by Terri Kraus
Today that game was repeated. Robert sniffed at the two long bits of cloth, one with stripes, one without. He sniffed longer at the cloth with stripes, so that was the one Oliver tossed over his neck and began to fuss with, flipping it one way, then another.
Oliver leaned over, watching his actions in the bedroom mirror. He made a few adjustments, fiddled with his collar, then his cuffs, and ran his hand back over his short hair. He removed his one dress sport coat from the wooden hanger emblazoned with the name of the men’s store where he’d bought it three years earlier. The store had since gone out of business, and Oliver was pretty certain the garment was still almost in style. In the past three years he had worn it perhaps a dozen times.
“Why are you so dressed up?” his mother barked as he made his way down the steps outside his apartment. They would not travel to church together. Rose Barnett often stayed later, through Sunday school and sometimes afterward, doing whatever it was she did at church. Oliver would go for just the worship service.
“I don’t know. It’s Sunday. Felt like it would be nice to look nice.”
She returned a grin—not sly, but more knowing, perhaps, with a bit of cunning. “I betcha she’ll like you all dressed up like that. Like a real professional and not some common laborer.”
“Who?”
His mother reached into her purse and took out a little black box, pointed it at the garage, pressed it, jerking her arm toward the door. She was of the opinion that an electronic signal worked better if you gave it a nudge. The door growled open. Oliver parked his truck outside and never had to worry about garage-door openers.
“You know who. I saw her last night, taking her daughter for a walk. Said you’re planning on skipping church to have coffee together.”
“Maybe for a few minutes. I’d still like to hear the sermon.”
“Well, she’s a nice girl, despite everything. And the two of you made such a cute couple when you dated back in high school. You should have moved faster back then, Oliver. She would have made a good wife.”
“Ma, she was four years younger than me. We weren’t together all that long. And what I remember is that you didn’t like her much back then. Besides, I was too young to be that serious—just like she was. Too young, I mean.”
He thought his mother growled out some sort of dismissive reply, but he didn’t stop to ask her to repeat it.
Paula was waiting for him outside the church. Not on the steps, but partway down the block so no one would notice them. However, her attempt at being secretive wasn’t so successful since a dozen churchgoers waved at them as they walked away.
“I’m so glad you decided to come this morning.” She grabbed his arm. “I passed Wilkin’s and they’re not open—but Felder’s is. They have coffee.”
Felder’s restaurant was four blocks farther away. He’d never make it back in time to hear the sermon. He would have to stay for the third service. He didn’t like doing that. Once you get past noon, the day feels almost over, he thought.
Paula was wearing a blue jacket—not denim, but casual—over a dress shorter than Oliver thought right for a Sunday morning. When she opened her coat once inside the restaurant, he realized her dress was also much tighter and cut lower than what he thought church-appropriate.
Maybe I just don’t know what today’s styles are.
“You look so nice in a sport coat,” she gushed and stroked the fabric of his sleeve. “This is really nice. Must have been expensive.”
He didn’t want to shrug, because it was. In fact, he remembered exactly how much it cost but did not want to make a show of it. “It was on sale, I think.”
Paula ordered coffee, a toasted pecan roll, and a large orange juice. Oliver had already eaten and drunk two cups of coffee, but he couldn’t sit there and not order anything, so he ordered coffee as well.
As he stirred sugar into his coffee and she ate, Paula talked animatedly about a party she once went to and how the place was decorated; then she went on about her sister’s wedding—how the caterer had overcharged her on the cost of the appetizers and then never delivered those liver things wrapped in bacon, not at all; their subsequent divorce (her sister’s, that is); where her mother was going to move after she sold her house. Then she moved on to how Bridget was doing in day care and how she was becoming well socialized; how the price of food kept going up and if this continued she would be forced to get a second job, but that meant more child care and she didn’t know how that was going to work. Maybe she would go back to school like the kind they advertise on TV about computers or art or something electronic, because they probably would pay better than just working at the insurance company.
“Don’t you think so?” she asked.
Oliver nodded a lot and drank two cups of coffee as she talked. He didn’t have that much else to do.
“And then there’s Mindy. Don’t get me started on Mindy. You remember Mindy? She was in your class. Or maybe she was year behind you. Well, anyhow, Mindy and her husband have been split up for a couple of years. She told me the other day that she’s on the lookout for a friend with benefits and was thinking of joining one of those Internet dating services. Maybe even a younger friend with benefits. Like a boy toy.”
Paula waited, then offered a coy, knowing smile.
Oliver had no idea what she meant. “Friend with benefits?” he asked quietly.
“Oh, you’re teasing me now, Oliver.”
He shook his head. “No. Really. What does that mean?”
Paula leaned in close to him, looking around the nearly empty restaurant, as if people were hoping to catch her saying an untoward word. “You know … you get to be friends … a friend like between a boy and a girl … kind of like we were back in school … you remember those days, don’t you? And then there’s more—friends with benefits, I mean. Everyone gets what they want. But no one gets goofy about giving it or getting it. You know … like sex.”
Oliver wanted to lean back and away but thought he might look prudish again (which he probably was). It might even be a bit insulting to Paula.
“I think it’s terrible, I mean,” she said, as an aside, a throwaway line, Oliver suspected. “Right? But she’s like that, Mindy is. I can understand why … and if the benefits were leading somewhere—like to a more permanent situation—I guess it would be okay.”
She picked up the last piece of her pecan roll and popped it into her mouth. “I know the pastor always says you shouldn’t do that sort of thing, but he’s married. I don’t think he understands the pressure. I guess the Bible says it’s wrong, but it says lots of things are wrong that we do a lot and we never feel all that guilty about doing them—like gossiping, or lying.”
Oliver had not said more than twenty-five words since walking from the church and even now, given the opportunity, could not find any words of response.
But that’s wrong. You shouldn’t think that way. Wrong is wrong, no matter the pressure.
“Don’t look so shocked, Oliver,” she said as she drank the rest of her orange juice. “You’ve been around the block, right?”
He found his voice. “People always assume I know more or have done more than I have. I’m a pretty”—What word do I need here?—“sheltered guy, I guess. Or maybe just dense about these things.”
Paula grinned at him, as if she thought he was only being playful. “Oliver, it could work. I’m not … being Mindy-ish and on the prowl or anything. And you’re not a younger guy, right? I think it would be okay, as long as it leads to something.…”
Her lingering gaze left no doubt in Oliver’s mind exactly what she was offering in exchange for what.
Taller knew the road to the mall would be crowded today, so he was pedaling in the opposite direction, away from town, away from stores, away from traffic, heading toward his old high school, far from businesses and resta
urants and people. He wasn’t hiding, exactly, but he’d rather not run into any friends or family along the way. He had promised his mother he’d go to church, but he was sure they both knew he was lying.
Lying. That’s an ugly word. Maybe I was just trying to keep her blood pressure down. Telling her the truth she doesn’t want to hear is never a good thing.
He shifted his bike into a lower gear. Riding a bike in Pennsylvania, at least in the western part of the state, could be challenging. There were a lot of hills, some very steep hills, with narrow roads and curves and blind turns. Taller pedaled faster. He wanted to make the crest of the hill without shifting. One hundred yards from the summit, he realized this hill inclined at a steeper angle than he thought. He shifted once and knew he’d have to shift again before letting gravity do its work on the other side of the hill.
He liked the pressure of the pedals under his feet and the strain he felt in his legs and his thighs as he pumped away, seeking leverage with each stroke, the bike swaying under him. He felt the sweat on his back, liked the way the fabric clung to his skin, wet and hot, liked the tension in his shoulders, the tiny, trembling ache in his palms as they pressed on the handlebars.
He made it to the crest and leaned back, just his fingertips on the handlebars. The bike slowly gathered speed. In front of him lay a long hill, nearly a mile descent, steeper at the end than the beginning. He switched to the lowest gear and pushed hard, the bike gaining speed easily.
Taller knew he should just enjoy the ride down, that it would be fast enough without adding to the velocity, but could not resist the temptation. The wind whistled in his ears as he descended, becoming a howl that mixed with the staccato clicking of his tires on the pavement and the hushed clip-clip-clip of the guardrails as he rushed past.
Only at the very bottom did he let up, his body bent over the bike, his shoulders down, his legs tucked hard against the frame. He roared over the bridge at the bottom, the passage barely wide enough for one car. If a car had been there, the passing would be dicey at best and dangerous at least.
He let his momentum carry him down the road, up over a swell, and onto a level section, leading to the high school. Turning his head, he glanced back at the hill, glad that for those few seconds he’d thought of nothing—nothing but the speed and the danger and the wind. Everything else was gone, vanished for those few moments.
That’s why I ride.
He knew Emily would be gone by the time he returned, having to work the second shift.
She’s nice enough.
He pedaled slowly now, maintaining an easier pace. The high school loomed up ahead on the right, a jumble of buildings and wings added piecemeal over the years, with none of the components truly integrated.
I get free food … and other benefits.
He thought he might stop there, in the parking lot of the school, in the shade of the large auditorium, and rest for a moment. But instead he pedaled past, hardly looking at it.
That’s the trouble with never leaving a place. Nothing can fade into memory. Your past is always right there in front of you.
He shifted gears again and pressed hard on the pedals, feeling the vibrations of the rough pavement in his palms and up his arms.
Oliver and Robert the Dog slipped into the basement of the former church. It was later than he’d wanted to arrive. He had stayed for the third service at his church in Jeannette, wanting to hear the sermon, but his conversation with Paula—more a one-sided monologue than a normal conversation—had left him agitated, edgy, and unable to concentrate.
I know what she wants … and what she’s offering.
As he took his seat, he’d seen his mother in the narthex, buttonholing someone, gesturing with her hands, her mouth wide, her fingers pointing. She had not seen him, and that suited Oliver well.
Maybe I should take this Paula thing more seriously. She’s pleasant. She’s pretty. She keeps the conversation going. I could do a lot worse.
Most likely his mother would have asked how his “date” went, and he did not enjoy lying to her. He hated ever being duplicitous, but sometimes, with her, he felt he had no choice.
I never lie about big things … well, maybe a few. Mostly it’s the insignificant stuff. I should stop. I should tell her the truth from now on.
He’d listened to the sermon as closely as he could but had heard nothing that penetrated his thoughts or his heart. Afterward he’d shaken a few hands, then had hurried home and hung his sport coat on its wooden hanger. He’d packed his two boxes, two duffel-bag-sized suitcases, and two hard plastic cases filled with tools into the back of his truck and had driven away with haste.
He didn’t want to see Paula and was glad he didn’t run into her. He wasn’t sure what he would say, or if at a glance from her, a tilting of her head … who knew what might come out of his mouth.
Maybe it’s time. Maybe that’s what I’m feeling. Everyone I know is married.
When he arrived at the former Central Presbyterian Church in Shadyside, he hauled his gear down to the basement and selected which empty room to use as his bedroom. He picked the one that had probably been a classroom at one time and was closest to the bathroom, then carefully unfolded his expensive cot. As Oliver busied himself with unpacking, Robert walked to and fro, agitated. He sniffed every inch of every surface, ran down the hall to the steps, then back again, his tongue lolling out as if he were overheating.
Oliver placed the dog’s water dish on the floor, filled with cold city water, and poured out a full dish of Kibbles ’n Bits. Robert sniffed both, only for a moment, then went back to his nearly frenzied inch-by-inch examinations.
“You don’t want water? But you’re panting. Are you hot?”
Robert the Dog did not answer.
“I know … a lot of old smells here. I bet there’s been thousands of kids in these rooms over the years. Are you smelling the ghosts, Robert? I bet you are.”
Oliver’s soothing voice did nothing to distract his dog.
Oliver laid Robert’s bed on the floor near his cot, a sort of overstuffed half-easy chair that he’d bought last year. Robert had loved it from day one, and Oliver hoped this touch of home would help settle him.
It didn’t.
Oliver set up a hot plate on a counter in the next room and next to it placed his electric teakettle, filled with water, and switched it on. He had brought a jar of instant coffee and a box of teabags, thinking that a strong English Earl Grey tea would be better suited for this evening. He busied himself with that task as Robert the Dog continued his sniffings and exploration of the church basement.
When the tea was done, Oliver added a large spoonful of honey—trying to stay away from processed sugar—and headed upstairs. Maybe a breath of fresh night air would settle Robert the Dog. Oliver did not want him to be restless the entire night, and Robert could be that focused and that distracted.
He sat on the front steps, under the port cochere, watching traffic flow past on South Aiken Avenue, sipping his tea, talking softly to Robert. Eventually the dog stopped panting, circled once or twice, and laid down next to him on the stone steps, his eyes still darting back and forth, from the street to Oliver to the sidewalk. Even as pedestrians passed in the darkness, Robert remained still, his eyes following their movements.
“I think this will be a good job for us, Robert. We’ll make a good profit. This is a high-profile project as well. I bet Miss Cohen knows a lot of important people. That’s a good thing.”
Robert snorted softly, then laid his chin on his front paws.
On the opposite wall of the port cochere, on the side that faced the street, was a circle of stone. Inside the circle, the stones were arranged to leave a cross-shaped opening in silhouette. The light of the streetlamp shone through, causing a foot-high cross to be illuminated on the inside wall, just above Oliver’s head.
“I know. This is still a church. It’s going to be hard to get past that. Like … that cross up there. Will she want it removed? Or covered over? I don’t know. But it feels right to be here, doesn’t it? Somehow I feel it’s meant to be—”
A figure across the street caught his attention—a female, judging by the hair. She stopped, waited, then hurried across the street, waving. Waving toward Oliver.
No one here knows me.
“Oliver-not-Ollie!”
It was Samantha Cohen.
“I wondered if you were going to be here. And you are. How nice,” she said as she stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
Robert the Dog looked up but made no attempt to rise.
“Did you walk here?” Oliver asked.
Samantha looked over her shoulder. “Sure. I live down the block.”
“Really? I had no idea. I thought you lived … in Mount Lebanon, or Squirrel Hill.”
She swept up the steps and sat a few feet away from Oliver. “We used to live there—Squirrel Hill,” she said, pointing in the general direction of the real Squirrel Hill, not more than a dozen blocks distant. “When I was young, we lived in a pretty normal, not-so-big house. But when my father got rich, he wanted to move away from all the Jews.”
Oliver wanted to ask more but didn’t know the acceptable way to ask.
“Yes, we’re Jewish, Oliver-not-Ollie. And my father is very Jewish. I guess his wanting to move away from Squirrel Hill is all part of the self-loathing that seems to run in our family.”
Oliver wanted to ask what that meant too.
“So he bought a great big house down the street—an old Victorian three-story with lots of charm, packed to the gills with authentic architectural details and a million things that always need fixing or repair. Just the thing for a Jewish man who has no interest in any of that stuff—and who doesn’t even own a hammer.”
