O plus F

by John Moncure Wetterau

  Chapter 20

  On Friday, Oliver left the hospital fifteen minutes after Suzanne drove out of the parking lot. It had been a tense week. He wasn’t any closer to the missing $185,000, and he didn’t understand what was happening to him personally. He had avoided Suzanne, although at least once a day he put his head in her door and they exchanged smiles, a moment that was a relief to both of them.

  When he got out of the Jeep, Suzanne was standing in her doorway. “You remembered how to get here. Come on in.’’ She shut the door behind him and came into his arms. “Hi, Stranger,’’ she said.

  He breathed in the familiar minty smell of her hair which was brushed out fully and freely to her shoulders. “God, you smell good.’’ She squeezed him and stepped back.

  “Let’s get that coat off you.’’ She had changed into dark brown cotton pants, a cream colored T-shirt, and a red plaid flannel shirt, unbuttoned. She hung his jacket on a peg by the door.

  “You look great,’’ Oliver said. It was the truest thing he had said all week.

  “Thank you.’’ She stopped a moment, pleased. “I put the water on. Want some tea? Some lunch?’’

  “Tea would be good. I’m not too hungry—maybe a piece of toast?’’ He followed her to the kitchen. “I’ve got a headache.’’

  “I thought you looked tense. Well, you just let me fix you right up.’’ She pointed to a chair, and he sat down. She knelt by his feet. “Boots,’’ she said, untying the laces, “here we go.’’ She pulled them off and led him into her bedroom. “Lie down there; I’ll be right back.’’ Oliver stretched out. He heard water running. Suzanne came in with a washcloth that she doubled and placed across his forehead and eyes. It was cool and moist. “There,’’ she said. He felt her hands on his ankles and then his socks were drawn off. She loosened his belt and fluttered a light cover over his knees and bare feet. “There,’’ she said again, satisfied.

  Oliver was rarely sick. It was odd but comforting to be treated like a patient. He relaxed into the coolness of the washcloth as sounds floated in and out of consciousness. Suzanne moved around the house. A jazz combo started up quietly in the living room.

  “Feeling better?’’

  “Yes.’’

  “I’ll bring the tea.’’ She returned with mugs and two toasted English muffins on a plate. She put them on a bedside table, went around to the other side of the bed, and lay next to him, her head propped up on pillows.

  They sipped tea and munched on muffins. “I like it here,’’ Oliver said.

  “It’s cozy,’’ Suzanne said.

  “It’s hard not talking to you at work,’’ he said.

  “I hate it,’’ she said. She put down her mug. “We don’t need to think about that now.’’

  “No,’’ he said, closing his eyes. She placed her hand on his chest and rubbed slow circles. Oliver sighed and surrendered to the palm of her hand and her fingertips.

  “Much better,’’ she said. Her hand moved slowly across his chest and then down over his stomach. Her fingers reached under the top of his pants and paused. He sighed again and rolled a little closer. Her hair brushed across his face, and her fingers worked downwards, quietly circling and pressing. “Oooh,’’ she said. “We have lift-off.’’

  Oliver took a deep breath. Impulses swirled. He reached down in slow motion and undid his pants. Then he rolled over onto his knees above her and opened his eyes. Suzanne watched him as he yanked off her pants. A knowing smile twitched at the corners of her mouth while concern and a plea for forgiveness showed in her eyes. She was wet and ready. She held nothing back, let him drive her crazy, begged him for it, and then gave a series of wondering cries as releases rippled through her body, one after another.

  He withdrew, still hard, and kissed her. He lay back and stretched his arms toward the ceiling. His headache was gone. Suzanne lifted one hand a few inches and let it fall back on the bed. “Oliver?’’ He moved his head closer so that he could hear her. “You hungry yet?’’

  “After awhile,’’ he said. He ran a finger lightly down the top of her thigh.

  “Gardenburger,’’ she murmured.

  He rested his whole hand on her leg. “Gardenburger,’’ he agreed. She smiled slightly. The devil and the angels were gone from her face. She might have been a sunset or an early morning lake. They lay quietly for a minute.

  “I love it when you just take me like that.’’

  “Mmm,’’ Oliver said.

  “All week, I don’t know who I am. I get a hint, like, when you smile at me—but when you fuck me, I know.’’ Her hand lifted again and fell over against his stomach. He patted her hand. She sighed contentedly and slid her hand down. “Oh,’’ she said, “we’ve got work to do.’’ She rolled to his side and put her open mouth on his chest. She stroked him steadily and then rolled to her back pulling him over on her. “Come on, Lover. Give it to me.’’ She was urgent, calling repeatedly. The need built deeply and quickly, leaping into her, turning him inside out and helpless in her arms.

  It was an hour later when he opened his eyes. “I was going to wake you at three,’’ Suzanne said.

  “Make that two gardenburgers,’’ he said. “I’d better take a shower.’’

  Suzanne cut up an onion and fried it with the burgers.

  “Damn,’’ Oliver said, emerging from the steamy bathroom, “onions!’’ He was still waking up. Suzanne was dressed again. Oliver sat at the kitchen table to eat, but he couldn’t take his eyes from her breasts. They were just right, hanging and swelling under her T-shirt; they were perfect for his mouth, like pears, but so much better. “God!’’ He shook his head. “You are too much.’’

  Suzanne flushed. “Is that going to hold you?’’

  “Terrific,’’ he said. He ate quickly and stood. “I’ve got to go.’’

  “Hold on.’’ She came close and picked a blonde hair from his shirt. “Don’t want you getting caught.’’

  “No,’’ Oliver said.

  “Will you come back?’’ she asked softly.

  “Are you kidding? As soon as I can.’’

  She hugged him as though he were breakable. “I’ll be waiting.’’ It was almost an apology.

  He ran one hand down her hair and the compound curve of her back. “Save that kiss for next time,’’ he said.

  “That one and a couple more.’’

  He left with difficulty and drove home. Jennifer was on a day trip to see her mother; she wouldn’t be back with Emma until six or so. Woof met him at the door, sniffing at his clothes with extra interest. “Just between us,’’ Oliver said, rubbing her ears. He changed clothes immediately. By the time Jennifer and Emma got home, he had baked an acorn squash, started a fire, done two loads of laundry, and split more wood. Celtic music was playing.

  “Mother says hi. Precious was very good, weren’t you Precious?’’ Oliver took Emma. “Doesn’t it smell good in here!’’

  “Dinner’s all ready.’’

  “Oh, and a fire. How nice to be home. Let’s turn that music down a little.’’

  “Da Da.’’

  Oliver pushed Suzanne to the back of his mind, struggling for time to understand or to outlive what was happening. Early the next morning, he cut a Christmas tree in the woods behind the house. He bought lights and a tree stand at K-Mart. By noon, they were hanging tinsel on the tree, and Jennifer was telling him that she could finally get some really nice decorations. Rupert had never wanted to bother with a tree.

  At one-thirty, they walked across a graveled driveway in Falmouth and knocked on Bogdolf Eric’s door. Oliver was carrying Emma; Jennifer held a canvas bag containing a fat beeswax candle and two bottles of wine, a Chardonnay and a Merlot.

  “Ah, Jennifer!’’

  “Eric,’’ she said, handing him the bag and accepting his hug at the same time.

  “And here we have Oliver and Miss Emma,’’ he said, disengaging.

  “Merry Christmas, Bogdolf.’’

  “Oh
dear, I’m afraid—no Bogdolf today. The Lore Keeper is—in the field.’’ He laughed heartily. “You’ll just have to put up with plain old Eric. Come in. Come in.’’

  “Woofy is just wonderful,’’ Jennifer said. “She’s the nicest dog I ever had.’’

  “Oofy,’’ Emma said.

  “Isn’t she, Precious? Yes, she is.’’

  “A great dog—Eric,’’ Oliver said.

  “Yes.’’ Eric nodded wisely. He looked into the bag. “Now, what have we here?’’

  “For immediate consumption,’’ Oliver said.

  “Good!’’ Eric said.

  He’s a jerk, Oliver thought, but he’s a friendly jerk. Several of Jennifer’s friends were already there. In an hour the house was full of people Oliver hadn’t met. Jennifer moved happily from group to group. There were many children under ten years old, and there was much discussion of Montessori and Suzuki methods. The men talked about business and boats. Oliver wasn’t put off by boat talk; he liked boats, had grown up around them, but he had never needed to own one, had never wanted to pay for one. These skippers were all cruising in the same direction: bigger is better. The business they talked was really about people. No one seemed interested in how to do anything—just in who said what to whom during the endless reshuffling of executive ranks.

  Oliver knocked down as much of the Merlot, a good bottle, as he decently could. There was a sharp cheddar, Havarti, Brie, a salsa, an avocado dip, baby carrots, and various kinds of chips. As he ate and drank, the conversations around him blurred together, so that he caught the intent but not the detail, a more relaxing state. He had a small Dewars and refrained from asking Eric to release the Laphroiag from its hiding place. He began to see large wind–up keys protruding from the backs of the guests. I must have one too, he thought, but set for a different kind of motion. These guys would march back and forth in front of the yacht club, six steps one way and six steps the other, until they wound down.

  He stepped outside and explained his key theory to a woman who was smoking in front of the garage. She was thin with large dark eyes and a high–strung manner. “I’m more of an all–terrain guy. Take it slow; keep going until your hat floats.’’

  “I got the other woman key,’’ she said in a surprising husky voice. “I go in a straight line and turn around and no one’s there. After awhile, I do it again in a different direction.’’

  “Shit,’’ Oliver said sympathetically.

  “It has its moments,’’ she said, flicking ash from the end of her cigarette.

  “What’s your name?’’

  “Marguerite.’’

  “I’m Oliver.’’

  “I know.’’

  “You do? How?’’

  “Everyone does. You’re the short one who married Jennifer and saved her from Rupert. Cute kid, by the way.’’

  “Aha,’’ Oliver said. That explained the identical looks of comprehension he received when Jennifer introduced him to her women friends. He is short, they were thinking. “Emma. Yes,’’ he said to Marguerite. “Thanks. What’s it like—being the other woman?’’

  “Well, you do the heavy support work, and she gets the house.’’

  “Damn,’’ Oliver said. Marguerite finished her cigarette.

  “Do you smoke, Oliver?’’

  “I try to stick to drinking,’’ he said, finishing his whiskey.

  “Guess we better go inside and reload,’’ she said. She turned her back to him and bent over. “Wind me up, would you?’’ Oliver laughed and put his fist on her back. He rubbed five vigorous circles.

  “There you go,’’ he said. “My turn.’’ Marguerite cranked him up, and they went laughing back inside the house.

  Oliver was getting a pretty good buzz. Lots of water, he instructed himself as he poured another drink. Jennifer was sitting in an armchair with Emma in her lap. Oliver drifted to one side of the room and looked at books—Joseph Campbell, Robert Bly, biographies of lesser known New Age gurus. A voice caught his attention and he glanced at a tall man telling a boat story. It was Conor. A well padded blonde stood by his elbow and patted his arm when he said, “It wasn’t my graveyard.’’ Conor scanned the horizon for approval. Oliver had just time to go neutral and stop staring. He was startled. It was as though Francesca might be right around the corner. He went over to Jennifer who suggested that they think about leaving—Emma was tired. Oliver agreed and then edged up to the group where Conor was comparing investments with another handsome salesman type.

  There was a pause in the conversation, and Oliver asked, “Do you know Myron Marsh?’’

  “Marshmallow? Sure,’’ Conor said. “I used to have resources with him. Too conservative for me. You’ve got to step up to the plate—uh… Have we met? I’m Conor.’’

  “Oliver.’’

  “Up to the plate, Oliver.’’ He looked down, charming, sorry for Oliver who was too short to hit it out of the park.

  “Ah,’’ Oliver said.

  “Myron’s a good man,’’ Conor said, “known him for years.’’

  “Good man,’’ the other guy echoed.

  “I like him,’’ Oliver said. “I guess I’m conservative.’’

  “Nothing wrong with that.’’ Conor swept his arm expansively, making room for conservatives.

  “The next generation’s asleep,’’ Oliver said, pointing to Emma. “Got to pull anchor, head for port. Nice talking with you.’’

  “Standing clear,’’ Conor said. Oliver felt a rush of relief that Francesca had left the guy. Marguerite caught his eye. She raised her eyebrows, amused. Complicated, Oliver thought, easier to go home.

  Jennifer made an effortless series of goodbyes, impressing Oliver with her skill once again. “Farewell, Eric,’’ he said to the host.

  “Merry Christmas, Oliver.’’

  It was dark and much colder as they settled into the Volvo and drove home. “What a great party,’’ Jennifer said. “You know, I was talking to Mary. If you’re tired of bouncing around, I think you could get a good position at Tom’s bank. She said he was looking for someone to come in and learn the ropes, take over as MIS officer.’’

  “Do I look like the officer type?’’

  “If you don’t, no one does. It doesn’t have anything to do with height. You were having fun with Marguerite.’’

  “Yeah, I like her. What’s her story?’’

  “Poor Marguerite, she’s had—unfortunate affairs. I really don’t know what men see in her. She’s awfully skinny.’’

  “Well,’’ Oliver said, “she’s sympathetic.’’

  “Too sympathetic,’’ Jennifer said. “She ought to pick some nice guy and get on with it.’’ Get it on, Oliver started to say, but didn’t. “It was so nice to see all the children playing,’’ Jennifer continued. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful for Emma to have a little brother to play with?’’ She reached over and rubbed his leg.

  “Get on with it, you mean?’’

  “Oh Sweetums! Of course not! Not like that. But it would be nice, wouldn’t it?’’ She kept her hand on his leg.

  “Yes,’’ Oliver said. “Seems like yesterday that Emma was born.’’

  “It does,’’ Jennifer said enthusiastically.

  Oliver took one hand from the steering wheel and rested it on top of Jennifer’s. “Merry Christmas,’’ he said. “Merry Christmas, Emma.’’ He looked over his shoulder at Emma, buckled into her car seat, serene, half asleep. “I love Emma.’’

  “And me?’’

  “And you,’’ he said. It was true, but why did his heart sink after he said it? There were loves and there were loves. He patted her hand and corrected a small skid.