His heart twisted. He was recovered enough to feel bad. That was better
than feeling nothing, he supposed. Oliver mailed the check to his bank
and considered what to do. He was far enough from Maine and had been
gone long enough so that he was beginning to realize that he didn't
live there any more. He rented a motel room and decided to eat in a
real Mexican restaurant, if he could find one. He asked around and was
told to drive out East Speedway and look on the left. Fairly far out
along a strip of gas stations, discount stores, and used car lots, he
spotted a substantial wooden building with a restaurant sign.
He parked and walked inside to another sense of time and space. The
dining room was cool and dark, purposefully shaded from the sun by old
timbers and thick walls. It was quiet. It might have been 1800 or 1600.
The awareness of time stretched further back than anything he had felt
in New England.
He ordered carne secca, beef flavored with intense dry spices that he
hadn't before tasted. He drank tequila and wine. A stern guitar
embraced the silence. At the end of the meal, Oliver had a final
tequila. To his astonishment, he began to cry. Tears ran down his
cheeks while he sat still, occasionally sipping his drink. When the
tears stopped, he dried his face with a cloth napkin and shook his
head. Much of the numbness was gone. He hurt.
For the first time since he had left Maine, Oliver wanted comfort.
"Francesca," he said. He wasn't all that far from the West Coast. He
could probably get to Seattle in four or five days. He had been heading
there all the time but hadn't known it. He collected himself and drove
back to the motel. He was in pain, but he had a plan--get to Francesca.
Three long days of driving later, he pulled into the parking lot of the
hotel in Eugene where he had stayed when he had met his father. Seattle
was only six hours away. The next morning, he bought a bright red shirt
and a bottle of Laphroiag.
As he drove north on I5, he thought about Francesca and what to say to
her. He forgot it all as soon as he found a parking place, late in the
afternoon, several blocks from her address in Ballard. The city was
attractive, bustling, built on hills overlooking Puget Sound. It had
been hot in Tucson. Here, it was cool again, although Seattle was
milder than Maine.
He locked the Jeep and walked nervously along a sidewalk. He crossed a
street and passed several houses surrounded by large hedges. Children
called. He stopped. Francesca was standing at the edge of an elevated
lawn in front of the next house. Her back was to him. A tall man stood
next to her, his arm around her shoulders. Beyond them, Maria and Elena
were kicking a soccer ball. They looked older and bigger. Francesca and
the guy were comfortable together, familiar. Oliver was shocked,
although he shouldn't have been. Francesca was a beautiful woman.
He turned slowly and walked away, trying to get out of sight and catch
his breath at the same time. He felt as though he'd been kicked in the
stomach. Francesca! He'd been counting on her in the back of his mind
and deep in his heart. He turned the Jeep around and drove toward the
water until he reached a street that was lined with art galleries and
bars. He saw a parking spot and stopped.
Oliver got out of the Jeep and walked into the nearest bar. Two pints
of local ale later, he was able to stretch his legs and try to face the
situation. There wasn't much to it, really. He had driven five thousand
miles to get away from Maine, and he'd discovered a happy Francesca.
That, at least, was good. But he was in trouble. He kept drinking.
When the bar closed, Oliver walked out and swayed on the sidewalk. He
went to the Jeep and thought about rearranging things so that he could
put the back seat down and sleep inside. Later, he thought. Deep need
pulled him towards Francesca's house. He walked back up the hill. When
he got to her house, the lights were out. He stood there, half out of
his mind. He walked into the dark carport and stopped by a set of
wooden steps that led to a side door. There was a doormat on the
concrete floor by the steps. Oliver looked at the door, kneeled, curled
on the mat, and passed out in his new red shirt.
He woke up just before dawn. The house was quiet. My God, he thought,
what am I doing? He got stiffly to his feet and left as quietly as he
could. He was still drunk, but he was able to drive out of the city and
find a truck stop where he slept in the Jeep for three more hours.
He awoke with a bad hangover and ate breakfast shakily. Shaving wasn't
worth it. He drove aimlessly south, back the way he had come. When he
reached Portland, he turned toward the coast and drove with more
purpose. The Devil's Churn wasn't that far from Portland.
24.
The hurt that Oliver had felt since Tucson was much worse. Being true
had taken him far from everyone, had torn his connections to everything
outside himself. He had always been a bit remote, distant from others,
an observer; now he was completely alone. He felt an intense pain, a
kind that he had never known, a gnawing and ripping internal pain from
which he couldn't escape. He was being torn apart. When he reached the
parking area at The Devil's Churn, he opened the Laphroiag and took two
long swallows. He put the bottle on the front seat and got out of the
Jeep.
The sun was setting behind a layer of low dark clouds. Oliver walked
slowly down the wooden steps--slippery from spray at the bottom. The
surf was high. Waves exploded up the fissure in the rocks, roaring and
seething. The violent water matched his internal state perfectly. For a
moment, he was suspended in an eerie calm between the two madnesses. He
understood for the first time why people committed suicide. The pain
hurt too much. End it.
He moved closer to the edge of the rocks. _Large Waves Come Without
Warning._ So what? Owl disappeared in the Atlantic. One in each ocean,
Oliver thought. Another wave bore in. He walked gallantly to the edge
and turned to look back. His father was standing on the steps--stoic,
concerned, non-judgmental. Come what may, he was _with_ Oliver. A loud
whistling sound came from the wave. Oliver took a deep breath, paused,
exhaled, and followed his father up the steps.
At the top, he waved goodbye again as he had the last time Muni drove
away. "So," Oliver said. He shivered and shook himself like a dog.
"So." He didn't know what was ahead, but he knew that he wasn't going
to kill himself. He was his father's son; he had the same tenacity; he
was going to go the distance. The knowledge came from a deeper place
than the pain. It gave him secure footing, a place where he could stand
and bear the hurt. His father had given him life twice. He stared out
at the sea and sky, wondering at the cold dark beauty of it all and
feeling deeply sorry for all those who had put guns to their heads or
swallowed too many pills or jumped from bridges.
It began to rain. Oliver drove back toward Portland and stopped at the
first motel. The woman on duty looked at him suspiciously. He
remembered that he hadn't shaved and that he'd slept in his clothes. It
seemed a long time ago. "I'm all right," he said. "It's been a long
trip, that's all."
When Oliver awoke the next morning, he was sober and hungry. The
intense pain was gone. Only a residual ache reminded him of the storm
that had almost gotten him. He took a long hot shower and dressed. Once
again he had no plan, but he had something much more precious--time. He
ate a large breakfast in a café and thought things over.
It was better, he decided, to stay away from Maine for a while. Let
things settle down. He could help support Emma. He could see her when
she was a little older--be at least a small part in her life. Jennifer
would be up for that. He didn't have to work in a bank, for God's sake.
He could find a part-time job or a project with some smaller group.
Maybe he could set up a wood shop and make a few things. Thanks to
Myron's investing, he still had most of his original stake. It was
there for Emma and for Francesca, if she should need it.
Oliver paged through his atlas. He liked New Mexico. Portland, Oregon
was pleasant. Seattle seemed more interesting. Honolulu? Maybe even
Japan . . . But, here he was in the Northwest. He wasn't ready to see
his father or his uncle. He needed to get settled first. He needed to
work, to make some money. Maybe even have some sort of relationship,
although he was in no rush.Sex was great, but it wasn't going to rule
him any more. Sex got the job done, got the babies made. Aside from
that, it mirrored the relationship--whatever the relationship was. He
didn't think there would be any big surprises there. He'd been around
that barn.
"Where you headed?" the waitress asked.
"Seattle," Oliver said. At least he'd have one friend there. He smiled
broadly, pleased with his decision, and left a large tip by his plate.
"What'cha doing up there?"
"Starting over."
"I done that once or twice." She swept up her tip. "You're young
enough. Good luck to you."
"Thanks," Oliver said. "Thanks a lot."
He stopped on the outskirts of Seattle and called Francesca.