by Terri Kraus
From where he stood, he could see the living room, large and spartan, with a huge section of an old Mail Pouch advertisement, taken intact from a derelict barn in Franklin County, several miles north of Pittsburgh, hanging on the wall. Taller had cleaned the dirt and cobwebs off the wood and encased it in a sleek Plexiglas covering; a center section of the faded paint was caught midflake on the ancient cedar boards. Most visitors couldn’t guess what the abstraction was until Taller explained it. Abstract and concrete at the same time—Taller loved the tension, the juxtaposition of reality and absurdity.
Taller padded toward his bedroom. He had forgotten if Emily possessed a key to his home. In moments of weakness, Taller was often expansive, handing out keys too early, when the advent of a physical relationship was the only criteria for key-dom.
If she has one, I need to ask for it back. She’s easy on the eyes—not gorgeous like that Samantha woman, but nice enough to look at—and pleasant and all that … but I don’t want her sneaking in here and moving any of my stuff. That will never do. And she already said the place needs plants. I don’t want plants in here. I don’t want their happy little leaves turning brown, dying, and falling on the floor and then having to feel guilty when I pitch them out in the trash. I don’t want dead things on my conscience.
Taller had a one-foot-square, short metal box filled with grass, or what looked to be grass (artificial, of course) placed on a very expensive Stickley Marlborough lamp table next to his bed. The table’s wood glowed nearly red when the light hit it just so, with its ebony inlay in stark contrast, on the south wall of the room, catching both the morning and afternoon sunlight.
That’s enough green in the room.
He walked into the adjacent bathroom with its pristine vintage black-and-white marble tile floor and walls, turned on the deluxe waterfall showerhead with a brushed-nickel finish from Restoration Hardware, waited until the water was almost painfully hot, then proceeded to stand under it, with his skin turning red for a half hour until the water began to cool, having used all forty gallons the water heater held.
He dressed carefully: jeans, long-sleeved fitted black T-shirt first and dark gray short-sleeved T-shirt on top, with just the right amount of the bottom T-shirt showing through. He donned a pair of black slip-ons—not that he wanted to appear trendy or upper class, but Taller hated the way sneakers and running shoes looked with jeans.
Everyone looks like they’ve got bad aching feet when they wear running shoes and they aren’t running—an awkward sort of tension that’s unsettling.
After wiping down the marble walls of his shower with a squeegee, he sprayed a new product that promised to clean shower walls without scrubbing, placed his wet towel in the plastic-lined wicker hamper, closed the lid, and switched off the lights. He walked slowly back into the living room, savoring the silence and luxuriating in the dim ambience. He saw the outlines of objects, catching only a glimpse of their true color, and was comforted by the precision of their placement. In the gathering dark he sat in the overstuffed Baker box armchair, covered with a soft plush fabric, and listened to the subtle creaking and groaning of the old house and the traffic three blocks away on Main Street. He waited, enjoying the near quiet, the solitude, and wondering where he might go tonight … debating if he would bring home whatever conquest he might meet out there.
And asking himself if it might be time to simply come home alone.
Oliver didn’t have much time to deliberate on any of his alternatives for the evening. He took a short shower, dressed quickly in khaki pants and a polo shirt, and shaved in a hurry, since he had not done so that morning. He checked his wallet—four twenty-dollar bills and a few singles.
If all we do is have a quiet dinner, that eighty bucks ought to be enough. But if she really wants to go someplace else afterward, then I’ll have to use a credit card for dinner.
Oliver didn’t like using credit cards, but some situations almost mandated their use.
Angelo’s is a nice enough place. I guess I could go for Italian tonight instead of the plain grilled chicken breast I was planning on having.
He attached his cell phone to his belt and grabbed a golf jacket from the closet.
Robert the Dog was on the leather sectional sofa, where he was not supposed to be. It was a familiar game they played. Robert would climb up on the cushion, like a mountain climber scaling a sheer ridge of ice and snow, clambering upward, struggling to gain a foothold. He would seldom jump, but rather, climbed. And even though Oliver would scold him, or pretend to scold him, Robert the Dog realized that Oliver was not being serious and would always allow him to stay up on the sofa—unless he had company and the company did not like dogs. And that seldom, if ever, happened, except with relatives.
Oliver patted the dog’s head. “I won’t be late. At least I’ll try not to be late.”
Robert stared at him obediently then laid his head back on his front paws, his eyes big and saucerlike, as if he intentionally wanted to appear abandoned.
Oliver closed the door to his apartment, making sure it was locked behind him, and hurried down the stairs. He went to the passenger side of the truck first and removed a couple of woodworking magazines, his Thermos, and his carpenter’s belt. He placed them all on the first step of the stairway up to his apartment, in the shadows, so no one could see them. He patted at the seat, wiping off any dust or crumbs or dog hair that might be there. Oliver wasn’t obsessively neat, but his truck was never excessively dirty, so having a human passenger didn’t require a wholesale cleaning.
If she hates a little dog hair, then, well, we could take her car.
He wondered what sort of car she drove. He tried to remember if he’d ever seen a car in her driveway, but for the life of him, could not recall its color or make.
He pulled up to her house, switched off the engine, and opened his door. The door to the house slapped open, a burst of light pouring out.
Paula, hurrying down the stairs, called back to her mother who remained in the doorway, “Don’t wait up, Mom. I’ll let myself in. You go to bed, okay? I know you’re tired.”
Paula was wearing some sort of stretch sweater or knit top under a different jacket than the one she wore to church, and jeans. Dressy jeans, Oliver thought, tight enough for him to notice that they were.
“Oliver, you stay there,” she called out when she saw him, “I can open the door myself.” She hurried around to the passenger door and hefted herself inside, sliding closer to him than he expected, more than midway across the bench seat.
She smelled of something … not fruity or flowery … but more earthy. Oliver was bad at identifying smells, but this aroma was more pronounced, more invasive and clunky than the subtle scent Samantha wore.
Now why in the world am I thinking of Samantha and the way she smells?
It may have been the first time in his life that he compared the scents of two different women.
“I’m so hungry, Oliver, you can’t believe it. I would have had lunch, but Bridget was fussing this morning, and it took everything to keep her happy and get her fed before I had to leave for work. After I dropped her off with the sitter, I remembered I didn’t pack my lunch. I know I could have bought a sandwich or something, but I hate spending five bucks on a crummy sandwich at the 7-Eleven.… ”
Oliver nodded as he drove, and she talked, thinking maybe it was okay she talked a lot because then he didn’t have to worry about carrying on a conversation with her.
Like I would with Samantha. I don’t have any idea what I would talk about with her. Maybe something about construction or renovation? With Paula I can just listen and nod, and it’s all okay. Guess that’s something good I could say about Paula. Things would never be quiet with her around.
By the time they reached Angelo’s in downtown Jeannette, Paula was describing her day and had only made it to her morning bre
ak. Oliver parked the truck and hurried around to open Paula’s door but only made it to the front bumper by the time she jumped down and slammed the door behind her.
“Do I need to lock it, or does your truck have one of those fancy remote-control locky things on the key?” she asked.
“It does, Paula. I’ll lock the doors.”
“I wish I had a fancy car too. I hate locking the car doors by hand. I never have anything inside, maybe the carseat, and who would steal that, right? And nobody’s going to steal a beat-up old Toyota, are they? Maybe some kids out for a joyride, but even then.”
A Toyota.
He held the door of the restaurant open for her.
“Why, Oliver, thank you,” she said.
Angelo’s was dark, darker than Oliver remembered. The two of them followed the maître d’ farther into the darkness to a table by a window with a view of the municipal parking lot and the old train station up on the hill.
“This is so nice.” Paula grabbed a breadstick. “I haven’t been here in ages. Remember when we dated—way back when? You took me here once.”
“I did? That I don’t remember so much,” he replied.
“We were in high school—after prom. I was so impressed.”
“You were?”
She patted his hand. “That’s okay. I remember all of it. Really.”
The waitress came and handed out menus. Oliver glanced at the prices first.
Credit card. Definitely credit card here, and cash later.
Midway through their meal (Paula had the veal parmigiana with a Caesar salad, minestrone soup, and two glasses of the house Chianti, and Oliver selected the traditional spaghetti and meatballs with Bolognese sauce, a house salad, and a diet soda), Paula paused and laid her fork down on her dish.
“I’m so happy we can do this, Oliver. I know I’m being way too aggressive since it’s the man’s place to do the asking and all that, but your mother said you don’t go out all that much. She really encouraged me to call you—and since we went out before … I don’t want you to feel bad or awkward or anything, but there’s nothing wrong with the two of us having a good time, is there?”
“No, it’s okay.”
“That’s good. Neither of us is getting any younger, right? Not that I want to rush things, but we had such a good time last Sunday and I’ve known you forever and can talk about anything with you—you know what I mean? We’ve been together before.”
Oliver paused in midtwirl of a mound of spaghetti. “I think I do.”
She took a long swallow of her wine, nearly draining the glass. “I’m not asking for anything long-term or a commitment … not really. But I do like being with you. Your mom said you haven’t been involved with anyone for a couple of years and that it’s about time you settled down. She said you wanted a person who went to church and believed in God and Jesus and all that, and that’s something I do—I think all that religion stuff is real important. And she said that if anything was going to happen, I’d better be the one that starts it ’cause you were usually so shy around women. So that’s what I’m doing, Oliver. I hope it’s okay with you.”
Oliver didn’t say anything since he hadn’t been asked a question, nor had he found an appropriate comment to interject.
“Going to church is nice and all, but I guess I could take it or leave it. But your mom said it’s real important to you. It is, isn’t it?”
Oliver chewed and swallowed and took a drink. “I like church. I enjoy going. I try to be the best Christian … believer … that I can be. You know, treat people nice, don’t cheat or steal, help others, all that sort of stuff. Love God and tell people about Jesus when you get the chance. It is important. The most important thing. Otherwise, life isn’t all that much. And if you want to get into heaven, you know …”
“Oh, sure. No one wants to wind up heading in the other direction. Duh! Going to church. Sure. I can do that. We could do that. Bridget loves her little Sunday-school class. She always comes home with something cute pasted together with Cheerios or macaroni or cotton balls. They’re all over the refrigerator—so adorable. She needs to be raised in a house that knows something about God and Jesus and heaven and all that, right?
Oliver nodded. “It’s important to me. I may not talk about it all the time, but it is. Knowing who God really is.”
Does Samantha know who God is? Jews know all about God, don’t they? I’m sure she’s heard about Jesus, too. But they don’t believe He’s the Messiah—
“That’s good, Oliver. I’m glad we’re on the same page about this. If it’s important to you, then it’s important to me.”
As Oliver speared a piece of his meatball, he wondered how she got to where they were so quickly without him noticing the speed of the trip and its ultimate destination. And as he considered the where and why and how, Paula raised her hand to the waitress, pointed at her wine glass, and offered both the waitress and Oliver a very big, almost lopsided grin.
Samantha finished her meal quickly. It seemed as if dining alone made her hurry, speeding through the food like a sprinter. She devoured the steak—petite, but fabulous—and thought the lobster very fresh. She consumed the entire baked potato, the crispy skin included, slathered with too much whipped butter, sour cream, bacon, cheese, and salt.
Dr. Rosen would kill me if he saw me killing myself with all this sodium and fat.
She poured a third cup of coffee, emptying the carafe, and slid the room-service table back into the hall. Samantha hated the way empty plates, dirty cloth napkins, and food scraps looked. Even if the plates had covers, she hated passing the used trays in the halls of a hotel, so she called room service again and instructed them to retrieve their delivery apparatus as soon as possible.
The TV had been left on, the chattering volume soft, the blue glow filling the room with flickering images. Samantha retrieved a packet of architectural drawings from her soft Gucci leather briefcase. She had let the architect know that she hated the long rolls of blueprints, the sort that always curled up and flopped about when trying to read them, so she instructed him to reproduce them, reduced, on legal-sized sheets that fit into a folder.
Flipping open the folder, she paged through the drawings, trying to visually construct a restaurant from the elegant, sharp lines on the page. She flipped the pages, staring at the basement reconfigurations. She could see the existing structure—the large open space labeled Fellowship Hall and the room where Oliver had set up his temporary quarters, next to where the shower was located. She wondered where he was this weekend, what he might be doing now, and if he had ever stopped and thought of her.
She shook the image out of her head, likening it to what she and lots of her friends used to do in seventh grade, writing a boy’s name over and over on a diagonal in her notebook, like the repetition of some romantic rosary.
It’s not like we really know each other, but I love talking to him. I know we’ve only been working on the place for a little while, but we’ve still been together a lot. I can tell he’s interested. I can always tell if a man is interested. But it’s not that sort of interest. Most guys just want to jump in the sack, but I think Oliver enjoys just being with me. He lights up. That’s what I see in his face. There’s something about him … so kind and gentle and passionate about his work. Sort of a bottled-up passion. Maybe that’s why I’m attracted to him … because I want to uncap him, let it out. And he seems so … reverent about his work. Like it’s a sacred thing, a promise he needs to keep. He takes care and time with everything he does. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much care—even in the demolition—as what I see with him.
She glanced up at the TV, staring at the muted action—some car-chase movie with people firing pistols out the windows at each other. She watched until the thoughts of Oliver cleared from her head then flipped the notebook to the second section. Here
she kept the designer’s renditions of the logo of her new venture—different approaches, different names. She had gravitated to the simple name: Blue.
If we want it to make sense, we’ll have to backlight the windows from the outside. At night, that blue will look like compressed ice, so blue it looks translucent, pellucid.
The name was done in ovals in one, in squares in another, and one was placed inside a cross—stylized, but still recognizable as a cross. That, Samantha knew, would be pushing the connection to the old use of the building and might be seen as verging toward bad taste.
The oval rendition, the letters done in an elegant 1930s font, had been her favorite. Here, in New York, the capital of all things sophisticated, the name still worked. The style still rang true, yet it was edgy in a nice way, not pushy and all in your face like cutting-edge design can sometimes be.
It’ll be Blue. I like that. I can hear people saying, “Where do you want to go tonight? Blue?” And, “Did you hear about the new place in Shadyside: Blue? It’s so cool.”
She picked up her phone and thumbed through the numbers. She stopped at Oliver’s number, hesitated only a moment, then pressed Send.
He won’t be answering his work number this late at night. I just want to leave him a message, that’s all.
She heard the call connect.
And this time will be different. I can change. I don’t have to be … what she said I was. I can change. It’s not my fate—no. I can choose.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“HELLO?”
“Oh … oh … Oliver? What are you doing answering your work phone so late?”
“Samantha?”
“I didn’t want to bother you. I was just going to leave a message. I’m sorry for disturbing you.”
