"Damn, Arlen. I'll choke it down. Yes."
Arlen poured two drinks. "Another day, another dollar," he toasted.
"Single malt," Oliver replied, holding his glass high. There was a
moment of reverence after the first taste. "God, that's good!" Oliver
said. "I have plenty of cat food. I'll leave clean kitty litter. You
probably won't have to change it if he goes outside."
"I'd have a cat if it weren't for the birds," Arlen said. "I don't
think enemies should live together, do you?"
"No." Arlen was an accountant for one of the big firms. He had a slim
orderly face.
"Sometimes I think cats are smarter than people," Arlen said, "but I
love to hear the birds. They sing whenever they damn please." He
sighed, leaned back on his couch, and crossed his legs. An embossed
boot swung prominently in front of him, oddly flamboyant.
"Yeah, Verdi's my buddy," Oliver said. "He likes you, too."
"Birds can be your friends," Arlen said. "People don't realize." He
looked out the window. "I had a parakeet once. His name was Tootsie."
"Tootsie," Oliver repeated, sipping whiskey.
"An ordinary parakeet, green and yellow--but Tootsie could sing! A
wonderful singer." Arlen looked back at Oliver. "Parakeets are tough,
you know. They are little parrots, actually, strong birds."
"Really? Parrots? I didn't know that."
"Yes," Arlen said. "Tootsie belonged to William." His voice lingered on
the name, and he looked out the window again. "I was just getting to
know William. He asked me to keep Tootsie for him while he was away one
summer . . . I suppose he was testing me."
"Ah," Oliver said, vaguely.
"Tootsie and I got along very well. I tried to teach him to say
'William,' but he preferred to sing." Arlen paused to drink.
"I moved in with William that fall." He uncrossed his legs and crossed
them again, waving the other boot in the air. "To make a long story
short, I moved out three years later. William was away for the night. I
was feeling shitty, and I explained the situation to Tootsie. 'I'm
leaving in the morning,' I told him. 'It's not your fault; it's not
William's fault; it's not anybody's fault. We just didn't quite make
it, that's all. Almost, but not quite.' Tootsie listened to me. You
know how they do, with their heads cocked to one side. He was in a cage
with a fail-safe door; the kind that are hinged at the bottom--if they
aren't positively latched shut, they fall open so you'll know to latch
them." Arlen swirled the whiskey around in his glass.
"In three years, Tootsie never got out of his cage. The next morning, I
got up and went into the living room. 'Goodbye, Toots,' I said.
'Toots?' He wasn't in his cage. I walked over, and there was Tootsie on
the table beneath his cage. He was lying on his side, stone dead."
"No way," Oliver said.
"Stone dead. I don't know how he got out. I don't know what happened.
All I know is that he died when the relationship did. I think his heart
was broken."
"What did you do?"
"I buried him beneath a tree on the Eastern Prom," Arlen said. "I
haven't seen William for years. He moved out of town." One of the
parakeets burst into song. "There he is now."
"Who?"
"William," Arlen said.
"Oh." They drank in silence. "Guess I'll be going," Oliver said.
"Thanks. I'll put a key under the mat when I leave on Friday."
"You're welcome, Oliver. Don't worry about Verdi." Oliver went upstairs
glad to have solved the problem but feeling sorry for Arlen. He was a
decent guy. Usually alone. You'd think he could find someone to be with.
"Arlen will take care of you," he said to Verdi.
Early Friday morning, Oliver retrieved his stash and placed the walnut
box back on the mantel. "So long, Verdi. Don't give Arlen a hard time."
He slid a spare key under the mat and took a last look around. He
hesitated. The box. The box bothered him. What if I don't come back? he
thought. Get hit by a truck, or something.
It seemed stupid, but Oliver was used to following his intuition. He
wrote a note: "Francesca, I made these for you. Oliver." He put the
note, the bronze heart, the lock, and one key inside the box. He put
the other key on his key ring. There was only one Malloy listed in the
telephone book. He wrapped the box with paper cut from two grocery bags
and addressed it to: Francesca Malloy, Cape Elizabeth, Maine. He put
all the stamps he had in a double row across the top. If something
happened to him, the package would get to her.
Feeling better, he skipped down the stairs, threw his carry-on bag into
the Jeep, and headed out of town. He stopped for coffee at the first
rest area on the turnpike. The sun wasn't even up as he got back in the
Jeep. _On the road again,_ he sang, picking up speed and passing a Shop
'N Save truck. "Fuck you, Malloy," he said, leaving the truck behind.
Francesca's husband worked for Hannaford Brothers, who owned the
grocery chain. _On the road again_ . . .
7.
Traffic was moderate. Oliver hummed along, enjoying the oranges, reds,
and yellows of New England in October. He crossed the Hudson on the
Tappan Zee Bridge, bypassing New York, glad to be moving again after
weeks of inaction. His money and what felt like his entire future was
in his pocket.
At five o'clock he cruised slowly through Atlantic City. He found
Bally's, parked, and went to his room. He washed his face, changed into
his outfit, and went back outside. The boardwalk stretched out of sight
along the beach. It was warmer and more humid than in Maine. Lazy waves
collapsed on the sand. Beach-goers and gamblers of all ages strolled
back and forth--studs with oiled glistening muscles, grandmothers with
straw hats and outrageous sunglasses, Afro-Americans, Latinos, Asians.
He was too warm in his suit. He returned to the air conditioned hotel
and entered the casino.
Loud music. Hellish reds and blacks. The women that Jacky had
remembered were seated in front of rows of flashing slot machines. The
women pulled long levers mechanically; win or lose, they pulled again.
Bells rang as an occasional jackpot cascaded from a machine.
Oliver recognized the crap tables--elongated mahogany figure eights,
surrounded by players leaning over the action. Dice rolled, bounced,
and tumbled to a stop on the gleaming green felt. People cheered or
groaned.
The roulette wheels were in a different section. The blackjack dealers
were beyond the roulette wheels. At the far end of the casino, behind
bars, cashiers exchanged chips for money or vice versa. Cashing in your
chips, for real, Oliver thought. He pushed $1000 toward a cashier.
"What do you want?" Oliver hesitated. "Hundreds, twenties, tens, fives,
what?"
"Give me one hundred dollar chip," Oliver said, "the rest, tens and
fives."
"You want to leave some in the cage?"
"Five hundred," Oliver said. The cashier issued him a plastic card with
a magnetic strip.
"Give this to the pit boss when you want more."
"I got these complimentary dollars," Oliver said, "when I checked in."
"Over there." The cashier pointed to a barred room within the main
room. "Promotions." Oliver walked over to Promotions.
"Could I exchange these for chips, please?" A man with a neat mustache
swept up the fake coins. He flicked his wrist and thumb. Oliver's chips
fell on the counter in front of him. Oliver counted. "Wasn't there
supposed to be thirty-five?"
"Yeah, man. You short?" Oliver pushed the chips toward him. "Sorry,
man. Mistake," he said, adding a five dollar chip to the pile without
changing expression. Oliver put them in his pocket and walked toward
the crap tables. That was a scam, he thought. Get away with that once
an hour, your pay would go up--a couple of hundred a week.
He straightened as a feeling shot through him. It was like waking up.
It was time. He approached the front craps table and stood with his
arms hanging down and his weight evenly balanced. Fifteen feet away, a
man shifted sideways so that he was directly in front of Oliver. He was
expensively dressed, medium sized with wide shoulders and a dark
angular face. He stared at Oliver. I see you, he was telling Oliver.
You aren't like the rest of them. I'm watching. He was intense and
deadly. Pit boss, Oliver realized. Well, fuck you. Oliver's spirit and
body fused as though they had been sleeping in separate rooms. For the
first time in years, he felt his whole strength. A slight smile crossed
his face.
The pit boss was called away, and Oliver continued to watch the table.
_They're not getting my money. _ The resolve came out of nowhere, clear
and absolute. A woman left the table. He took her place, bent over, and
placed a $5 chip on the pass line. An older man in a baseball cap threw
the dice low and hard. They bounced off the far end of the table and
skittered back to the center. A two, snake eyes. Most of the players
groaned. Oliver's chip was raked in. He bet again to pass. The next
player threw a six. There was a flurry of bets. A four. Another flurry
of bets. The player reached down with one hand and arranged the pair of
dice so that threes showed on top. He was overweight, red faced with a
closely trimmed white beard. He tossed the dice gently up into the air
so that they stayed together until they hit the felt. They bounced to a
four. "Yes!" Cheers and clapping. The players who had bet that a four
would be rolled before a seven had won. No one had lost. The start of a
good run. Burl Ives / Colonel Sanders arranged the dice again and threw
a six--the point. Uproar. All were winners but those few who had bet
"no pass." Oliver had his chips back.
He stepped away. He had won, and he had lost. He wandered over to a
roulette table. Two Asian women, middle-aged sisters perhaps, or
cousins, or lovers, sat side by side betting large sums on every spin
of the wheel. Their hair was long and lustrous, elaborately wound and
held by jade. Light disappeared into the blackness of their hair and
re-emerged at different points as they tilted their heads toward each
other and toward the whirling ball. They bet on lucky numbers,
sometimes winning big, often losing all. They were indifferent to loss
and satisfied when they won. Their faces were masks--beautiful and
timeless.
Oliver bet $10 on red, a gesture after losing himself in admiration of
the women. The steel ball whirred around the rim and bounced down into
a red numbered slot. Everybody won. He picked up his winnings and
nodded to the pair. They scarcely noticed.
Oliver was ten dollars ahead and hungry. He left the casino and found a
coffee shop where he ate a turkey club sandwich and relaxed. So far, so
good.
As he neared the crap tables again, a bar hostess with long legs in
black mesh stockings asked if he wanted a drink. "Diet Pepsi, please."
She came back a few minutes later with the drink. "Thanks." He put a
dollar tip on her tray.
He moved to a place at the ten dollar craps table. The man next to him
had a name tag on his short sleeved shirt that read, "R. Melnick M.D."
He was pale and sweating lightly. His fingers drummed on a stack of
black $100 chips, twenty at least. He placed four chips on the no pass
line, won, and added to his stack. He left, irritated, as though the
inevitable humiliation was just being postponed.
Oliver bet ten dollars and won. He left his chips on the pass line and
won again. He put one chip back in his pocket and won again. He put two
more chips in his other pocket and lost the rest on the next roll.
Twenty dollars ahead. He kept his original stake in one pocket and his
winnings in the other.
When he lost three times in a row, he went over to the roulette tables
to change his luck. He put one chip on red and lost. He doubled his bet
and won, leaving him one chip ahead. He went back to craps and began
betting larger amounts. He stayed with his system. He was $375 ahead
when he lost three times and headed back to the roulette wheel. He lost
the first three times he bet on red. He doubled his bet again, eight
$10 chips, his largest bet so far. The ball went around and around and
hopped into the double zero slot. Neither red nor black. The house won
all bets. Oliver swallowed. What were the odds that he would lose an
almost even bet, five times in a row? About one out of thirty-two
times. He counted out sixteen chips, $160. The dealer looked at him
with a flicker of interest--one of these guys who would go down with
his system? The ball whined around the rim of the wheel a long time
before it slowed, fell into the center of the wheel, and bounced to a
stop.
Red. Oliver collected his chips, relieved, and put all but one back in
his stake pocket. All that risk on the last spin to win a net total of
one chip. If he had lost, he would have had to bet $320 on the next
spin to have a net win of one chip. And then $640. The dealer had seen
it all before. Sooner or later, the improbable happened, and a run of
losses wiped out the double-or-nothing players.
Oliver put his $100 chip on pass. He lost. He lost twice more and
returned to roulette. This time he won on the second spin. He went back
to craps and lost again. His winnings sunk to $45 and then climbed back
to $120.
"How's your luck tonight?" A young blonde smiled appealingly.
"Not too bad."
"You want to bet a couple for me? You know, have a good time?"
"I'd love to," Oliver said, "but I'm too shot. I'm going to bed."
"I could help with that," she said.
"No thanks, Beautiful--not tonight." She shrugged and moved on. Oliver
went up to his room and was asleep in five minutes.
At 4 a.m. he was wide awake. He dressed and returned to the casino. The
room was mostly dark and shut down. Only one row of slot machines by
the door was active. Overhead lights illuminated a single craps table,
a bright mahogany raft floating in the darkness. Old men held on to its
edges, playing quietly and grimly. Oliver put himself in their place.
Why go to bed? Save themselves for what? They clung to a different kind
of life raft than Jacky had been for him, but it was just as real. He
watched for ten minutes and left. He found an open cafeteria and took a
cup of coffee back to bed. The steam from the cup and the warmth in his
hand were comforting.
Oliver woke up late in the morning. He cashed in all but fifty dollars
of his chips and ate a large breakfast. He walked along the beach to
the Taj Mahal casino and found that it was much the same as Bally's. He
returned to the hotel and checked out. Before he left, he placed a
fifty dollar bet on pass. He would leave seventy dollars ahead or a
hundred and seventy dollars ahead, a winner either way. My kind of bet,
he said to himself. He won. Yesterday's pit boss was not there. Oliver
imagined himself nodding to him--superior, free, out of there. It
didn't matter. He could tell Jacky.
Finding the Delaware Bridge was the next challenge. Two hours later,
Oliver was in Maryland easing around a curve on a gravel driveway.
Stones crunched under his wheels as he stopped in front of a white
colonial. Jacky came out to meet him. She was wearing a Red Sox T-shirt
and a wrap-around cotton skirt.
"Well, well," she said looking at his suit and holding her arms open.
"What have we here?"
"A player," Oliver said, coming close. Her arms drew him against her.
He smelled honeysuckle, and his hands found their familiar places.
"Mmm," she said, "I'll bet you're hungry."
"You win."
Jacky stepped back. "Good. I'm going to show off. I've been practicing
my crab cakes."
"Yumm."
"I thought we'd eat home, relax, maybe go out later . . . I'll give
you the Bay Tour tomorrow."
"Finest kind," Oliver said. "Nice house. That T-shirt isn't going to
make you any friends."
"Just because I'm living in Maryland, doesn't mean I'm a traitor," she
said, leading him into the kitchen. "How was Atlantic City?"
"Weird. I won. It wasn't what I was expecting." Jacky took the crab
cake mix from the refrigerator. She turned on a burner under a Dutch
oven half full of oil. "I thought I might get into a big deal
all-or-nothing scene, a go-down-in-flames kind of thing. I brought all
my money." He told her about the pit boss and the icy focus that had
come over him and taken control. "I didn't even drink," he said. "It
was tiring, but I won."
"Very good," she said. She flicked drops of water into the oil. The
drops sizzled and danced. "You're safe now. There's a nice Sauvignon
Blanc in the refrigerator. I think it's time."
Oliver responded to her choreography. He uncorked the wine and poured
two glasses. "To us," Jacky said. Oliver clinked his glass against hers
and sipped.
"Yowzir! You must have gotten a good raise."
"Wait until you taste these," she said, lowering crab cakes into the
hot oil.
The crab cakes were delicious. "What's your secret?" Oliver asked.
"Mustard and capers," she said, pleased. The bottle was quickly empty
and they opened another. Drinking with Jacky usually made Oliver softer
and more open. Today, he began to feel focused again, revved up, not
unlike the way he had felt in Atlantic City. Jacky was smiling.
"Oh, this is so much better," she said. Let me show you the rest of the
house . . . I could use some of your special attention." She led him
through a comfortable living room and up the stairs. Oliver looked at
the ceiling in the bedroom.
"No eye bolt," he said.
Jacky giggled. "Funny you should mention that." She opened a drawer and
took out a large bolt. "I thought maybe you could help me with this.
Maybe tomorrow." She laid the bolt on the dresser. "Take your clothes
off, Oliver."
The focus inside him strengthened. He dropped his clothes at his feet
without changing expression, kicked off his shoes, took three steps,
and pulled her to him. "Aren't we strong, today," she teased. He turned
her backwards onto the bed. She fell beneath him and wrapped her legs
around him. "My fierce little man."
This was the way it was going to have to be, Oliver realized. Talk
wasn't going to do it. A counselor wouldn't work. This was their
language.
He pulled up her skirt and curved his right hand between her legs. His
left hand reached up under her head and took a fistful of hair. He
pulled her head down, immobilizing it, and rubbed slowly with his right
hand. Her shoulders strained upward twice in resistance or surprise.
Oliver held her head back and continued to rub.
Jacky adjusted quickly. She pushed up against his hand. "Take them
off," she said. Oliver rolled sideways without letting go of her hair.
He pulled her panties down, and she bent her knees. He slid them over
her feet and then moved back on top of her. "Give it to me," she said.
Oliver entered her, slowly and deeply until she was pinned to the bed.
She made a small gurgling noise. He withdrew and then pushed into her
again. "Oliver?" He increased the pressure on her hair and went on
fucking her silently and slowly. "Oliver?" He didn't trust himself to
speak. He was afraid to speak. She would regain control, somehow.
"Ohh," she groaned. "Sweet?" The question in her voice was increasing,
changing to doubt. His intensity strengthened, feeding on her doubt.
He kept an impersonal rhythm, driving her into the bed with each
stroke, holding his grip on her hair. "Baby," she said. "Fuck me." She
began to writhe beneath him, meeting him, trying to draw him on. Oliver
refused to hurry. "Oliver?" She was pleading, now. Deeply in. Slowly
out.
Jacky began to strike him in the back. She made angry sounds. Her fists
drummed on his back. I--am--in--control, he said to himself. "Damn
you!" she exhaled. She stopped hitting him. "All right. All right." She
went limp.
Oliver continued without varying. She gave up. Her hands went to his
back and her body molded to his. Her breath began to whistle on each
exhale as he drove into her. She came with a sudden release and a
series of falling sighs. Her hands fell back on the bed.
Oliver released his grip on her hair and cradled her cheeks in both
hands. He kissed her for the first time. Holding her lips softly under
his, he began to move faster. Her hands went to his shoulder blades.
Her tongue touched lightly in and out of his mouth. In a minute, he was
done. She stroked his back.
"Oliver?"
He was off her and dressing.
"Oliver, please . . ." She sat up, uncertain. He saw the little girl
in the strong woman. He wanted to comfort her, but he didn't trust
himself not to give in. She would control him forever. It wasn't her
fault; it was just the way she was. Arlen's words came to him.
"It's not your fault," Oliver said. "It's not anybody's fault. You are
wonderful, Jacky. Queen of crab cakes. The greatest fuck in the western
world. But--I've changed. It won't work." He shook his head. "I wish it
could."
"Why did you come?" She reddened. "Well, go then!" She looked around
and picked up a book from the table next to the bed. "Go!" She threw it
at him. He ducked sideways and walked downstairs. She followed him,
shouting "Go!" As he went out the front door, a glass shattered against
a wall. "Get _out_ of here!" The other glass smashed and he heard her
begin to cry.
The Jeep started and he was on the road again.
8.
Oliver drove a mile and stopped, ears buzzing from wine and the violent
emotion. He saw Jacky again, sitting up on the bed, one hand across her
heart, and he felt a stab of pain and longing. It wasn't too late to
turn around. They could put the pieces back together; he could serve
her, and she would take care of him. Why not? What else was he going to
do? He searched around in the glove compartment and found a Willy
Nelson tape. Might as well have the real thing. _On the road again . .
._ Shit. He pounded the steering wheel once and kept going.
Philadelphia. He made it past the city and began to wear down. He
didn't need to hurry--Arlen wasn't expecting him home for a couple of
days. He turned off the highway and stopped at a motel. He put his bag
on a chair and lay down for a moment. Had he done the right thing? Or
was he just running away from commitment? He was in a bind. He couldn't
stay in a submissive relationship with Jacky, but the more powerful
that he felt as an individual, the lonelier he became and the more he
wanted her--or someone.
Pie. At least there was pie. Somewhere. He drove down the road until he
came to a diner. Two state cops were drinking coffee at one end of the
counter. A truck driver and three construction workers sat at the other
end. Oliver sat between the two groups and sank further into his
feelings. Thirty-five and what did he have to show for it? Six thousand
dollars and a cat. An old Jeep.
He finished his apple pie and watched the double doors to the kitchen
swing shut behind the waitress. The swinging doors dissolved into dark
water. He saw Owl overboard, holding his head above the waves. "Find
your father," Owl said. Oliver's eyes opened wide. Owl _had_ said that
once. "Someday, you should find your father."
Oliver thought hard. He had to do something. It was good advice. He
made up his mind to try.
"More coffee?"
"Uh--yes. Please."
Oliver took a deep breath and peeled the top from a creamer. He poured
the liquid into his coffee and watched white swirls turn the black to
brown. Owl had done his best for him. He had acknowledged their
difference without really talking about it. He hadn't tried to be
everything to him. Tears came to Oliver's eyes. He stared straight
ahead and let them slide down his cheeks. Wiping them away would have
been disrespectful.
No one seemed to notice.
Oliver returned to the motel and slept twelve hours. The next day he
considered stopping in New Haven, but he decided to drive straight
through to Portland. His mother had not been in contact with his
father, Muni, since she had left Hawaii. She wouldn't know any more
than what she'd already told him. The Nakano's had owned a small hotel
in Honolulu. Muni's brother, Ken, was a teacher. Muni had been a
student at the University. That was it. His mother had split soon after
she learned that she was pregnant. According to her, Muni had wanted to
marry, but she knew it wouldn't work.
Not a lot to go on, but it would have to do.
"Welcome back, Oliver. You're home early," Arlen said.
"Don't get used to it. I'm going to Hawaii." Arlen's jaw dropped.
"Don't worry," Oliver said. "I'm not going to stick you with Verdi.
Thanks very much for taking care of him, by the way. We just had a
chat. He says you're a nice man and you have some Laphroiag left."
"You can't tell a cat anything, these days," Arlen said. "It's not
quite cocktail hour, but I suppose it's close enough."
"Just a drop," Oliver said.
They sat near the birds. "Perseverance furthers," Oliver toasted.
"That's from the _I Ching._"
"Ninety percent of success is showing up," Arlen answered. "Woody
Allen."
"It's true, isn't it," Oliver said. "You just have to keep at it. What
was your father like, Arlen, when you were a kid?"
"Very much as he is now," Arlen said. "Early to bed, early to rise. We
had a dairy farm near Unity. We didn't have a lot of money, but we
always had clothes and whatever we needed for school. If we wanted
extra, we had to work for it. He still has the farm, but he sold the
herd after Mother died." Arlen's eyebrows raised with the memory, then
settled. "He's hung on, doing a little of this and a little of that,
getting by with social security. He sold a small piece of land three
years ago. He keeps saying he's going to sell out and move to Florida,
but he doesn't get around to it."
"Good for him. I never met my father. That's why I'm going to
Hawaii--to see if I can find him."
"Oh," Arlen said. "Well. It's a long flight. But there's no place like
Hawaii. I usually stay over on the west coast, break the trip in two.
The jet lag isn't so bad that way, and the flight isn't such an ordeal."
"Not a bad idea."
"San Francisco is wonderful, of course. Seattle and Portland are nice.
There's a marvelous Japanese garden in Portland, high on a hill
overlooking the city."
"I'll think about that. I'm not sure when I'll be going or how long
I'll be. Depends on when I can get a cheap ticket and what happens."
"I would stay at least a week or two. You might as well make a trip of
it while you're at it."
"I'll call one of those professional cat-sitter people--unless you know
someone who might want to live here for a couple of weeks?"
Arlen rubbed one of his cowboy boots. "Porter might like that. His
situation at the moment is--tenuous."
"Porter?"
"I'll ask him if you like," Arlen said. "He might be up for some peace
and quiet. Porter is trustworthy."
"Any friend of yours . . ."
"I'll ask," Arlen said.
"O.K., thanks." Oliver sipped whiskey. "My stepfather was a good guy.
He drowned--nearly twenty years ago."
"I'm sorry. Fathers can be bad, too, you know."
"I guess I'll just have to find out. Bound to learn something, either
way."
"A drop more?"
"Sure."
"Fathers, then," Arlen toasted. "I remember when I told mine that I was
gay. I was pretty nervous."
"What happened?"
"He rubbed his chin with both hands in a way he had when he was
thinking. He said: 'They say people are wired that way or they choose
that way. I think you're wired that way.'
"'I am,' I said. 'But I choose it, too.' I didn't want him thinking I
was sorry for myself. My father pointed across the valley.
"'Louis, over there--he's got six boys been chasing everything in
skirts since they were big enough to sit on a tractor. I wouldn't trade
you for two of them.'
"'Two!' I said. 'Three, anyway.'
"'He'd be getting a deal at three,' my father said." Arlen smiled and
lifted his glass in the general direction of his father.
"All right!" Oliver said.
That week, Oliver bought a round trip ticket to Portland, Oregon and a
seven day Hawaiian vacation package that left from Portland. Porter
would be glad to stay in the apartment and cat-sit, Arlen informed him.
The three met for lunch in the Old Port. Porter was round and jovial,
balding with a small spade shaped beard and one gold earring. He was a
baker. His fists bunched like hard rolls when he wasn't eating or
telling jokes. Oliver was well satisfied with him.
Oliver took to walking on Crescent Beach early in the morning. It was
cold, foggy sometimes, but always refreshing. He walked the upper path
that led through woods and across a field to a rocky shoreline. From
there, the path turned eastward, following the shore to the beach and
to the main parking lot, closed at that time of year. One morning he
noticed an unusual arrangement of sticks and rocks near the beginning
of the beach. The sticks were jammed into the sand at odd angles. Small
rocks were piled to suggest barricades. It was like a kid's fort but
more sophisticated.
The next morning, the fort had become a small town with a watchtower at
its center. Two days later, there was only a low wall protecting a
woven matting of driftwood sticks. Oliver imagined an art student
practicing, seeing what things looked like as he or she made them.
On Sunday, Oliver had breakfast at six. The park was empty when he
arrived. The leaves were damp and thick on the ground except for a few
coppery oak leaves, always the last to fall. Tough stuff, oak, Oliver
thought. He stopped to look for the latest sculpture. At first, he saw
only random driftwood. It was as though a storm at high tide had
leveled all traces of beach-goers. It was a loss. He had begun to
connect with the anonymous arrangements; he looked forward to seeing
them.
His attention was drawn to a protected spot below an eroded bank. Beach
grass hung forward over the edge of the bank. A semicircle of thin flat
stones stood upright in the sand. Oliver approached. They stood like
Easter Island miniatures, thin sides facing the ocean. Oliver's
imagination shrunk and stood on the stand looking up at them. Just
then, the sun rose. Golden light swept over the ocean, up the beach,
caught in the overhanging bank, and leaped on across the continent. The
stone people were the first to see it.
"Oliver?"
He jumped. Someone had come along the path. Francesca! "Oh, hi!" he
said. "You scared me. Look at this." He motioned her over and pointed.
"The Early People--they've been waiting for the sun."
"So have I," Francesca said. She was wearing tan jeans and a long gray
sweatshirt. "Brrr."
"Somebody keeps making sculptures here," Oliver said. "I started
noticing them this week."
"Do you come here often?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"I try to walk here on Sunday mornings. Conor takes care of the girls,
and I get some time to myself."
"It's so beautiful, here. Any time of year," Oliver said. Francesca
bent over.
"Cute," she said. "Did you see the little ones?" She put a finger in
the sand behind one of the Early People. There were three very much
smaller stones imitating their elders.
"Pretty good," Oliver said. "I didn't see them."