“Marshmallow? Sure,’’ Conor said. “I used to have resources with him. Too conservative for me. You’ve got to step up to the plate—uh . . . Have we met? I’m Conor.’’
“Oliver.’’
“Up to the plate, Oliver.’’ He looked down, charming, sorry for Oliver who was too short to hit it out of the park.
“Ah,’’ Oliver said.
“Myron’s a good man,’’ Conor said, “known him for years.’’
“Good man,’’ the other guy echoed.
“I like him,’’ Oliver said. “I guess I’m conservative.’’
“Nothing wrong with that.’’ Conor swept his arm expansively, making room for conservatives.
“The next generation’s asleep,’’ Oliver said, pointing to Emma. “Got to pull anchor, head for port. Nice talking with you.’’
“Standing clear,’’ Conor said. Oliver felt a rush of relief that Francesca had left the guy. Marguerite caught his eye. She raised her eyebrows, amused. Complicated, Oliver thought, easier to go home.
Jennifer made an effortless series of goodbyes, impressing Oliver with her skill once again. “Farewell, Eric,’’ he said to the host.
“Merry Christmas, Oliver.’’
It was dark and much colder as they settled into the Volvo and drove home. “What a great party,’’ Jennifer said. “You know, I was talking to Mary. If you’re tired of bouncing around, I think you could get a good position at Tom’s bank. She said he was looking for someone to come in and learn the ropes, take over as MIS officer.’’
“Do I look like the officer type?’’
“If you don’t, no one does. It doesn’t have anything to do with height. You were having fun with Marguerite.’’
“Yeah, I like her. What’s her story?’’
“Poor Marguerite, she’s had—unfortunate affairs. I really don’t know what men see in her. She’s awfully skinny.’’
“Well,’’ Oliver said, “she’s sympathetic.’’
“Too sympathetic,’’ Jennifer said. “She ought to pick some nice guy and get on with it.’’ Get it on, Oliver started to say, but didn’t. “It was so nice to see all the children playing,’’ Jennifer continued. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful for Emma to have a little brother to play with?’’ She reached over and rubbed his leg.
“Get on with it, you mean?’’
“Oh Sweetums! Of course not! Not like that. But it would be nice, wouldn’t it?’’ She kept her hand on his leg.
“Yes,’’ Oliver said. “Seems like yesterday that Emma was born.’’
“It does,’’ Jennifer said enthusiastically.
Oliver took one hand from the steering wheel and rested it on top of Jennifer’s. “Merry Christmas,’’ he said. “Merry Christmas, Emma.’’ He looked over his shoulder at Emma, buckled into her car seat, serene, half asleep. “I love Emma.’’
“And me?’’
“And you,’’ he said. It was true, but why did his heart sink after he said it? There were loves and there were loves. He patted her hand and corrected a small skid.
21.
Oliver enjoyed Christmas in the new house. He talked to his mother and his sister on the phone, took pictures of Emma in front of the tree, and made another bookshelf for the living room. Jennifer eased up on the little brother plan, accepting his suggestion that she might not want to be heavily pregnant in July. “A little pregnant would be fine,’’ she said. Oliver agreed—a three or four month delay. He tried not to think of Suzanne. He decided to skip the coming Friday visit.
Tuesday, at work, he handed Dan a picture of Emma. “Pride of the Prescott’s,’’ he said.
“Chip off the old block. Does she program yet? A cutie! She’ll keep you busy.’’
“She will. How was your holiday?’’
“Fine. My brother came for a couple of nights. Lots of music, good eats.’’ Dan patted his stomach. “Have to work it off. Any luck with the trial balance?’’
“Not so far.’’
“Well, if you can’t find it, you can’t find it. Month to month, we’re doing fine; the numbers aren’t getting worse. I’ve got to find Vi.’’ He raced away at Dan speed.
Oliver took a deep breath and walked down the hall to Suzanne’s office. She looked at him, glad and appealing. “Friday . . .” he started. She blushed.
“I’ve got something to show you at the house,’’ she said.
“Good,’’ he heard himself say. He stood there, grinning, amazed at himself. “Friday,’’ he confirmed. He went back to the computer—happy but frightened. He couldn’t make excuses; he had to see her. Don’t panic, he told himself. Just stay for a couple of hours and go to Deweys for a Friday night drink with the boys. Go home smelling of Guinness and cigarettes . . . He was skidding, losing control. He plunged into the hunt for the missing money with renewed determination.
Computer programs evolve and become more complicated over time. This accounting package had been in place for eight years. Many new versions had been installed and much had been changed to suit this particular hospital. It would take too long to set up a parallel test system, and it probably wouldn’t help, anyway. The best hope for fixing programming problems is to catch them when they happen, when there are clues to help in the search. The monthly trial balance is off—why? What changed last month? A weird data situation? A new program? Modifications to an old program? But in this case, the accounts had drifted out of balance over a six–month period, nearly two years earlier. The imbalance had remained constant since then. Either the problem had been fixed, or it was still there and might or might not happen again.
Naturally, the previous programmer hadn’t bothered to keep a log or make comments in the programs. Typical. Oliver was used to cleaning up after other programmers. In fact, their mistakes were the source of half his work. Still, it annoyed him that they didn’t take time to do the job right; comments made life easier for everyone.
On Friday, he told Dan that he didn’t think he could find the problem. “Not unless it starts happening again.’’
“It’s not worth spending any more time on it,’’ Dan said.
“What will the auditors do?’’
“I don’t know. Fudge it, probably. Create some kind of miscellaneous adjustment account. We’ll see. Oh, we got a package from IBM—looks like another operating system release.’’
“No sweat,’’ Oliver said. “I’ll install it after the month–end run—midnight, the 31st.’’
“I’ll put it in the cabinet in the computer room,’’ Dan said.
Oliver took care of loose ends until noon and waited for Suzanne to drive away. Half an hour later, she met him at her door. They clung to each other silently and then stepped inside. Oliver hung up his coat.
“So, what are you going to show me?’’
She pointed to the living room. “Come see.’’
He followed her into the room where a quilt in the making was spread out on the rug. A roll of white cotton batting leaned against the couch. Rectangles of brown and faded gold were stitched to a neutral backing—some were small, some large, some nearly square, others long and thin. Short irregularly curved stems cut from cloth—mostly black, a few reddish brown—were sewn randomly over the rectangles, crossing over and under each other, separate, yet interlocking. He saw it suddenly. “The field! Looking down.’’
“Bingo!’’ Suzanne said. “I make a different quilt every year for the hospital benefit auction.’’
“Wow, I love it. What goes on the bottom?’’
“I’ve got a piece of dark brown material.’’
Oliver’s eyes moved around the quilt. The patterns were unpredictable, but they had a sense of purpose, a natural order. “You could live in there,’’ he said.
“That’s the idea. Want some tea?’’ Oliver nodded while his eyes lingered on the quilt. He went into the kitchen and watched Suzanne make tea. She was wearing faded white jeans and a long mustard colored sweatshirt that clung t
o her curves. So compact and modest. Where did that superb quilt come from?
“It’s so good to see you,’’ she said, putting his tea in front of him.
He looked at her intently. “God, you’re beautiful!’’
She sat down, considering. “My teeth are too big. I look like a bulldog.” She raised her eyes to his. “I guess I’m all right from the neck down.’’
“You’re so—connected,” he said. “Your face is like your body. Your hand is like your face.’’
“I’m feeling bad about this,’’ Suzanne said. She got up suddenly and knelt by his chair. “Oliver . . .” He pushed back from the table. She buried her face in his lap, and he stroked her hair as she rocked her head back and forth.
“What?’’ he asked.
“Help me.’’
“Of course, of course I will.’’
“I’ve been so bad,’’ she said. “I keep thinking of your little girl.’’ She rose on her knees. Her face was lost and pleading. She reached down and undid her jeans. She pushed her jeans and underwear down over her hips and put her hands on his legs. She swallowed. “I know it’s crazy.’’ Her voice trembled. “Would you spank me, Oliver? Please?’’ He didn’t say anything, and she placed herself across his lap. He felt foolish. He raised his hand and slapped her lightly. “Harder,’’ she said. “Please.’’ He slapped her harder and felt her sigh. She lifted and waited for the next blow. Soon she was whimpering and breathing harder, crying out when he struck. As he spanked her, the cries became more intense. He began to want them; he felt as though they were his—or theirs. When she collapsed, weeping, he stopped and lifted her from his knees. He stood and carried her to the bedroom. He lowered her to the bed and lay next to her, caressing her slowly.
Her face became calm. “So good to me,’’ she said without opening her eyes. He took off his clothes and hovered over her. Her mouth was partly open, expectant. He couldn’t think any more. He plunged down and into her. She quivered and took him, let him fuck her as hard as he wanted, arched under his bite, and held him while he made her his.
“Are you all right?’’ Oliver asked, ten minutes later.
“Does the Pope wear funny hats?’’
“Suzanne?’’
She rolled against him, her breasts soft on his upper arm. “Yes?’’
“God, Suzanne. That was different.’’ She put her hand on his chest and rubbed slow circles, the way she’d done when he’d had a headache. “I’ve been on the receiving end—a while back. But I never dished it out like that.’’
“How did it feel?’’
“Kind of strange, at first. Then it felt good.’’
“I knew we were in trouble,’’ she said. “What happened?’’
“What do you mean?’’ he asked.
“To that relationship, when you were—receiving.’’
“Oh,’’ he said. “I changed. Yi! What time is it?’’
“Getting on for three.’’
“Baby, I’ve got to run. I hate to.’’ He was already dressing.
“I know,’’ she said.
He was gaining speed. Deweys was his only hope. He had to get there and get Suzanne to the back of his mind before he could go home. The quilt stopped him.
“Suzanne.’’ She came naked into the living room. “This quilt is special.’’ He thought. “It’s because you are . . . And I don’t mean just because you’re twenty-seven and gorgeous. How did you do it?’’
“I follow my heart, that’s all.’’ She looked at the quilt. “It needs a lot of work.’’
“I’ve really got to go. Damn!’’
She blew him a wistful kiss. “Bye, Baby.’’
Oliver fled. He drove fast, hoping that speed would force him into the present, that driving would require all of his attention, but images of Jacky and Suzanne kept replacing each other in front of him. Suzanne surrendered to him the way he had surrendered to Jacky. Suzanne gave herself to him totally. Her trusting eyes put him in a powerful place. But as he swelled with strength, something else happened—a little voice whispered: take care of her; she’s yours. He never felt that with Jacky or with Jennifer. They took care of themselves.
The quilt had shocked him. Suzanne was gifted. She was so sexy, so physical, so loving—how could she not have children? She deserved a good husband and family, not a misfit for a lover, too old for her, and married besides. Her breasts. God. Oliver drove faster.
“Pint of the finest,’’ he said to Sam. His favorite spot was empty at the end of the bar. He leaned against the wall and listened to Taj Mahal playing the blues, keeping precise and honest time. He slid the empty glass toward Sam. “Let’s do that again.’’ Women. Halfway through the second pint, he said it out loud, “Women,’’ and let go a deep breath. Deweys at that hour was securely masculine. It was understood that women were a source of difficulty, desirable though they were. Oliver glanced around the room. The man didn’t exist, in Deweys, at that hour, who didn’t have the scars to prove it.
He raised his glass to Mark who had just come in. “What are you going to do?’’ he said.
“About what?’’
“Women.’’
“Ah, marriage,’’ Mark said.
“It’s not so bad,” Oliver said. Better than the first time. Love the kid. But, Jennifer’s working less and spending more. She wants to have another baby and be a full time momma. She wants to add on to the house.’’
“You just got the house.’’
“I know. What she wants to do makes sense, but it’s a lot of money. Most of her friends have boats. They all have boats. Wouldn’t it be nice to go sailing with Emma?’’ Oliver lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “She’s even got me lined me up for a good job at a bank.’’
“Where the money is,’’ Mark said.
“I mean, it’s not bad. It’s just . . .” Oliver shook his head negatively. “Gathering clouds,’’ he said.
“Sounds like a stripper,’’ Mark said. “Wasn’t there a famous stripper—Tempest Storm?’’
“I don’t need a stripper,’’ Oliver said, suddenly pleased with himself.
“Tempest Storm,’’ Richard O’Grady said, shuffling to the bar, bright eyed. “Volcanic!’’
“Hey, Richard. What’s happening?’’
“Nothing volcanic—but I found a ’55 T-Bird. It’s a little rough. My mechanic and I are putting it in shape.’’
“Nice,’’ Mark said. “It will appreciate.’’
“Right,’’ Richard said. “If it survives my niece. It’s going to be a present for her eighteenth birthday.’’
“Would you be my uncle?’’ Oliver asked.
“Since she’s not quite seventeen, that means I’ll have to drive it for a year.’’ Richard illuminated the universe with one of his smiles.
“Well, you want to test it out,’’ Mark said. Oliver laughed and drank more Guinness. The room filled with the Friday crowd. He would be home an hour late. So be it. Jennifer would forgive him. Emma would give him a big smile. Woof. Verdi.
In the following months, Oliver slipped further.
Suzanne took days off, left early for the dentist, and called in sick when they couldn’t stand to be apart any longer. No one seemed to notice that they were often absent from the hospital at the same time, although Molly began smiling at Oliver in a shrewd and tolerant way. “What are you smiling at?’’ Oliver asked her as he was leaving one afternoon.
“Mama didn’t raise no fools,’’ she said.
“I like your mama—she make biscuits, by any chance?’’
“Melt in your mouth,’’ Molly said. “Almost as good as mine.’’
“I want to die and wake up in Georgia,’’ Oliver said. Molly was warning him. If she had figured it out, the rest would too.
Suzanne gave herself to him utterly. She hoped that he would make love to her when he came over, but if he wanted only to hold her or to have his back rubbed, that was fine, too. He learned about her re
ligious beliefs. She went to church every Saturday with the Fundamentalists and did her part in their community which included a school as well as the hospital. She was good–natured about her uncle and didn’t take the rules too literally. How could she and carry on with Oliver? She believed in prayer. “Every night I ask forgiveness. I ask the Lord to show me the way. I need a lot of forgiving,’’ she said.
“You’re so sweet,” Oliver said.
“I can be a bitch,” she said. “I just don’t feel that way around you.” She lifted her face, lips parted for a kiss, and he pulled her to him.
She told him about her father, a long–distance trucker who drove away for good when she was eight. He had a drinking problem and was abusive. He lived in California somewhere, she thought, or at least he had once. Her mother remarried when Suzanne was in high school. Suzanne didn’t like her new stepfather. When her mother moved out of town, Suzanne stayed behind for her last year of high school, living with her uncle and aunt. That was when she ran away with Donny, a sax player, and got a taste for jazz. She left him when she realized that his love for drugs was a lot stronger than his love for her.
She told him funny stories about Harley, who ran the local U–Haul franchise and was forever hitting on her for a date. She liked Harley. “He can fix anything.’’ He was a Fundamentalist in good standing. “If they can put up with Harley, they can put up with me,’’ she said.
Their relationship remained intensely physical. Oliver spanked her a few more times, but it quickly became a ritual, not a punishment. Suzanne didn’t want him to hurt her. She wanted him to control her, a different matter. He felt increasingly responsible for her. He did whatever he wanted with her, sexually. She molded to his needs and became more beautiful by the week.
One afternoon, as Oliver was leaving the hospital, Gifford called him into his office. “What can I do for you?’’ Oliver asked.
“Nothing special,’’ Gifford said. “I wanted to check in with you. We are pleased with your work.’’
“Thank you. I’ve had a lot of cooperation from Dan and—Suzanne.’’
“Yes. Suzanne said that you were attentive to detail.’’ Gifford rubbed his chin. “She’s my niece, you know.’’
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