The Transformation

by Terri Kraus

  A good self-image, she thought. Maybe too good for my own good.

  She opened the robe for a moment.

  I should lose a few pounds.

  She tied it back up.

  But then none of my gentlemen friends have ever complained, so maybe not.

  She hurried downstairs. Her father would be home for lunch, as he most often was, and she needed to discuss business with him. Wearing the robe was part of her strategy.

  “Oy, oy, oy, why don’t you get dressed?” he said as Samantha entered the kitchen. Mally, their cook and housekeeper, shook her head, having heard the same discussion a hundred times before.

  “Daddy, why? I’m wearing a robe.”

  Samuel Cohen did not look like he was obviously or blatantly newly rich, with the possible exception of the thick gold Bulgari watch around his wrist, a gift from his late wife before she died. He wore expensive clothes, but none with pretentious horses or lizards on them. Just “good quality expensive” clothes, he said, “but not so anyone can tell, unless they know quality.” Great shoes were important—always Italian, always polished.

  Samuel stood on the smaller side and was always impeccably groomed and well tanned—not sprayed on or from a tanning bed, either. He was tanned from sitting by the indoor pool with the giant skylights at the glitzy new health club on East Liberty, if not on the beach or at an outdoor pool in Miami. He never swam, but he loved the sun. “It’s my Israeli background. I crave the desert,” he would explain if ever asked about his year-round bronze color.

  Samantha slid into a chair at the kitchen table.

  “But a robe is not what you wear in the daytime, Bubeleh—to lunch, for Pete’s sake. You wear a robe when you come from a shower. Oy vey.”

  “But I came from the shower,” she replied, grabbing an apricot from the crystal bowl in the center of the table. “I’ll get dressed after lunch.”

  Samuel glowered at her. She knew he didn’t mean it.

  “What’s for lunch, Mally? Something Jamaican? Something exotic?” Samuel asked.

  “I not make Jamaica food ever again, Mr. Cohen. You never eat de Jamaica food. Today is chicken salad. You eat de chicken salad. I don’ be wastin’ food on a man who don’ eat shrimp.”

  “Jews can’t eat shellfish,” he replied. This was also a friendly argument that both pretended to dislike, but both actually enjoyed.

  “A good Jew—I don’ know dey not eat de shrimp. But, Mr. Cohen, you don’ wear de funny hat and de long black coat. You just a man. You could eat de shrimp. You don’ be one of dose Jews. ”

  “Slicha!” He held up his hands in surrender. “My mother, if she saw me eating shrimp, would have a heart attack and die right there, on the spot. Do you want that on your conscience?”

  Samantha loved the barbed back-and-forth. Since her mother died, now twenty years ago (Has it really been twenty years?) it was good to see her father laugh.

  “But isn’t Bubbe in Miami?” Samantha replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Beside the point,” her father said. “She could surprise us. She could come for a visit. And me, with a shrimp in my mouth.”

  Mally placed two plates on the counter, each with chicken salad on challah bread, with a fat dill pickle, and a sprinkling of Lieber’s kosher potato chips, plus an unopened can of Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda. The menu changed very little from day to day.

  Samuel ate slowly, keeping an eye on the muted TV screen on the counter, watching the stock-market ticker. Mr. Samuel Cohen was not a stockbroker, really, but had made a great deal of money on stocks. He was a partner in a real-estate firm and never sold real estate, but made a great deal of money in that venture as well. He also bought and sold commodities, never on a consistent basis, but more when the mood struck him. Contrary to populist thinking, his dabbling in a variety of markets was not the buying and selling of a dilettante. He simply had the ability to step in, take the pulse of a situation, react as if he had been charting the highs and lows for years, and buy and sell right. He called no one “Boss,” yet worked very hard when he worked.

  Samantha loved to watch him eat. He did so with grace, in an almost fastidious manner, like a bird, or a cat, eating everything just so. His dining style was in such opposition to her own frenzied business buy-and-sell manner.

  “Daddy, I think I’ll need a bit more … input … for the Korean church project.”

  Samuel looked up, appearing bothered by the interruption. “You closed on that already, didn’t you? It was a cash offer, right?”

  Samantha knew he had paid little attention to her latest project. “Yes, Daddy, and thank you for helping with the financing.”

  “No problem, Sam. Besides, it’s the bank’s money, not mine.”

  “But it’s because of your name.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. But my name isn’t on the deed. So … what’s with more money?”

  “Stan Levine … the architect … the one you recommended …”

  “Oh, yeah—Stan … from the club. He’s real good. And expensive. You didn’t let him charge you what he charges his rich clients, did you? You told him this was a favor for me, right?”

  “He knows, Daddy,” Samantha said as she readjusted her robe, knowing that it made her father nervous—and perhaps more anxious to settle the deal quickly.

  “He figured that the changes we want to do might cost as high as … $300,000. So I’ll need that much to do this project.”

  Samuel let out a slow whistle. “Oy. You sure you can’t just repaint it and then sell it to the Baptists for a fast profit? Maybe God won’t like you changing it from a place of worship for Christians into something else.”

  “I don’t think so, Daddy.”

  He pushed his empty plate to the side and folded his napkin. “I’ll talk to Sheldon at the bank. Give him a few days. I’ll get him to drop it into your account. Okay?”

  Samantha held back her grin of victory. Instead she grabbed her father around the waist and kissed him noisily on the top of his head, as all the while he was squirming and calling out, “Watch the hair, watch the hair!”

  Every once in a while Oliver decided to live dangerously. Today, Friday, Samantha Cohen could not meet with him until 10:00 a.m., and Oliver did not relish sitting in his truck for hours or wasting time in a coffee shop. He could have driven around to find the nearest home-supply store to Shadyside, but with his GPS and the Internet, there was no need for that.

  And if he didn’t get the job, he would have wasted all that gasoline for nothing.

  He decided instead to risk heavy traffic, and left home at 8:30. Robert curled up on the seat next to him in the truck. Traffic was heavier than Oliver liked, but not mind-numbingly heavy. He traversed the distance from Jeannette to Shadyside, some twenty-five miles, in exactly the fifty-five minutes his GPS said it would take him, the device garnering an increased measure of his respect.

  He parked in the covered port cochere of the church, pulling his truck up behind a very sporty, red late-model Mercedes convertible. He didn’t know much about foreign cars, but this one looked expensive, lithe and agile, and luxurious.

  In a hurry, Oliver almost forgot about letting Robert the Dog out, and he imagined a hurt look in the dog’s eyes as he hurried back down from the steps to the truck.

  It’s that woman.…

  Robert did not run; instead he became most disciplined, and carefully and deliberately walked up the steps to the open door of the church.

  In the direct morning light, the interior sang with a loud chorus of colors tinted by the stained-glass windows, almost vibrating with the hues. Oliver wondered, for a moment, if he could mount some sort of floodlights outside, to provide this dazzling illumination after dark.

  Might be an ordinance against it, but I should ask Samantha … Miss Cohen, to check o
ut the possibilities.

  “Oliver! Over here … in the … dome or rotunda … or is this the vault? Whatever they call it. Come on down … or up.”

  Oliver hurried down the center aisle. Robert the Dog usually kept pace with him, or even ran ahead, but today, on this morning, he stayed back, a dozen steps back, as if he were pacing himself, not willing to fully commit to this new person—even if she had been really nice to him during their first encounter. If Oliver had looked, he would have seen the question on his dog’s face: “Who hugs a dog so soon—even if I liked it?” or as much of that question as Robert could convey, in his canine sort of way.

  Samantha had found a leftover square table and had placed two heavy oak altar chairs side by side at the table. With a note of apprehension, Oliver noticed that the table looked to be the sort on which Communion elements are served: of fine wood, with paneled sides, carved letters in Latin, or perhaps Greek, on the front. His church in Jeannette had a similar table, and it was reserved for Communion and Communion alone.

  It’s not a church anymore … it’s no longer a church.

  Samantha had spread a thickness of blueprints on the table, rolling the sides backward to hold the curl. There were several sheets of transparent overlays, with bold sketches and lines and lettering all over them—as if she and her architect had been revising their initial plan.

  If she changes the plan, I’ll have to let her know that it will be straight time and material with the extras. That way I can’t lose.

  Samantha waited at the top of the step of the platform and gave Oliver a hug of greeting, which was more than enough to completely disarm him and make his cheeks burn a little.

  “So nice of you to get your estimate done so soon,” she said. “Let’s sit down and go over it, okay?”

  I wonder if she even bothered to get a second bid? She never mentioned a second estimate.

  She took his hand and led him to the chairs. Oliver tried to tell himself that she was probably this casual with hugging and touching with everyone—not just with him, and not simply to make him nervous. But he was nervous.

  Not nervous … I’ve been around women before. I would say I am … aflutter … but no man gets aflutter. Who even says “aflutter” anymore?

  “Sit, Oliver, and show me what you’ve planned. Or should I show you some new angles we have—the architect and me, that is?”

  To Oliver, it would not have made a big difference either way, and right now, he wasn’t sure how to answer any questions. He sat down, took out his worn leather folder, and took a deep breath. “Maybe I should start with my estimate of your original plan and sketches. If you’ve changed things, we can discuss them after I show you what the original version would cost.”

  She nodded. “Sounds like a fair plan. Show me yours, Oliver.”

  He was nearly dead certain that she meant it as a double entendre, or whatever it is they call those remarks that made him edgy when he shouldn’t be edgy, or vice versa. He gulped and hoped he wasn’t obvious about it.

  Robert the Dog, from behind them on the main floor of the old sanctuary, barked once—not a loud bark, more like a Hey-get-back-to-business bark. The dog’s interruption worked, snapping Oliver back from his mental diversion.

  He flipped open the estimate and unfolded his copy of the plan, then laid out the twelve sketches he had done, both freehand and by computer, of what style he thought she was requesting for booths, tables, and seating, and for adding interior alcoves and stairs and other finishing work. He used his favorite fine-point marker as a pointer, showing where all the built-ins would be and how they would fit into the existing architectural details of the church … or former church.

  Samantha leaned close to him as he explained his drawings, closer than most clients ever got. He could almost smell her hair. No … he could smell her hair. Apple maybe. Or some tropical fruit or flower. A pretty smell. He observed her face, from the corner of his eye, as she watched him point to his drawings and lay them onto the main blueprint. He had drawn to scale the additions he would make to the interior on transparent paper and slid the overlays around on the large blueprint. Samantha kept nodding and agreeing and stopping only occasionally to ask a quick question, inquire as to a finish or a wood selection, ask about meeting building codes. There were no large disagreements, no major conflicts.

  On the same page, Oliver thought.

  After fifteen, maybe twenty minutes of explanation, Samantha leaned back and smiled at Oliver. “I’ve been patient, Oliver. Now you have to tell me … how much?”

  Oliver never liked this part of the bidding. He knew he had to make a living. He knew that his clients knew he had to make a profit. But he never liked asking for the money. Money sullied the process somehow. Either a client became almost angry with the idea that they were being ripped off by Oliver’s obscenely high rates, or grabbed at a pen in a desperate lunge to sign the contract before the contractor changed his mind and raised the prices.

  Oliver pulled out his last sheet. “If we do everything with top-quality materials—not anything extravagant, but walnut or mahogany, good granite, and other high-end materials—I came up with a price of $225,000. The staircases I have kept separate—since I don’t know about the floor joists and supports—but I would be pretty sure that $15,000 would cover any eventuality. I’ll do that on a time and material basis, since you can get fooled. And I’ll do the kitchen walls and build-out for an additional $10,000 and have a kitchen contractor bid the equipment and installation. That would be extra, and will be a significant expense, but you can get whatever sort of appliances you think appropriate for your needs.”

  He sat back and waited.

  “That’s a total of $235,000. Right? Plus or minus the whatevers, right?”

  “Right. Like the stairs. In case something comes up.”

  “Plus appliances, cabinetry, and equipment for the kitchen.”

  “Right,” Oliver said.

  Maybe I could have bid this higher … but that’s not the way to do business. The bid is fair. Really fair. I know it. And I think that she’ll realize that. Maybe I could have bid higher—but … it just didn’t seem right. This is an honest bid. She’ll see that.

  Samantha looked at his stack of papers, then directly at Oliver for a long time, just in his eyes, without saying a word. He felt something inside get all squiggly and was within a minute of lowering his price by 10 percent—and she hadn’t even asked for a discount. Her eyes were that pretty, Oliver concluded.

  “You think four months will be enough time?” she asked.

  “Yes. Unless something happens. Like with the stairs. Or we run into a problem with the city building codes. Like if we had to upgrade the electrical on the whole building or revise plumbing. Something like that. But it could easily slip a few weeks.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about codes. My father knows everyone in Pittsburgh. I mean everyone. We could … work out any problem.”

  “Not worry about codes—”

  “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  Oliver had heard that sort of promise before. Usually the person with clout was the brother-in-law of a neighbor of an aunt or uncle, and it always wound up that not one of these so-called “people in the know” had any pull at all dealing with city ordinances. Oftentimes, the simple fact that they tried to grease some wheels usually resulted in a bigger tiff with the city than when they started. But today, Oliver imagined that Samantha’s father did indeed know the right people in the right places. He imagined that any problem might simply be swept away—as in “You owe me a favor.”

  “If I said yes, when could you start?” she asked.

  He thought he should ponder his decision, or perhaps pretend to look at a schedule or his Day-Timer, but instead of playing it cool, he decided to err on the side of honesty and tell the truth. He said firm
ly, “Monday.”

  “You have a contract with you? I want to sign now. Let’s get started right away. Time is money and all that.”

  Robert the Dog barked, and Oliver all but shook his head to clear his thoughts. “There is one thing, though,” he said.

  “And that is … you want all the money up front? I hope not,” Samantha replied in her best, clipped business voice, indicating that she was no dummy and would not let herself be taken by anyone—even if they had an honest face.

  “No, no, nothing like that. Twenty percent is fine. Fifteen percent would be okay, or even ten. There’s not much buying needed until a couple of weeks into the project. It’s not about the money. You see, I live in Jeannette, and it’s a long drive here in the morning. You know, with traffic and all. I was wondering …”

  “Yes …” Samantha said, encouraging him.

  “Could I just stay in the basement of the church … during the week? There’s a shower down there. I could set up a cot or something. It would save me a lot of time and aggravation.”

  “Will Robert the Dog have to stay here as well?”

  Oliver wondered if there was a city ordinance against it. “I … guess so.” He tried to hide his anxiety. Not have Robert here? Who would take care of him? Not my mother, or my brother, for sure.

  Samantha grabbed his forearm and squeezed. “I didn’t mean to alarm you, Oliver. You would be welcome to stay. Robert would be welcome. I was teasing.”

  Oliver took a deep breath and hoped she didn’t notice. “Oh, sure, I knew that. So it’s okay then?”

  She squeezed his arm again, this time in a very gentle way. “It is more than okay, Oliver. I would prefer it that way, now that we’re partners and all.”

  Oliver had prepared a contract, perhaps a bit more detailed than a standard one. It included clauses for liabilities, for unseen conditions, and for changes in the original plan. It carefully spelled out liabilities. It was not foolproof, but a friend, who was almost a lawyer, had drawn it up and said that it would stand up in court, ninety-nine times out of a hundred.