Later, in Deweys, he tried to explain to Mark. “The tables knock me out. I mean, sure, it’s hard to go wrong with a great piece of walnut. The guy must have gotten every trophy tree in Pennsylvania. But what I love is the way he treated splits. He repaired them with these butterfly keys.’’ Oliver made a quick drawing and showed it to Mark. “The keys improve the look. They add the human touch, so that it isn’t only a beautiful piece of wood—it’s a beautiful piece made even better. He turns a flaw into a strength by acknowledging it, working with it instead of trying to hide it.’’
“Righteous,’’ Mark said. “I want one.’’
“They’re all in collections, now. The guy is famous,’’ Oliver said. “I think that his daughter is carrying on the tradition.’’
“Must be nice to make something that lasts,’’ Mark said.
“You’ve got enough money to make things,’’ Oliver said. “You’ve got an art degree, right?’’
“Yeah, I can draw. But there’s no money in it.’’
“Why can’t you do both?’’
“I try sometimes, but it’s hard to get into it. If I make a good drawing or painting, then what—I’ve got to frame it and beg some gallery owner to sell it for fifty percent of not much? Frig that. It’s not like I’m a frustrated genius.’’
“Just frustrated,’’ Oliver said.
“Look who’s talking. Maybe you ought to forget programming and set up a cabinet shop.’’
“Maybe,’’ Oliver said.
“Speaking of frustrated,’’ Mark said, “how are the ladies?’’
“Not bad,’’ Oliver said. “I’m in love.’’
“Oh, no!’’
“It’s complicated,’’ Oliver said. “Remember Francesca?’’
“Big trouble.’’
“Yeah, I guess. She’s still with her husband, but maybe not for long. He’s a jerk.’’
“A bill–paying jerk.’’
“He’s not right for her.’’
“And you are?’’ Mark set his pint on the bar.
“I am—or could be—if she wanted.’’
“So what are you going to do, put your life on hold?’’
“I’m going to work, save some money.’’
“No indoor sports?’’
“Oh, that,’’ Oliver said. “I don’t know.’’
Mark shook his head. “Well, love is one thing, but I’d keep in practice if I were you.’’
“Maybe I’ll buy a new sweater.’’
“Now you’re talking. What was his name again? George . . .”
“Nakashima.’’
“The man!’’ Mark drank. “So how did you hear about him?’’
“My father sent me the book I was telling you about.’’
“You never told me about your father.’’ Oliver’s explanation took them through another pint.
“Something else,’’ Mark said. “You’re lucky. My father was a drunk—took off when I was pretty young. He was hard on my mom.’’
“Do you ever see him?’’
“No. She heard that he died a few years ago.’’
“Too bad,’’ Oliver said.
“I don’t know what his problem was,’’ Mark said. “My mom said that he had a bad time in the Korean War. But . . .”
“How’s your mom doing?’’
“Fine. She’s got a boyfriend with a bike. They tool around Albuquerque, have a good time.’’
“Love it! Look, I’m out of here.’’
“See you,’’ Mark said.
Oliver walked home thinking that Mark seemed more vulnerable than usual. Everybody’s got a story. Everybody’s got some kind of problem. It started raining. He was wet through when he got home.
“Soaked, Verdi,’’ he said. He changed into dry clothes and considered dinner. Instant red beans and rice? The doorbell rang. He went down the stairs and opened the door to the street. Jennifer Lindenthwaite was standing there, dripping.
“Hi, Oliver.’’
“Jennifer!’’
“Aren’t you going to ask me in?’’
“Sure. Come in and dry off. I got soaked, too. Just got home.’’ He led her upstairs and into the apartment. “What’s happening?’’
“Oh, nothing,’’ she said. “Rupert threw me out . . . I’m pregnant.’’
13.
“Gaaaagh . . . Jennifer, that’s terrible! That’s great. I mean—here’s a towel.’’ Oliver whipped in and out of the bathroom and handed her a maroon towel. “Do you want to take a shower? How about a cup of tea?’’
“Tea would be lovely. I will take a shower.’’ She closed the bathroom door behind her, and Oliver rushed to fill the tea kettle. The shower started. Milk? Sugar? Honey?
“Verdi,’’ he called, “Jennifer is here for tea.’’ The words echoed. Verdi was nowhere to be seen; probably he had taken refuge upstairs. Oliver paced back and forth from the stove to the fireplace. Why had she come to him? He felt the future looming, threatening to sweep away the controlled life that he complained about but that suddenly seemed more attractive.
The shower stopped. Jennifer stepped out a few minutes later wearing his Navy blue bathrobe. She was rosy cheeked and much recovered.
“Uh, how do you like your tea?’’
“Do you have any chamomile?’’
“Umm, no. I should get some herb tea. All I have is English Breakfast.’’
“Oh, that’s fine. Just a little milk, thanks.’’ She sat next to the fireplace and looked around the apartment while Oliver fixed the tea.
“I don’t know,’’ he said, handing her a mug. “Whiskey might be a better idea.’’ Jennifer took a sip and sighed.
“That’s so good. I forgot how nice your apartment is.’’
“It’s large enough,’’ Oliver said. “Walking distance from Deweys—I like that. So, what happened? You look great.’’
“I feel great. I’m just starting to show a little—getting into the fifth month.’’ Oliver counted backwards. “What happened is that Rupert freaked out when I told him I was pregnant. He became—I don’t know—distant. I thought he was just nervous and would get used to it, but he got more and more uptight. I couldn’t take it anymore.’’ She drank her tea and sighed again.
“So today, I . . . I said to him: ‘Look, Rupert, what is the matter? We’re going to have a baby. What is wrong with you?’ I guess I should have been more diplomatic. You know—said something like: ‘Rupert, I need your affection; I’m feeling all alone here.’ But I didn’t feel diplomatic. I was mad as hell, actually.’’
Owl’s words echoed: “Anger is the outer face of fear.’’
“Scared,’’ Oliver said.
Jennifer looked at him. “Maybe so,’’ she said. “I thought we had a family. I thought we were all set to go.’’
“Well, sure,’’ Oliver said.
“‘So,’ Rupert said, ‘who’s the father?’
“‘What do you mean?’ I said.
“‘It’s not me,’ Rupert said. I was shocked. Anyway, it came out that he has a very low sperm count. He knew it all the time and never told me. I told him that you and I had a one time thing last summer, and he freaked out.
“‘I’m not paying for his kid, bla, bla, bla.’
“I practically begged: ‘Couldn’t it be like we adopted him—or her?’
“‘It’s his problem,’ he said. He called my baby a problem. How could he love me if my baby is a problem?’’
“Good question,’’ Oliver said. “Jesus, Jennifer.’’
She put down her tea and held her arms out to him. “Come feel,’’ she said. She loosened the bathrobe and guided Oliver’s hand to her belly, warm and taut.
“Amazing!’’ Oliver said.
“I’m still getting used to it,’’ she said. “I’m over the morning sickness.’’
Oliver withdrew his hand slowly and straightened. “What are you going to do?’’
“Tonight?’’
“Well, for starters . . .”
“I don’t know. I just wanted to see you, to tell you. You weren’t here when I got home. I couldn’t find a parking place anywhere close.’’ Her voice trailed off. “I’ve got a credit card; I can stay at the Holiday Inn.’’
“No way,’’ Oliver said. “You might as well stay here. Your clothes are all wet.’’ A relieved smile brightened her face.
“Thank you, Oliver.’’
“Music,’’ he said. He was hearing hearing strains from La Traviata in his mind. He wanted to play the opera, but he was afraid Jennifer would find it too heavy. He played a tape of Native American flute melodies echoing down a canyon. Soothing stuff.
“Oh, I love this music,’’ she said.
“Carlos Nakai,’’ Oliver said. “Are you hungry?’’ He was newly concerned. There were two of her. Check that—one of her and one of them, a new one. Jennifer looked pleased.
“I’ve been so upset, it’s hard to tell. I think so, actually.’’
“I have some red beans and rice mix—no canyon greens, though.’’ She looked puzzled. He explained, “I was thinking of the music—what would go with the rice and beans and the music—veggies from a canyon.’’
“You’re so imaginative, Oliver.’’
“Frozen peas, best I can do.’’ He waved the bag in the air. They ate and watched the news. Oliver slid a clean pillow case on the extra pillow and put a lamp on the other side of the bed. Seduction scenes were easier. They happened or they didn’t in a great rush. Jennifer couldn’t find a book that she wanted to read. She took a copy of Wooden Boat Magazine upstairs, and Oliver followed her awkwardly.
They lay side by side while she paged through the magazine. “I like this one.’’ She pointed out a 32 footer at anchor in Penobscot Bay. The builder and his wife were enjoying cocktails. A golden retriever was slumped near the bow, his head between his paws.
“Nice,’’ Oliver said. “I wonder if Verdi would like it. Remember Verdi, my cat? Verdi, where are you anyway?’’
“I haven’t seen him since I got here,’’ Jennifer said.
“He’s hiding. Anti–social. He’ll come out when he’s hungry.’’
“I’m not hungry now,’’ Jennifer said, putting down Wooden Boat. “That was a good dinner. Thanks for taking care of me.’’
“You’re welcome.’’ Oliver turned out his light.
“Nighty night,’’ she said and rolled to her side. The comforter went with her. She switched off her light and snuggled back against him. He pulled the comforter back over him and brushed her hip with his hand.
“I’m glad you came,’’ he said.
“Don’t be a stranger,’’ she said, settling closer. Her body was warm and self–contained. He patted her in response and said nothing. A baby? He lay there as Jennifer fell asleep. Her breathing was steady and unhurried. There was a lot to figure out. In the morning . . . He’d figure out what to do in the morning.
He awoke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Jennifer climbing the steps. “Here you are, Sleepy.’’ She put a mug and a small glass down near his head. “Milk in here. You don’t use sugar, do you? I don’t remember you taking sugar.’’
“Mmmughh. No. Thanks.’’
“I’ll be right back.’’ She returned with another cup and sat beside him, leaning back on a pillow propped against the wall.
“Good,’’ Oliver said, balancing the mug on his chest.
“Do you like it strong?’’
“Yes,’’ he said. “I mean—while you’re at it. I usually buy a dark roast.’’
“That’s what I like,’’ Jennifer said. “Organic.’’ She drank and put down her mug. “Do you think I’m awful?’’
“Huh? No. Why should I?’’
“Well, being a loose woman and all that. And then barging in without any warning.’’
“What else were you going to do?’’
“I’m not awful?’’ She smiled and turned closer.
“Of course not.’’
“You’re not mad at me?’’ Oliver shook his head. “Well—could I have a little hug?’’ She moved down and opened her arms. The bathrobe fell open. Oliver put down his mug. He rolled over, partially covering her, his arms around her. “I won’t break,’’ she said and drew him closer. “Oh, Oliver . . .” She was deep chested with high flat breasts that were beginning to swell. He fit his face over her shoulder, and she hugged him tightly. “Oh.’’ She moved her hands down his back and under his shorts, pulling him to her. Oliver’s thoughts skidded away.
“Jennifer,’’ he breathed in her ear. “Jennifer?’’
“God,’’ she said. “Do something.’’ She pushed his shorts down and reached around for his cock. As he entered her, she quivered and pressed against every part of him. “Oh! It’s been forever,’’ she said. “Oh!’’ She wanted him on her. She wanted him to come, to fill her up, to take his due. Oliver became a lord riding his finest horse, his property, his right.
“God,’’ she said an hour later when he woke up again. “Rupert never made love to me like that.’’
“Yumm,’’ Oliver said. He was in a pleasant haze. “I think . . .”
She waited. “Yes?’’
“I think we should have breakfast.’’
“Definitely.’’
“I don’t have anything—how about Becky’s?’’
Oliver was first in the bathroom. He was looking out over the street, waiting for Jennifer, when Verdi bumped his ankle. “There you are! Where have you been? Under the couch?’’ Verdi ran expectantly into the kitchen. “You shall have a mighty breakfast.’’
Verdi gobbled his food and stood by the door. Oliver let him out. The clouds were low and dark; a three day rain was settling in. Verdi slunk around the corner of the house, and Oliver went back upstairs.
“All dry,’’ Jennifer said, brushing a hand over her skirt.
“Here’s a hat, if you want it. Could rain any time. We’d better drive. Hey, you look good in a Mariner’s hat.’’
“I like hockey,’’ she said. “Not the fighting, the skating. They are such great skaters! My father used to take me to Bruins games. My car or yours?’’
“Doesn’t matter. Mine’s closer.’’
“I love Jeeps,’’ she said, getting in. As they turned down Park Street, Oliver began to be troubled. When he parked at Becky’s, he realized that he was worrying about Francesca. He imagined her face, calm and questioning. What if she were there? He took a deep breath, pulled open the front door, and walked in. No Francesca. Good—one problem put off for another time.
He chose a table at the far end of the diner and sat facing the wall. Jennifer made herself comfortable and surveyed the crowd.
“I like it here,’’ she said. “I don’t know why I don’t come here more often.’’
“Good place,’’ Oliver said. Jennifer ordered a fruit bowl with granola and yogurt. He asked for bacon and eggs, homefries with green peppers and onions, and Texas toast. “Cruise all day on this,’’ he said when the waitress delivered. He took a bite of bacon. They couldn’t put off the conversation forever. “So—my baby, huh?’’
Jennifer smiled. “Your baby. You’re the man.’’
“I’ll be damned.’’ He found himself grinning.
“You don’t look unhappy—to be a daddy.’’ It was a question.
“Well, I’m not.’’ He was getting used to the idea, feeling a bit proud.
“I like this fruit,’’ she said.
“What do you think we should do?’’ As the words came out of his mouth, Oliver knew that he had crossed a line. The line had been crossed already—she was going to have his, their, baby—but he hadn’t admitted it. We.
She looked at him for a moment and dropped her eyes. She poked around in her fruit with her spoon. “We could be happy,’’ she said quietly.
“We’ll need a crib or something,’’ Oliver said.
A tear splashed on Jennifer’
s fruit bowl. “Yes. Yes, a crib. And a baby blanket.’’
“A car seat,’’ Oliver said solemnly. Jennifer wiped her face clean.
“A car seat.’’ She giggled. “Apple pie. Do you like apple pie?’’
“You’re kidding,’’ Oliver said. “Of course.’’
“I make good apple pie,’’ she said.
“What about Rupert?’’
“Rupert is history.’’
“But you’re married.’’
“Not for long, Sweetums. He can’t wait to get rid of me and have his precious space back.’’ Oliver thought of his apartment and felt a small pang. “It’s not even his house; his parents let him have it when they moved to Hilton Head. Everything in it, practically, was theirs. I couldn’t get rid of any of it. God, I hated those chairs.’’
“My place is big enough,’’ Oliver said.
“Your place is wonderful,’’ she said. “For now, anyway. Is there a washing machine?’’
“Around the back—there’s a utility room. Damn!’’
“What’s the matter?’’
“Thanksgiving. I’m supposed to go to my sister’s.’’
Jennifer lifted her spoon triumphantly. “No more Hilton Head! That’s where Rupert and I were going. Oh, how wonderful!’’ She lowered her spoon. “The beach is nice, but Rupert’s mother—what a trip.’’
“Wait ’til you meet my sister.’’ Jennifer’s face fell. “Just kidding,’’ Oliver said. “To hell with it. Why don’t we have our own Thanksgiving?’’
“Would they be upset?’’
“Not really. I can go another time—maybe over the holidays. We don’t get along all that well, but I like her daughter, Heather. I like being ‘Uncle Ollie.’ ”
“Already, I’m a disruptive influence,’’ Jennifer said.
O+F Page 12
