.
“Daddy won’t care; he never liked Rupert.’’
“Good man.’’
Oliver took a long shower, standing under hot water, hearing snatches of Jennifer’s voice as she talked on the phone. He dried himself with one of her thick white towels and received a vigorous hug when he stepped into the kitchen. “She freaked out when I explained, but the worst is over,’’ Jennifer said. “I’m going to drive down next Saturday, stay the night, get things back on track.’’ Oliver wondered what “on track’’ meant.
“O.K.,’’ he said. “One down. My mother will be excited, actually.’’
“It is exciting,’’ Jennifer said. “Go on, get it over with.’’ Oliver called and gave his mother the news, promising to bring Jennifer for a visit during the holidays. “There,’’ Jennifer said, “that wasn’t so bad. I want to meet your mom.’’
“You’ll like her,’’ Oliver said. “Want to go down to Becky’s? Honeymoon fruit bowl?’’
By Monday, they were ready for the working world. Jennifer gave him a goodbye smooch and drove to The Wetlands Conservancy. Oliver stopped for a bagel on his way to the hospital and read the paper like a proper commuter.
Gifford Sims shook his hand and then led him farther down the hall and into another office. “Suzanne,’’ he said, “this is Oliver Prescott. He will be working with us on the computer.’’ He nodded at Oliver and left. A man known far and wide for his small talk, Oliver almost said.
“Gifford is my uncle,’’ Suzanne said neutrally. She was the same tidy chick who had looked him over on his first visit. She wore no make–up or jewelry. Her face had a healthy glow, framed by her soft shoulder–length blonde hair. She smiled quickly, a flash of teeth, an invitation, gone as soon as he took it in. Her mouth settled to a patient hurt expression. “What is your social security number?’’
She filled out a form. “We still do payables by hand,’’ she said.
“So, I should give you the bill?’’
“Yes. Just leave it on my desk if I’m not here. I’m usually here.’’ The smile again, this time rueful and just as quickly gone. She brushed her hair back with one hand. Oliver noticed lighter streaks in her hair—from the sun, probably. Her eyes were intelligent, a deep chocolate color. “I can mail the check or hold it for you.’’
“Holding it would be simpler.’’
“Good,’’ she said. “I’ll introduce you to Dan.’’ She rose and moved around him deferentially. My size, he thought. He was used to looking up at women; it was relaxing to be taller for a change, if only by an inch.
“Glad to meet you,’’ Dan said, shaking hands and grinning widely. “We’ve got plenty to do.’’ Suzanne excused herself. Oliver’s eyes lingered on her as she went out the door. “As I was saying, plenty to do.’’
“Right,’’ Oliver said.
“I’m in charge of billing. That’s what we use the computer for, mostly. Let me show you the computer room.’’ He took Oliver into an air–conditioned room where four women were working at terminals. The computer was at the far end of the room, next to an enclosed line printer. “We bought a receivables package years ago, but it has been modified a lot.’’
“Sure,’’ Oliver said.
“Gifford has asked us to change the late messages. Here’s what he wants.’’ Dan pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it. “Over 30 days, this; 60 days, this; 90 days, here.’’ He circled the numbers and underlined the messages.
“O.K.,’’ Oliver said. “Where’s the documentation?’’
“We don’t have much,’’ Dan said. “The original stuff is on that shelf over there.’’
“Ah,’’ Oliver said. He pulled at one ear lobe. “What language are we talking?’’
“RPG II.’’
“O.K.’’ Oliver groaned inwardly. He’d have to get a book. RPG was supposedly the worst language ever devised. First time for everything. “No problem.’’ That was one thing about being a professional; he knew he could do it. “Might take a while to get started…”
“Good! Good! We want it done right.’’ Dan rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. He was in his early forties, medium–sized, balding, energetic. “Let me know if you have any questions. We don’t work on Saturdays. Did Gifford tell you that?’’
“Yes.’’
“Good! I’ll get you a door key in case you have to get in here after hours. We lock the computer room at night.’’
“Dan, could you come here a moment?’’
“Be right there,’’ he called to someone in the corridor. “This is Oliver, everybody.’’ The women had all been watching them. “Ruth, Edna, Lillian, Vi.’’ He pointed to each in turn. Oliver smiled four times. “O.K. gang, let’s get to it.’’ Dan walked quickly out of the room, intent on the next problem. Oliver pulled a yellow pad from his bag and wrote names on the final page where they wouldn’t be seen: Ruth, short blonde; Edna, happy; Lillian, glasses, bored; Vi, body; Dan; Suzanne. What a pro, he bragged to himself.
He looked through the manuals and tried to make sense of the system. The terminals in the computer room were used for data entry—billing information and payments. Terminals elsewhere in the hospital allowed people to look up information. Medical records were kept by hand in a different department.
The operating system was complicated but not too different from one he had used a few years earlier. There was a job control language that scheduled daily updates and a weekly billing run. A log kept automatic track of all programs that were executed. This gave him the names of the programs. He found Dan at the other end of the hospital and asked him for a password. Once inside the system, he found the source code for the billing programs. A lot of small programs were run in sequence before the bills were actually produced. He took a guess and printed out the last three to be run; the late messages were probably hard–coded in there somewhere. The code was incomprehensible. He couldn’t get anywhere without a book. He said goodbye and drove to the Maine Mall.
There was only one book on RPG II. It was a language from the dawn of computer history, thirty years old. He took the book to the Food Court and began trying to interpret the code listings. Two cups of coffee later, he drove home. He had made some progress, but there was a lot left to figure out.
There was a statement from Myron in the mail. Francesca was listed as joint owner at the top. Her name, next to his, gave him a proud feeling. Together. The feeling of connectedness with Francesca was deep and comforting, as long as he didn’t think of Jennifer and the baby at the same time.
Myron had invested most of the money in some kind of fund. There were small amounts of General Electric, Royal Dutch Shell, Pfizer, Microsoft, and Citibank. A note suggested that he stop in. “Keeping powder dry,’’ Myron wrote. “These blue chips will grow with the economy. We’ll add to them on dips and as money comes in. Waiting for good entry points on some growth companies.’’ What was Pfizer? He’d ask Jennifer. On the other hand, he thought, maybe it would be best to keep quiet about this account—at least for now. He put the statement in his pocket and walked down to the Old Port.
“What’s Pfizer?’’ he asked Myron.
“Pharmaceutical company. Solid. The long term outlook for the drug industry is good.’’ Oliver inquired about the fund that was listed on the statement. “Right,’’ Myron said. “It’s a safe place to park cash—government securities only, decent return.’’
“I was wondering,’’ Oliver said, “if you could hold my statements here—not send them.’’
“We can do that. Let me make a note. No problem.’’
“Thanks,’’ Oliver said. “I’ll check in from time to time.’’
“Or call me,’’ Myron said. “I’ve got my eye on some companies—domestic natu
ral gas, fiber optics, fuel cell technology.’’
“I’ve heard of fuel cells. What are they?’’
“They produce electricity directly from a source of hydrogen. You feed them pure hydrogen or a hydrocarbon fuel; you get electricity, heat, and water. No pollution. Very reliable. Cars would be the bonanza market, but there are engineering problems to solve first—to make the cars cheap enough. There are a lot of other applications. Residential power. Industrial power.’’
“Wowzir!’’
“It’s a ways off,’’ Myron said. “The people who develop a technology aren’t always the ones who make the big money with it. Developing a business takes a different kind of skill.’’ Myron shook his head. “I’ve been burnt,’’ he said. “You put a winning technology together with winning management—then you’ve got something.’’
“It’s interesting. Well—do what you think best. I’ll start following these companies.’’
“No statement?’’ Myron inquired, making sure.
“Save a tree,’’ Oliver confirmed.
“Right.’’ A twinkle quickly disappeared. “Right.’’
Oliver walked up Congress Street. He saw a rack of postcards in an art supplies store window. I ought to send Muni a card, he thought. There weren’t any that he liked, however. Maybe at the Museum. Christmas decorations were already appearing. It was going to be a busy holiday.
Arlen was collecting his mail when Oliver arrived home.
“Hey, Arlen, how are you?’’
“Just fine, Oliver.’’
“Developments, Arlen!’’
“I noticed—with a Volvo.’’
“Jennifer. We must get together soon. She’s great. She’s going to have a baby. We’re going to have a baby.’’
“Congratulations! I’m happy for you, Oliver. Developments downstairs, as well.’’
“I wondered,’’ Oliver said.
“Porter,’’ Arlen said simply.
“Excellent! The House of Happy Endings.’’
“Thank you, Oliver. Let us hope so. When is the baby due?’’
“April.’’
“Oh, my. Definitely we must celebrate. Whoops, there’s the phone.’’ He waved goodbye and let himself into his apartment. Oliver felt something at his feet.
“Verdi! Were you out? Well, well, time to eat isn’t it?’’ He closed the front door behind him, and Verdi ran up the stairs. Oliver followed, seeing a can of coconut milk and a smaller can of Thai curry paste. Basil, a bit of chicken, green beans, rice… He was almost out of shoyu, but that wouldn’t matter with a curry. Tomorrow he would get shoyu. And more veggies. Jennifer was strong on veggies.
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