by Terri Kraus
While Rose considered gambling a sin, as well as playing the lottery, she felt bingo a fine activity. After all, it was played in the Catholic church, or at the VFW hall—for a good cause, probably—and the veterans wouldn’t do anything that was illegal.
It was the first time in months that Rose had won one of the final big-money games. It’s almost enough to pay for a bridal shower. Paula could use a few new things, and it would be nice to give her something special.
She tucked the money back in the envelope. She would place her winnings in the dented gunmetal gray lockbox tucked into a corner of the guest-room closet.
A tinny, sharp thought poked into Rose’s musings. I know this might be putting the cart before the horse, but I’ll sit down with Oliver soon … tell him it’s time. He knows he needs to be married, and Paula is a good girl. She’ll make him a good wife.
She sipped at the coffee, not minding the bitterness. He’s a good boy. He’ll listen to me. He’s always been a good boy. Just like his father, but not disappointing and weak. And not like Tolliver, who lies to his own mother. A good boy. A good boy who will obey his mother.
Oliver checked his watch: past 10:00 p.m. now. He stood in the former sanctuary of the church. It was dark, silent. He scrolled through the numbers on his contact list. He came to Pratt Brothers, then hit Send and waited. The eldest Pratt had said they let all calls go to voice mail after dark.
“Don’t like pickin’ up the phone after the sun goes down,” Henry had admitted once.
A most curious affection, Oliver thought, but no worse than anyone else.
The connection clicked, and Oliver listened to the familiar instructions before he said, “This is Oliver Barnett. I know you said you’d be here tomorrow, Tuesday, but I wanted to let you know tonight. I’ve decided to use you on the job in Shadyside. I know what you did way back when in Ohio—but like you said, you’ve paid your debts. You’ve always worked hard, and you’ve always been honest with me. That’s more than I can say for a lot of the subs I’ve had over the years who haven’t been to prison. So … come on in, plan to start. I think we’ve got maybe three months of solid work ahead of us. Maybe four, or even five—depends on what we run into. So … I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He clicked the red End button, disconnecting the call, and snapped the phone back into its holster on his belt. Robert had been watching him as he spoke. Robert looked full, and after half a scone, Oliver was sure he was. The two of them headed downstairs, switching off lights as they descended.
In a moment, Robert was curled up in his bed. Oliver lay on his cot, his hands behind his head, staring into the gentle darkness. From the corner of his eye, he could see his wind-up alarm clock: 10:24.
Closing his eyes, he tried to picture Samantha’s face just as she turned her head and let her eyes all but flutter shut. He could still feel her lips—welcoming, inviting—and smell the soft scent that entwined the very air around her.
He blinked, trying to focus on nothing, and Paula came to mind again. Peering toward the clock, he realized that, tonight, sleep might be hours away. From the end of the bed, he heard the canine whistle and snore from Robert and wished, for a moment, that his life might be that uncomplicated.
CHAPTER TWELVE
PAULA ROUSED HERSELF from her disturbed sleep in the recliner in the living room. The sun had not even broken the horizon. Her head felt tight, almost painful, as she shuffled to the kitchen sink for a large glass of cold water. Blinking several times, she swept the empty cans into the trash bin kept under the sink, folding the greasy pizza box in half and sliding it in as well. She grabbed the clean laundry off the floor by the recliner where she had tossed it, placed it back in the plastic basket, and carried it to her bedroom. After dumping it all on the bed, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt.
She listened closely at Bridget’s door.
Still asleep. Such a good sleeper.
Rather than wait for the percolator to work, she switched on the electric kettle and found the near-empty jar of instant coffee she kept on hand for situations like this.
I’ll need to get more coffee, and I’ll need to get another “emergency bottle” for the pantry. Maybe I should get a regular-sized bottle. It would probably be cheaper that way. The liquor store always has something on sale.
Paula had always bought the small bottles of alcohol, usually inexpensive whiskey, figuring that a full bottle might encourage her to drink more, and more often.
As she placed the last dirty dish in an already-full dishwasher, she heard what might be a tapping at her door. The clock above the refrigerator indicated 6:45.
Who could that be … so early?
Paula pulled the window blind out a bit. If you stood just so, you could see the front step.
Rose Barnett stood on the stoop, clutching the lapels of a large, wrinkled raincoat tight to her throat.
Paula opened the door quickly. “Rose,” Paula said in a loud whisper, “is something wrong? What’s happened?”
Rose slipped inside without being asked. “Nothing’s wrong,” she whispered back, “but we need to talk. I knew you’d be up. I saw the lights on in the kitchen.”
“I’m making coffee. Do you want some?”
“Okay,” Rose replied, opening the raincoat to reveal yet another faded and ill-fitting exercise outfit that never saw the inside of a gym. “Black is okay. If you have milk, that would be okay too. I bet you have milk, with a little one in the house.”
Paula placed two cups on the table, both pale with milk, some artificial sweetener, and two spoons. Rose ignored the sweetener and took the closest cup.
“You said we needed to talk, Rose. About what? Is Oliver in some sort of trouble?” Paula asked.
“Heavens, no,” Rose replied. “Other than desecrating a church, Oliver is fine. He’s a good boy. But we do need to talk about him, you and I.”
Her thinking still fuzzy, Paula waited for Rose to explain herself, knowing she couldn’t do a thorough job of interrogating the older woman.
But Rose paused, as if she were waiting for Paula to ask more questions, as if giving her fuzzy thinking a chance to clear. Rose took a long drink, placed the coffee cup down, and folded her hands in front of her. “We need to get Oliver to commit.”
Paula resisted the urge to blink in surprise. “Commit? To what?”
Rose sighed, an almost-frustrated sigh. “To marry you, of course. He’s ready. You’re ready. Why should you both waste time dilly-dallying? He needs to know that it’s time to commit. Time to get married. I know this may not be the most romantic approach, but Oliver is a good boy. He’ll listen to me. And he respects you. He likes you. He really does. I’m sure of that. But maybe he’s too nice of a boy—if you know what I mean. Too nice means too kind and that means not enough courage. He’s the kind of a boy who always needed a nudge or two to get into action. It will all fall into place with the proper encouragement. The right guidance.”
“Marriage?”
Rose sighed again, loudly, as if she was explaining something very simple. “When Oliver’s father and I got married, we knew each other for less than a month. You and Oliver have known each other since high school. You dated for a long time. Now when Oliver’s father and I decided to get married—well, it was on the spur of the moment. But I knew it was right and pushed him. I had to. Otherwise, he would still be trying to decide. And that was how it was back then. Oliver is like his father. A wonderful man, but needs a lot of encouragement. He needs a big push. He knows that being married is a good thing. He needs us both to … all three of us have to … be on the same page. He’s a good Christian boy, and he needs a wife. And you need a husband.”
Rose glanced around the room. “You don’t want to live like this for the rest of your life, do you? In a tiny house with no one to come home to and no future?
You want to be married, don’t you?”
Paula nodded. “I guess. I mean, I do. I just don’t want to force Oliver. We were close way back when, but even if I wanted him to … ask me, I’m not sure if—”
Rose waved off her concern. “Please,” she said a little condescendingly. “You’ve known each other forever. You two dated for years and years back then. You know each other better than most people who get married. Oliver needs a good Christian woman, a woman who has been born again. You are born again, right?”
Paula nodded. “Sure. Yeah. I’m born again. Of course.”
“That’s what he needs. A good Christian woman. You’re pretty, attractive, a nice person. And you like Oliver, right? You need to treat him right, Paula. You have to be a good girl, but you have to get his attention. Do you know what I mean? Men like … well, they like things that maybe a good woman thinks are disgusting. I know how it is. Men are different than women. This whole sex thing is something I never cared much for. But I guess men do. Sometimes even a good girl has to get a man’s attention. Sometimes you might have to … you know. You do like Oliver that way, don’t you? I mean … you find him attractive … that way. Right?”
Paula felt as if the house had been caught up in a tornado that was spinning everything out of control, changing everything normal into what wasn’t so normal, and making the expected the unexpected. “Sure, Rose. I like Oliver a lot. He is such a sweet guy. And handsome.”
Rose snorted softly. “Handsome doesn’t last. It doesn’t pay the bills. Oliver’s brother—Tolliver—you know him, right? He’s the handsome one. And he uses women like shoes. God hates him for that. I know He does. Women fall all over him. You are much better off with a man like Oliver. Solid, dependable. Stay away from men like Tolliver. Nothing but trouble.”
For a split second Paula panicked, wondering if Rose had seen Taller enter last night, had somehow peered through Paula’s windows and seen what had transpired in the dark, with Bridget soundly sleeping in the next room.
Oliver held a clipboard in his hand and placed a tick mark on one line, halfway down on the third sheet of a yellow legal pad, the edges curled and wrinkled. It was several weeks into the work schedule, and the first and second pages were heavy with tick marks, each indicating one part of the project that had been completed. The basement was nearing completion—or at least Oliver’s part of it. Kitchen walls were framed, drywall hung, taped, and primed. The electrical conduit had been installed. A sprinkler system ran along the ceiling. A nonslip sanitary flooring would be laid last, covered with a protective layer until all the appliances were installed.
The new stairway to the basement was under construction. The building engineer located a spot, just off the kitchen, and below the east side of the platform, where the rafters were not bearing any floor load and where four beams could be installed for stability. The Pratt brothers had cut through the floor, placed support beams, and built railings around the opening on the first floor. They were in the middle of constructing a double-wide staircase, with wider-than-code-called-for treads and risers. Bringing food upstairs would be taxing to a waitstaff, and Oliver wanted to make sure the steps were safe and easy to climb—even though the city’s code of building did not call for it.
Oliver’s kitchen contractor was scheduled to start the following Monday.
There was a large empty space in the basement that would remain untouched—the former Fellowship Hall. Samantha had decided to let the next owners do with it what they wished, and for now, it would be used for storage. So Oliver didn’t have to worry about it.
The upstairs looked more and more like a restaurant every passing day. The bar, where the platform had been, was almost complete, except for the long polished walnut top—due in any day. Plumbing had been tricky to accomplish, pipes being snaked and jimmied along steel girders and basement rafters. It had been roughed in to support multiple sinks in the bar area, for faucets and wastewater.
Every project Oliver had ever worked on had its own set of peculiarities and challenges, and regardless of how meticulously planned, each one progressed at its own rate. With some jobs, everything went right, and schedules were easily met or exceeded. Some projects seemed as if conceived in a black cloud, and no matter what Oliver might aspire to, the schedule lengthened and then lengthened again, much to his dismay, as well as to the consternation of the owner.
Some parts of the current “Blue Church” project, as Oliver had begun to refer to it, were completed faster than Oliver had imagined; some resisted completion. But, overall, he was well within his projected schedule parameters, plus or minus a week or so.
And to make the job more gratifying, Samantha Cohen was satisfied with the work Oliver was doing. The Pratt brothers were proving to be an inspired choice—hard workers, creative, and each with what Oliver called a “servant’s heart.”
“‘Servant’s heart’?” Samantha had asked, puzzled, when he first used the term.
“I’m pretty sure the term isn’t in the Bible,” he explained, “but it talks a lot about the trait. Preachers use the term a lot. It means that people are willing to listen and do what they’re asked to do joyfully. When I first started out in the business, I worked for a couple of fellows who always knew more than their clients, would argue about the right way to do things, and insist that the client was stupid for wanting a project the way they wanted it.”
“I know people—builders mostly—who do the same thing,” Samantha said wryly.
“I told myself that if I ever had my own business, I would do what the client wanted me to—you know, unless it was against code or dangerous or something. I wouldn’t argue with them just because I’d have done it differently. I might discuss it, but I’d never argue. Well, the Pratt brothers do what I ask, they do it well, they find ways to make things better, and they’re always cheerful. Hard to find those qualities in the world of contractors.”
“Amen to that,” Samantha answered.
This particular morning, Samantha had appeared, as usual, around 9:00 with a bag of breakfast treats and a tray of coffee. The Pratt brothers were all in love with her, perhaps because they had begun to associate her with food and a welcome pause in their work. They clamored about her when she came in, polite as fifth-graders trying to pass an etiquette class; their normal, more boisterous language and demeanor subdued. They each had their new favorite items, and even though Samantha would try to get them to taste some more “exotic” Jewish bakery items, they were all creatures of extreme habit.
Oliver, as was now his custom, would continue working while Samantha entertained the Pratt brothers, waiting until they were finished so he and his client could talk uninterrupted.
“I’m just going to have coffee this morning,” he said as he refused the bakery box. “I usually lose weight when I’m working this hard. But on this job, I’m pretty sure that hasn’t happened.”
“A proper Jewish mother is not happy unless everyone is well fed, Oliver-not-Ollie. You’re willing to let a little pudge upset my religious, maternal instincts?” She tried to sound hurt, but Oliver knew, and she knew, that her facade was paper-thin.
“I guess so,” he replied. “I hope you also have a tradition of forgiveness, Samantha.”
She waved off his apology and explanation. “You know, O-not-O, I often wonder how much of what we do depends on our parents and how they tried to imprint us. Like a swan. Remember that documentary on TV where a bird guy—ornithologist?—raised some baby geese or swans or whatever kind of bird they were, and wore a goose mask and used an ultralight plane to teach them to fly? That’s what my parents did with food. Being full, having a more-than-satisfied stomach, is very important. Food is love.”
Oliver sat in the pew opposite her and watched her as she spoke, the way she used her hands to color the air, the way she tilted her head back when she laughed, the way her eyes were lit when
she felt passionate about a subject. He would have liked to sit next to her but wondered what it would look like to the crew. Since their one dinner out, they had not been alone together—not for a lack of trying, but due to circumstances. Samantha had asked him to lunch once, but Oliver had to be in court fighting a parking ticket he felt was undeserved. He’d asked Samantha out to dinner a second time, and she’d begged off with great sorrow because of a Passover event with her family, scheduled weeks prior.
“Oliver, can you slip away for a few minutes this morning?” she asked. “I want to show you some glass tile I saw at the Molto Bella store on Walnut. I want to ask your opinion of how it might look in that backsplash idea for the bar I told you about. These design details can be overwhelming, and sometimes I can’t sort out what’s best without the opinion of someone I trust.”
“Sure,” he said. “We’re pretty much on schedule. I can spare a half hour or so.”
“We can walk down. It’s not really raining, just sort of misty.”
“We won’t melt,” Oliver replied.
He grabbed his coat, told a most disappointed Robert the Dog to “Stay,” and called out to Taller that he would be back in a few minutes. Taller acknowledged his departure with half a wave, preoccupied with marking the dimensions on a series of risers for the new basement stairs.
Samantha didn’t bother buttoning her coat. She twirled about, once, on the sidewalk.
“I just love spring,” she said. “The air is just so perfect—even in the city. Everything smells … so fecund, you know what I mean, O-not-O?”
Oliver didn’t. Samantha often used Jewish words and other odd words that he’d either never heard of or had no clue of their meaning. Fecund was a new one. He imagined it had something to do with the hint of new birth, or buds, or new leaves on plants. He tried to force himself to remember the word so he could look it up that evening in the dictionary he’d brought from home, specifically to respond to Samantha’s larger-than-his vocabulary.
