by Terri Kraus
“I only have the one phone with the one line, so … you can always know where I am, I guess.” A packet of silence, a clipped staccato, filled the phone. “What’s up?”
“Oh … uhh … what was it? … Oh, yes … the name. I settled on Blue. And I think I showed you the oval design. I’m not sure why I needed to tell you that now, this late, but … I really thought I was going to get your voice mail. This would have made much more sense as a voice-mail message. Then you could simply have hit Erase, and it would all be gone.”
“No, this is no bother. I like Blue. I think the oval design is great.”
“Okay then. Have a good weekend, Oliver. I’ll see you Monday.”
“Yep, Monday. You have a good time in New York, too … at … the—”
“Bar mitzvah.”
“Yeah … bar mitzvah. Have a good time. I mean, if you’re supposed to have a good time. I guess I’m not really sure what a bar mitzvah is. Do you have a good time at them?”
“That’s the plan. It’s a coming-of-age ceremony for a thirteen-year-old boy, but it’s really about the party afterward—lots of food, lots of drinks, lots of loud people. A good time if you like that sort of thing.”
She listened closely to the phone. She thought she heard music in the background but couldn’t be certain. She didn’t hear the noises of a party, though.
“Well, okay then, Miss Cohen. I’ll see you Monday.”
Miss Cohen? And his voice sounds a little strained. He’s with a woman.
“You will, Oliver. Have a nice night.”
She flipped the phone shut, almost angry, then wondered why she was almost angry. She knew why, of course, and wondered why she raced into these feelings, wondered why she was always arriving at emotional destinations before the person she might be with arrived there … or even started the journey.
“He was with a woman.”
And now it starts. Just like always.
Paula did her best not to appear upset, but her lips were narrower, tighter, more pursed than they had been all evening. She watched as Oliver snapped his phone closed and clipped it back onto his belt.
“No one ever calls me—that’s the funny thing about it,” he said, grinning.
Paula dabbed slowly, deliberately at her lips with her napkin. “Who was that? A client? This late? Isn’t that sort of … unusual? On a Friday night?”
Oliver again remembered his mother’s warning about shrugging. So he simply said, “A little. Sometimes clients have funny hours.”
“Does this one?” The looseness in Paula’s voice had disappeared, replaced with a very tight, very even tone.
“I guess. She’s in New York. At a bar mitzvah.”
As soon as Oliver said the words, he realized he shouldn’t have said them. He could read Paula’s thoughts from her expression: And just how do you know she’s in New York? And attending a—what? Do the two of you have intimate talks while you’re working? Or maybe over drinks after hours? Is that it, Oliver?
“Oh,” Paula replied, making it clear she had a lot more to say than the single word she’d offered.
“She mentioned it to me in passing, I guess,” Oliver said, not really knowing why he felt an obligation to explain. “She talks a lot.”
Paula nodded. Displaying great control, she reached for her wine glass and took a small swallow. “What’s a bar mitzvah, anyhow?” she asked, her tone almost dismissive.
This time Oliver did shrug. “I don’t know. Some sort of Jewish thing. I think it’s kind of like being confirmed or something.”
“Jewish?”
Apparently that was the only word Paula heard.
“Yeah.”
“Did she go with her husband?”
“No, I don’t think so,” was all Oliver answered.
Paula finished her wine, set the glass down, and pushed her plate a few inches away. Oliver noted she’d only eaten half of the veal and knew Robert the Dog would love the rest but didn’t think this was the most perfect time to ask if he could have a doggy bag.
Oliver drove back toward Paula’s house. She didn’t ask to go elsewhere, for drinks and dancing or whatever she might have had in mind before Oliver’s woman client called and interrupted the mood.
And it is a little late. Dinner took longer than I thought.
He waited for a car to cross the intersection at Gaskill Avenue.
It was only a phone call. And it’s not like we’re dating … really. I like Paula and all; she’s a nice person, and she’s pretty, but this is sort of fast … isn’t it? Maybe being past thirty and single means you don’t spend as much time playing games. Maybe it’s better that you just go after what you want … or what would be best for you. Settling down wouldn’t be all that bad. Have someone to be there when you came home … besides Robert the Dog, that is.
His truck labored up the hill by the rubber works.
I am thinking about settling down. Maybe this is the right time. Maybe with Paula. She’s nice. I’m ready, right?
Paula turned to him as he downshifted into second. She slid closer on the bench seat, much closer than she was on the trip into town, her knees just touching him, and placed her hand on his forearm. Oliver glanced over but did not want to stare.
I don’t need to be choosy. No … I have no right to be choosy. I’m not like Taller, who can have any woman he wants. Paula is nice. She works hard and is a good mother and all that. She’s pretty, too.
He downshifted into first and the truck lurched.
I could do worse. And she’s here. She’s available.…
“Oliver, I didn’t mean to go all silent on you back at the restaurant. I didn’t expect a phone call from a woman during our dinner, that’s all. I know she’s a customer and that you have to be nice to customers. My mom’s second husband was a builder, and she always said they were interrupted at all sorts of times by phone calls or people at the door and whatnot. So it’s okay. I don’t mind that you get phone calls or anything like that.”
He stopped at the stop sign just past the crest of the hill.
“So … I mean, let’s not go home to my place right now. My mom is there and everything.”
Oliver was glad she wasn’t upset but surprised at her mood and its quick turnaround. “Where do you want to go?”
Paula drew closer to him and slipped her arm into his, even though he still had to use it to steer. “We … we could go back to your place. I’d really like to see it. Your mother said it’s gorgeous—like out of a magazine.”
She snuggled even closer. “Please, Oliver. It’s not that late yet, and I don’t want to go home. I know you’re not a drinking man, being a churchgoing man and all. So can we? Just for a minute?”
Oliver pulled around the corner and slowly drove past Paula’s ranch house. The blue flickering light from a TV filled the living room.
“She’s still up. My mom’s a sort of night owl, so we can’t go to my place. And Bridget might wake up, so even if I sent my mom home … you know.”
Oliver did not know but turned the corner and slowed down as he neared his driveway. He felt that prickly feeling again and decided it was not entirely unwelcome and not entirely uncomfortable, but more like that tingling, slow-to-awake feeling after a stiff leg falls asleep and then wakes up.
“Please, Oliver. Just for a few minutes. I haven’t been out for months, and I don’t want to go home right now. Okay?”
And with that she dropped her head onto his right shoulder. It was obvious she didn’t mind him moving beneath her, steering the car, and she let go of his arm and instead used her right arm to almost encircle his chest, holding him close.
“Please, Oliver. What do you say?”
Shadyside never grew completely dark; few places within a city ever did. There were streetlig
hts and stoplights and house lights and cars, so darkness—losing-your-hand-in-front-of-your-face darkness—was instead reserved for the country, far away from buildings and people. Barth Mills held tight to his dog Rascal’s leash and walked slowly along South Aiken Avenue. He liked the absolute darkness of a moonless night, far away from houses and cars and cities and even villages. He liked sitting in a tent, staring at a cloud-filled sky, with darkness as a blanket. All the chatter that lived in men’s heads disappeared in that darkness. It was a solitude that offered peace, comfort.
But he hadn’t been in such darkness for over five years now, not since being removed from his final—so far—pastorate way up in Kane County. Some of the congregation had deep suspicion and anger over trivialities; it had fermented for years. Then it exploded, taking Barth and his pastorate with it. Now past the government’s recommended age for retirement and nearing most denominations’ mandatory retirement age, he figured he’d never have the chance to darken a pulpit again.
He missed the dark quiet of the forest. He could have gone camping, but it all seemed like so much work. His tent was probably not in his cozy apartment—more likely in the storage space on Negley Avenue that he had to rent when he returned to Pittsburgh. But at this moment, in the semidarkness, he couldn’t locate in his head just where that tent might be.
I couldn’t have sold it in that blasted garage sale, could I?
Rascal tugged at the leash, like he always did. Rascal was a small, low-to-the-ground basset hound with loose skin. His fleshy jowls, larger than they should be according to the standards of the breed, were wet with hints of saliva and slapped back and forth as Rascal and Barth walked.
When the dog jerked ahead, Barth stumbled on a break in the sidewalk. He caught his balance at the last moment, causing nearly as much pain due to stretched muscles as the fall would have caused with scraped knees.
“Hold, Rascal, blast you,” he barked out. “Hold. Stay. Sit. Stop it, stop pulling!”
Since it was late and almost dark, he didn’t want to shout as loudly as he felt like shouting. He had no desire to be classified as one of those almost-crazy people wandering the streets, nor thought stranger than he already knew he was.
Barth vowed at that moment to have Rascal’s ears checked next time they visited the vet, which was proving more frequent than Barth’s own visits to one of his doctors.
“Maybe he can’t hear me anymore. Maybe that’s it,” he muttered as the two of them set off again. He stopped at the corner where Central Presbyterian Church used to stand. The building still stood, of course, but it was no longer a church—that he knew. He saw the hulking shadow of the Dumpster by the port cochere.
“They’re not tearing it down, are they?” he said aloud to Rascal, his words nearly shrill. “They can’t. It’s too beautiful. Not this church too.”
Rascal yanked at the leash, and even though Barth was better braced this time, he nearly tipped over again, yanking back as Rascal began growling. He no longer barked. At fifteen years old, the ancient basset could only rumble, a sort of phlegm-clearing hark-hark-hark that Barth found endearing, or at least, not completely aggravating. He did this when near the presence of other dogs.
Barth listened closely and heard no other dogs nearby. “Rascal, shut up. There’s no one here. No dog.”
They came closer to the Dumpster. Barth could see the building permit tacked to the door but knew he couldn’t read any of it in the dark with his eyesight. Though a building permit normally didn’t provide any details, Barth felt reassured because it usually meant renovating, not demolition.
“That’s the problem, Rascal. All the relics, all what was once good and noble and beautiful, is being lost and trampled by progress.”
Rascal waffled and harked his reply, his nose lifted up high as if placing a wet finger in the air to determine the direction of the wind.
“Like anyone cares,” Barth grumbled to himself. “Maybe I don’t care so much anymore. A church isn’t walls; it’s people.”
The two of them shuffled down South Aiken Avenue, Barth wondering if he should stop at the Giant Eagle farther down the street and buy some dinner—maybe a roast chicken—then remembered he had Rascal with him. If he tried to tie the dog to some fixture outside the store, the dog would turn apoplectic in Barth’s absence, attempting to summon up the strength to manage an actual bark.
“No … too late for shopping.”
As they turned on Summerlea, where they lived now, Barth remembered that he still had half a loaf of bread left and that toast and coffee might be all he’d need to feel satisfied this evening.
He ran his hand through his hair, now a silvery gray.
He was pretty sure Rascal had a full bowl of food as well.
“What more could either of us ask for?” Barth said almost too loudly, without sarcasm or self-pity, to no one but himself and his dog in the almost darkness on the short, and not entirely pleasant, Summerlea Street. “Dear God, what more could I ask for?”
“For just a little while, Paula, okay?”
It appeared that Paula suppressed a giggle. “Most guys want to get me into their place, and here you are, being so cautious about it. It’s like you’re nervous about what I might do to you. Are you nervous, Oliver? Think I might be able to overpower you and force myself on you?”
Oliver’s laugh was indeed nervous, but he hoped Paula didn’t notice. “No. I don’t mind you coming up. Really. I just don’t want to … you know … start rumors or anything.”
“Well, aren’t you sweet? I mean that,” Paula said as she squeezed him tighter. “Most guys could care less about that. You know, a divorced woman with a baby.”
Oliver navigated his truck into the driveway. The windows on his mother’s house were still dark. She went to bingo at the Catholic church, which lasted until 10:00 and often went out with friends—usually to Denny’s, she said, where they had coffee and pie and talked. Oliver suspected the group may have coerced his mother into going to a tavern with them once or twice, but not a tavern in Jeannette where she might be recognized. It would have to have been over in Latrobe, or even Ligonier.
He switched the engine off, jumped from the cab, and hurried around to the passenger side. This time Paula waited for him, extending her hand so he could help her down to the driveway.
“Careful on that first step. I put some tools and stuff there earlier.”
“I see it. No problem.”
Oliver could hear Robert the Dog jump down from somewhere as he turned the key—bed, sofa, or easy chair. The dog’s black nose poked itself into the door opening.
“Back, Robert. Back up.”
Robert eyed the stranger with great intensity and slowly came to her side, sniffing loudly, his canine eyes focused upward.
“Oh, you have a dog. I knew that, didn’t I? What a cute doggy,” Paula said, not bending down, not offering to scratch his ears, not leaning in to accept a doggy welcome. Not at all.
As soon as the dog backed up, Paula entered the center of the main room and twirled about. “This is so beautiful. Your mother was right. This is out of a magazine—one of those architect magazines that are way too expensive to buy. I can’t believe this is built over a garage—and in Jeannette. Just beautiful. You are full of surprises.”
Oliver’s home hadn’t received that many visitors and guests. It wasn’t large enough for a party, really, so only his closest friends ever saw his work. Paula’s compliments felt nice, warming.
“And you’re neat. That’s unusual. For a man, I mean. But then, you were neat back when we dated, weren’t you?”
Paula looked into the bedroom area and into the bathroom and swirled to the screened porch.
“The town almost looks too pretty from up here,” she said, then came back in and dropped casually on the sofa, not appearing to care about manners
. “Maybe a bit too much wine, Oliver. I think it was deliberate. You were giving me too many drinks because you wanted to take advantage of me.”
She looked up, tilted her head, and patted the seat next to her. “Are you going to take advantage of me, Oliver? Like old times?”
Taller unlocked his door and slipped in sideways, closing it firmly behind him, latching the lock, then setting the chain into the slot. The streetlight across the way was bright enough. He set his keys in the cobalt bowl on the table, slipped his shoes off, picked them up, and walked into his bedroom without touching a light switch. He came back into the kitchen in his socks. Underneath the microwave was a light, which Taller switched on from the keypad on the sleek, stainless steel unit. The commercial stove glistened underneath, all six burners immaculate.
Taller hesitated. He wanted tea but debated whether he should use the microwave or the gas burner and a teakettle to heat the water. He had an electric teakettle on the counter, providing yet another option. He looked at each one and decided that making tea with hot water boiled on the stovetop felt the most authentic—maybe because he rarely used it. He let the water run till cold, then filled the kettle with more than enough water and turned the dial on the stove. The blue flame flickered on, and he set the kettle exactly on the middle of the burner.
He took out one mug, one tea bag—Russian Royalty, advertised as the choice of discriminating chefs. He waited at the stove until the water boiled, then filled the cup and poured the remaining hot water down the drain and set the kettle on one of the unused burners. He added two scoops of sugar to the tea, opened the cabinet over the sink, took out the dish that was just the right size for a teabag, and carried both the cup and the dish to the kitchen table.
Taller had visited the Point Bar for a while that evening, then Mr. Toad’s, and the Touchdown Club in Latrobe. He had purchased three draft beers, one at each establishment, had drunk no more than a third of each glass, and now sat at his kitchen table with four phone numbers scrawled on the backs of his business cards. He set the four cards on the table, in a row, top to bottom.
