"I won't be long."
A few minutes later, he was bouncing down the road. There had been a
light frost overnight; the air was snappy; it was a good day to get
things done. He needed to write to Francesca. Her letter was in the
bottom of the toolbox in the back of the Jeep. He knew it by heart. She
was renting a house in a section of Seattle called Ballard. Maria was
in school. Elena was in pre-school. Francesca was working in a family
clinic, lonely, but glad to be starting a life on her terms. It was
signed, "Love, F."
He drove to the Yarmouth post office and waited five minutes for it to
open. He was going to send her a postcard, but he changed his mind and
bought a stamped envelope. He went over to the Calendar Island Motel
and wrote her a letter as he ate bacon and eggs and homefries. He
described the new house and reported that Emma was crawling and would
be walking soon. Work was O.K.; there were nice people at the hospital.
He was thinking mainly of Dan and Suzanne, but he didn't go into it. He
signed his own love and then added, "I miss you. I wish I could be two
places at once." He tore the page out of his notebook and folded it
into the envelope. Crap. He really was two places at once, but he
didn't want to think about it. Better to get to work.
The morning was warming when he untied the new ladder and carried it
from the roof rack. He laid it on the grass and assembled it, tying off
the lifting rope. Jennifer put her head out the front door. "Where've
you been?"
"Hi, pretty good, huh?" He pointed to the shiny aluminum ladder. "I
stopped for breakfast." He pointed to Verdi who was motionless beneath
a rose bush by the corner of the house. "I see you. Where's Princess?"
"In her room. Why don't we bring the playpen out here? Will you watch
her? I want to go to Gillespie's."
"Sure." They took the playpen apart and put it back together on the
lawn. Emma sat in the sun surrounded by rattles, balls, and small
stuffed bears. Jennifer left and Oliver set up a window-washing station
in front of the house. Should I wash them all first, or one at a time
as I put them in? he asked himself. One at a time. He cleaned the first
and noticed a small lead disk numbered, 7, nailed to the outside face
of the bottom of the sash.
"Aha," he said. "But where is window seven, Emma? Where is window
seven?" He walked along the front of the house, checking each window
for some kind of number. On the end of the windowsill of the fourth
window, he found a disk numbered, 3. That makes a lot of sense, he
thought. He continued around the end of the house. There was a two on
the next window. It _did_ make sense; the starting point was different,
that was all. There were two windows at that end of the first floor.
The numbering started at the far corner, came around the end, and
continued across the front of the house. The windows that looked into
the ell at the other end were not fitted for storms, so number seven
was the first one on the back side.
"Looking good," he said to Emma. He took the clean window around to the
back of the house and put it in place. The sash fit flush with the
outer casing. Metal clips held the window in place. He swiveled them
over the sash and tightened them down with a screwdriver. "O.K.
Thirteen to go."
He was down to nine when Jennifer returned with a carload of groceries.
"I got some cider from Gillespie's. How's Emma?"
"Having a good time," Oliver said. "A couple of bees checked her out.
No harm done. I think she likes it outside."
"That's my precious," Jennifer said, lifting her out of the playpen.
"Oh, you need changing, oh my precious!" She looked at Oliver
accusingly.
"Whoops," he said. He unloaded the car while she changed Emma. "Great
stuff, this cider," he said, knocking down a glass.
The afternoons were short in October, but Oliver had the windows in
place by four o'clock. Jennifer had cooked a ham and baked two pies.
The house smelled good. Emma was asleep. Oliver opened a bottle of
Rioja, and they ate, listening to _Prairie Home Companion_ on the
public radio station. He would rather have talked about
something--Garrison Keillor was too smug for Oliver's taste--but
Jennifer loved him. He was funny, sometimes, Oliver admitted. And the
music was good.
Later, in bed, Jennifer sighed contentedly. "I love it here," she said.
Oliver snuggled closer. "I've been thinking about two weeks from
today," she went on.
"Two weeks?" he mumbled.
"For the housewarming."
"Housewarming." He put a hand on her breast.
"Mmmm," she said. "I want to invite _everybody! _"
"O.K." Oliver moved one leg farther up on hers. He put his mouth
against her neck. "Everybody," he murmured. A small shiver went through
her. She was wifely now in bed, accommodating, easily satisfied. Oliver
did his part; she did hers. They fell asleep peacefully and properly.
Oliver did not hear her get up to attend to Emma.
In the morning they decided that "everybody" meant everybody but their
parents. The holidays were coming; they would see them soon. Besides,
the party might be loud and last into the night, not a parents' kind of
party. "The telephone man is coming tomorrow," Jennifer said. "I'll
call my friends; you call yours."
"O.K.," Oliver said. "I might stop in at Deweys."
At the hospital the following day, he invited Dan to the housewarming.
Dan had twin girls in junior high and a devout wife. Oliver didn't
expect him to accept, but he liked Dan and wanted to ask.
"Saturday after next? Can't make it," Dan said. "I'm going to see my
brother."
"Oh. Where does he live?"
"Upstate New York. He works on a farm." Dan saw Oliver's surprise and
continued. "It's a long story. We're twins. And now I have
twins--strange. Something happened at birth; my brother was born
retarded, mentally challenged." Dan rubbed the back of his neck. "We
were given up for adoption. I didn't find out about this until I was
grown up."
"No," Oliver said.
"Dale was raised in an institution and eventually got work on this farm
where he gets room and board. It took me quite a while to find him. I
go see him every three or four months."
"That's too bad," Oliver said.
"He's a worker!" Dan said proudly. "He's strong. He's in a lot better
shape than I am."
"Is he happy there?"
"Yeah. We keep asking him to come and live with us, but he wants to
stay there. He likes his responsibilities, takes them seriously. He
comes over for a week's vacation every year." Dan smiled. "He splits
all our wood when he's here. The girls love him."
"Nice family," Oliver said.
"That's what it's all about. Sorry to miss the party, though."
"Well, some other time," Oliver said, raising one hand.
"Lucille," Dan called to a nurse down the hall, walking quickly after
her.
"He does the work of two people at least," Oliver said later to Suzanne.
"Kind of a workaholic, really," she said.
"A great guy," Oliver said.
"He is."
"Human," Oliver said. "The other day . . . I shouldn't tell you this."
"I can keep a secret."
"We went out for lunch and Dan had chicken--barbecued chicken. 'I
thought you were a vegetarian,' I said to him.
"'I weaken sometimes,' he said, chewing. 'Do you think the Lord will
forgive me?'
"'If He doesn't forgive you, there's no hope for me whatsoever,' I
said."