O+F

by John Moncure Wetterau

  Oliver entered her, slowly and deeply until she was pinned to the bed. She made a small gurgling noise. He withdrew and then pushed into her again. “Oliver?’’ He increased the pressure on her hair and went on fucking her silently and slowly. “Oliver?’’ He didn’t trust himself to speak. He was afraid to speak. She would regain control, somehow. “Ohh,’’ she groaned. “Sweet?’’ The question in her voice was increasing, changing to doubt. His intensity strengthened, feeding on her doubt.

  He kept an impersonal rhythm, driving her into the bed with each stroke, holding his grip on her hair. “Baby,’’ she said. “Fuck me.’’ She began to writhe beneath him, meeting him, trying to draw him on. Oliver refused to hurry. “Oliver?’’ She was pleading, now. Deeply in. Slowly out.

  Jacky began to strike him in the back. She made angry sounds. Her fists drummed on his back. I—am—in—control, he said to himself. “Damn you!’’ she exhaled. She stopped hitting him. “All right. All right.’’ She went limp.

  Oliver continued without varying. She gave up. Her hands went to his back and her body molded to his. Her breath began to whistle on each exhale as he drove into her. She came with a sudden release and a series of falling sighs. Her hands fell back on the bed.

  Oliver released his grip on her hair and cradled her cheeks in both hands. He kissed her for the first time. Holding her lips softly under his, he began to move faster. Her hands went to his shoulder blades. Her tongue touched lightly in and out of his mouth. In a minute, he was done. She stroked his back.

  “Oliver?’’

  He was off her and dressing.

  “Oliver, please . . .” She sat up, uncertain. He saw the little girl in the strong woman. He wanted to comfort her, but he didn’t trust himself not to give in. She would control him forever. It wasn’t her fault; it was just the way she was. Arlen’s words came to him.

  “It’s not your fault,’’ Oliver said. “It’s not anybody’s fault. You are wonderful, Jacky. Queen of crab cakes. The greatest fuck in the western world. But—I’ve changed. It won’t work.’’ He shook his head. “I wish it could.’’

  “Why did you come?’’ She reddened. “Well, go then!’’ She looked around and picked up a book from the table next to the bed. “Go!’’ She threw it at him. He ducked sideways and walked downstairs. She followed him, shouting “Go!’’ As he went out the front door, a glass shattered against a wall. “Get out of here!’’ The other glass smashed and he heard her begin to cry.

  The Jeep started and he was on the road again.

  8.

  Oliver drove a mile and stopped, ears buzzing from wine and the violent emotion. He saw Jacky again, sitting up on the bed, one hand across her heart, and he felt a stab of pain and longing. It wasn’t too late to turn around. They could put the pieces back together; he could serve her, and she would take care of him. Why not? What else was he going to do? He searched around in the glove compartment and found a Willy Nelson tape. Might as well have the real thing. On the road again . . . Shit. He pounded the steering wheel once and kept going.

  Philadelphia. He made it past the city and began to wear down. He didn’t need to hurry—Arlen wasn’t expecting him home for a couple of days. He turned off the highway and stopped at a motel. He put his bag on a chair and lay down for a moment. Had he done the right thing? Or was he just running away from commitment? He was in a bind. He couldn’t stay in a submissive relationship with Jacky, but the more powerful that he felt as an individual, the lonelier he became and the more he wanted her—or someone.

  Pie. At least there was pie. Somewhere. He drove down the road until he came to a diner. Two state cops were drinking coffee at one end of the counter. A truck driver and three construction workers sat at the other end. Oliver sat between the two groups and sank further into his feelings. Thirty-five and what did he have to show for it? Six thousand dollars and a cat. An old Jeep.

  He finished his apple pie and watched the double doors to the kitchen swing shut behind the waitress. The swinging doors dissolved into dark water. He saw Owl overboard, holding his head above the waves. “Find your father,’’ Owl said. Oliver’s eyes opened wide. Owl had said that once. “Someday, you should find your father.’’

  Oliver thought hard. He had to do something. It was good advice. He made up his mind to try.

  “More coffee?’’

  “Uh—yes. Please.’’

  Oliver took a deep breath and peeled the top from a creamer. He poured the liquid into his coffee and watched white swirls turn the black to brown. Owl had done his best for him. He had acknowledged their difference without really talking about it. He hadn’t tried to be everything to him. Tears came to Oliver’s eyes. He stared straight ahead and let them slide down his cheeks. Wiping them away would have been disrespectful.

  No one seemed to notice.

  Oliver returned to the motel and slept twelve hours. The next day he considered stopping in New Haven, but he decided to drive straight through to Portland. His mother had not been in contact with his father, Muni, since she had left Hawaii. She wouldn’t know any more than what she’d already told him. The Nakano’s had owned a small hotel in Honolulu. Muni’s brother, Ken, was a teacher. Muni had been a student at the University. That was it. His mother had split soon after she learned that she was pregnant. According to her, Muni had wanted to marry, but she knew it wouldn’t work.

  Not a lot to go on, but it would have to do.

  “Welcome back, Oliver. You’re home early,’’ Arlen said.

  “Don’t get used to it. I’m going to Hawaii.’’ Arlen’s jaw dropped. “Don’t worry,’’ Oliver said. “I’m not going to stick you with Verdi. Thanks very much for taking care of him, by the way. We just had a chat. He says you’re a nice man and you have some Laphroiag left.’’

  “You can’t tell a cat anything, these days,’’ Arlen said. “It’s not quite cocktail hour, but I suppose it’s close enough.’’

  “Just a drop,’’ Oliver said.

  They sat near the birds. “Perseverance furthers,’’ Oliver toasted. “That’s from the I Ching.’’

  “Ninety percent of success is showing up,’’ Arlen answered. “Woody Allen.’’

  “It’s true, isn’t it,’’ Oliver said. “You just have to keep at it. What was your father like, Arlen, when you were a kid?’’

  “Very much as he is now,’’ Arlen said. “Early to bed, early to rise. We had a dairy farm near Unity. We didn’t have a lot of money, but we always had clothes and whatever we needed for school. If we wanted extra, we had to work for it. He still has the farm, but he sold the herd after Mother died.’’ Arlen’s eyebrows raised with the memory, then settled. “He’s hung on, doing a little of this and a little of that, getting by with social security. He sold a small piece of land three years ago. He keeps saying he’s going to sell out and move to Florida, but he doesn’t get around to it.’’

  “Good for him. I never met my father. That’s why I’m going to Hawaii—to see if I can find him.’’

  “Oh,’’ Arlen said. “Well. It’s a long flight. But there’s no place like Hawaii. I usually stay over on the west coast, break the trip in two. The jet lag isn’t so bad that way, and the flight isn’t such an ordeal.’’

  “Not a bad idea.’’

  “San Francisco is wonderful, of course. Seattle and Portland are nice. There’s a marvelous Japanese garden in Portland, high on a hill overlooking the city.’’

  “I’ll think about that. I’m not sure when I’ll be going or how long I’ll be. Depends on when I can get a cheap ticket and what happens.’’

  “I would stay at least a week or two. You might as well make a trip of it while you’re at it.’’

  “I’ll call one of those professional cat–sitter people—unless you know someone who might want to live here for a couple of weeks?’’

  Arlen rubbed one of his cowboy boots. “Porter might like that. His situation at the moment is—tenuous.’’

  “
Porter?’’

  “I’ll ask him if you like,’’ Arlen said. “He might be up for some peace and quiet. Porter is trustworthy.’’

  “Any friend of yours . . .”

  “I’ll ask,’’ Arlen said.

  “O.K., thanks.’’ Oliver sipped whiskey. “My stepfather was a good guy. He drowned—nearly twenty years ago.’’

  “I’m sorry. Fathers can be bad, too, you know.’’

  “I guess I’ll just have to find out. Bound to learn something, either way.’’

  “A drop more?’’

  “Sure.’’

  “Fathers, then,’’ Arlen toasted. “I remember when I told mine that I was gay. I was pretty nervous.’’

  “What happened?’’

  “He rubbed his chin with both hands in a way he had when he was thinking. He said: ‘They say people are wired that way or they choose that way. I think you’re wired that way.’

  “‘I am,’ I said. ‘But I choose it, too.’ I didn’t want him thinking I was sorry for myself. My father pointed across the valley.

  “‘Louis, over there—he’s got six boys been chasing everything in skirts since they were big enough to sit on a tractor. I wouldn’t trade you for two of them.’

  “‘Two!’ I said. ‘Three, anyway.’

  “‘He’d be getting a deal at three,’ my father said.’’ Arlen smiled and lifted his glass in the general direction of his father.

  “All right!’’ Oliver said.

  That week, Oliver bought a round trip ticket to Portland, Oregon and a seven day Hawaiian vacation package that left from Portland. Porter would be glad to stay in the apartment and cat–sit, Arlen informed him. The three met for lunch in the Old Port. Porter was round and jovial, balding with a small spade shaped beard and one gold earring. He was a baker. His fists bunched like hard rolls when he wasn’t eating or telling jokes. Oliver was well satisfied with him.

  Oliver took to walking on Crescent Beach early in the morning. It was cold, foggy sometimes, but always refreshing. He walked the upper path that led through woods and across a field to a rocky shoreline. From there, the path turned eastward, following the shore to the beach and to the main parking lot, closed at that time of year. One morning he noticed an unusual arrangement of sticks and rocks near the beginning of the beach. The sticks were jammed into the sand at odd angles. Small rocks were piled to suggest barricades. It was like a kid’s fort but more sophisticated.

  The next morning, the fort had become a small town with a watchtower at its center. Two days later, there was only a low wall protecting a woven matting of driftwood sticks. Oliver imagined an art student practicing, seeing what things looked like as he or she made them.

  On Sunday, Oliver had breakfast at six. The park was empty when he arrived. The leaves were damp and thick on the ground except for a few coppery oak leaves, always the last to fall. Tough stuff, oak, Oliver thought. He stopped to look for the latest sculpture. At first, he saw only random driftwood. It was as though a storm at high tide had leveled all traces of beach–goers. It was a loss. He had begun to connect with the anonymous arrangements; he looked forward to seeing them.

  His attention was drawn to a protected spot below an eroded bank. Beach grass hung forward over the edge of the bank. A semicircle of thin flat stones stood upright in the sand. Oliver approached. They stood like Easter Island miniatures, thin sides facing the ocean. Oliver’s imagination shrunk and stood on the stand looking up at them. Just then, the sun rose. Golden light swept over the ocean, up the beach, caught in the overhanging bank, and leaped on across the continent. The stone people were the first to see it.

  “Oliver?’’

  He jumped. Someone had come along the path. Francesca! “Oh, hi!’’ he said. “You scared me. Look at this.’’ He motioned her over and pointed. “The Early People—they’ve been waiting for the sun.’’

  “So have I,’’ Francesca said. She was wearing tan jeans and a long gray sweatshirt. “Brrr.’’

  “Somebody keeps making sculptures here,’’ Oliver said. “I started noticing them this week.’’

  “Do you come here often?’’ she asked.

  “Yeah.’’

  “I try to walk here on Sunday mornings. Conor takes care of the girls, and I get some time to myself.’’

  “It’s so beautiful, here. Any time of year,’’ Oliver said. Francesca bent over.

  “Cute,’’ she said. “Did you see the little ones?’’ She put a finger in the sand behind one of the Early People. There were three very much smaller stones imitating their elders.

  “Pretty good,’’ Oliver said. “I didn’t see them.’’

  Francesca straightened. “Let’s walk.’’

  Oliver fell into step beside her.

  “I haven’t seen you in ages,’’ she said.

  “I know. How are the girls?’’

  “Maria has an earache, but it’s getting better. They’re fine.’’ She gave him an encouraging look.

  “I made something for you—a present.’’

  “Oooo . . .”

  “I was going to mail it, but I didn’t want to embarrass you.’’

  “It’s been a long time since I was embarrassed.’’

  “It’s a valentine.’’

  “Now I’m really curious,’’ she said. What am I doing? he asked himself. Too late now. Francesca rubbed the end of her nose with her palm. “You could bring it to me next Sunday.’’

  “Yes. Oh, damn! I’m leaving on Thursday; I won’t be here.’’

  “Where are you going?’’

  “I’m going to Hawaii. I’m going to try and find my father. I’ve never met him. He’s Japanese. I am too, I guess. Half.’’

  “Caramba!’’ Francesca said.

  “So I can’t be here, Sunday. I wish . . .”

  “Mail it,’’ she said. “I could use a valentine.’’

  “O.K. Will just ‘Cape Elizabeth’ get to you?’’

  “Old Toll Road, 420,’’ she said. A lobster boat started its engine in the distance.

  “How tall are you?’’ Oliver asked.

  “Six feet, even.’’

  “I’m five, two. Funny thing is—I don’t feel short around you. I did when I first saw you in Becky’s, but now I don’t.’’ A quick smile crossed her face. She turned her head toward the water.

  “Careful,’’ she said quietly. He barely heard her. “When will you be back?’’ she asked more loudly.

  “Don’t know. Couple of weeks, I think. Maybe I’ll see you out here?’’

  “Until the snow gets too deep,’’ she said.

  “I’ll see you, then,’’ Oliver said, stopping. “I’ll leave you to your peace and quiet.’’

  “Be safe,’’ she said. Oliver waved and walked back the way they had come. The sun was clear of the horizon, promising warmth.

  “Yes!’’ he said. The Early People had an air of being off duty. They had waited for the sun, welcomed it, and were now free to enjoy it.

  9.

  Oliver changed planes in Chicago and landed in Oregon at one o’clock, Pacific time. “Funny thing,’’ he said to a cab driver. “I always thought Portland was on the ocean. It’s a river port.’’

  “The Columbia,’’ the driver said. “Where you from?’’

  “The other Portland—in Maine.’’

  “Back east. I’m from Worcester, Mass, myself. Long time ago.’’

  “You like it out here?’’

  “It’s all right. Beats shoveling snow.’’

  “It feels a lot milder,’’ Oliver said. “We could get snow anytime in Maine.’’

  “Friggin snow,’’ the driver said. “Here you go.’’

  “You want to wait a couple of minutes—off the meter? I’ll need another ride.’’

  “Where to?’’

  “There’s supposed to be a big Japanese garden up on a hill. . .”

  “I’ll wait.’’

  “Be right out.’’ Oliver checke
d in, left his bag in his room, and came out feeling light–footed. He had a map in one pocket of his bush jacket. He unfolded it in the cab. “So—where is it?’’

  “Washington Park, Kingston Avenue.’’

  “I see it. Great. Let’s go.’’ They drove into the city and climbed through a residential district. The driver stopped at the entrance to the garden.

  “You can get a bus downtown on that corner over there,’’ he said, pointing.

  “Thanks.’’ The cab rolled away down the hill. It was quiet. The neighborhood trees and hedges were lush. A layer of cloud imparted a soft gray tone to the buildings and the streets stretched out below.

  Oliver entered the park and strolled along paths that were nearly deserted. He walked up and down through trees, past tiny ponds, mossy rock faces, handmade bamboo fountains, patches of flowers, and unexpected views. The effect was both wild and intensely cultivated. The garden was an homage to nature, a carefully tended frame within which blossoms fell and birds flitted in their own time.

  A light drizzle began to fall. Oliver sat on his heels, warm enough in his jacket and his canvas hat. The live silence of the garden gradually entered him, replacing an inner deafness. When he stood, his knees were stiff, but he had become otherwise more flexible. His plans were not so important—they mattered, but not to the exclusion of what was around him.

  He caught a bus downtown and wandered through an area of mixed industry, galleries, and restaurants. He spent time in a leather shop that sold skins and hides. Oliver had never seen an elk hide. He bought a rattlesnake skin, five feet long, that had intricate brown and black diamond–shaped markings. The clerk rolled it in a tight coil and put a rubber band around it.

  Oliver ate in a Japanese restaurant. A scroll hung in an illuminated recess at one end of the room. The characters were bold, the brush strokes fresh and immediate. Stringed music twanged of duty, consequence, and the inevitable flow of time. The waitress, middle–aged and respectful, brought him dinner with a minimum of talk. Oliver ate slowly, feeling no need for conversation. He was conversing, he realized, with each move of his chopsticks, each glance around the room.