The Transformation

by Terri Kraus

  “That’s good.”

  She placed her glass on the coffee table, not even looking for a coaster, then reached over and took Oliver’s left hand in hers. “I like you being here. I was serious when I said I wanted us to do dinner again … or get together again … in a social setting, and not just business. This is okay with you, too, isn’t it?”

  Oliver told himself not to be eager. He told himself that he liked her company. He told himself that Paula was waiting for him back in Jeannette. He told himself that he and Samantha had so many differences between them, including their faith, that anything more than friendship would be foolish to imagine. He told himself that he was not the sort of man who could overlook, or ignore completely, a woman with a tarnished background, who’d had all sorts of intimate encounters with other men. Even though she hadn’t said as much, it was what Oliver imagined to be true.

  “Sure, I like being here. I like being with you.”

  Samantha squeezed his hand in response. “Good. I’m glad.” She didn’t let his hand go but released it to a degree so she could entwine her fingers with his. “Strong hands.”

  “Have to use them for work.”

  “And other things, Oliver? Do you use them for other things?”

  Maybe she’s just being funny. Maybe it’s her sense of humor. But he saw her eyes—deep and glowing. No, she’s not being funny.

  “I guess,” he replied.

  “I’m making you nervous, aren’t I?” she said softly.

  “Well … maybe a little.”

  Samantha squeezed his hand again. “I like that. Ata chamud—you’re so cute. A man who admits to being a little nervous is a good thing. Charming. Innocent.”

  Oliver knew this required more than just a nod. Words, actual words. “Samantha—” he said.

  She looked up at him.

  “—you said innocent. I know that’s a corny word to use to describe a guy. Of course I know what goes on and all that. With men and women, I mean. Maybe inexperienced is a better word. Pure, even. I’m that sort of man.”

  Samantha’s eyes grew wide. She sat up a bit straighter, her shoulders back in surprise. Oliver knew he had to continue before she started asking questions and getting him entirely flummoxed.

  “I’ve dated some women. I mean, I’ve always dated women. It’s not like I just started.”

  Samantha offered a sweet, considerate, kind laugh. “Oliver. I know you’re not gay.”

  Oliver breathed a sigh of relief but still had something to explain. “Okay. So I’ve dated women. But I’ve never … I want to be pure when I get married, Samantha. So I haven’t, you know, with a woman.”

  Samantha lowered her head and peered in closer at Oliver. “Never?”

  Oliver shook his head.

  “Never?” she repeated.

  He took a deep breath. “I’ve had chances, opportunities. I’m not like an angel or anything. But my faith, being a Christian, is really important to me. And the Bible says it’s wrong to … to act like you’re married when you’re not. So I never did.”

  Samantha kept hold of his hand but leaned back into the sofa cushion.

  Oliver waited. “So you have to say something, okay? I don’t mind the silence when we’re together … except that I mind it now.”

  Samantha shook her head. “That is a speech I never anticipated, O-not-O. It may take a little while to sink in. I had thought you were going to say something about me being a nice Jewish girl and you not being Jewish, and I was going to say that it was okay because I’ve dated Christian men before, and everyone went away happy, if you know what I mean. But I guess they weren’t the sort of Christian man that you are.”

  Oliver did not speak.

  “Oy. Wow,” Samantha added, nodding to herself.

  “Is that a bad oy, or a good wow, or a maybe-we’ll-see sort of wow?”

  Samantha laughed, dropped his hand, and in a sweet, quick move, embraced Oliver harder than a hug should be. When she broke the embrace, Oliver patted at his ribs.

  “I thought you might have cracked something,” he said, smiling.

  She playfully hit his shoulder. “I don’t know why I did that. But I have to tell you: I’ve never been more attracted to someone than I am to you right now.”

  And that’s when she grabbed him again and held him tight, at least until Mally banged against the door to the kitchen. She came back into the room, carrying a tray of cheese and crackers on a plate, and stared hard—angry hard—at both of them.

  Back in the kitchen, Mally put the empty tray down, then leaned against the counter and folded her arms across her chest.

  Dat one, he gonna fall fast and hard. De real nice ones … dey always do. Dey always do.

  Oliver made it back to the church and to a very angry Robert the Dog just before 10:00. Robert stared up at Oliver, his dog eyes narrow, staring over his shoulder as he trotted outside. He moved with great deliberateness that evening as Oliver waited at the top of the back stairs, not wanting to call Robert and cut short his outdoor time.

  Robert trotted back up the steps, right past Oliver, not stopping for a moment, and kept on walking down the steps to the basement and out of sight. He went straight to his sleeping pad, ignoring their usual nighttime petting and talking.

  Oliver had known, in advance, that leaving Robert alone for an evening was more than enough to set him off.

  He switched the lights out in the main sanctuary, or more accurately, the main dining room, and as he did so, his cell phone warbled. He grabbed at it.

  “Oliver,” Paula said, her voice sounding as if she were trying her best to combine sweet and sultry in one tone. Her effort was not entirely successful. “I know you’re busy, so I don’t want to call you all the time—but I do miss you. I have an opportunity for you. Maybe a surprise you might like.”

  “What sort of surprise?” Oliver replied, wanting to sound pleasant.

  “Well, my mom has the week off of work and she volunteered to stay with the baby. She suggested that maybe I could come visit you in Shadyside. I haven’t been through there in ages, and I bet there are all sorts of great new restaurants and shops and stuff. I wouldn’t have to spend the night. I know you don’t have guest beds or anything, although I wouldn’t mind snuggling if you wanted to.…”

  Oliver would have found the situation amusing if he hadn’t been the one in the situation. If it happened to someone else, Oliver would have laughed. Now, with two women in his life—two entirely different women—he simply felt like the walls of the room were slowly moving in on him. Like that scene in Star Wars where the heroes are in some sort of garbage-disposal system and are slowly being crushed. That’s what it was—having nowhere to go and no escape. That was the feeling that troubled Oliver.

  “That sounds great,” he said, trying his best to sound truthful. “But this week is not so good. Wednesday I have the kitchen people coming at seven—in the evening—to do final measurements. And Thursday, the architect is coming after work to figure out a couple of snags in the design and then Friday … well, Friday, I’ll be in Jeannette.”

  Oliver was surprised at how easy it was to stretch the truth.

  “Oh. I understand,” Paula responded. “I just thought—since I haven’t seen you in a while—that I could surprise you. We could go out and have a good time.”

  Oliver heard the disappointment in her voice, and it was more than that: not just disappointment, but something deeper, maybe edging toward rejection. Oliver knew she’d had enough rejection in her life already.

  “Listen, Paula, I don’t want you to make the drive down here when I can’t focus on you and spend time with you. That’s not fair. Can your mom babysit on Friday? Or Saturday? We can go back to Angelo’s. Or any place you like.”

  “That would be nice,” Paula replied. �
�I’ll ask my mom. I think she could be free one of those nights. Friday would be good, probably. We can both sleep late the next day.”

  It was obvious to Oliver that she meant more than she said.

  “And on Saturday, maybe we could just get a pizza, and I could come over and we could rent a video,” Oliver said. “Can Bridget stay up that late? We could start early, and I could get a cartoon movie or something.”

  “That is so sweet, Oliver. That would be nice. I’ll find out when my mother is free. I bet that she could do it for both nights. I’ll call you and let you know for sure, okay?”

  “That would be great. Good night, Paula,” he said, snapped his phone shut, and wondered why he was so eager to agree with her desire to go out. Now he found himself committed for the entire weekend.

  I imagine there are worse ways to spend a Friday and Saturday night. Paula is a nice person. And she does go to church. That’s important. That’s more than I can say about … and I have to let Samantha know that we can only be friends. That’s all. Just friends.

  Paula didn’t expect the gentle tapping at her door so late in the evening, but she wasn’t surprised by it. Without either of them saying a single syllable about it, she knew he’d be back—and soon.

  “Hi, Paula,” Taller said as he slipped inside.

  She looked out. His truck was nowhere to be seen.

  “Did you walk here? You live in Greensburg, don’t you?”

  “I parked a block over. My mother has a spy network. Like the KGB. Informants all over. No sense in getting on the wrong side of the commissar, is there?”

  Paula could feel her excitement rising, in spite of the fact that he was back in her house, standing before her, as handsome as he was before and dressed better this time, with a sharply tailored sport coat over a trim blue shirt, with the first three top buttons undone.

  On Taller, she decided, the look fit him well, accentuating his chin and mouth and broad shoulders in relationship to his very trim waist—with those muscular abs in between.

  “You’re looking very nice, Paula. You’re more dressed up than the last time.”

  Paula narrowed her eyes at him. Even though she was a little angry with him for complimenting her like this, and angry with herself for letting him, the attention felt good—very good.

  She found herself turning halfway and looking down at her hips. “This old thing? This is a before-the-baby outfit. But at least it still fits, right? Haven’t had all that much chance to wear it—or a need to.”

  He reached out and took her hand in his, just like she knew he would. “Well, happy for me, then.”

  Both of them stood a few feet apart, Taller close to the couch, Paula closer to the kitchen.

  “You want a drink?”

  Taller waited.

  “I have some beer. I could do a whiskey and soda if you’d like. We could talk. Old times, right?”

  Taller extended his other hand, opened his palm to her, and tilted his head just so. From his eyes she caught a glint or something. Passion? Desire?

  She found her other arm raising, almost by itself, without her giving it motion. Taller took her hand and pulled her to him. She felt him embracing her, encompassing her with his arms.

  “Do you enjoy this?” she asked, her mouth at his shoulder, her words breathless. “Do you? Taking advantage of needy women like me?”

  If Taller felt injured by Paula’s question, he didn’t show it. “Paula, I really enjoy this. Being with you, I mean. You bring out the best in me. You’re not needy, just desirable. A man would be a fool not to notice how desirable you are.”

  She felt his strong hands on her back. “So I’m not some sort of conquest?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “And you’re not using me to get back at your mother?”

  She felt his body stiffen.

  “What? What did you say?” His words were harsh, brittle.

  Paula knew she had hit a nerve. “Using women to get back at your mother? Is that part of this?” Her words came out as if she weren’t forming them herself, as if they came from somewhere outside her.

  Taller grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back. His eyes were narrow, angry. “No,” he said, and with that he spun her around and pushed her hard toward her bedroom, following her, his hands on her shoulders still. “It has nothing to do with her.” And with that he pushed the bedroom door shut.

  In the darkness, Paula closed her eyes tight, knowing his anger would soon be satiated, and she would soon feel back in the place that she deserved—in balance once again.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE PRATT BROTHERS worked well as a team and finished the staircase over the course of two days. They left the rough temporary railings in place, not wanting to install the elegant dark walnut railing yet, knowing that it most likely would get nicked and battered by the ongoing construction.

  While they were finishing that project, Taller and a team of workmen completed the installation of the thirty-foot dark walnut bar, with a hand-polished top and a thick rounded edge, inlaid with light ash wood. It was fastened with copper fittings, and would complement the Italian blue glass tiles used on the backsplash of the bar with their matching coppery cast. Even Oliver, not a real fan of bars, thought it looked fantastic.

  Downstairs, the sounds of hammering and drilling echoed upward as the kitchen subcontractor was busy finishing the installation. Oliver had installed an adequately sized freight elevator on the back side of the church, building it in an old window well, and planned to hide the machinery behind a stone wall. The elevator was perfectly suited for delivery of food and supplies—straight to the kitchen. But for now, for bringing in large equipment, the wide staircase proved perfect, allowing for an easier-than-expected delivery of the kitchen components—commercial stoves and ovens, refrigerators, dishwashers, stainless steel prep tables, and the rest. The freezing and cooling equipment came in sections and had been assembled on site, in the basement, rather than arriving as a single complete unit.

  Oliver felt more like an air traffic controller on these workdays, coordinating the different teams, arbitrating minor disputes, answering questions, settling design and installation issues—and he had not lifted his hammer once in two days. While the complexities of the project required it, Oliver often felt ill-used, and he yearned, just a bit, to be able to point to his own completed building task at the end of the day, instead of a series of tick marks on a clipboard.

  Just before noon on Thursday, Samantha showed up at the jobsite. The weather outside must have warmed some, for she was wearing dark jeans and a simple, long-sleeved blue blouse, with some sort of ruffle along the place where the buttons were. She had tied the top half of her hair back from her face with a thick blue ribbon. And her hair was unusually tame. Oliver figured that she must have done something to it or been to the beauty salon to have them style it, but couldn’t even offer a guess as to what it would have been. But her hair was smooth and sleek, amplifying her face somehow, making her beautiful eyes and lips more prominent.

  She came over to him and asked, “Are you grinning at my hair?”

  He shrugged. No other expression would have worked. “It’s different. I like it.”

  “I set it last night. Spent several uncomfortable hours with my hair in rollers and under a hair dryer—the big kind on wheels with the hood that raises and lowers. Do you believe I have one of those things? Like at the beauty salon. It was my mother’s. Every once in a while, I’ll use it. Brings back fond memories of women in curlers, Salem cigarettes, Vogue magazines, and bloodred nail polish.”

  Oliver stepped back, hoping that he was not being obvious and that no one was paying attention to their conversation. “Well, your hair looks very nice. Different, but very nice.”

  “Good,” she declared emphatically. “I�
��m glad you like it, because I’ve come to take you to lunch today. You can sneak away for a bit, right?”

  He looked around, as if expecting someone to scold him and tell him that he was indispensable and should not think of leaving the jobsite—ever.

  He was glad no one came forth. “Sure. I can get away for a while.”

  They walked out into the warm spring sunshine.

  Samantha’s hand brushed against his as they descended the steps, and without thinking of who might be looking and without thinking of what someone might say, he took her hand in his. He knew he didn’t want to lead Samantha on, or promise something he shouldn’t, but holding her hand felt so right and so natural. She glanced at her hand in his, just for a second, then over at him, her eyes level with his, and grinned like a young girl finding pleasure in such a gentle and innocent action.

  “Where to?” Oliver asked.

  Samantha all but skipped.

  “Cappy’s Café? Not gourmet, not expensive, but nice. Quiet. We can talk. They have malts, too. Real malts, made with homemade ice cream and malted powder spooned into the mixer. What is malt anyhow? It sounds like it might be good for you. Is it? And they have really good egg salad. Not many places have really good egg salad. Not too much mayo. I think that’s their secret. And dill. Or tarragon. Or one of those herbs I love. Do you like egg salad, O-not-O?”

  Oliver walked with her, simply happy to be with her. “I guess. I don’t get it very often. Once in a while I think about making it, but it means I have to boil the eggs and then cool them and shell them and do all the other stuff. I like to cook, but that’s a bit too time consuming for me.”

  Samantha stopped him, pulling on his hand. “Then let’s both get egg salad today for lunch. What do you say? Like a pact, okay?”

  Cappy’s Café, a mom-and-pop restaurant on Walnut Street, was nearly filled, and Samantha and Oliver were given one of the two remaining empty tables. A waitress brought menus encased in a clear plastic binder. Samantha waved them away.