The Transformation

by Terri Kraus

  “I know Jewish people have a lot of rules about what they can and cannot eat,” Oliver said, “so I’m glad you found something you like.”

  “Oh, I don’t follow the kosher laws. My father does, most of the time. And my mother always kept a kosher kitchen. But after she died, well … lots of things changed. She was the religious one, but I decided that it wasn’t for me. I mean, all those years she tried to keep all those laws—did you know there are 613 of them? A lot of good it did her.”

  “Six hundred and thirteen? Really?”

  “Really, although there’s actually only about 77 positive laws and 194 negative laws that the rabbis say can be observed outside of Israel today.”

  “That’s still a lot of laws.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. Not only rules about what you can and cannot eat, but rules about what you do when you wake up in the morning, what you can and cannot wear, how to groom yourself, how to conduct business, who you can marry, how to observe the holidays and Shabbat—the Sabbath—how to treat other people, and animals.”

  “That sounds exhausting,” Oliver answered.

  “It is. It was. Although my father only keeps the basics and only insists I participate in observing the holidays—Chanukah, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur. Well, he doesn’t insist, but I do it out of respect. We still light the Shabbat candles, and he prays after meals. He goes to temple religiously but doesn’t demand that I go. I consider myself an ‘observant’ Jew. Although I think I’m a very spiritual person.”

  “And he’s okay with that?”

  “He would like to see me a bit more devout, like he is. But in my opinion, it reduces the religion to a set of rituals devoid of spirituality. Our rabbi says that, on the contrary, observing the laws increases the spirituality in a person’s life, because it turns the most trivial, mundane acts—like eating, getting dressed—into acts of religious significance, because you are constantly reminded of your relationship with the Divine, and it becomes an integral part of your entire existence.”

  “That’s interesting,” Oliver said. “So everything in your life can be an act of worship.”

  “It would be nice to think of it that way. But mostly, I think it makes everything in your life an act of guilt.”

  Oliver had so many things he wanted to say, but as he was puzzling over them, the waiter appeared to tell them about the specials of the evening. Oliver ordered something he had never heard of before called osso buco, but it was the chef’s specialty, and the waiter went on and on about it, claiming it was delicious and had veal in it. While Oliver was not always big on veal, and never cooked it for himself, this time it sounded good.

  Once the waiter departed, Samantha changed the conversation to the church project before Oliver had a chance to respond to what she’d said about her faith—or lack of faith. Soup came (Italian wedding soup), salad and rolls—not standard bread, but some sort of flat, hot, crispy bread flavored with garlic and rosemary—then both enticing entrees. Oliver and Samantha agreed that what they had chosen was perfect.

  Oliver was greatly relieved when she didn’t ask for a bite of his, nor offer him a bite of hers. You should be satisfied with what you order. Otherwise it could lead to being disappointed with having to eat your own meal.

  Oliver watched Samantha’s eyes light up when she spoke of her ideas for the restaurant and watched her hands as she drew quick sketches of a tile design on the table’s paper topper. He had never spent time with a woman who was so … vibrant, so passionate. He couldn’t help but compare her to Paula, who talked a lot, sure, but rarely said anything he’d remember afterward. But Oliver knew he’d be thinking about his conversation with Samantha long after the evening was over.

  To Oliver, the time slipped past like a spot of mercury held in your hand. Even though you were never to touch the silvery liquid metal, he knew what it looked like and remembered poking at it in a beaker during a science class in high school. All of a sudden, the meal was over, the second cup of coffee—named caffè latte—was consumed, and he was presenting the valet with the ticket that would claim his truck. Even though the service was free, he slipped the valet five dollars. He always felt sorry for people who had to work so hard for tips.

  On the way home, neither Oliver nor Samantha spoke much. In the past, Oliver would have felt all twisty and tense inside, knowing that his date was probably wondering why he wasn’t talking, thinking he was busy crafting an excuse to cut it off early, regretting the fact that she had said yes to him in the first place.

  But tonight, Oliver felt none of that—no tension, no projecting deep regret on Samantha. In fact, the silence felt good, normal. Both of them were smiling. It was obvious to Oliver that she was enjoying herself, even when not talking.

  “You don’t mind silences, do you, Oliver?”

  “You read my mind,” he replied.

  “I didn’t,” Samantha said, “but it’s nice to be with someone who feels assured enough not to chatter on about nothing, just to fill up the blank spaces. Some guys I’ve dated liked to vort on and on about sports. It’s not that I don’t like the Steelers or the Pirates, but I don’t necessarily need to hear an inning-by-inning, or quarter-by-quarter, recap of the last week of ball games.”

  “That’s good,” Oliver said, “because I don’t think I could do that. Don’t get me wrong, I like sports, but I’m not obsessed with them.”

  He walked Samantha to her front door, the whole time wishing the evening would last longer than it had and wishing he was the type of person who knew of a cool club they could go to where the music was soft and they could talk into the night. But he also knew that he had to work in the morning and figured that Samantha did too.

  “Well, Oliver-not-Ollie, I had such a nice time tonight. It was so sweet of you to ask me.”

  “My pleasure,” Oliver replied.

  Samantha stood in the doorway and opened the door a few inches. The gentle yellow light from inside glowed over her shoulder, backlighting her hair, making her eyes luminous even in the shadow.

  “Would you like to come in? My father isn’t home, and even if he was, he wouldn’t care. I’ve had visitors before. We could … get better acquainted. I’d like that.”

  Suddenly the gift of interpreting expressions returned to Oliver. He stared at her eyes. He knew what she meant. But then another look in her eyes struck Oliver as incongruous.

  She wouldn’t mind if I came in. I may be inexperienced, but I’m pretty sure. Yet I think she wants me to say no. And I want to say no. I just would never do that.

  “I would love to … but maybe some other time. I have some things to do to get ready for tomorrow. And Robert the Dog will need to go out. Is that okay?”

  Relief flashed in her eyes. “Sure.”

  She leaned toward him, maybe only an inch, and tilted her head even less than an inch. But even the inexperienced Oliver knew what that meant. He leaned too, and they met for what Oliver thought would just be a hug … but quickly it turned into something else altogether. He felt her lips on his—more than a good-night-and-thanks-for-dinner sort of kiss, more substantial and meaningful. Oliver did not show his surprise and let the kiss last as long as Samantha let it last. Finally, she leaned back and blinked, showing her surprise … and a sliver of satisfaction as well.

  She touched his lips with her two fingers. “I look forward to seeing you again, Oliver-not-Ollie. And not just at breakfast. Okay?”

  Oliver struggled to get his power of speech back. “Okay. Sure. I … I will see you tomorrow. But we should do this again. Dinner, I mean. And … you know …”

  She kissed him again, a short peck, a kiss of agreement, then slipped inside and closed the door.

  Oliver walked back to his truck in the driveway, wondering how in the world he would stop thinking about the feeling of her lips on his.

 
Tolliver stayed at his mother’s house for a while that evening, watching the early edition of the news with her, ignoring her angry comments on most of the subjects covered by the newscasters and her one-sided, incensed monologue at the world’s ills and foibles. He even sat through an entire episode of Dancing with the Stars, a show Taller found horribly insipid, but one his mother seemed to enjoy, despite her dismay at the racy outfits and her disapproval of everything Hollywood had to offer.

  “I like it when those movie-star big shots get taken down a peg or two,” she said.

  Tolliver would have explained that very few bona-fide stars ever participated in the show—more like a catalog of B- and C-level almost-celebrities—but the effort wasn’t worth his time.

  He said his good-byes, got into his truck, backed out of the driveway, and drove down the street, driving away from her house, then circling back, going a few extra blocks. He then parked a half block away from Paula’s home, well out of view of his mother’s windows.

  There’s someone else I’d like to take down a peg or two.

  He sat back in the truck and tapped his fingers on the dashboard.

  I’m sick of always being thought of as the bad son. “He’s such a good boy, that Oliver. Just like his father.” If I hear that one more time, I think I’ll puke.

  He locked the truck and brushed off his shirt and pants. An errant toast crumb wouldn’t fit his image.

  If I can’t have Samantha, then maybe I can have Paula.

  He walked up to Paula’s door and tapped ever so lightly.

  From inside he heard a rustling and a TV being muted or turned off. The door opened a few inches.

  “Taller!” Paula exclaimed, opening the door wide. “This is a surprise.”

  Taller waited outside, just on the landing, knowing that any eagerness on his part would be seen as suspect. He knew when to play situations on the cool, almost detached, side.

  “I was at my mother’s. She was talking about you and Oliver and you two dating again. I thought I’d just stop by and tell you how wonderful the news was. I mean that. Really.”

  Paula appeared to stop, midaction, for a moment. Taller could tell she was thinking. Then she stepped back, opened the door farther, and said in a warmer, more accommodating tone, “Come on in. Can you stay for a second or two? I don’t get that many callers. Gentlemen callers are even more rare.” Her giggle was muted.

  Taller waited, as if he were truly considering his choices. “Sure. If it’s okay, and if the baby’s asleep. I don’t want to intrude or anything. I only wanted to say how happy I am for you.”

  “No, it’s okay. Come on in. The baby has been asleep for hours. Sleeps like a log, that one. I was watching TV.”

  Taller stepped in and, without trying to be too obvious, took in the stack of dishes in the sink, spilling over the drainboard, the rumpled comforter on the couch, the empty pizza box on the kitchen table, and a quartet of empty beer cans in a jagged semicircle on the coffee table.

  “Well, just for a minute, to catch up a bit. It’s been years since we’ve talked, hasn’t it?”

  Paula switched off the light in the kitchen, the light over the dining-room table, and then the TV. “It’s been years, Taller. I see you around all the time, but we really haven’t talked or anything, have we?”

  Taller waited. The recliner in the living room had a stack of laundry, all in a tangled heap, apparently long out of the dryer, waiting to be folded and put away. There was an empty laundry basket on the floor next to the chair.

  “Come, sit on the couch. It’s more comfortable than that chair. My husband, or my ex, I should say, bought it right before he took off. I never liked it—yet I’m still paying for it.”

  Taller hoped his expression showed great concern and sympathy. It was an expression he’d practiced. He knew she saw it and considered it genuine.

  “I bet it’s been hard on you, Paula, hasn’t it?”

  She nodded. “Harder than you can imagine. No one asks about it. Like it never happened and no one really cares. Especially the guys. They just see a single woman … and I guess you know what that means, don’t you?”

  Taller nodded, his face still grave. “I don’t understand it. Why people don’t care. Why men, especially, can be so … insensitive.”

  Paula showed a brave smile. “But you understand, don’t you, Taller? You know how hard it can be. I can see that in your eyes. That’s such a dead giveaway—a man’s eyes. He can lie with his mouth, but his eyes tell the truth. I heard that in a song. I think I did anyhow. Some country-western song. But I bet you don’t listen to country stuff, do you?”

  He offered a shy grin. “Don’t tell anyone, Paula, but sometimes I do.”

  She waved her hand at him in a good-natured, friendly dismissal. “You’re just being nice. But—”

  He waited long enough to show he was really interested in what she was saying and thinking, then said, “No … go on. Tell me.”

  “Being alone. It’s hard sometimes. Being responsible for everything. I get so tired. I get tired of not having an adult to talk to. But maybe the biggest thing I get tired of is not being hugged.” She looked down, then said quickly, “I love Bridget and all that, but hugging her is not the same as being close to someone else. You ever wonder why little old ladies go to the beauty parlor every week?”

  Taller shook his head.

  “It’s not because they need their hair done. It’s because they don’t have anyone to touch them. They miss the physical touch. That’s what I think it is.”

  “Paula, you’re not only pretty but smart, too. Observant.”

  Paula blushed.

  Taller leaned in a little closer.

  “You’re sweet,” she said. “Like your brother. He doesn’t talk much. But I think he understands. You understand, too, don’t you?”

  He moved an inch toward her and saw that she moved an inch toward him. He held the smile that he felt. He put his arm up and around her shoulder. “I do understand, Paula. I do. A hard life. A hard time. Alone.”

  Paula hesitated, then leaned into him until her shoulder nestled in his open arm. “I don’t like being alone, Taller. Remember back in high school? Remember how much fun we had in that class we were in together? What was it? English?”

  Taller had little recollection of that class and none of Paula being in it but agreed anyway. “Sure. English. Mr. Marino, right? I always thought you were special back then, Paula. I can see why Oliver is interested in you.”

  “Really?” she replied.

  “Oh, sure. A pretty woman like you. Desirable. I’m jealous of him. I really am.” He reached out with his free arm and touched her forearm delicately with his finger.

  She placed her hand over his and leaned harder against him. He gave her shoulder a gentle pull, bringing her closer to him, and felt her grow soft against him, on the couch, with the comforter bunched on one side.

  Her head fell against his shoulder, and he pulled her even closer. She let him, even encouraged him by turning to him. Tilting her head back, she presented her waiting lips to him, her eyes all but closed, her palm open and relaxed on his thigh.

  Oliver returned to the church, parked his truck under the port cochere, and unlocked the front door. Robert the Dog was sitting just inside—not barking, but waiting to be excited when his master returned.

  “Hey, Robert,” Oliver said as he bent down. Robert bounced a bit, whining a little. He only whined when he was really excited. He sniffed at Oliver’s chin and face as if he wanted to know what he had eaten.

  Oliver snapped open his phone to see the time. “It’s not even 10:00 yet. Do you want to go for a walk, Robert? Maybe stop at the coffee shop?”

  Robert recognized the word walk and did his four-legged happy dance all around the vestibule of the church in anticipation. O
liver had hung the dog’s leash on a coat hook inside the door in the vestibule. Snapping the closure on the dog’s leash, he set out. He planned on taking a very long route—heading north on Aiken, south to Fifth Avenue, then west to the University of Pittsburgh area, past the Cathedral of Learning and the Heinz Chapel, both lit dramatically against the dark night sky, then back again to Negley, and up Walnut Street. Oliver wanted time to decompress from his dining experience—and more so, from what happened during the good-bye on the porch. A walk seemed like the perfect end to a most remarkable evening.

  Robert took the lead, never pulling hard at the leash, walking a few feet in front of Oliver, waiting at curbs for instructions. Oliver would point, and Robert would head off in that direction. The circuitous route took about thirty minutes to complete. Oliver was not walking fast, and Robert the Dog even gently tugged at the leash once or twice to speed things up. The pair turned onto Walnut at the light and walked up Shadyside’s main shopping street.

  The sidewalks had cleared for the most part, though a number of people were doing just what Oliver was doing: walking, taking advantage of one of the first mild evenings, a hint of the real warmth of spring in the air. Robert the Dog would walk closer to Oliver when the sidewalks were crowded, not wanting to interfere with others or unwilling to have his paws stepped on by some nonlover of animals.

  Oliver stopped outside the Coffee Tree Roasters shop, snagged Robert’s leash to an empty chair, and hurried inside to order a caffè latte and something sweet that he and Robert might share. He heard a bark, then another from outside, grabbed his coffee and scone, and hurried outside, thinking Robert might be the cause of the disturbance.

  He found Robert, standing up, tail wagging in a most friendly manner, and a very round basset hound on the sidewalk on its back, tongue lolling out, being as submissive as a fat, old dog could be. His master was barking at him, “Rascal, get up! Get off the sidewalk! He’s a friend. Get up, you silly old mutt.”