O+F

by John Moncure Wetterau

“That’s too bad,’’ Oliver said.

  “He’s a worker!’’ Dan said proudly. “He’s strong. He’s in a lot better shape than I am.’’

  “Is he happy there?’’

  “Yeah. We keep asking him to come and live with us, but he wants to stay there. He likes his responsibilities, takes them seriously. He comes over for a week’s vacation every year.’’ Dan smiled. “He splits all our wood when he’s here. The girls love him.’’

  “Nice family,’’ Oliver said.

  “That’s what it’s all about. Sorry to miss the party, though.’’

  “Well, some other time,’’ Oliver said, raising one hand.

  “Lucille,’’ Dan called to a nurse down the hall, walking quickly after her.

  “He does the work of two people at least,’’ Oliver said later to Suzanne.

  “Kind of a workaholic, really,’’ she said.

  “A great guy,’’ Oliver said.

  “He is.’’

  “Human,’’ Oliver said. “The other day . . . I shouldn’t tell you this.’’

  “I can keep a secret.’’

  “We went out for lunch and Dan had chicken—barbecued chicken. ‘I thought you were a vegetarian,’ I said to him.

  “‘I weaken sometimes,’ he said, chewing. ‘Do you think the Lord will forgive me?’

  “‘If He doesn’t forgive you, there’s no hope for me whatsoever,’ I said.’’

  Suzanne laughed. “Or me.’’

  “Sinners,’’ Oliver said.

  “’Fraid so,’’ she said more softly.

  “Can you make it to the housewarming?’’

  “I don’t think so.’’

  “Damn. What are you doing?’’

  “I’ve got a book,’’ she said.

  “Aha. Romance. A blonde hulk who will carry you away.’’ Oliver was looking levelly into her eyes.

  A small smile turned the corners of her mouth down. “I’m waiting for someone my size.’’ They were in her office. Oliver registered that it was very warm. He saw her shudder and give in to a wave of longing. Her lips parted and her breasts lifted. He reached for her in slow motion and stopped himself just before he touched her.

  He was shocked. “I . . .”

  “I know,’’ she said. She closed her eyes. “God, I know.’’

  “Suzanne . . .” She shook her head and smiled helplessly.

  “I’ll read my book.’’

  “We’ve got to talk sometime,’’ he said. She nodded. He took a deep breath and left.

  Oliver was trembling as he drove away. What was that all about? He and Suzanne had become more friendly as time had gone by. They often talked, and she was always sympathetic. But he hadn’t expected anything like what had just happened. His breathing was still messed up. When she had surrendered to him, he had been jolted by a rush of strength. He felt like Ghengis Khan or something.

  Suzanne was sharp. She remembered everything he said about the computer system, repeating things back to him word for word months later. She was very helpful. He depended on her support, he realized. There was something about her that got to him, a lonely bruised quality. She had eloped in high school, run away to Tennessee, and returned eighteen months later. Her family and the church took her back, but . . . She was still living in a shamed shadow.

  He decided that he needed a Guinness. He stopped at Deweys, and two pints later he was back in control. Better than that. The last of the warrior–lovers invited the entire bar to the housewarming and went home.

  17.

  Oliver didn’t know what to do about Suzanne. They worked together; he couldn’t avoid her. He didn’t want to avoid her. She was alive and vital and for him, somehow. He turned toward her like a plant toward light. That’s the problem, he thought the next morning as he drove into the hospital parking lot. I’ve been attracted to her all along. I’ve flirted with her and leaned on her. I’m a creep.

  Holding that thought firmly, he marched by Molly, waved good morning, rounded the corner, and went directly to Suzanne’s office. She wasn’t there. Her light was off. He went back to Molly and asked whether Suzanne had come in.

  “She called in sick, Honey.’’

  “Ah. Too bad.’’

  “She said she’d be in tomorrow.’’

  “What’s so funny?’’ Molly was giggling.

  “I asked her what was sick, and she said it was her hair. Her hair was sick. I wish my hair was that sick. I hope she doesn’t go and do something foolish.’’

  “I like your hair,’’ Oliver said, setting off the flashing “creep’’ sign. The phone rescued him. “I’d better get to work.’’

  “First Fundamentalist Hospital,’’ Molly said, her gorgeous drawl following him around the corner.

  At least he had another day to think things over. His marriage was going smoothly enough. Dull at times, sure. Weren’t all marriages? Jennifer and he didn’t have that much in common, as it had turned out. But they were good humored, and they shared a disposition to make the best of things. He had his responsibilities; she had hers; they avoided confrontation. He was genuinely fond of her. And they had Emma. Emma was a delight, a little like each of them, although she took after him in looks. He should have been on top of the world, compared to most people.

  So—why was he reaching for Suzanne? There was something coiled inside him, a force that he wasn’t sure he could control. Intuition told Oliver that if he ran from it or pretended it wasn’t there, he would be in even bigger trouble.

  He was at work before Suzanne arrived the next day. He watched her drive in and walk toward the front entrance. Even at that distance and under a parka, her body radiated a compact grace. Her hair was gathered and held by a red scarf that hung to the nape of her neck. She hadn’t done anything drastic. He waited a few minutes and went to her office. His heart was beating fast.

  “I’m sorry,’’ he began.

  She shook her head. “It’s my fault, Oliver. You’re married and you have a child. I lost control. I’m—not a good woman.’’

  “You’re a wonderful woman.’’

  “I’ve been praying,’’ she said. “I don’t pray like the rest of them, but God hears everyone.’’

  Oliver pulled at one ear lobe, off balance.

  “I’m asking Him to take this want out of me.’’ Suzanne’s voice trailed off. “I don’t think I can do it by myself.’’ Oliver’s cheeks grew hot. “I was going to cut my hair practically off, but I couldn’t.’’

  “I’m glad you didn’t.’’

  She looked at him, helpless again. “What are we going to do?’’

  “I don’t know,’’ Oliver said. “I have the want, too.’’

  Suzanne smiled for the first time. “If you’ve got it like I do, one of us is going to have to leave the state.’’

  “Maybe there’s some other way,’’ he said. “Tell me how much you love disco.’’

  “I hate disco,’’ she said apologetically. “I like old time country music. And jazz. Coltrane.’’

  “Oh swell,’’ Oliver said. “Have you ever been to the Cafe No, in Portland?’’ Suzanne shook her head. “Terrific place to hear live jazz.’’ He stopped, frustrated.

  “I’ll leave if you want me to,’’ she said. “I ought to be able to get a job somewhere else.’’

  “Don’t do that.’’ He didn’t know what else to say. “Don’t do that.’’

  “Maybe if we didn’t talk,’’ she said. “Only just about work.’’

  “O.K.,’’ Oliver said. “I’ll try. I’d hug you but I think something would catch fire.’’

  “Burning already,’’ she said, trying to smile. Oliver closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His feet felt like they were in cement. He dragged them up, one after the other, and left.

  He finished a small project but couldn’t bring himself to start the next one. He drove into Portland without saying goodbye to Suzanne. This wasn’t going to be easy, he thought. He went to Gritty’s
for party kegs. They brewed ale downstairs and pumped it directly from the bar. He didn’t know how many people would come to the housewarming—some would rather drink wine or the hard stuff. Five gallons of ale should be enough. He bought six, to be on the safe side.

  He had lunch in Deweys, hoping to calm down. But the more he thought about Suzanne, the more confused he got. Mark came in and Oliver asked him, “What do you do when you’ve got a strong attraction going that isn’t—appropriate?’’

  “You’re asking me?’’

  “Well,’’ Oliver said, “just an opinion.’’

  “What does she look like?’’

  “Nice looking. Nothing unusual. My size. Great body.’’ Oliver thought. “I guess what’s unusual about her is how connected she is. I mean, her body is in her face. She walks the way she feels. She’s all one piece.’’

  “It don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got that zing.’’ Mark said. “Ellington.’’

  “Hmmm,’’ Oliver said.

  “If it’s inappropriate—whatever that means—and you go ahead with it, you suffer. If you don’t go ahead with it, you suffer anyway. You’re fucked, man.’’

  “Swell,’’ Oliver said.

  “Could be worse,’’ Mark said.

  “How?’’

  “You could be a zombie executive in suburbia.’’

  “North Yarmouth is close,’’ Oliver said. “Speaking of which—are you coming to the housewarming?’’

  “Saturday, right?’’

  “Yeah—middle of the day, anytime. Bring a friend.’’

  “Friend? You think you got problems? Later, man.’’ Mark rushed off.

  Suffer? Was it the male condition? I guess women suffer, too, Oliver thought. The human condition, then? He resisted this. Why should we suffer? The “we’’ he had in mind, he realized, was mostly Suzanne. Jacky was in there somewhere, and Francesca, higher and in the distance. Jennifer wasn’t there. Jennifer and he did not suffer. She was his partner. He admired her energy, respected her, loved her, even—in a general way. Wasn’t that what marriage was all about?

  It don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got that zing.

  You’re fucked, man.

  Do something.

  He drove back to North Yarmouth. “I’m home!’’

  “Hi, Sweetums. What’s the matter? Here.’’ Jennifer thrust Emma into his arms. “Watch Emma for a while, will you? I’m glad you came home early; I’ve got some things to do at The Conservancy. Oh, good!’’ She did not wait for an answer. “Tell me later—bad day at work?’’

  “Nah,’’ Oliver said. “Never mind. How’s Precious?’’

  “Precious had a good nap. See you in a couple of hours.’’

  “Down,’’ Emma said. “Down.’’

  “O.K.,’’ Oliver said. “Down, it is.’’ He put her on her hands and knees in the center of the living room rug. He heard the Volvo start and race down the driveway. Too fast, he thought—hard on the front end. Emma made a laughing sound as she crawled around in a small circle, the way Verdi used to chase his tail. She rolled over, sat up, and looked at him with delight.

  “What a show off!’’ he said. “Very good crawl. Very good. Want to try the toddle? Try the walk?’’ He got to his knees and closed her hand in his fist. “Try walk?’’

  “Da Da,’’ she said. He pulled her slowly to her feet. Her other arm went out for balance and she sat back down.

  “Very good!’’ Emma smiled victoriously.

  “She almost stood up,’’ he told Jennifer when she got back. “I’ll bet she’s walking in a couple of months.’’

  “I hope you’re not pushing her.’’

  “The Olympic Trials are right around the corner.’’

  “Oh, Oliver. The Germans always win the baby walk.’’

  Oliver laughed. “What’s for dinner?’’

  “Pizza—pesto and chicken.’’

  “God,’’ Oliver said.

  “Oh, something good happened at The Conservancy. Jacky Chapelle dropped by—remember Jacky? She’s in town for a week. She said she’d come to the party.”

  “Ah . . .” Oliver cleared his throat. “I like Jacky.’’

  “I thought you did.’’

  “Surprised she isn’t married,’’ he said, “a bit bossy, I guess.’’ He shook his head sadly, reactivating the “creep’’ sign.

  “Well, you’re taken.’’

  “Quite so,’’ Oliver said. “Just another hungry breadwinner.’’

  “Half an hour. Oh, Precious, did Daddy make you walk?’’

  “Mama,’’ Emma said as Oliver retreated to the barn.

  It was good that Jacky was coming, Oliver decided; it meant that she had forgiven him or gotten over it or something. Maybe she had a new lover. That was a cheerful thought. He was in a good mood when Jennifer called him in for dinner.

  In the following days, Oliver stayed away from Suzanne as much as possible. The few times that they were by themselves were uncomfortable, but at least they could show the hurt they felt, even if they didn’t talk about it. Passing in the hallway was harder. Others would notice if they tried to ignore each other; they were forced to be friendly in a phony way, as though they didn’t feel the force drawing them together. Suzanne began to look strained. Oliver kept his head down and worked hard.

  The day of the party was gray and drizzly, warm for late fall. Oliver stood in the open door of the barn, holding a paper cup of ale and welcoming guests. By mid–afternoon, cars were parked around the first bend of the driveway. Thirty or forty people were milling about in the house giving Jennifer advice and admiring Emma. Jennifer was flushed and pleased. She kept the conversations lively while she brought appetizers in and out of the kitchen. Porter had come through with a quantity of scones, apricot—walnut and cranberry—orange. Oliver took special pleasure in pouring a Glenlivet for Arlen. They stood in amiable silence as rain dripped from the barn roof.

  “Couple of cows and I’d be right at home,’’ Arlen said.

  “I’ve been thinking of getting a little John Deere.’’

  “Well—they can come in handy.’’

  “I guess.’’ Oliver’s thoughts drifted to Jacky. She appeared, on cue, walking up the drive. He met her with a hug. “Jacky! You look great.’’ She held him tightly and then stepped back, knuckling the top of his head.

  “How’s married life?’’

  “Fine,’’ he said. She looked at him closely.

  “I’m thinking of trying it myself,’’ she said. “I don’t know.’’

  “Uh, Jacky, this is my buddy, Arlen.’’

  “How do you do,’’ Arlen said, extending his hand.

  “A pleasure to meet you,’’ Jacky said. “What’s that in your glass?’’ Arlen held his glass up for inspection. Jacky bent forward and sniffed. “Sarsaparilla!’’

  “Quite good on a rainy afternoon,’’ Arlen said.

  “Yumm,’’ Jacky said.

  “Oliver, sarsaparilla for the lady.’’

  “Right away. Does the lady like water with her sarsaparilla?’’

  “Half and half.’’

  “Yes,’’ Arlen said approvingly. Oliver prepared her drink and handed it to her.

  “To your new family and your beautiful old house,’’ she toasted.

  “Jacky! How nice!’’ Jennifer swept in and gave Jacky one of those lengthy woman to woman hugs, timed to the microsecond to communicate eternal devotion, unceasing turf vigilance, equality before the Great Sister, and other messages beyond Oliver’s understanding. Arlen exuded calm; the two women might have been cows rubbing shoulders. “Come and see Emma.’’ Jennifer led Jacky into the house.

  Arlen and Oliver resumed their positions in the doorway. “I don’t want to intrude, Oliver, but wasn’t she the one . . .”

  “Yup,’’ Oliver interrupted. “She was.’’

  “Interesting,’’ Arlen said. “Very attractive.’’

  “What do you think makes som
eone attractive?’’ Oliver asked.

  “Hmmm. Physical health. Energy. Integrity is most important, I think.’’

  “Integrity,’’ Oliver imagined Jacky and then Suzanne.

  “Of course, it’s different for everybody. We all have our weaknesses. Little things. Porter’s forearms, for instance—the way they swell up from his wrist. As soon as I saw them, I thought, oh, oh . . .”

  “Lucky Porter,’’ Oliver said.

  “Olive Oil!’’ George bounced in from the ell. “Hi, Arlen, how’re you doing?’’

  “Just fine, George.’’

  “Bazumas, Olive Oil! My God! I thought I’d never see her again. I asked if I could paint her. She said yes but I’d have to drive to Maryland.’’ George hung his head. “It’s a curse—art.’’

  “Maryland’s just down the way,’’ Arlen said.

  “Arlen, my car!’’ George threw one arm in the air. “I’m lucky it starts. Maryland?’’

  “Life is hard,’’ Oliver said.

  “Food,’’ Arlen said, heading for the kitchen.

  “Yes,’’ George said, following him. Oliver looked down the driveway and focused on a man walking slowly toward the house. The man smiled when he was closer.

  “You must be Oliver. Ah, yes.’’

  “I am. I remember you from somewhere.’’

  “Ba, ba, boom,’’ the man said and twirled around.

  “Bogdolf!’’

  “Eric Hallston, actually. I’m an old friend of Jennifer’s.’’

  “You look so much younger,’’ Oliver said.

  “The miracle of make-up. When I do a Bogdolf, I use a lot of gray. People like an older Bogdolf.’’

  “I’ll be damned,’’ Oliver said. “Well, come on in. What are you drinking? Mead?’’

  “Mead? Very funny. Horrible stuff. Scotch would be nice, but that ale I see would be fine.’’

  “Glenlivet, right there.’’ Oliver pointed to the table that was inside the barn. “Help yourself. Jennifer’s in the house.’’ Bogdolf Eric poured himself a stiff one.

  “I have a surprise in here,’’ he said, waving a manila envelope. “You don’t have to like it. You don’t have to accept. I’m sure Jennifer will, but you are Lord of your Keep.’’

  “Bogdolf, what are you talking about?’’