"No need of that shit," Paul said.
They were silent.
"Paul's right," Oliver said.
"My mother packed up and brought us back to New Haven. We lived with
her folks for a while."
"Good old New Haven," Paul said.
"Now, _your_ father . . ." She smiled at Paul.
"He liked the ladies," Paul said.
"What did he do?" Oliver asked.
"He was a stone mason, made his own wine, raised hell. Fought with
Uncle Tony until the day he died. They were tight, though--don't let
anybody else say anything against them. Bocce ball. Jesus." Paul shook
his head and held up his glass. "Life," he said.
"Yes, life." Oliver's mother raised her glass.
"Coming at you," Oliver added.
"Us," Paul said.
They touched glasses and got on with a shore dinner of lobsters and
clams.
Oliver said goodbye in DiMillo's parking lot. He walked home imagining
the sixteen year old Dior Del'Unzio with her mouth open as the white
dove flew upward and then with her hand to her mouth as her father
walked away. "No need of that shit." He was glad Paul was around to
take care of his mother. She was vulnerable under the big smile; Oliver
often felt vaguely guilty and responsible for her.
She had done the same thing as _her_ mother: hooked up with an exotic
stranger--Muni Nakano, proper son of a proper Japanese family in
Honolulu. But, his mother hadn't stuck around for sixteen years. She'd
come back from Hawaii to Connecticut, pregnant, and eventually married
Owl Prescott. They raised him and Amanda, his half sister. His mother
had made a go of it in New England. Only once in awhile would she show
signs of her Italian childhood. "Topolino mio," she used to call him
when he was little and she'd been partying.
He poured a nightcap and put on a tape--Coltrane and Johnny Hartman.
I'm wasting my life, he thought suddenly. What am I going to do? He
knew that he needed to change, but it seemed hopeless. He looked at the
walnut boards. Maybe a box . . .
He sketched a little chest with a hinged top. He erased the straight
bottom lines and drew in long low arches. "That's better." The top
should overhang. Should its edges be straight or rounded? Straight was
more emphatic; he could always round them afterwards.
He could make each side from a single width of walnut. Dovetailed
corners. A small brass hasp and lock. Why not? He could make the whole
thing out of one eight foot piece and have two boards left over for
something else or for extra if he screwed up the dovetails.
"Here you go," he said to Verdi. He replaced the offending piece of
pine with the original scratched walnut. "Nothing but the best for Team
Oliver." He looked at the heart. "Team O." Verdi forgave him without
moving. "Bedtime," Oliver said.
On Monday, Oliver cut pieces for the sides, top, and bottom of the box.
He bought a dovetail saw and made several cardboard templates for the
joints. It was a way of thinking about them. They were tricky, had to
interlock perfectly, one end male, one end female.
"What have you been up to?" Jennifer Lindenthwaite asked on Tuesday
morning.
"Making a box," Oliver said.
"Oh, that's exciting."
"It's harder than it looks--for me, anyway."
Jennifer wanted him to look at her and not at an imagined box. She was
a solid blonde, Nordic, with broad cheeks and a big smile. "I worry
about Rupert when he does things around the house. Something usually
goes wrong."
"Ah . . ." Oliver said. "A minor flaw."
"Rupert is wonderful," she said. "Now, the mailing list. Hi, Jacky."
Oliver turned and was astonished to see Francesca's friend in the
doorway. "Jacky is one of our volunteers. She does a lot of the mailing
list work. I thought you could work together on this. Jacky, this is
Oliver Prescott."
Jacky stepped forward. "Jacky Chapelle," she said. She had strong
cheekbones and dark blonde hair, cut short and swept back. Her eyes
were hazel colored. She had a winged messenger look that lightened her
direct, almost blunt, expression and her powerful shoulders.
"Uh, hi." Oliver shook her hand. "Did you find any pasta sauce?"
"Eventually."
"Oh," Jennifer said. "You know each other."
"Not exactly," he said. Jennifer looked at him closely. _Hell is being
in one room with two women_, Owl said. Oliver cleared his throat.
"Where's the computer?"
"Just down the hall." Jennifer led them to another room. "Let me know
if you need anything."
"Well," Oliver said as they were left alone.
"You don't look like a programmer," Jacky said.
"Thank you."
She showed him a box of file cards--the mailing list. "Here is what we
have. It would be nice to be able to print mailing labels, and we need
to keep track of who has contributed."
"Sure," Oliver said. "And probably some other things."
"Yes," she said. "Some of the members are summer people. We need to
know their winter addresses."
"What's winter?"
"Labor Day to the 4th of July," she said.
"The Maine we know and love," Oliver said. "We can keep individual
winter start and end dates for each name, use defaults if we don't have
the information."
"Right," she said. "Ideally, the list would interact with other
programs someday. It has members on it, and people who aren't members
but who are interested. Also, media people. And legislators. Sometimes
we send special mailings. I suppose we'll need some kind of type code."
"O.K.," Oliver said. They discussed requirements and agreed to meet the
following Saturday morning. Jacky left, and Oliver gave a thumbs up
sign to Jennifer who was talking on the phone.
Not a bad little job, he thought, driving back to Portland. He'd been
itching to ask Jacky about Francesca, but something had stopped him. He
wanted to know Jacky better. She was sure of herself and moved
comfortably. Her breasts were invading his consciousness; he found it
hard to think about Francesca at the same time.
That afternoon, he began cutting the dovetails. It took concentration;
hours went by. But when he fit the first two ends together it seemed as
though it had been only a few minutes. "All right!" he said, leaving
the attached pieces on the table.
Verdi came in looking satisfied. The weather was warmer, much better
for prowling. More snow was possible, but the chances were against it.
Oliver put away his long johns for the winter. "Probably too early," he
said to Verdi, "but so what."
The next morning, as he waited for a seat in Becky's, he saw a familiar
figure in a booth. She was facing away from him, but he was fairly sure
it was Francesca when she turned her head. She stood and walked toward
him, following the man who was with her. Francesca, yes. The man was
tall and blonde with a wide forehead and a long triangular face. He had
an easy vain expression, as though he had a full day ahead of being
admired. Francesca's head was down. She walked carefully. As they
passed, her eyes met Oliver's and he realized that she had already
recognized him, had known that he was there. Her face was resigned with
traces of humor around the edges. He was struck by her calm, so much
like his. They shared a moment of this calm--the briefest of
moments--but it felt as though it expanded infinitely outward around
them. Did she raise her eyebrows? He thought he saw her flush, but she
was past him before he could be sure. He remembered the bronze heart,
and warmth stirred in him. When he got home, he put it in his pocket
and rubbed his thumb over the O, the plus sign, and the F.
By Saturday, he had programmed a prototype design for the mailing list.
In the early days of programming, every detail had to be laid out on
paper before you sat in front of a computer. It was too slow and
expensive to rework code. Now, you could make changes easily. It was
more efficient to show a customer a quick design that could be used as
a starting point for discussion and improvement.
He tossed a canvas shoulder bag containing notes and diskettes into the
Jeep. Verdi took up a position behind the bare forsythia bushes. "Go
get 'em," Oliver said. His house was on the south side of the hill
overlooking the harbor. The first crocuses were popping up, several
days ahead of the ones at the Conservancy. He was early; no one was
there.
Ten minutes later, Jacky drove up. She got out of a red Toyota truck
and waved one hand. "I've got the key," she said. "Did you get anything
done?"
"Yeah, a start," Oliver said. He installed the software while she made
a pot of coffee.
"Coffee's on," she said, carrying a cup for herself. "Mugs are in the
cupboard above the sink." Oliver decided against a joke about a woman's
role in the office. He walked down the hall and poured his own. He
looked at his hiking boots, light colored jeans, and dark plaid shirt.
It was Saturday, for God sake. Every day was Saturday for Oliver as far
as clothes were concerned. What difference did it make? Jacky was
wearing tan jeans and a denim jacket, open over a mahogany colored
jersey. She was a big woman. His eyes were at the level of her
collarbone. Her jacket would swing back easily. Stop it, he told
himself.
She objected to his mailing list screens. "Cluttered," she said. She
was right. He explained that he had jammed everything in as a
beginning, so that they could see what they were working with. She was
clear about what she wanted. Forty-five minutes later, they were back
outside.
"Beautiful day," he said. She smiled enigmatically and turned her
ignition key.
"Damn," she said.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing happening." She turned the key several more times.
"Pop the hood," Oliver said. The hood sprang open just as the words
left his mouth. He felt for the second latch and leaned his head over
the engine. "Try it again." He could hear the solenoid clicking. "How
about the lights?" The lights were fine, plenty of juice. "Don't know,"
he said. "Could be the starter. I don't think a jump will do it."
Jacky called triple A. An older man went through the same procedure and
then hoisted the truck behind his wrecker.
"Ride home?" Oliver asked.
"If you don't mind," Jacky said. "South Portland."
"Right in my direction," Oliver said. He drove into the city and
pointed out his house as they approached the bridge. "Back soon,
Verdi," he called out the window.
"Verdi?"
"My cat." They crossed the bridge, and Jacky directed him to a quiet
street in a residential neighborhood. He stopped in her driveway
intending to back out and return the way they had come.
"You look hungry," she said.
"I am." He was surprised.
"I have something for you. Come in." She slid out and walked to the
front door without waiting for an answer. He followed her into a house
which was sunnier and more spacious than it appeared from the front. A
long living room opened to a sun porch at the back. "I have a double
lot," she said, showing him the porch. Two large willow trees framed
the end of the yard. "High bush blueberries," she said, waving at a
stand of bushes that ran along one side. "Salad garden over there.
Flowers. Fun."
"Nice," he said.
"I had a craving for rare steak last night. I could only eat half of
it, though. It's in the refrigerator." She led him to the kitchen.
"There's mayo, mustard, horseradish--if you're feeling wild. Bread's in
there." She turned. "Oh, there's ale in the bottom of the refrigerator.
I'll have a glass." She left the room.
"Do you want a sandwich?" he called after her.
"No, thanks, I'll just nibble," she said. A door closed.
Oliver opted for horseradish, not a usual choice for him. "Not bad," he
said when she came back, "the horseradish." Jacky took a long swallow
of ale. She had taken off her jacket and washed her face.
"It's been a good truck," she said.
"Starters go," Oliver said. "Toyotas are fine. Where do you work?"
"I'm a banker," she said. He sat straighter.
"Fooled you," she said.
"I wouldn't have guessed. I thought maybe you were a teacher." When I
saw you with Francesca, he almost added.
"Bankers are discreet," she said. She looked at him directly. "Are
you--discreet?"
He considered. "Yes." He was apologetic for some reason.