O+F

by John Moncure Wetterau

  “We could have a good time,’’ Oliver said. “They’re going to roast a turkey at Deweys.’’

  “I could make some pies.’’

  “Solid. I’ll call Amanda when we get home.’’

  “I’ll go get my clothes.’’ She looked at him for confirmation.

  Oliver nodded. It was a done deal. “Do you want me to go with you?’’

  “No. It will be easier if I just go.’’

  “O.K. I’ll get some food.’’

  Later, in Shop ’N Save, Oliver marveled at how easy it was to start living with someone. He made reasonable guesses at what Jennifer might like to eat. He remembered chamomile tea. I was married once, he reminded himself. I know how to do this. A baby? That seemed unreal. Yet he had felt it, secure and growing. Probably, Jennifer shouldn’t drink too much. He bought a bottle of Merlot and a six pack of ale. He bought organic corn chips made with what he thought was the good kind of fat. She said that she wanted to make pies. Better leave that stuff to her, he thought. We can get baking dishes at The Whip and Spoon on Commercial Street. It would be nice if that programming work came through. He should follow up with Gifford Sims. Jennifer was still working. She could help with the bills.

  He made two trips up the stairs with armloads of groceries. Porter’s car was parked in front. It had been there often, lately. Oliver wondered if he had moved in. “The house is filling up, Verdi.’’ He put away the food, listening to Van Morrison and The Chieftains. His eye caught the heart that Francesca had drawn—probably not a good idea to leave it there. He peeled the tape from the wall, folded the heart carefully, and put it with the Marsh and Cooley account information in a brown manila envelope. Something told him to keep the account and Francesca to himself. If he could put Francesca in a separate place, keep her from Jennifer, he wouldn’t have to choose between them. He was uneasy about this, but he didn’t know what else to do. He had a plastic filing box where he kept his income tax information returns. He slid the envelope into the folder for the oldest year, closed the box, and put it in a corner of the closet.

  “I’m home, Handsome!’’ Oliver trotted downstairs and took a load of clothes from Jennifer.

  “I’ll put them on the couch for now,’’ he said. “I’ll make some shelves or something. How did it go?’’

  “Fantastic. Rupert was just leaving when I got there. I told him I was moving out and he hardly changed expression. I told him I’d have my stuff out by tomorrow night.’’

  “You don’t fool around.’’

  “Only with you.’’ Jennifer hugged him and stepped away. “More in the car,’’ she said happily. They made several trips. “This is most of it. The summer clothes are put away; I’ll get them tomorrow. And the sheets and towels I bought—I’m damned if Rupert’s going to get those.’’

  “Right,’’ Oliver said. “You should park where the Jeep is, behind the house. The next time I go out, I’ll park on the street when I come back. There’s only one space with the apartment.’’

  “Oh, I’m driving you out.’’

  “No problem. When you get to nine months, you shouldn’t be looking around for parking.’’

  “There’s my cross country skis and my bike . . .”

  “We can put those in the basement. I have a storage area down there.’’

  “It’s so cozy here.’’ Jennifer was glowing.

  “I bought some chamomile tea.’’

  “Oliver, you’re the perfect man—my perfect man—my PM, my Prime Minister.’’

  “Does that mean you want some?’’

  “It would be wonderful.’’

  Oliver made tea, thinking that Jennifer had a lot of stuff. Shelves were a necessity. There were two bare walls upstairs. He could buy pine and use the two pieces of walnut for the top shelves. Maybe not. Save the walnut for something else.

  “Oh God, the books!’’ Jennifer said.

  “Huh?’’

  “I have a lot of books.’’

  “More shelves,’’ Oliver said. “I’ll help you with the books.’’

  “We’ll need boxes.’’

  “I’ll get some tomorrow at the U-Haul place.’’

  “Rupert will be gone after nine.’’

  “I don’t care,’’ Oliver said.

  “It just makes things smoother,’’ she said.

  By late afternoon the next day, they had carried the last load into the apartment. The living room was full of boxes. They sat at the kitchen table and made plans. Jennifer was going to work in the morning, the day before Thanksgiving. Oliver was going to make shelves and then move his tools down to the basement. They could use his workbench to hold the additional kitchen stuff. Jennifer had a whole set of dishes she had bought, refusing to use the ones that had belonged to Rupert’s parents.

  Gifford Sims called and asked if Oliver could start the following Monday. Oliver told Gifford that he’d be there bright and early. Jennifer bought a bushel of apples and another baking dish. By noon on Thanksgiving Day, most of the shelves were built and filled. The bed was remade with tan sheets that were bordered with blooming roses. Verdi was calming down, and the rain had stopped. The apartment smelled of pie. Boxes of books were stacked high in one corner of the living room. Not much space left, Oliver thought, but much more homey.

  “So—Deweys later?’’ he asked.

  “The pies are ready,’’ Jennifer said. “I hope it won’t be too smoky.’’

  “We don’t have to stay long,’’ Oliver said.

  Jennifer stood. “Nap time,’’ she said. Oliver watched her hips swing easily around the corner of the steps. He thought of laying out the remaining shelves, yawned, and followed her upstairs.

  14.

  It was cold and crisp, nearly dark. A neon Guinness sign glowed through a window by the door to Deweys. Oliver shifted the box of pies to one arm and hugged Jennifer with the other. He had a momentary desire to go home and keep the news to themselves.

  “Here we go,’’ he said, opening the door. Music, warmth and the smell of ale and cigarettes poured out. Jennifer stepped in ahead of him. They stood for a moment, adjusting to the light.

  “Olive Oil!’’

  “Hey, George. Jennifer, this is George.’’

  “Hello, George. What should we do with the pies, Oliver?’’

  “I’ll ask Sam.’’

  The bartender pointed at a table pushed against one wall. “The bird is going over there—any time now.’’ Oliver put three pies on the table and stashed the empty box underneath. He ordered a pint of Guinness for himself and a half for Jennifer.

  “Prescribed for young mothers,’’ he said, handing it to her and taking her coat. George stared at Jennifer’s stomach.

  “Due in April,’’ she said.

  “Fatherhood,’’ Oliver said, setting the record straight and sipping his pint.

  “Jesus, Oliver . . . I’ve been making sculptures; you’ve been making the real thing.’’

  “It sort of makes itself,’’ Jennifer said.

  “Boy or girl?’’

  “Good question,’’ Oliver said.

  “We could find out, but I don’t really want to,’’ Jennifer said. “Mmmm.’’ She made a face. “This what–do–you–call–it takes a little getting used to.’’

  “Guinness,’’ Oliver said. “Stout.’’

  “Guinness is a kind of stout,’’ George said. “Some stouts are sweeter; some are a little lighter.’’

  “One thing about stout,’’ Oliver said, “it’s hard to drink too much of it. You get full first. Looks like most of the regulars are here. Where’s Richard?’’

  “O’Grady? New York. He goes to his sister’s every year.’’ George’s eyes went back to Jennifer. She was wearing a long sleeved turquoise jersey with a revealing scoop neck. The jersey hugged her breasts and then curved slightly out and back into dark slacks. “Athletic momma,’’ George said.

  “That’s a title,’’ Oliver said. “You just got scul
pted or something.’’

  “Painted,’’ George said.

  “What do you know about painting?’’ Mark Barnes had drifted next to them.

  “Hey, Mark,’’ Oliver said. He introduced Jennifer.

  “I’ve seen you somewhere,’’ Jennifer said to Mark.

  “Climbing out a bedroom window,’’ George said.

  “Was that it?’’ Jennifer smiled.

  “Couldn’t have been recently,’’ Mark said.

  Sandy staggered into the room, carrying a huge turkey in a roasting pan. She lowered it to the table as the regulars cheered. Sandy had worked in Deweys for years. She was popular—red–cheeked, oversized, hard–drinking, and tolerant. Another woman brought paper plates, plastic utensils, and a carving set. “Go for it,’’ Sandy said.

  “Where’s the broccoli?’’ someone called. There was a chorus of boos.

  Sandy and her helper made another trip to the kitchen, returning with garlic bread and an oversized bowl of salad. The group took turns hacking at the turkey. George and Mark argued about Giacometti.

  George maintained that Giacometti was better than Picasso. Mark would have none of it. “All that angst! He never met a color he didn’t like—cuz the color was always black. My God! I mean, for an Italian!’’

  “He was Swiss,’’ Jennifer said.

  “That explains it,’’ Mark said.

  “I love you,’’ George said.

  “I took Modern Art at Bowdoin,’’ Jennifer said. “I did a paper on Alberto Giacometti.’’

  “My God,’’ George said, “Bowdoin? They let you out of the Impressionists?’’

  “Oh, yes,’’ Jennifer said. “Giacometti was very good. Cute, too.’’

  “I knew it,’’ Mark said. “Cute.’’

  “How about some turkey?’’ Oliver suggested.

  Bringing the pies turned out to be a good idea; they disappeared quickly. Sam presented Jennifer with a pint on the house. She was treated like a queen by many of the regulars—misty–eyed about motherhood as long as they didn’t have to deal with it. Two hours later, she began to yawn. Oliver collected the empty pie dishes, and they drove home, fortified against the cold, pleased to have been accepted as a couple for the first time.

  “I like your friends,’’ Jennifer said on the way home. She rubbed her eyes. “It was smoky in there.’’

  “We should have left a little sooner, I guess,’’ Oliver said. “How’s Junior?’’

  “No complaints.’’

  “That was our coming–out party,’’ Oliver said.

  “Yep—we’re an item now,’’ Jennifer said, patting him on the knee.

  The next day, Jennifer came home with a booklet on how to get a Maine divorce. “Great news,’’ she said, “two or three months and it’s over. I called Rupert. He was feeling guilty and said he’d sign whatever. It’s pretty simple, really. We don’t own much in common.’’

  “That’s how it was with Charlotte. We had the house together, but she got some money from her parents and bought me out. Wasn’t all that much equity, anyway.’’

  “Where was your house?’’

  “Peaks Island.’’

  “Oooh,’’ Jennifer said, “that must have been nice.’’

  “It wasn’t bad . . . I like the ferries, but they get to be a pain.’’

  “I think we should stay right here until the baby is born,’’ Jennifer said.

  “Uh, yeah.’’ Doing anything else had never crossed Oliver’s mind.

  “But, afterwards, I think we should be looking for a place with more room—don’t you?’’

  Oliver rubbed his forehead. “I guess,’’ he said. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.’’

  “April 24th, the big day,’’ Jennifer said.

  “Spring,’’ Oliver said.

  “I should be able to work until then. I get three months maternity leave.’’

  “Money,’’ Oliver said. “We’ll see how the hospital gig works out. Hard to tell.’’

  “Oliver, let’s not worry about anything. Let’s just enjoy it. God, I’m so glad I’m not at Hilton Head!’’

  “We’ve got our own beaches,’’ Oliver said and was immediately sorry as he imagined Francesca walking toward him.

  “What’s the matter?’’

  “Nothing,’’ he said.

  “It has happened fast,’’ she said sympathetically. “Let me fix you some tea.’’ It wasn’t such a bad thing to be fussed over, he thought.

  They stayed around the apartment most of the weekend. On Sunday morning, Oliver woke up before Jennifer. It was snowing lightly. He thought of getting out of bed quietly and taking coffee to Crescent Beach. Would Francesca be there? Would she miss him if he didn’t go? If he did go, how could he explain to Jennifer where he’d been? He wanted to share the new developments with Francesca, but he was afraid of hurting her. Maybe it was better to let it be for a while. Maybe Francesca wouldn’t be there. Maybe she was already on a warm beach in Costa Rica, not a snowy one in Cape Elizabeth.

  He got up, made coffee, and turned on the radio. The public station was playing a Bach cantata. Oliver repressed a feeling of disloyalty as he took the coffee upstairs. “Love the one you’re with,’’ he repeated to himself from The Rolling Stones.

  Jennifer hunched herself up on the pillows and accepted a mug with both hands. “Mmmm,’’ she said, sipping. “Have to do it.’’

  “Do what?’’

  “Call Mother.’’

  “Ah,’’ Oliver said, “me too.’’

  “She’ll be fine once she gets used to it.’’

  “You mean, used to me.’’

  “Yes, Silly. She’s already excited about the baby.’’

  “Maybe we should drive down.’’

  “Yes, but I’d better go first. Then we’ll go together—maybe at Christmas.’’

  “O.K.,’’ Oliver said.

  “Daddy won’t care; he never liked Rupert.’’

  “Good man.’’

  Oliver took a long shower, standing under hot water, hearing snatches of Jennifer’s voice as she talked on the phone. He dried himself with one of her thick white towels and received a vigorous hug when he stepped into the kitchen. “She freaked out when I explained, but the worst is over,’’ Jennifer said. “I’m going to drive down next Saturday, stay the night, get things back on track.’’ Oliver wondered what “on track’’ meant.

  “O.K.,’’ he said. “One down. My mother will be excited, actually.’’

  “It is exciting,’’ Jennifer said. “Go on, get it over with.’’ Oliver called and gave his mother the news, promising to bring Jennifer for a visit during the holidays. “There,’’ Jennifer said, “that wasn’t so bad. I want to meet your mom.’’

  “You’ll like her,’’ Oliver said. “Want to go down to Becky’s? Honeymoon fruit bowl?’’

  By Monday, they were ready for the working world. Jennifer gave him a goodbye smooch and drove to The Wetlands Conservancy. Oliver stopped for a bagel on his way to the hospital and read the paper like a proper commuter.

  Gifford Sims shook his hand and then led him farther down the hall and into another office. “Suzanne,’’ he said, “this is Oliver Prescott. He will be working with us on the computer.’’ He nodded at Oliver and left. A man known far and wide for his small talk, Oliver almost said.

  “Gifford is my uncle,’’ Suzanne said neutrally. She was the same tidy chick who had looked him over on his first visit. She wore no make–up or jewelry. Her face had a healthy glow, framed by her soft shoulder–length blonde hair. She smiled quickly, a flash of teeth, an invitation, gone as soon as he took it in. Her mouth settled to a patient hurt expression. “What is your social security number?’’

  She filled out a form. “We still do payables by hand,’’ she said.

  “So, I should give you the bill?’’

  “Yes. Just leave it on my desk if I’m not here. I’m usually here.’’ The smile again, this time
rueful and just as quickly gone. She brushed her hair back with one hand. Oliver noticed lighter streaks in her hair—from the sun, probably. Her eyes were intelligent, a deep chocolate color. “I can mail the check or hold it for you.’’

  “Holding it would be simpler.’’

  “Good,’’ she said. “I’ll introduce you to Dan.’’ She rose and moved around him deferentially. My size, he thought. He was used to looking up at women; it was relaxing to be taller for a change, if only by an inch.

  “Glad to meet you,’’ Dan said, shaking hands and grinning widely. “We’ve got plenty to do.’’ Suzanne excused herself. Oliver’s eyes lingered on her as she went out the door. “As I was saying, plenty to do.’’

  “Right,’’ Oliver said.

  “I’m in charge of billing. That’s what we use the computer for, mostly. Let me show you the computer room.’’ He took Oliver into an air–conditioned room where four women were working at terminals. The computer was at the far end of the room, next to an enclosed line printer. “We bought a receivables package years ago, but it has been modified a lot.’’

  “Sure,’’ Oliver said.

  “Gifford has asked us to change the late messages. Here’s what he wants.’’ Dan pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it. “Over 30 days, this; 60 days, this; 90 days, here.’’ He circled the numbers and underlined the messages.

  “O.K.,’’ Oliver said. “Where’s the documentation?’’

  “We don’t have much,’’ Dan said. “The original stuff is on that shelf over there.’’

  “Ah,’’ Oliver said. He pulled at one ear lobe. “What language are we talking?’’

  “RPG II.’’

  “O.K.’’ Oliver groaned inwardly. He’d have to get a book. RPG was supposedly the worst language ever devised. First time for everything. “No problem.’’ That was one thing about being a professional; he knew he could do it. “Might take a while to get started . . .”

  “Good! Good! We want it done right.’’ Dan rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. He was in his early forties, medium–sized, balding, energetic. “Let me know if you have any questions. We don’t work on Saturdays. Did Gifford tell you that?’’