The Transformation

by Terri Kraus

  “What happens if it’s the hundredth case?” Oliver had asked.

  Larry, his almost-lawyer friend, had grinned and replied in all honesty, “Then you’re screwed.”

  Occupational hazard. Nobody can foresee every problem.

  Samantha, whom Oliver was certain had really astute, and really expensive, attorneys at her beck and call, perused the contract quickly, skimming all but a few sections. She seemed to take note of a few sticking points, but asked for no changes.

  “I’ve found that no matter what the contract says, you can find a lawyer to fight it, sue you over it, take you to court,” she explained. “So it doesn’t matter what sort of contract you sign. It’s all a matter of trust. I trust you, Oliver. You have a kind, honest face. A handsome face, but that is beside the point. And I trusted Alice and Frank Adams when they referred you. They said you are a gem. The real deal, a trustworthy gem. A man who keeps his promises. And that’s enough for me. So, where do I sign?”

  A man who keeps his promises … yeah, that’s me. No matter what.

  Oliver pointed to the page with his pen. She signed her name with her own black Mont Blanc pen, with sweeps and flourishes. Then she lifted her purse and pulled out a checkbook.

  “Here’s a check for $75,000 to start. I know it’s more than you asked for, but you’ll need to buy a lot of things to get started.”

  He took the check and carefully clipped it to his copy of the contract.

  Samantha reached down to the floor and rustled in a paper bag. She sat back up and held up a bottle, displaying it to Oliver. “I know it’s early, but I brought wine. To celebrate. I like to celebrate.”

  She produced two plastic cups and unscrewed the top of the wine. “I had to buy this bottle because I hate carrying a corkscrew. The nice clerk at the wine store said it was a very good vintage and that the industry has made all sorts of strides in capping bottles and a screw-off top is no longer seen as holding cheap wine. And he was right, since this bottle was anything but cheap.”

  She chattered away as she poured two healthy glasses of the red wine.

  Oliver did not hesitate. At least he tried to give the appearance of not hesitating. He was well over twenty-one. He had tasted all sorts of alcohol. He would meet his friends in bars and taverns, and sometimes have a beer with them. But it was the very occasional event when he imbibed. And it was never at 11:00 in the morning.

  And never, ever with a client. A very pretty client. Oliver knew what alcohol could do … and he pushed the images out of his mind as soon as they arose.

  “Oh, and one more thing: I didn’t want to leave anyone out and I wasn’t sure he would be here,” Samantha added. She reached down and pulled a gnarled rawhide strip from her purse.

  “The man at the pet store said dogs love these things. They look disgusting, but then, what do I know from dogs? I never had one growing up but would love to someday. Can Robert have this? Would he like it?”

  Robert had already padded up to the platform. His nose twitched as he tried to catch the new scent in the air.

  “He loves them. Sure. He can have it,” Oliver said, ruffling the dog’s head.

  Samantha bent to Robert the Dog. “Here you are, sweetie. I’ll be seeing a lot of you in the next few months,” she said and scratched behind his right ear.

  Robert gingerly took the rawhide in his mouth and backed away slowly. Then he tossed the strip into the air, caught it, and lay down to begin his noisy chewing.

  “Robert says thank you,” Oliver said pleasantly.

  Samantha raised her glass in the air. Oliver knew this was no time to moralize.

  When someone says it’s no time for moralizing—then it probably is time for moralizing.

  That was something his mother often repeated.

  Why did I think of that right now?

  He raised his glass.

  She touched his with hers. “To a wonderful partnership.”

  Oliver only nodded, not sure if he was supposed to add to the toast.

  Samantha took a very healthy drink. Oliver sipped his, surprised at the robust taste of the wine, full-bodied but smooth, clear, tasty, and definitely expensive.

  Oliver knew that for people who did not partake often, the effects of alcohol were more striking. As soon as the liquid entered his stomach, he could sense the warmth puddling in his gut, could feel the spread of the wine down his legs, down his arms, like putting on a very thick comforter.

  “Tolliver? Were you sleeping? It’s nearly noon. Why are you still asleep? Are you hung over? Why aren’t you working? You don’t believe in working anymore? It’s obvious that you don’t believe in going to church anymore.”

  Taller held the phone six inches away from his ear. His mother’s voice could be shrill.

  “Good morning to you, too, Ma.”

  “Why are you home? It’s the middle of the day.”

  Taller wiped his face with his hand. “Why are you calling me if I’m not supposed to be here?”

  “Don’t get smart with me. I’m your mother.”

  Tolliver sat up on his bed, still holding the phone well away from his ear. He stood up and walked from his bedroom to the kitchen. He poured water into the electric kettle, measured instant coffee into a bone china coffee cup from the glass-fronted cabinet, and waited for the water to hiss and steam and boil, all the while listening to his mother, as if from a distance, debate herself on the possibility of Oliver working on a building that used to be a church.

  I thought I dodged a bullet. I guess I didn’t.

  “Ma, I just work for him, remember? He signs the checks. If he wants to turn a convent into a gay nightclub for transsexuals, I can’t stop him.”

  He knew what was about to happen and now held the phone at arm’s length.

  “Don’t you dare use those filthy words to your mother, Tolliver. That’s disgusting. Or talk about your brother that way.”

  I wonder if it was mentioning the convent or the transsexuals that got her more riled up?

  “Sorry, Ma, but he’s a grown man. He doesn’t listen to me any more than he does you. And from what he tells me, the building is no longer a church. It’s an ex-church. It has ceased to be a church. That church has expired. It has shuffled off its mortal coil.”

  I think a Monty Python skit went like that … the one with the dead parrot.

  “Don’t you talk about a church being dead.”

  Taller wondered why he bothered. “But it isn’t a church anymore.”

  He held the phone away from his ear again.

  “But God remembers. Do you think Christ has forgotten about that church—His bride? Do you think He’s forgotten about you? He hasn’t. He never will. Never, Tolliver.”

  “Okay, Ma. I get it. I’ll talk to Ollie, but we need the work. Renovating jobs aren’t exactly falling off trees these days, you know. And Ollie seems to think there’s a reason he’s the one doing the work. That’s what he said, at least.”

  He took a long drink. He wondered where Emily was. Last night she said something about working the early shift and bringing him brunch today. He knew, without looking, that there was nothing in the refrigerator.

  Maybe she’ll get me a Grand Slam Breakfast. I like those. With extra pancakes.

  There was the slightest tapping at his front door. He sniffed the air.

  Pancakes. Ask and ye shall receive.

  “Listen, Ma, I have to go. The … uh … landlord just came. Okay. Talk to you later.”

  “I’ll see you Sunday, right? At church? You’ve been promising me, Tolliver. You promised you would come. You remember, right?”

  “Okay, Ma,” he said as he padded to the front door of his apartment. “I’ll come. If it gets you off my back, I’ll come.”

  As the smell of pancake
s grew stronger, Taller’s grin grew wider.

  “I love you, Tolliver,” Rose Barnett said, her voice becoming almost maternal. “I’ll see you Sunday then. I’ll save you a seat. I’m on the left side, halfway up. Okay?”

  “Okay, Ma. Sunday.”

  The door swung open.

  “What’s on Sunday?” Emily asked as she presented him with two large, squeaky Styrofoam cartons—one smelling of pancakes, the other of bacon.

  “Oh … nothing important. Did you bring extra syrup?” he asked as he bent to kiss her.

  “So tell me, Oliver-not-Ollie, is there a Mrs. Oliver?”

  Samantha Cohen had picked up her glass of wine after drinking more than half and walked down the side aisle of the church. Oliver followed, glass in hand, as if it were expected, while Robert the Dog chewed energetically on his new treat. The sound of his scraping and crunching echoed in the vast old church.

  Again this was treading on virgin territory for Oliver. No client had ever asked him. Many had assumed that he was married. Or divorced.

  Not that many thirty-eight-year-old contractors are still single … and in the never-been-married category.

  “No. I’m not married,” he said simply, without inflection.

  Tell the truth … if she asks.

  She did not ask further. When others asked about him being either divorced or widowed, Oliver wondered if they knew how personal the question was. Answering “Yes, I’m married” was the simple and expected response. But if as a man you answered that you were now almost four decades old and not married—and not gay, nor harboring some horrid personality issue that keeps you single—well, now that was a whole lot more complicated. People often nodded as he explained, nodded as one would nod when a lunatic was yammering away, nodding to keep their options of a quick escape open.

  “And neither am I,” Samantha said as she stopped beneath a window depicting Pentecost, bright fingers of flames descending on the crowd. “Married, that is. I’m not sure I’ll ever get married.”

  “Why not?” Oliver asked.

  “Too much fun being single, right? Too hard to choose.”

  For a second, Samantha looked as if she were unaccustomed to telling strangers that truth about herself.

  Oliver felt the wine, felt it embolden him, but at the last moment stopped himself. In a second, he wasn’t sure what he’d been planning to say, but was relieved that he didn’t have to explain why he wasn’t married.

  Not that I don’t want to. Or not that I haven’t had … options … or opportunities. I don’t know why, exactly. Just haven’t met the right woman.

  “Don’t mind me,” she said in explanation. “Wine makes me talkative. And probably too personal. I have no business asking personal questions, Oliver. I’m sorry. I should know better by now.”

  “No, that’s okay. Don’t feel embarrassed.”

  She laughed loudly. “Oh, I’m not embarrassed. I hardly ever get embarrassed. I just feel bad for other people who don’t understand me. But I’m sure you’ll get used to me over the next five months, give or take a few weeks.”

  She sat in one of the pews that had already been moved and finished off her glass. Oliver still had half of his left.

  I do have to drive home.

  “Miss Cohen, would it be okay if I moved some things into the church this weekend? That way, I’ll be ready to start first thing Monday. I contacted three brothers who do demo work to see what their schedule looks like, just in case you wanted to get started right away. I’ve used them before, and they’re good workers. They would be able to come on Monday.”

  “Oh, sure, anything you want to do. Here, let me give you the keys.”

  He pocketed them, three big keys attached to a large plain ring.

  “You’ll be like a caretaker here. That’s nice. Looking out for the place while we work on it. I’ll be here a lot as well. I always poke around the site of my projects. Just tell me if I’m in your way, okay? Promise?”

  “I will.”

  “Four months is a long time. Or five. More than enough time to get well acquainted, right? Get used to each other’s peccadilloes, eh?”

  Oliver wasn’t sure what a peccadillo was, but he nodded in agreement. “Sure. A long time.”

  Samantha glanced at her watch. “I am almost late. Well, I am late, but then I am often late. Or horribly early, like when you came here on Monday. We said seven, and I was here thirty minutes early. I don’t know why I can’t get an exact time down. Thirty minutes early or an hour late.” She whistled. “Robert!”

  Having been summoned, Robert the Dog nearly galloped down the aisle and gratefully accepted a scratch from Samantha, wagging his tail and offering his best dog grin.

  “See you soon, Robert. Oliver, I will see you Monday. I am out of town this weekend. But I’ll be here Monday morning.”

  And even though he expected it, it surprised him when she opened her arms and embraced him in a very big, enthusiastic hug, a longer and tighter hug than he thought appropriate for a contractor and his new client, but a hug that he enjoyed, nevertheless.

  “See you Monday,” he called after her as she slipped out the front door of the former church, leaving Oliver and Robert the Dog to stare at each other, as if understanding each other’s combination of happiness mixed with a little confusion and sprinkled with a pinch of apprehension.

  Which, of course, they really did not.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “MALLY, HAVE YOU SEEN my swimsuit?”

  Mally stood in the doorway to Samantha’s room and crossed her arms over her chest. “Girl, do your father pay me to know de whereabouts of swimmin’ suits? I think no, he don’.”

  A Louis Vuitton suitcase, its leather luggage tag elegantly monogrammed, lay open on her bed, and stacks of clothing were strewn all over the room. Samantha enjoyed a large bedroom, almost as big as the master suite in the Cohen home. It was the room in the second-floor rounded turret, with thick white moldings and a curved wall of windows nearly encircling the entire space. It had window seats with thick cushions upholstered in white, and an array of silk-fringed pillows in classic country French prints that coordinated with the shams on the sleigh bed, covered in a puffy white duvet. Off to one side were a mirrored dressing area, a walk-in closet, and a spacious spalike bathroom, complete with a long, deep English soaking tub, where, surrounded by a dozen scented candles, Samantha liked to relax away the tensions of the day. She had designed the suite herself, selecting her favorite shade of a deep peacock blue for the walls and choosing painted French Louis XVI furniture—a pair of antique dressers and nightstands with simple lines and marble tops, and a blanket chest—all of which she had found in Provence, France.

  “Well, I saw it a few days ago. And now I need it. And it’s gone.”

  Mally did not move. “I don’ go takin’ your swimmin’ suits, missy. And why you need de swimmin’ suit? Too cold for swimmin’.”

  “We’re going up to Seven Springs. A girls’ weekend. Have some fun. They have an indoor pool.”

  “Still too cold, girl. De trees, dey got no leaves yet. Too cold. You crazy, girl, if you swim now.”

  Samantha loved Mally, who had been with the Cohen family for decades. She loved the way Mally could scold her and love her at the same time. She wished her mother could have been more like that.

  “So when you build dat church, Miss Sam?”

  “Next week. The contractor starts next week.”

  Mally came into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. She pushed an errant strand of hair from her forehead then poked at a pile of clothes on the far corner of the bed.

  “Here be your swimmin’ suit, Miss Sam,” she said as she pulled it from beneath a stack of sweaters. “Least what dere be of it.”

  Samantha took it and tossed it int
o the open suitcase. “Don’t be such a prude, Mally. This is a new century. Things have changed.”

  Mally waved her hand in the air, as if batting away Samantha’s words. “Some dings not change ever, Miss Sam. Like you. You dinkin’ of fallin’ for dat man who works on de church, am I right ’bout dat?”

  Samantha took a seat on the large hand-painted blanket chest at the end of the bed. “Maybe. He’s really handsome, Mally. Much better looking than that one who worked on the restoration on Mount Washington.”

  “Dat man with de black hair? He was no good. Never liked dat man, never. Don’ trust a man like dat. A man like dat don’ care if he be breakin’ your heart, Miss Sam.”

  “This one is different, Mally. He is really a nice man. And he has a dog. There is something about him, Mally. Sort of a gentleness and a kindness. He seems so honest and truthful. You know when you meet someone for the first time and you can just tell that they are a special person. I felt that with this man. Kind and gentle. I know he would treat a woman with … well, the only word I can think of is reverence.”

  “What dat mean—reverence? Like for de Bible or somethin’?”

  “Not like that, I don’t think … but that everything would be special with him. I could tell. You could tell if you met him. There is no taking advantage of anyone. I don’t know … there’s just something about him. I don’t think I ever noticed it about anyone else.” Samantha folded her swimsuit. “And he has the nicest, sweetest dog I have ever met.”

  Mally burst out laughing, a rich, rolling, deep Jamaican laugh. “Missy, any man can buy de dog. Any dog can be trained to be nice. Don’ mean dey a good man, just a man wid a good dog.”

  Samantha picked up a blouse, folded it, placed it in the suitcase then added the matching Vuitton cosmetic bag.

  “You too easy with de gentlemen, Miss Sam. Don’ fall for dis one. A man moons over a pretty girl and gets no work done. And you gets your heart broken. You stay away, Miss Sam.”