O plus F

by John Moncure Wetterau

  Chapter 19

  Saturday morning, Oliver and Jennifer bought a stove and brought it home in the Jeep. Mark came out and helped move the stove from the Jeep to the living room in front of the fireplace. It would go in the corner when they put a chimney up for it, but, for now, they could use the old chimney. A hole for the stovepipe was waiting, covered by a decorated pie plate.

  Sunday afternoon, Emma lay contentedly in her playpen near the new stove while a fire burned and Oliver watched the Patriots lose another one. Jennifer had driven in to The Conservancy for a couple of hours. Woof was outside. Verdi was curled by a window. The stove had cost a bundle, but it was worth it, Oliver thought. They charged it on one of Jennifer’s credit cards.

  “Da Da.’’

  “Yes, Emma.’’ He lifted her and held her in the crook of his arm. She looked up at him steadily as he walked back and forth across the living room. Muffled snapping sounds came from the stove. He heard the wind outside and saw bare branches moving in the trees across the lawn. The sky was gray and darkening. “Here comes the storm, Emma,’’ he said. “Here it comes.’’ He put her down in the playpen, turned off the TV, and played La Traviata.

  Pavarotti’s voice swelled through the house. “Listen to that, Emma!’’ He stroked Verdi and watched the lowering clouds.

  Jennifer came home full of enthusiasm and plans. “Eric is having a party!’’

  “Hot diggety.’’

  “It will be fun! And lots of Conservancy people will be there. I really have to go. And I think it’s good for Emma.’’

  “Well, it’s that time of year,’’ Oliver said, giving in.

  “We won’t stay long.’’

  “We’ll stay as long as you want,’’ he said.

  They went to bed early that night. When Jennifer reached for Oliver, he followed her lead, waited for her, and tried to stay close. He floated away and brought himself back. She was uncomplicated sexually. Thank goodness.

  She rubbed his back. “Oooh, that was nice,’’ she said. “You worked so hard on the stove. You’re tired. Poor Sweetums.’’

  “Mmmm,’’ he said, nuzzling and hiding his face on her shoulder. “Sweetums sleep now.’’

  The storm dumped eight inches overnight, the first real snow of the winter. It was blustery and clearing when Oliver went outside in the morning. The Volvo was in the barn. Jennifer was staying home until the road was plowed. He cleared off the Jeep and crunched slowly down the hill. As the clouds shifted, the light changed from gray to white and back to gray. The Jeep slid around a little, not much. He had concrete blocks in the back, three by each wheel. The heater threw out a blast of hot air. Four wheel drive is great, he told the world. People were brushing snow from their cars and shoveling walks. Several waved as he passed. The first snow was always a relief.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about Suzanne. It would be best not to see her. When he walked into his office, the first thing that he saw was an envelope on his desk. It looked like the ones that his paycheck came in. “Oliver,’’ was written on the front. He opened it and took out a note.

  Hi. I’ll understand if you don’t want to see me. But if you do—I get off at noon Friday. I can go straight home and do the shopping Saturday. If you can’t make it, next Friday would be good too. But if you don’t want to, I’ll understand. (I said that already.) Missing you. S.

  P.S. Eat this note.

  Oliver folded the note into a small square and buried it in his pocket. Suzanne looked up when he put his head in her door. She was dressed plainly in a white blouse. Her hair was pulled back. Her eyes were soft. “Saturday’s a good day for shopping,’’ he said.

  She lowered her eyes for a moment. The corners of her mouth moved down and back, the beginning of her smile. “If you go early,’’ she said. She was tender and proud, so compact that Oliver wanted to sweep her into his arms and keep her inside his shirt. He smiled helplessly and went back to his office. Didn’t mean to do that, he said to himself. But he knew he couldn’t run from her; it would be like running from himself. This thing was going to destroy him if he didn’t come to grips with it, if he didn’t understand what was going on.

  It was a relief to sit at his desk. One thing about computer work, he thought. You can’t do it and do anything else at the same time. Auditors were coming from national headquarters, and the trial balance was off by $185,000. Dan was hoping to find the problem before they arrived. It was a lot of money. Oliver wondered if it had been stolen. Was there a First Fundamentalist embezzler? He concentrated until lunch time, leaving his office only once. Suzanne drove out at noon, and he left five minutes later. He wasn’t sure he could take seeing her again that day.

  He drove into Portland and had lunch at Becky’s, glad to be back. He stared at the booth where he first saw Francesca. It occurred to him that he hadn’t checked on his brokerage account for months. He ate the last of his homefries and slid the plate across the counter.

  “Had enough?’’ The waitress paused.

  “No, but…”

  “We’ve got good pie, today. Dutch apple? Banana cream?’’

  “Can’t help myself,’’ he said. “Dutch apple.’’

  “Warm that up,’’ she said, stretching behind her for a coffee pot and filling his cup with one motion. “You want that pie heated?’’

  “Sure.’’ He added creamer to the coffee, relaxed, and looked at a large photograph hanging on the wall behind the counter. A wave was washing completely over the bow of a tanker. Both the ocean and the ship were muddy shades of gray. It was a gray stormy day. There were no people in sight—just the deck, battened down, waiting to rise through a crushing weight of water. A simple black frame. No caption necessary, not in a waterfront diner.

  He remembered eating lunch with Maria and Elena. That was fun. Cute kids. Walking the beach with Francesca. The memories eased his mind. But this is now, he reminded himself. He set his mug down with a clunk to emphasize the point. Now. He left a big tip and walked to the brokerage office.

  “Hello, Oliver.’’

  “Myron.’’

  “Bet you want to see your statement?’’

  “Only if there’s anything left.’’ Myron searched in a filing cabinet.

  “Ah, here we are.’’ He glanced over it. “Yes. Not bad.’’ He handed it to Oliver. The balance was quite a bit lower than the last time Oliver had checked, although still higher than when they began. He looked at the detail. There were two withdrawals of four thousand dollars each. He put his finger next to them and pivoted the paper so that Myron could read where he pointed. “Yes,’’ Myron said. “Francesca called twice. I had ten thousand in a money market fund, so we didn’t have to sell any shares to meet her request.’’

  “Good,’’ Oliver said.

  “An attractive woman, Francesca,’’ Myron said.

  “You’ve got that right,’’ Oliver looked at Myron. “Do you know her?’’

  “I do. I grew up in Brunswick. I was three years ahead of her in high school.’’

  “I’ll be damned. How is she doing? Did she say?’’

  “We didn’t really get into it. She sounded fine. I sent the checks to an address in Seattle.’’

  “Well done. Thanks, Myron.’’

  “Marriages…” Myron said, raising his eyebrows. “Some work out and some don’t.’’

  “Yeah,’’ Oliver said. He looked at Myron’s wedding ring. “I hope yours does.’’

  “So far, so good,’’ Myron said.

  “Nice going with the account. If she needs any more, you know what to do.’’

  “I’ll keep some powder dry,’’ Myron said. “See you.’’

  Oliver stepped outside. Greenery had been wound around the lamp posts. Holiday lights were strung overhead. The sidewalks were filled with shoppers crowded between store windows and low snowbanks piled along the curb. Someone had brushed the snow from the bronze lobsterman kneeling on his pedestal outside the bank buildings.

  O
liver liked The Swiss Time Shop, run by a Swiss watchmaker. He bought a ship’s clock set in a handsome maple case, a present for the house.

  “He says ‘Ja!’ and everything,’’ Oliver told George in Deweys. “Great guy. He actually knows how to do something.’’

  “Nice face,’’ George said, looking at the clock.

  “So, what’s new with you, George?’’

  “Jesus, Olive Oil, the gallery owners…” George groaned and held his head with both hands. “They’re all the same. They treat you like dirt. I just came from one—he kept me waiting for twenty minutes and then he had another appointment. This guy wouldn’t know a painting from a Christmas card. I was big in California, Olive Oil, big. Why did I ever come back to this place?’’

  “How about the art school? Maybe teach a course or two?’’

  George looked at him in disbelief. “Theory, that’s all they want. All the Top Bullshitters are there now, Olive Oil, talking about art. That’s what they want.’’ He shook his head. “Paint? It’s no use. It’s no use.’’

  “The Top Bullshitters!’’ Oliver bent over laughing. “You’re right. It’s no use. What are you going to do?’’

  George threw up his arms. “I don’t know. Fuck ’em. Paint.’’

  “Let me get this one,’’ Oliver said.

  “It’s no use.’’ George pushed his empty glass across the bar. “That was a great party at your place. Eats. Bazumas.’’

  “Jacky,’’ Oliver said.

  “And that Martha chick—the real estate chick—she wants to look at my paintings. Maybe she’ll buy one.’’

  “She’s got the money,’’ Oliver said. “Sell her a big one and go down and paint Jacky.’’

  “I’d like to,’’ George said. “Something about her…”

  “Yeah,’’ Oliver said. “Those were the days.’’ Oliver had thought life was complicated when he used to drive over the bridge to Jacky’s. “ Bazumas!’’ he toasted.

  “The finest,’’ George said.

  A pint later, Oliver reached in his pocket for tip money and felt a small thick square. On his way back to the parking garage he dropped Suzanne’s note carefully into a city trash container.