"They were ordered to. The auditors did a solid job--took them weeks,
remember?"
"I do," Jennifer said. "There, Precious."
"Dan was right about the missing money. They didn't think anything of
it, said it was well within reasonable limits. Can you imagine,
$185,000? They treated it like fifty cents. What do you think happens
at General Motors? My God, millions must get screwed up every month."
He clinked glasses with Jennifer. "Here's to the miscellaneous
adjustment. I still don't know whether it was stolen. I doubt it,
somehow."
Oliver cut off a piece of cheddar. "Anyway, they took the books back to
headquarters, and today they ordered us to switch to a different
software package, one that will be standard at all their hospitals.
Centralized control. No more local programming. Bye, bye, Oliver." He
waved his glass.
"Bye, bye," Emma said. Jennifer hugged her.
"I'm about done now, really. A couple of reports, one more operating
system revision . . . I'm a little sad about it. It's surprising how
you get to _like_ people. I mean, the Fundamentalists are nutso with
all their rules, but they do a lot of good. If you're an overweight
single parent with three children, no education, and no job, they'll
find a place for you. They work hard, and they help each other. Dan is
a really nice guy. And . . ." he stopped. "I just remembered--I have a
present; it's in the Jeep. I was going to surprise you."
Oliver returned from outside carrying Suzanne's quilt. "I couldn't
resist," he said. He unfolded it and held it up. "It was on display for
a month at the hospital, one of the items for their benefit auction.
It's handmade. I kept seeing Emma sleeping under it, so I made a bid
and got it."
"Oooh," Jennifer said. "Ooooh, Precious, look what Daddy got for you!"
"Do you like it?" Oliver asked.
"It's beautiful," Jennifer said.
"That's what I thought."
"Who made it?"
"Suzanne--you know, the woman I told you about who has been so helpful.
See? Look down here." He pointed out a tangle of stems in one corner
where "SUZANNE" had been stitched in a way that made the letters look
like part of the growth. "See there?"
"Oh, I see it. How clever!"
"It's a field," Oliver said.
"How much did you bid?"
"You don't want to know."
"That much? Oh well, I suppose it's for a good cause."
"Right," Oliver said. "Emma." He scratched his head and drank more
Chianti. "Money. What was that guy's name? The bank guy?"
"Tom. I'll call Mary tomorrow and check it out."
Oliver felt his insides contract. "Guess it can't hurt," he said. He
folded the quilt.
"Da Da," Emma said.
"It's a quilt for you, Special One."
"Sweetums, next weekend . . ."
"Yes?"
"It's Daddy's birthday and Mother is having a major party, Saturday
night."
"That's nice," Oliver said dutifully. "Can't make it though."
"How come?"
"Saturday is the 31st, month-end. It's the only time I can install
those damn operating system changes--after the monthly reports and
backups and before any new transactions."
"Oh dear."
"It's my last responsibility, the last round-up."
"Well, Daddy will understand. I'll take Precious down Saturday morning
and come back Sunday afternoon. I hope the roads aren't bad."
"Don't go if they are."
"We'll see. Time for nighty-night, Precious. Da Da got you a lovely
quilt."
22.
Oliver adjusted his tie. The blue blazer that Jennifer had bought fit
well. "You look wonderful," she said, brushing non-existent dust from
his shoulder, her face happy behind him in the mirror. The oxford-cloth
shirt was soft and expansive. His gray wool slacks were tightly
creased. His shoes gleamed. Her creation. "Now don't be late."
Oliver turned and saluted. "Aye, aye . . . Jennifer, I don't know
about this."
"You'll like Tom. He's a dear."
"I'll probably stop in for a pint, after. I'll be back by seven."
"We'll eat late. You look just right."
Oliver drove into Portland and parked in the Temple Street garage. The
downtown high-rise buildings were all banks now. The highest points in
the city used to be church steeples, Oliver thought. Now, all you see
up there are bank signs.
He entered the dark and ornate lobby of Pilgrim's Atlantic. Money was
taken seriously here. He looked for the elevator. "Topside," Tom had
said.
When the elevator doors opened at the top floor, Oliver was disoriented
by the orange carpet, the color-coordinated flowery wallpaper, and the
sunny windows. A well-built maternal receptionist smiled from behind an
antique table. Where was he? He returned her smile. Two silver-haired
executives approached and passed each other in the center of the large
room. They had magnificent chests and sun-bronzed features. They nodded
antlers and continued on their separate paths to polished doors.
Oliver stared, entranced. A red-haired assistant wearing a tight skirt
and a close-fitting white blouse came from behind a corner and followed
one of the executives into his office. In front of her, she held a
silver tray. There was a glass of milk on it and a small plate of
cookies. Nursery school, he thought, and started to laugh. The power
floor is a nursery school!
"Do you have an appointment?"
"Yes, ha. Yes. Tom Alden. Three o'clock."
"You must be Mr. Prescott."
"Oliver."
"Please make yourself comfortable. Mr. Alden will be with you in just a
moment. May I get you a refreshment?"
"Ah, that's very nice of you. Let's see." Take your blouse off.
Laphroiag. A ticket to anywhere . . . "Coffee--cream, no sugar, if
you would." The woman pressed a button and spoke softly. Oliver sat on
the edge of a love-seat and considered the reading matter on a coffee
table: _Fortune, The Rolls Royce, _ and a copy of _The Economist._ The
redhead appeared at his side, bending fetchingly as she set down a cup
and saucer. "Thank you," Oliver said sincerely.
"Oliver? How good of you to come." Tom, a slimmer darker trophy elk,
smiled winningly and shook hands. "How's that coffee? It's Pilgrim's
blend; we have it roasted to our specs. Margaret, we'll be tied up for
awhile. If Jack Dillon calls, tell him I'll get to him by four. Thanks.
Come on in, Oliver." He patted Oliver warmly on the shoulder. "How's
Jennifer?"
"Fine. She sends her best, by the way."
"Good. Good." Tom opened one of the polished doors and ushered Oliver
into his office. The harbor spread out before them. A ferry was halfway
to Peaks Island.
"Nice view," Oliver said. "I love the look of those ferries."
"One of the better perks," Tom admitted. "The town is growing fast. I
hope we aren't overstressing the harbor."
"Often a subject of discussion at our house," Oliver said.
"Jennifer does good work with The Wetlands Conservancy. We do what we
can to help. Jacky Chapelle, one of ours, used to be on their board.
You know Jacky?"
Oliver felt his room to maneuver slipping away. "Yes," he said
innocently.
"One of our best, Jacky. We took her on at a lower position and made
quite a career for her. We take care of our own at Pilgrim." Tom
swiveled around to face Oliver more directly. "Why do you want to come
aboard, Oliver?"
"Pilgrim has an excellent reputation," Oliver said.
"We're the can-do bank," Tom said, smiling. "Didn't Mary tell me you
guys have added to the crew?"
"Yes," Oliver said. "Emma. She just had her first birthday." He shook
his head, letting Tom see that he appreciated the gravity and the
wonder of it.
"Mary and I have twins. The future becomes--more important," Tom said.
Daddy would love this guy.
"You want to do your part," Oliver said.
"I'll be honest with you," Tom said, leaning forward, "we're looking
for a good man for our MIS position. We need someone who can handle
challenge, take on responsibility. Technology is changing fast, Oliver;
Pilgrim must change with it. We're a large organization, but we keep a
small turning radius. That's how we stay in front of the competition.
Teamwork. You know--in the last analysis--business is all about
people." He stopped to gauge Oliver's enthusiasm. Underneath all the
nautical bullshit, Oliver sensed a fairly sharp guy, hard-working
anyway.
"I can do the work," he said. "But it would take me six months to get
up to speed."
"We've got four," Tom said.
"What are weekends for?" Oliver asked. That got him the job. That and
the Jennifer connection and some boat talk.
He walked to Deweys and was greeted loudly by George. "Olive Oil, my
God!" George waved at Oliver's blazer, slacks, and shiny shoes. "What
have you done?"
"Pilgrim Atlantic is taking me aboard," Oliver said.
"My God . . . Is the money that good?" George's eyes gleamed.
"Money's good. It gets better if you keep your mouth shut and work
sixty hours a week. I haven't actually started. I just came from the
interview, but it's a pretty sure thing. I'll buy." Sam set two pints
in front of them.
"Maybe it won't be too bad," George said. "Lot of women in there."
"All very well for you, George. I am a man with responsibilities."
"I see them going in. They look like they're going to jail. I want to
save them, carry them away on a white horse." George shook his head
sadly. "I can't afford a horse."
"There aren't any white horses left," Oliver said. "_Silver_ was it."
He raised his glass to the impossibility of it all. "How's the
painting?"
"I'm taking a break from painting, working on a sculpture. I'm doing a
golden cockroach." George's face changed when he talked about his
projects. His big smile and round eyes were upstaged by his prominent
forehead and the bones in his cheeks. His mouth went from boyish to
disciplined. "Intelligent," he said. "Indomitable. King of the
cockroaches."
"Too much. What's the King doing?"
"He's poised, feeling with his antennae, sensing his direction."
"I like it," Oliver said.
"Yeah, come over and see it."
"We talked about Friendship sloops," Oliver said, after a swallow of
Guinness. "They're big on boats at Pilgrim Atlantic."
"Boats!" George shook his head wonderingly.
"Actually, I like them," Oliver said, "I wouldn't mind trying to make
one some day. There was a dinghy that belonged to a neighbor of ours
where I grew up. It was very light on the water. Light--but curved and
strong--like a winter oak leaf that had drifted down. Herreschoff. It
was a Herreschoff dinghy. He was the Mozart of boat designers."
"Like to see that," George said.
"It was white," Oliver said. "Always seemed freshly painted. Owl, my
stepfather, liked boats. He died in one, or--off one. _Graceful things
are stronger than they look._ He told me that once. It's almost a
definition."
"Easy to see. Hard to make," George said.
Two pints later, Oliver slapped George on the back and walked to the
parking garage. It occurred to him, as he drove home, that he had
forgotten Pilgrim Atlantic for a whole hour.
In the morning, Jennifer was up early. Oliver carried Emma out to the
Volvo and secured her in the car seat. "Be careful," he said to
Jennifer. She kissed him quickly and lowered herself behind the wheel.
"Regards to all," Oliver said. "Wish your father a happy birthday for
me."
"I will." Her eyes lingered on his face. "Go back to bed," she said,
worried. "You've got a long day ahead."
"Last one at the hospital," Oliver said.
"See you."
"See you. Bye, Emma." Emma smiled for him, and Jennifer took off down
the driveway, too fast, as usual. Oliver went back to bed for an hour.
He stayed around the house, split wood, and organized his tools. He
watched a basketball game and took a nap. His plan was to start the day
over again around eight in the evening, eat breakfast at a diner, and
be at the hospital in time to make sure that everything was ready at
midnight for the operating system revision. With luck, he could be at
Suzanne's by one or one-thirty in the morning. "I know you need to be
good on Saturdays," he had said to her. "But it will be _Sunday_. I can
actually stay all night, for once." Suzanne thought for a second.
"If I'm in bed, the door will be open," she said. Oliver felt a jolt of
electricity, remembering.
He looked around the house and ruffled Woof's ears. "See you tomorrow.
So long Verdi--wherever you are." He drove away in the dark and began
collecting himself for computer work.
His schedule was perfect. The reports ran correctly. He made an extra
set of backups and had time to clean out his desk before midnight. The
operating system went in without a hitch. Shortly after one, he eased
up Suzanne's driveway.
Her lights were on.
"Hi, there," he called softly as he stepped inside. She came
immediately to the door and held open her arms. "Mmmm, you look
sleepy," Oliver said.
"I've been reading, mostly, waiting for you. I took a nap after church.
Are you very tired?"
"Not really. I took a nap, too."
"Want some tea? I have one strawberry jam left from last summer."
"Love some." He stepped back and looked at her white bathrobe. "Does
this come off?"
"Pull here," she said, offering him one end of the cotton belt.
"Later," he said. "I was just curious what was underneath."
"_I_ am underneath," she said. They had tea and toast in the kitchen.
"Your quilt is a big hit."
"Oliver, you spent too much."
"I had to have it for Emma."
"The church will find good use for the money."
Emma. The church. They fell silent. It was late and still. There were
no distractions. Suzanne turned toward Oliver. Her face was rueful and
sweet and helpless. He slapped her hard, turning her head sideways. It
was like a snake striking.
She turned her face slowly back to him. A tear welled up in each eye.
Oliver's mouth was open in shock. "Suzanne . . ." he said, horrified.
"It's all right, Baby," she said. The tears slid down her cheek. "You
can hit me again, if you want to. It would only help me remember you."
"_No, no!_ I never want to hit anybody again, let alone you. I don't
know what happened."
"It's the strain of what we're doing. I feel it, too." She was speaking
the truth for both of them. She was braver than he was. "We have to
stop," she said.
"It's true," Oliver said. "Suzanne," the words came in a rush, "you
would be such a wonderful mother. You are so special. You deserve
better." A bitter wind was tugging at his heart. "You're right--we have
to stop." He stood up. "This is hard. Better to get it over with."
"You have been so good to me," she said, standing slowly. "Maybe the
Lord's going to let me get away with one." She came to him, and their
mouths met--a long gentle meeting. As they pulled apart, Oliver
realized that they were separating as equals. He felt a ripping in his
chest. He walked quickly to the door and took his coat from the peg.
Suzanne stood in the center of the room. She was crying, but her face
was clean and shining.
"Bye, Oliver," she said. "Don't feel bad."
He couldn't speak, could only acknowledge her and try to thank her with
a helpless wave. He went out the door without putting on his coat and
drove away without looking back.
The wind in his chest began to howl. He gripped the steering wheel
tighter. Suzanne was right. She was right. He turned south on the main
road. He was right, too, to go--before they got caught, before she was
seriously hurt. She would get over him. She had a lot going for her.
The wind howled louder. It was like a dark angel blowing through him.
He had never hit a woman before. He hadn't known he was capable of it.
The dark angel was telling the truth, blowing him down the road. He had
to set Suzanne free. She was better off without him in the long run.
She sensed that, too, although they hadn't talked about it directly.
They were a perfect match physically, and he loved her, but they were
just too different. He banged the wheel with one fist and hung on as
the angel blew harder.
Enormously harder. _Jennifer._ He had to leave her, too. Free
everybody. Oh, no! _Emma. Emma._ He hit the wheel again and shook his
head, but the angel wouldn't let him alone. "Do it now," he told
himself. "Do it now. While you can." Could he?
Yes--if he kept going. The truth kept blowing through him. He couldn't
have continued, otherwise. He bounced to a stop in front of his house,
went inside, turned on all the lights, and played _La Traviata_ at top
volume. He put his toolboxes in the Jeep and covered them with a tarp.
He dumped his clothes in piles on the back seat, shoes and boots on the
floor. He filled a cartridge box with cassettes and put it in the front
seat with the George Nakashima book. He gathered bathroom stuff
together and remembered his briefcase and the file box where he kept
his credit card information, the brokerage agreement, bank statements,
and his passport. He put these in the front of the Jeep and took
another look around the house. He added a flashlight and a picture of
Emma to the pile in front. Woof and Verdi watched uneasily.
He made a mug of black tea and sat at the kitchen table with a pen and
a pad of paper.
"Jennifer, I have to leave. I just realized it. It's better to do it
now while you're away. I don't think I could if Emma were here. I can't
give you the life you want and that you should have. It will be better
for Emma, too, in the long run. I am very sorry to cause you this pain.
You have been nothing but sweet to me, and you deserve better. I don't
know where I'm going, but it won't be anywhere around here--so you
don't have to wonder if I'm going to come driving in. Take care of
Emma. I couldn't do this if I didn't know it was best for everybody.
"Here is enough to keep you going for three months. I'll send more as
soon as I can. You can have the house and everything else. I just took
my tools and clothes. I'm sorry. Oliver"
He wrote a check and left it on top of the note. He washed the mug and
left it on the dish rack. Woof made a whimpering sound. Oliver patted
her. "Take care of everybody," he said.
Verdi sniffed at the door. "You want to come with me?" Oliver asked,
suddenly hopeful. He opened the door and watched Verdi stalk around the
end of the house. "No. You're better off, here." He turned out the
lights and drove down the hill. "So long," he said.
A band of gray was lightening in the east. The wind was still blowing
through his chest but without the angriest gusts. He thought of
stopping at Becky's in Portland, but he couldn't face leaving another
familiar place. It was better to drive. Drive where? South. That's
where people go when they leave Maine. Down the turnpike. He pulled off
at the first rest stop and nodded at a trucker who was walking back to
the parking lot. Take a leak, a cup of coffee. Go.
23.
Oliver stopped for breakfast in Chelmsford and then made it south of
Worcester before his adrenaline burned down. Massive numbness lay ahead
like a fog bank. Stop, he told himself. He found a motel and asked for
a room. "Sure thing," the desk clerk said. "That'll be six hundred
bucks."
"What!"
"April Fool." The clerk fell over the counter, laughing.
"That's me," Oliver said.
He slept all afternoon, ate at a Burger King across the road, watched
the news, and fell asleep again without ever really waking up.
The next morning, he stared over a cup of coffee and tried to get
organized. It was Monday. Jennifer and Emma were home. The damage was
done. Suzanne. What a peach she was. He wrote to her, thanking her for
being wonderful. It wasn't just you, he told her. He had to leave
Jennifer, too. Suzanne would understand that intuitively. He wrote that
he didn't know where he was going, but that he wouldn't be back anytime
soon. He asked her to send his last check to Jacksonville, Florida,
care of General Delivery. He signed it "Love, Oliver." Spring was a
good time of year to go down the coast. He wanted to get far from Maine.
He called Myron and asked him to send a check for ten thousand dollars
to the same address. "No problem," Myron said with admirable restraint.
"Do it this afternoon."
"Thanks." Oliver paused. "Any word from Francesca, lately?"
"Not since those two withdrawals."
"I guess that's good," Oliver said. "I'll be in touch."
"I'll be here," Myron said. Oliver hung up, relieved. He had no plan;
he was still numb. Might as well change the oil in the Jeep, he
thought. Get something done.
While he waited for the car, he wrote to his mother, telling her that
the marriage was over. Nobody's fault, he assured her with Arlen's
words. He didn't want her to be surprised by the news if she happened
to call Jennifer. Nor did he want to stop in Connecticut and explain in
person. He needed to be alone and somewhere else. His mother would
understand, although she would be upset. She acted on _her_ feelings;
she knew what it was like, the necessity of it. She must have once
written a note to Muni that was similar to the one he had left for
Jennifer. He felt more sympathy for each of them.
He stayed another night in the motel. The desk clerk directed him to a
Chinese restaurant down the road where he ate silently and noticed that
he had no desire to drink. He was still numb. Eating and breathing and
sleeping seemed all he could manage.
By mid-afternoon the next day, Oliver was in Jacky country. The light
was different in Maryland--flatter and more open. It was full spring.
As he approached the turnoff to the town where Jacky lived, he admitted
to himself that he was not going to stop. It was comforting to think of
her. Their passionate relationship had run its course, served its
purpose, and, in the end, had left no bad feelings. She was his friend.
Be true, she had told him at the housewarming. Well, he had been. For
better or worse. Now he needed to be alone. "Be true!" he called out
the window as he passed the turn. Leaving Jacky's, he thought--it must
be time for Willy Nelson. _On the road again . . . _
Oliver drove steadily, stopping early, and taking walks at the end of
each day. His mind remained knotted in Maine. He went over and over
conversations with Jennifer. She had been consistent, always
herself--cheerfully ambitious, social, not right for him. He tried not
to think about Emma.
Three mornings later he found the Jacksonville Post Office. Myron's
check was there; Suzanne's was not. He endorsed the brokerage check for
deposit and mailed it to his bank. What to do next?
He was feeling more rested. He'd gotten into the rhythm of traveling
and didn't want to wait around for the other check. He bought a road
atlas and flipped through the maps over a cup of coffee. Key West
looked interesting. Oliver had never been all the way down the coast.
But then what? He pictured himself doing a u-turn and driving back up
the length of Florida. I think I'll hang a right, he decided. Arizona.
Tucson. That ought to be different.
He left a forwarding card at the Post Office and turned west. As he
settled into the drive to Tallahassee, he let out a sigh and relaxed.
He'd made the right decision, although he didn't know why.
The lush green South eventually gave way to the Texas plains and then
the dry highlands of New Mexico. There was something elemental and down
home about New Mexico that was similar to Maine, Oliver found. The
Indians were impressive--silent and aware, not unlike the Japanese in
that respect. New Mexico wouldn't be a bad place to live.
Tucson was a small city in a basin rimmed by desert mountains. The
University of Arizona was a modern oasis in the center. Suzanne's
letter was waiting at the Post Office--a check and a note:
Oliver,
Everything is the same except you're not here. I miss you. Don't worry
about me--I'll be O.K. in a couple of months. There will always be a
place in my heart for you. Please be careful. All my love,