Oliver was supposed to say, "Thank you, Sir," or some such. "It was an
easy birth," he said. "I'm going to pick them up tomorrow."
"Fine, fine," Gene said, "we can't wait to see her."
"Come on up."
"Fine. Dolly will call, tomorrow or the next day."
Oliver's mother shrieked, sobbed, and made him promise to call the
moment that they were ready for a short visit. Oliver agreed and hung
up thinking that good news was easy to pass along. He had already
written his father and explained the situation, so he needed only to
send a birth announcement. "Emma Dior Prescott--April 26th, 1994--7 lbs
6 oz. Looks a little like us," he added beneath.
He walked to the corner and dropped the card in the mailbox. On his way
back, he met Arlen and told him the news. "A major event. I'm happy for
you," Arlen said. Oliver took a nap and walked down to Deweys for more
Guinness and congratulations. He went to bed feeling as though he had
made it through a one-way turnstile. Things were different on this
side; there was a lot to do.
The next day he brought Jennifer and Emma home from Mercy Hospital.
Verdi had gotten used to Jennifer. He sniffed Emma for a moment and
then jumped to his place on the living room windowsill, settling down
as if to say: one more--what's the difference?
Emma slept and fed. Jennifer spent happy weeks keeping her close and
occasionally preparing a meal or cleaning the apartment. Oliver enjoyed
holding Emma and being fatherly, although he sensed that his presence
was not entirely necessary.
Dior and Paul came for a one night visit. His mother liked Jennifer and
gushed endlessly over Emma. He and Paul had drinks in the background
and talked about work and the Red Sox. It had been how many years since
Carleton Fisk had gone to Chicago? One of the all-time great catchers,
a son of New Hampshire--the event still felt like the death of an era,
almost the death of New England.
Dolly and Gene were more formal. They were pleased and full of
instruction. Gene inquired after Oliver's life insurance.
"No?" He gave Oliver his most forgiving and father-in-law knows best
smile, stopping just short of issuing an order. It happens to all of
us; you might as well get with the program--that was the message.
Jennifer was satisfied with both visits. Nothing really mattered but
Emma, anyway. "Isn't she a doll baby? The most precious doll baby," she
would say, answering her own question and thrusting Emma into Oliver's
arms.
"Yes, she is. Yes, you are," he would say, holding Emma carefully. She
was a good-natured baby. Her hearing was sensitive; she made faces and
sometimes cried at loud noises. She liked music. Oliver had fun
twirling her around the living room, keeping her high against his
shoulder so that she could see the walls spin by.
One Saturday late in May, he received a note from Francesca saying that
she was coming back that week and that the winter had not gone well.
Jennifer didn't ask about the letter, perhaps she hadn't noticed it.
Oliver said nothing. Later that afternoon, he took a roundabout route
shopping and walked out to Crescent Beach. The log had shifted position
during the winter, but it was close to the same spot. He left a note in
their format: "O+F" in a heart on the outside. Inside, he wrote:
"Welcome back. Much to tell you." That was all he could bring himself
to say. If Francesca came out in the morning, at least she would have a
welcome. Maybe he could get there, maybe not.
Sunday morning, he went out for bagels and a newspaper. On his way
home, at the last moment, he kept going down State Street. He crossed
the bridge, drove to Cape Elizabeth, and walked quickly to the beach.
He didn't know what to say, but he was suddenly glad and hopeful that
Francesca might be there. The force of his feeling surprised him. The
note was gone. She wasn't around. She got it anyway, he thought as he
hurried back. Probably.
That week, when he thought of Francesca, he twisted his wedding ring
around and around his finger. He worried about her and about the girls.
It occurred to him that Emma would be as large as Maria and Elena in a
few years. It didn't seem possible. The following Sunday, he got up
early, put on running shoes, and told Jennifer that he would be back
with bagels in an hour or so. He bought coffees to go and carried them
to the log in a paper bag. The water was cold that early in the season.
There was no one on the beach. No note. No sculptures or arrangements.
He and Francesca might never have been there.
A figure appeared in the distance, walking with long familiar strides.
He balanced the bag on the log and started toward her. She was wearing
a gray sweatshirt and jeans. Her hair was shorter than it had been. Her
eyes. Her beautiful mouth. They walked into an embrace that became
tighter and tighter. There was no time, no weather, no ocean. Getting
closer was all that mattered. Francesca was trembling. Oliver dug his
feet deeper into the sand and moved one hand slowly across her back.
She let out a deep breath and relaxed against him. When they stepped
apart, it was like waking up in the morning.
"Hi," he said, stupidly.
"Oliver . . ."
"You look like you've had a hard time. I brought coffee." He pointed
back to the log.
"The worst is over," she said. "I've left him. I'm still at the
house--but only for a little while. Conor's staying with a friend."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm taking the girls to the West Coast. Seattle, I think. I need a
clean break. If I stay here, Conor will keep hanging around and using
the girls to keep me down."
"Oh," Oliver said. "Seattle is supposed to be a good place. I like the
Northwest. Shit." They sat on the log, and Oliver handed her a cup.
"From Mr. Bagel," he said. "There have been changes in my life, too."
He paused. "I got married," he blurted out. "I have a daughter, five
weeks old." Francesca put her cup down on the sand and took two steps
toward the water. She stood with her fingers to her lips in a prayer
position. Oliver explained what had happened.
"How wonderful to have a baby," she said in a low voice. "Emma--how
wonderful."
"She is," Oliver apologized.
"Are you happy?"
"I guess so," he said.
She turned. "Oh, Oliver!" She opened her arms, and this time it was she
who was consoling. A part of him wanted to scream with fury, but a
deeper part became calmer as she held him. There were big problems off
in the future--impossible problems--but they were _their_ problems.
"God, I love you," he said, stepping back.
"It's a strange time to feel lucky," she said, "but I do." She looked
at his wedding ring. "I'm a bad woman now, too--along with everything
else."
"Bad to the bone," Oliver said. He reached down for her coffee and
handed it to her. "Some bones," he said. He sat on the log and shook
his head. "Damn . . ." They were quiet for a minute. "When are you
leaving?"
"In three or four weeks. I'm going to drive out, bring as much as I can
with me. I've got to get a better car--something that will pull a small
U-Haul trailer and hold up."
"The money is there if you need it," Oliver said. "Jennifer wants to
buy a house in Cumberland or North Yarmouth. I'm going to use some for
a down payment, but there will be plenty left--ten, twenty, thirty
thousand--just call Myron and he'll send you a check."
"I have enough to go on. And Conor will pay child support. I can work,
you know. Did I tell you I was a registered nurse?"
"No."
"Yeah, I went through a program after I got out of college. I only
worked for a year before I met Conor. I'm glad I did, now . . . It's
nice to know about the money. I don't know what's going to happen,
really. I just know I've got to move." She paused.
"I wish I were moving with you."
"Never leave someone for someone else," Francesca said. "You've got to
live through these things."
"That's what Mark says--my friend, Mark. Anyway, take the money if you
need it; I know you won't waste it. I wish I could help with the
moving, but I don't think I'd better."
"You _are_ helping, just by being you. Emma's going to need lots of
money, you know."
"Not for a while. Listen, how am I going to find you?"
"My folks will know where I am: Richard Boisverte in Edgewater, near
Daytona. Conor will know--because of the girls. I'll send you a card
when I have an address." She covered one of his hands with one of hers.
"You're right--it's probably not a good idea to see each other. I'm a
bad woman now; I could be a _very_ bad woman any moment."
"Damn," Oliver said again. They were quiet again.
"I've got to go," he said, standing up.
"I think I'll stay here for a bit," she said. "I want to watch you walk
away."
"Be careful," he pleaded.
"Bye, Baby," she said.
He looked at her for a long moment. She smiled for him, the smile that
entranced him the first day he saw her in Becky's. Her mouth traveled
slowly down, along, and up a complex curve, sexual at its center,
sensitive at its corners, wholly alive and in the moment. He nodded in
the Japanese manner, the way he had that day. Then he smiled
quickly--an American promise laid on top of the Japanese one--and left.
He looked back from the top of the bank at the end of the beach. She
was watching him, unmoving. He lifted one arm high and walked out of
sight. A hundred yards farther, he followed a smaller path to a
clearing overlooking the water. He dropped to the ground and lay in a
fetal position on his side with his knees drawn up and his hands
between his legs. He hurt too much to cry. He just wanted to survive.
There was only one level of feeling beneath his love for Francesca; he
had to get there. The hard cold ground was anesthetic and numbing. Half
an hour later, he brushed himself off, an animal on the earth, needing
food and warmth.
"Where have you been?" Jennifer asked.
"I ran into a friend who's moving," he said. "Sorry to be so long."
"Emma's asleep again."
"Cold out there. Bagels," Oliver said, raising the bag. "I'm hungry."
16.
Emma turned over. Emma crawled. Emma made smiling googling noises when
Oliver came home and picked her up. Jennifer had three months of
maternity leave, and she arranged to work part time for six months
after that. Oliver did not get life insurance, but he worked steadily
at the hospital. He took another smaller project to round out the week
and to try and get a few bucks ahead.
Francesca did not come into Oliver's mind while he was busy. Sometimes
he thought of her when he was extra tired. She was a reassuring
presence, even though she was far away. Sunday mornings, when he went
out for bagels and a paper, he often wished that he were driving to
Crescent Beach to bring her coffee. Instead, he would sit for a minute
in his Jeep remembering the calm that they shared. Then he would drive
home, play with Emma, and do things around the apartment.
On the Wednesday after Labor Day, Jennifer met him at the door. "I
found it, today!"
"Hi, Scrumptious, how's Ms. Perfect?" He held Emma high. "That good,
huh? Found what?"
"A house!" Jennifer said. "It's just right. I'm sure you'll like it."
"Oh, yeah? Where?"
"North Yarmouth, about two miles from Gillespie's. It's on a dirt
road--off Route 9."
"I like Gillespie's," Oliver said. They sometimes drove out there to
buy vegetables and eat donuts at outside tables that overlooked the
Royal River.
"It's a real Maine house with an ell and an attached barn, not too big,
perfect for a garage and tools and stuff. We could get a doggie for
Emma."
"How much?"
"They're asking one-twenty. The house needs painting. There isn't much
land with it--four acres."
"Four acres is a lot," Oliver said. "I mean, not in the middle of
Kansas, but . . ."
"It's about half field and half woods," Jennifer said.
"I guess we ought to go look."
"Let's go!"
"Now?'
"Of course, now. If we want it, we have to make an offer fast. It just
came on the market. My friend Martha who works in real estate called me
this morning."
"O.K., let me get an ale. You drive." Oliver put four bottles of ale,
bread, and a piece of cheddar in a day pack. "Back later, Verdi."
The house sat up nicely on a stone foundation. Lilac bushes framed the
kitchen door. "What do you think?" Jennifer asked after Oliver had
walked around the house.
"It looks dry, and it faces south," he said. "One-fifteen. That's as
long as there isn't anything major wrong--rotten sills, bad water, or
something."
"We can get my friend Steve to inspect it," Jennifer said. "He's got a
business inspecting houses. He's very good."
"Where are the owners?"
"Owner. It's a guy. I guess his wife died, and he's moving out of town."
"Too bad," Oliver said. "Looks like he had a good garden in back."
"I saw that," Jennifer said.
"The house seems all right, but you can't be sure from the outside.
Heating system could be shot. Septic system might not be any good."
"I'll make an offer contingent on the inspection," she said. "Steve
will find anything that's wrong. He does a radon check and all that.
Costs about three hundred, I think. Three-fifty, maybe."
"Worth it," Oliver said. "The driveway is pretty rough, but that's no
big deal." He looked around. "I like it. What do you think, Princess?"
Emma googled. "That does it," Oliver said.
"I knew you'd like it," Jennifer said.
"Let's go down to Gillespie's and buy a pie, sit outside, and finish
this ale." They drove slowly away from the house and out to Route 9.
Jennifer had good bank connections; she was sure she could get a
mortgage for most of the money. Oliver said he had fifteen thousand
toward a down payment. Jennifer had another ten thousand.
"Daddy will give us another fifteen. That would leave seventy-five. I
know I can get seventy-five out of the bank. We make enough to take
care of the rest, fix it up, get furniture and all."
"Maybe we could go easy on the furniture," Oliver said.
"Don't worry, I won't go crazy. We'll have a housewarming!"
"You're right about the place--plenty of room, but not too big. It
would be good to get my tools laid out."
Five weeks later, they slid a check across a glass-topped table. A
tired balding man with a red face tossed Oliver a set of keys.
"Kentucky, here I come," he said.
"We want to wish you the very best of luck," Jennifer said.
"_Weren't for bad luck, I wouldn't have no luck at all_--that's how the
song goes. But, thank you." He stood, pulled a baseball cap down on his
forehead, and touched the brim in salute. "I'll be getting along." He
walked out.
"B.B. King," Oliver said. "Didn't he sing that?"
"Never mind, Oliver; we're bringing the good luck with us."
"Congratulations," Martha said.
"Oh, thank you!" Jennifer jumped up and hugged her. "Come on, Oliver.
We've got to move."
A week later, Oliver was sleeping in a new bed, high off the floor. The
physical move doesn't take long, he thought; getting used to it takes a
while. He missed knowing that Arlen and Porter were downstairs. Porter
had made an extravagant cake for Jennifer the week after she had Emma.
Driving home from Deweys to North Yarmouth wasn't as easy as walking up
the hill to State Street. No five minute walk to Becky's for breakfast,
either. On the other hand, he had a good work space in the barn, and it
was quiet at night.
Oliver counted his blessings. Verdi had made his first patrols and was
adjusting. The leaves were changing color fast. It was beautiful,
really. Jennifer loved the new house. Emma had a room with a baby bed
and a playpen right next to their bedroom. There were plenty of
projects; that was fun. Old storm windows were leaning against the wall
in one corner of the barn. He had to clean them and figure out where
they went. There was a wooden ladder missing a couple of rungs.
Oliver swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. "I'm going
to go buy a decent ladder. I want to put those storm windows in."