"I've got a shower big enough for two," she said.
Minutes later, they were trading places under a stream of hot water,
soaping each other and rinsing off bits of grass and dirt. "Great
breasts," Oliver said, rubbing each one respectfully.
"The Lord was in a good mood," she said, pushing against him.
"Oh, oh," Oliver remembered. "What about babies?"
"I'm on the pill," she said. "Have been ever since Donny."
"Donny?"
"He's the one I ran away with."
"Oh. Good about the pill."
"I wouldn't mess you up," she said. "Or me, either. I could never have
an abortion. How about that tea?"
"Yes," Oliver said.
"You're a much better fuck than Donny," she said. Oliver was
embarrassed and pleased. "Well look at you blush! Come on,
Lover--here's a clean towel."
He dried himself and dressed. As he waited for tea, he thought about
going home. Impossible. "We're in big trouble," he said.
"I knew that the first time I saw you," she said. "If my uncle finds
out, I'm a goner. Milk and honey?"
"Sounds good."
Suzanne handed him a steaming mug. "I just don't get it," she said.
"How can anything that feels that right be wrong?"
"I don't know," Oliver said. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-seven."
"I'm thirty-six."
"Perfect," Suzanne said. Oliver sipped his tea. The room was
comfortable--clean and furnished simply.
"Leaving isn't going to get any easier," he said, a few minutes later.
Suzanne got to her feet quickly. "I know." Oliver took another swallow
of tea and put his mug down slowly. He stood. Suzanne came into his
arms, tucking her head against his shoulder. He buried his face in her
hair, breathed deeply, and squeezed her. Her hair smelled of mint.
"Don't worry," she said. "I'll do whatever you want." He squeezed her
again in response and left, not trusting himself to look back.
He couldn't go home. He drove into the city and had a Guinness at
Deweys. He called Jennifer and said that he needed strong drink after
the non-alcoholic Christmas party and that he'd be back soon with a
pizza.
Richard came in, and Oliver ordered another pint. "What's your
definition of home?" Oliver asked him.
"Home is where you're most yourself," Richard said without hesitating.
He looked comfortably around the bar.
"Ah," Oliver said. "Not necessarily where you sleep, then."
Richard raised his eyebrows. "Not necessarily. I have two homes--at the
lab and right here."
"Lucky dog," Oliver said. Richard flashed his smile. Be yourself and
you are home anywhere. Oliver drank up. "Well, I've got to be going."
"Have a good holiday, Oliver."
"You, too."
"You smell like Deweys," Jennifer said, when he walked into the
kitchen. She took the pizza from his hands.
"Good old Deweys," Oliver said. "How's Precious?"
"Sound asleep. Oooh, it's getting chilly."
"I'll get some wood," Oliver said quickly. "Come on, Woof." They had a
couple of cords stacked in the barn, cut to two foot lengths. He turned
on the light and found the maul leaning against the corner where he had
left it. He swung the maul and tossed the wood and pretended that
Suzanne wasn't sitting in her quiet living room, pretended that nothing
had happened. Woof sat attentively in the doorway. There was only the
splitting, the thunk of the maul into the chopping block, the klokking
sound of pieces thrown on the pile . . .
"Pizza's ready. My goodness, Sweetums, what a pile!" Oliver gathered up
an armful.
"Should hold us for awhile," he said. Woof bounded into the house,
wagging her tail. "You know," Oliver said, "we really ought to get a
decent wood stove. More efficient. And if we have furnace trouble, it
would be good to have something besides the fireplace."
"Maybe we could get the kind with glass doors, so we can see the fire,"
Jennifer said.
"They make good ones now," Oliver said.
"Let's go tomorrow."
"Solid," he said. Little by little, normality was returning, but he had
to work at it. Luckily, he didn't have to go to the hospital until
Monday.
19.
Saturday morning, Oliver and Jennifer bought a stove and brought it
home in the Jeep. Mark came out and helped move the stove from the Jeep
to the living room in front of the fireplace. It would go in the corner
when they put a chimney up for it, but, for now, they could use the old
chimney. A hole for the stovepipe was waiting, covered by a decorated
pie plate.
Sunday afternoon, Emma lay contentedly in her playpen near the new
stove while a fire burned and Oliver watched the Patriots lose another
one. Jennifer had driven in to The Conservancy for a couple of hours.
Woof was outside. Verdi was curled by a window. The stove had cost a
bundle, but it was worth it, Oliver thought. They charged it on one of
Jennifer's credit cards.
"Da Da."
"Yes, Emma." He lifted her and held her in the crook of his arm. She
looked up at him steadily as he walked back and forth across the living
room. Muffled snapping sounds came from the stove. He heard the wind
outside and saw bare branches moving in the trees across the lawn. The
sky was gray and darkening. "Here comes the storm, Emma," he said.
"Here it comes." He put her down in the playpen, turned off the TV, and
played _La Traviata. _
Pavarotti's voice swelled through the house. "Listen to that, Emma!" He
stroked Verdi and watched the lowering clouds.
Jennifer came home full of enthusiasm and plans. "Eric is having a
party!"
"Hot diggety."
"It will be fun! And lots of Conservancy people will be there. I really
_have_ to go. And I think it's good for Emma."
"Well, it's that time of year," Oliver said, giving in.
"We won't stay long."
"We'll stay as long as you want," he said.
They went to bed early that night. When Jennifer reached for Oliver, he
followed her lead, waited for her, and tried to stay close. He floated
away and brought himself back. She was uncomplicated sexually. Thank
goodness.
She rubbed his back. "Oooh, that was nice," she said. "You worked so
hard on the stove. You're tired. Poor Sweetums."
"Mmmm," he said, nuzzling and hiding his face on her shoulder.
"Sweetums sleep now."
The storm dumped eight inches overnight, the first real snow of the
winter. It was blustery and clearing when Oliver went outside in the
morning. The Volvo was in the barn. Jennifer was staying home until the
road was plowed. He cleared off the Jeep and crunched slowly down the
hill. As the clouds shifted, the light changed from gray to white and
back to gray. The Jeep slid around a little, not much. He had concrete
blocks in the back, three by each wheel. The heater threw out a blast
of hot air. Four wheel drive is great, he told the world. People were
brushing snow from their cars and shoveling walks. Several waved as he
passed. The first snow was always a relief.
He couldn't stop thinking about Suzanne. It would be best not to see
her. When he walked into his office, the first thing that he saw was an
envelope on his desk. It looked like the ones that his paycheck came
in. "Oliver," was written on the front. He opened it and took out a
note.
Hi. I'll understand if you don't want to see me. But if you do--I get
off at noon Friday. I can go straight home and do the shopping
Saturday. If you can't make it, next Friday would be good too. But if
you don't want to, I'll understand. (I said that already.) Missing you.
S.
P.S. Eat this note.
Oliver folded the note into a small square and buried it in his pocket.
Suzanne looked up when he put his head in her door. She was dressed
plainly in a white blouse. Her hair was pulled back. Her eyes were
soft. "Saturday's a good day for shopping," he said.
She lowered her eyes for a moment. The corners of her mouth moved down
and back, the beginning of her smile. "If you go early," she said. She
was tender and proud, so compact that Oliver wanted to sweep her into
his arms and keep her inside his shirt. He smiled helplessly and went
back to his office. Didn't mean to do that, he said to himself. But he
knew he couldn't run from her; it would be like running from himself.
This thing was going to destroy him if he didn't come to grips with it,
if he didn't understand what was going on.
It was a relief to sit at his desk. One thing about computer work, he
thought. You can't do it and do anything else at the same time.
Auditors were coming from national headquarters, and the trial balance
was off by $185,000. Dan was hoping to find the problem before they
arrived. It was a lot of money. Oliver wondered if it had been stolen.
Was there a First Fundamentalist embezzler? He concentrated until lunch
time, leaving his office only once. Suzanne drove out at noon, and he
left five minutes later. He wasn't sure he could take seeing her again
that day.
He drove into Portland and had lunch at Becky's, glad to be back. He
stared at the booth where he first saw Francesca. It occurred to him
that he hadn't checked on his brokerage account for months. He ate the
last of his homefries and slid the plate across the counter.
"Had enough?" The waitress paused.
"No, but. . ."
"We've got good pie, today. Dutch apple? Banana cream?"
"Can't help myself," he said. "Dutch apple."
"Warm that up," she said, stretching behind her for a coffee pot and
filling his cup with one motion. "You want that pie heated?"
"Sure." He added creamer to the coffee, relaxed, and looked at a large
photograph hanging on the wall behind the counter. A wave was washing
completely over the bow of a tanker. Both the ocean and the ship were
muddy shades of gray. It was a gray stormy day. There were no people in
sight--just the deck, battened down, waiting to rise through a crushing
weight of water. A simple black frame. No caption necessary, not in a
waterfront diner.
He remembered eating lunch with Maria and Elena. That was fun. Cute
kids. Walking the beach with Francesca. The memories eased his mind.
But this is now, he reminded himself. He set his mug down with a clunk
to emphasize the point. Now. He left a big tip and walked to the
brokerage office.
"Hello, Oliver."
"Myron."
"Bet you want to see your statement?"
"Only if there's anything left." Myron searched in a filing cabinet.
"Ah, here we are." He glanced over it. "Yes. Not bad." He handed it to
Oliver. The balance was quite a bit lower than the last time Oliver had
checked, although still higher than when they began. He looked at the
detail. There were two withdrawals of four thousand dollars each. He
put his finger next to them and pivoted the paper so that Myron could
read where he pointed. "Yes," Myron said. "Francesca called twice. I
had ten thousand in a money market fund, so we didn't have to sell any
shares to meet her request."
"Good," Oliver said.
"An attractive woman, Francesca," Myron said.
"You've got that right," Oliver looked at Myron. "Do you know her?"
"I do. I grew up in Brunswick. I was three years ahead of her in high
school."
"I'll be damned. How is she doing? Did she say?"
"We didn't really get into it. She sounded fine. I sent the checks to
an address in Seattle."
"Well done. Thanks, Myron."
"Marriages . . ." Myron said, raising his eyebrows. "Some work out and
some don't."
"Yeah," Oliver said. He looked at Myron's wedding ring. "I hope yours
does."
"So far, so good," Myron said.
"Nice going with the account. If she needs any more, you know what to
do."
"I'll keep some powder dry," Myron said. "See you."
Oliver stepped outside. Greenery had been wound around the lamp posts.
Holiday lights were strung overhead. The sidewalks were filled with
shoppers crowded between store windows and low snowbanks piled along
the curb. Someone had brushed the snow from the bronze lobsterman
kneeling on his pedestal outside the bank buildings.
Oliver liked The Swiss Time Shop, run by a Swiss watchmaker. He bought
a ship's clock set in a handsome maple case, a present for the house.
"He says 'Ja!' and everything," Oliver told George in Deweys. "Great
guy. He actually knows how to _do_ something."
"Nice face," George said, looking at the clock.
"So, what's new with you, George?"
"Jesus, Olive Oil, the gallery owners . . ." George groaned and held
his head with both hands. "They're all the same. They treat you like
dirt. I just came from one--he kept me waiting for twenty minutes and
then he had another appointment. This guy wouldn't know a painting from
a Christmas card. I was big in California, Olive Oil, big. Why did I
ever come back to this place?"
"How about the art school? Maybe teach a course or two?"
George looked at him in disbelief. "Theory, that's all they want. All
the _Top Bullshitters_ are there now, Olive Oil, _talking_ about art.
That's what they want." He shook his head. "Paint? It's no use. It's no
use."
"The Top Bullshitters!" Oliver bent over laughing. "You're right. It's
no use. What are you going to do?"