They were silent.
“Paul’s right,’’ Oliver said.
“My mother packed up and brought us back to New Haven. We lived with her folks for a while.’’
“Good old New Haven,’’ Paul said.
“Now, your father . . .” She smiled at Paul.
“He liked the ladies,’’ Paul said.
“What did he do?’’ Oliver asked.
“He was a stone mason, made his own wine, raised hell. Fought with Uncle Tony until the day he died. They were tight, though—don’t let anybody else say anything against them. Bocce ball. Jesus.’’ Paul shook his head and held up his glass. “Life,’’ he said.
“Yes, life.’’ Oliver’s mother raised her glass.
“Coming at you,’’ Oliver added.
“Us,’’ Paul said.
They touched glasses and got on with a shore dinner of lobsters and clams.
Oliver said goodbye in DiMillo’s parking lot. He walked home imagining the sixteen year old Dior Del’Unzio with her mouth open as the white dove flew upward and then with her hand to her mouth as her father walked away. “No need of that shit.’’ He was glad Paul was around to take care of his mother. She was vulnerable under the big smile; Oliver often felt vaguely guilty and responsible for her.
She had done the same thing as her mother: hooked up with an exotic stranger—Muni Nakano, proper son of a proper Japanese family in Honolulu. But, his mother hadn’t stuck around for sixteen years. She’d come back from Hawaii to Connecticut, pregnant, and eventually married Owl Prescott. They raised him and Amanda, his half sister. His mother had made a go of it in New England. Only once in awhile would she show signs of her Italian childhood. “Topolino mio,’’ she used to call him when he was little and she’d been partying.
He poured a nightcap and put on a tape—Coltrane and Johnny Hartman. I’m wasting my life, he thought suddenly. What am I going to do? He knew that he needed to change, but it seemed hopeless. He looked at the walnut boards. Maybe a box . . .
He sketched a little chest with a hinged top. He erased the straight bottom lines and drew in long low arches. “That’s better.’’ The top should overhang. Should its edges be straight or rounded? Straight was more emphatic; he could always round them afterwards.
He could make each side from a single width of walnut. Dovetailed corners. A small brass hasp and lock. Why not? He could make the whole thing out of one eight foot piece and have two boards left over for something else or for extra if he screwed up the dovetails.
“Here you go,’’ he said to Verdi. He replaced the offending piece of pine with the original scratched walnut. “Nothing but the best for Team Oliver.’’ He looked at the heart. “Team O.’’ Verdi forgave him without moving. “Bedtime,’’ Oliver said.
On Monday, Oliver cut pieces for the sides, top, and bottom of the box. He bought a dovetail saw and made several cardboard templates for the joints. It was a way of thinking about them. They were tricky, had to interlock perfectly, one end male, one end female.
“What have you been up to?’’ Jennifer Lindenthwaite asked on Tuesday morning.
“Making a box,’’ Oliver said.
“Oh, that’s exciting.’’
“It’s harder than it looks—for me, anyway.’’
Jennifer wanted him to look at her and not at an imagined box. She was a solid blonde, Nordic, with broad cheeks and a big smile. “I worry about Rupert when he does things around the house. Something usually goes wrong.’’
“Ah . . .” Oliver said. “A minor flaw.’’
“Rupert is wonderful,’’ she said. “Now, the mailing list. Hi, Jacky.’’ Oliver turned and was astonished to see Francesca’s friend in the doorway. “Jacky is one of our volunteers. She does a lot of the mailing list work. I thought you could work together on this. Jacky, this is Oliver Prescott.’’
Jacky stepped forward. “Jacky Chapelle,’’ she said. She had strong cheekbones and dark blonde hair, cut short and swept back. Her eyes were hazel colored. She had a winged messenger look that lightened her direct, almost blunt, expression and her powerful shoulders.
“Uh, hi.’’ Oliver shook her hand. “Did you find any pasta sauce?’’
“Eventually.’’
“Oh,’’ Jennifer said. “You know each other.’’
“Not exactly,’’ he said. Jennifer looked at him closely. Hell is being in one room with two women, Owl said. Oliver cleared his throat. “Where’s the computer?’’
“Just down the hall.’’ Jennifer led them to another room. “Let me know if you need anything.’’
“Well,’’ Oliver said as they were left alone.
“You don’t look like a programmer,’’ Jacky said.
“Thank you.’’
She showed him a box of file cards—the mailing list. “Here is what we have. It would be nice to be able to print mailing labels, and we need to keep track of who has contributed.’’
“Sure,’’ Oliver said. “And probably some other things.’’
“Yes,’’ she said. “Some of the members are summer people. We need to know their winter addresses.’’
“What’s winter?’’
“Labor Day to the 4th of July,’’ she said.
“The Maine we know and love,’’ Oliver said. “We can keep individual winter start and end dates for each name, use defaults if we don’t have the information.’’
“Right,’’ she said. “Ideally, the list would interact with other programs someday. It has members on it, and people who aren’t members but who are interested. Also, media people. And legislators. Sometimes we send special mailings. I suppose we’ll need some kind of type code.’’
“O.K.,’’ Oliver said. They discussed requirements and agreed to meet the following Saturday morning. Jacky left, and Oliver gave a thumbs up sign to Jennifer who was talking on the phone.
Not a bad little job, he thought, driving back to Portland. He’d been itching to ask Jacky about Francesca, but something had stopped him. He wanted to know Jacky better. She was sure of herself and moved comfortably. Her breasts were invading his consciousness; he found it hard to think about Francesca at the same time.
That afternoon, he began cutting the dovetails. It took concentration; hours went by. But when he fit the first two ends together it seemed as though it had been only a few minutes. “All right!’’ he said, leaving the attached pieces on the table.
Verdi came in looking satisfied. The weather was warmer, much better for prowling. More snow was possible, but the chances were against it. Oliver put away his long johns for the winter. “Probably too early,’’ he said to Verdi, “but so what.’’
The next morning, as he waited for a seat in Becky’s, he saw a familiar figure in a booth. She was facing away from him, but he was fairly sure it was Francesca when she turned her head. She stood and walked toward him, following the man who was with her. Francesca, yes. The man was tall and blonde with a wide forehead and a long triangular face. He had an easy vain expression, as though he had a full day ahead of being admired. Francesca’s head was down. She walked carefully. As they passed, her eyes met Oliver’s and he realized that she had already recognized him, had known that he was there. Her face was resigned with traces of humor around the edges. He was struck by her calm, so much like his. They shared a moment of this calm—the briefest of moments—but it felt as though it expanded infinitely outward around them. Did she raise her eyebrows? He thought he saw her flush, but she was past him before he could be sure. He remembered the bronze heart, and warmth stirred in him. When he got home, he put it in his pocket and rubbed his thumb over the O, the plus sign, and the F.
By Saturday, he had programmed a prototype design for the mailing list. In the early days of programming, every detail had to be laid out on paper before you sat in front of a computer. It was too slow and expensive to rework code. Now, you could make changes easily. It was more efficient to show a customer a quick design that could be use
d as a starting point for discussion and improvement.
He tossed a canvas shoulder bag containing notes and diskettes into the Jeep. Verdi took up a position behind the bare forsythia bushes. “Go get ’em,’’ Oliver said. His house was on the south side of the hill overlooking the harbor. The first crocuses were popping up, several days ahead of the ones at the Conservancy. He was early; no one was there.
Ten minutes later, Jacky drove up. She got out of a red Toyota truck and waved one hand. “I’ve got the key,’’ she said. “Did you get anything done?’’
“Yeah, a start,’’ Oliver said. He installed the software while she made a pot of coffee.
“Coffee’s on,’’ she said, carrying a cup for herself. “Mugs are in the cupboard above the sink.’’ Oliver decided against a joke about a woman’s role in the office. He walked down the hall and poured his own. He looked at his hiking boots, light colored jeans, and dark plaid shirt. It was Saturday, for God sake. Every day was Saturday for Oliver as far as clothes were concerned. What difference did it make? Jacky was wearing tan jeans and a denim jacket, open over a mahogany colored jersey. She was a big woman. His eyes were at the level of her collarbone. Her jacket would swing back easily. Stop it, he told himself.
She objected to his mailing list screens. “Cluttered,’’ she said. She was right. He explained that he had jammed everything in as a beginning, so that they could see what they were working with. She was clear about what she wanted. Forty-five minutes later, they were back outside.
“Beautiful day,’’ he said. She smiled enigmatically and turned her ignition key.
“Damn,’’ she said.
“What’s wrong?’’
“Nothing happening.’’ She turned the key several more times.
“Pop the hood,’’ Oliver said. The hood sprang open just as the words left his mouth. He felt for the second latch and leaned his head over the engine. “Try it again.’’ He could hear the solenoid clicking. “How about the lights?’’ The lights were fine, plenty of juice. “Don’t know,’’ he said. “Could be the starter. I don’t think a jump will do it.’’
Jacky called triple A. An older man went through the same procedure and then hoisted the truck behind his wrecker.
“Ride home?’’ Oliver asked.
“If you don’t mind,’’ Jacky said. “South Portland.’’
“Right in my direction,’’ Oliver said. He drove into the city and pointed out his house as they approached the bridge. “Back soon, Verdi,’’ he called out the window.
“Verdi?’’
“My cat.’’ They crossed the bridge, and Jacky directed him to a quiet street in a residential neighborhood. He stopped in her driveway intending to back out and return the way they had come.
“You look hungry,’’ she said.
“I am.’’ He was surprised.
“I have something for you. Come in.’’ She slid out and walked to the front door without waiting for an answer. He followed her into a house which was sunnier and more spacious than it appeared from the front. A long living room opened to a sun porch at the back. “I have a double lot,’’ she said, showing him the porch. Two large willow trees framed the end of the yard. “High bush blueberries,’’ she said, waving at a stand of bushes that ran along one side. “Salad garden over there. Flowers. Fun.’’
“Nice,’’ he said.
“I had a craving for rare steak last night. I could only eat half of it, though. It’s in the refrigerator.’’ She led him to the kitchen. “There’s mayo, mustard, horseradish—if you’re feeling wild. Bread’s in there.’’ She turned. “Oh, there’s ale in the bottom of the refrigerator. I’ll have a glass.’’ She left the room.
“Do you want a sandwich?’’ he called after her.
“No, thanks, I’ll just nibble,’’ she said. A door closed.
Oliver opted for horseradish, not a usual choice for him. “Not bad,’’ he said when she came back, “the horseradish.’’ Jacky took a long swallow of ale. She had taken off her jacket and washed her face.
“It’s been a good truck,’’ she said.
“Starters go,’’ Oliver said. “Toyotas are fine. Where do you work?’’
“I’m a banker,’’ she said. He sat straighter.
“Fooled you,’’ she said.
“I wouldn’t have guessed. I thought maybe you were a teacher.’’ When I saw you with Francesca, he almost added.
“Bankers are discreet,’’ she said. She looked at him directly. “Are you—discreet?’’
He considered. “Yes.’’ He was apologetic for some reason.
She approved. “You look like someone who keeps things private.’’
Well, it was true. He confirmed with a nod and took another bite of sandwich.
“Have you explored your sexuality, Oliver?’’ Whoa! His throat closed, and he sat there chewing foolishly.
“I was married,’’ he managed to get out.
“I didn’t think you were a virgin. I mean, for instance, have you ever been restrained?’’ She spoke quietly, but Oliver felt the tension ratchet up a notch.
“Restrained?’’ Jacky left the kitchen and returned with a pair of handcuffs which she placed on the table.
“Oh,’’ Oliver said. “No.’’
“It takes a lot of character and trust,’’ she said, matter of factly. “Not many can do it. Would you like to see how they feel?’’ He hesitated and felt something inside him start to slip, to accede to her. “Hold out your hands,’’ she said. Her eyes were large. He held up his arms without taking his eyes from hers. She smiled and closed the handcuffs around his wrists. “There,’’ she said. “How do they feel?’’ She watched him, still smiling.
“Not bad,’’ he said.
“You like them, don’t you?’’ He swallowed. “Come with me,’’ she said. “I’ll show you something.’’ He followed her into a large bedroom. She opened a dresser drawer and took out a long belt. Oliver held his hands near his waist feeling foolish and short of breath.
“Are you the sheriff?’’ he asked.
She laughed and came toward him. “Much better than that,’’ she said. She looped the belt through his arms and pulled him slowly across the room. “Let me know if you are not O.K. about this.’’ He heard it as a challenge. She dragged a chair over without letting go of the belt. “Put your hands over your head.’’ He raised his arms, and she stepped up on the chair. She passed one end of the belt through a heavy eye bolt that was screwed into the ceiling and which he hadn’t noticed. She buckled the belt so that his arms were held above him.
“Much better,’’ she repeated, stepping down and placing the chair back against the wall. She studied him. “You look very nice, Oliver. Just a moment.’’ She went out to the kitchen and came back with their ale. She drank some of hers and said, “Let me know if you are thirsty.’’ He nodded. She was happier. Her color was higher. Good looking, actually, he thought.
She read his mind. “Yes—you are feeling new things now.’’ She moved a step closer. She arched her back and slowly rolled her shoulders. “Do you like my body, Oliver?’’ He reddened and swallowed. “How sweet! You blush,’’ she said. “You are my captive. I can tease you now . . .” She went to the dresser and took another swallow of ale. She tugged at the bottom of her jersey, tightening it against her breasts. She moved closer and swiveled slowly from side to side. “Mmmm,’’ she said. “You do like me!’’ Oliver’s mouth opened and he began to breathe harder. He nodded dumbly.
Jacky stepped back and looked him up and down. “Very nice,’’ she said, “but you have a lot to learn. Would you like to? Learn?’’
“Yes,’’ he said.
“Nothing leaves this room,’’ Jacky said. “I don’t even tell my girlfriends about this.’’ That was a relief, he registered in a far corner of his mind. She brought over his glass and held it to his lips. “Yes?’’ He nodded, not trusting his voice. She tipped the glass enough for him to take a small
sip of ale. “I am in control,’’ she said, looking down at him. She was close, almost touching. She smelled of honeysuckle. “You will learn to please me, to care only for my pleasure. You will suffer for me. When you are good, you will be rewarded. But you must prove yourself.’’ There was a practiced sound to her words.
To his surprise, he wanted to prove himself. He wanted to please her.
“Well?’’
“Yes,’’ he promised.
“You will serve me without question. Then, you will be happy.’’ She freed him. “Come back Friday at six o’clock. Bring a heavy wooden ruler that you have decorated. You are to buy it at an office supply store, saying that it is for your mistress. You may go. Oh, and take the rest of that steak sandwich with you.’’ She went into a bathroom and closed the door.
Oliver drove away shaking his head. What was that all about? He couldn’t deny the urge he had to surrender to her, to obey her. It pulled at him like an undertow as he crossed the bridge. He walked down to Deweys.
Mark was holding up one corner of the bar. “Hey Buddy, how’s your love life?’’ Intuitive bastard.
“What love life?’’ Oliver said and listened to Mark crow about Duke. Mark could probably explain this sexual strangeness, but it was none of his business. After a Guinness, Oliver felt more like himself, but as he walked through the Old Port he passed an office supply store, closed for the weekend, and he remembered the ruler. Decorate? Could you even buy a wooden ruler any more? It was disturbing. Too much. He put the experience in the back of his mind and resumed working on the box and the mailing list program.
On Wednesday, he entered the office store and asked if they sold wooden rulers. An elderly lady with exaggerated make–up showed him a blue box in a far corner of the store. “We sell mostly plastic ones,’’ she said. “But some prefer these. They last.’’ He bought an eighteen inch ruler with an inlaid brass edge. “For my mistress,’’ he said, “yuk, yuk.’’ The woman gave him change without replying.
He sprayed the ruler with black paint he had in the cellar. “I wouldn’t call it decorated,’’ he said to Verdi the next day. The dovetail template caught his eye. He took it down to the cellar and found a can of Rustoleum.Using the template as a stencil, he sprayed a pattern of triangles along both sides of the ruler. The reddish brown color on the black background gave it a Navajo look. If you’re going to do something, do it well, he reminded himself, pleased. That was another of Owl’s sayings; one that Oliver had made his own. Poor Owl. He had not done something well the night he disappeared from his boat. Did he have time to regret that he never won the Bermuda race? Was it a relief or just a stupid accident? Oliver imagined dark water closing over Owl. He shivered and put it out of his mind.
O+F Page 3
