by Terri Kraus
“Egg salad sandwiches—for both of us. Right? On white bread. Not toasted. Lettuce—but only a little bit—a leaf or two at most—and tomato. French fries, of course. And two chocolate malts. Nice and thick and malty with lots of whipped cream.” She raised her eyebrows at Oliver, as if forming a question. “Okay?”
Oliver opened his hands in surrender. “It sounds like the perfect lunch to me.”
Oliver had his hands on the table, and this time, Samantha reached over and placed hers on top of his. It was obvious to Oliver that she was watching him carefully to see if her move caused any negative reaction. It did not.
The waitress hurried off, and Samantha grabbed at Oliver’s hands again. She cupped them both in hers, tilting her head in that way women do when they’re interested in what a man is thinking. Hoping perhaps that men, being like dogs, will somehow blurt out their innermost feelings without being tortured to do so.
Oliver smiled back, just thinking how pleasant this day had become.
Then the egg salad sandwiches appeared, and Samantha grabbed hers almost before the waitress removed her hand. She took a great big bite, mumbling “Delicious” through the filling and the bread.
Oliver tasted his as well. “Hey, this is really good egg salad. You’re right—not too mayo-intensive. With dill. It’s perfect.”
“I would order another one right now if it wouldn’t make me look like a pig. I saw how the waitress gave me the eye,” Samantha answered.
As Oliver chewed, he tried to remember what the waitress looked like, but couldn’t, and wondered how Samantha could have seen all that in the short glance she gave the waitress.
I guess women are better at those sorts of things, distinguishing one little look from other little looks.
Samantha finished her sandwich and most of her fries before Oliver had consumed half of his, and started in on the huge dollop of whipped cream on top of her malt.
“So, O-not-O, tell me more about this religion thing. No one I’ve talked to understands any of it.”
Oliver swallowed hard. “Did you talk about me to your friends?”
Samantha took a large gulp of her malt, tilting the heavy glass up, wiping the excess from her lips with a series of paper napkins from the dispenser. “Why, Oliver? Does that scare you?”
Oliver thought about it for a second, and since he was still chewing, he shrugged. This was one time when shrugging felt like a most appropriate answer.
“Well, it shouldn’t. I didn’t discuss anything personal. But no one knew much about what being a true Christian was all about. I mean, none of us are shlemiels, but, well, I had to explain bar mitzvah to you—and my family would consider that really odd. You know what I mean?”
“I do. I guess. And, no, talking about me to friends doesn’t scare me. It’s just that … some of what I told you about myself was kind of personal, and I’m not sure how—”
Samantha suddenly grew very serious and reached over and took his free hand. “Oh, no, Oliver, I would never do that. I just asked if they understood Christianity and your beliefs. I never said a word about … you know, what you told me. That is personal.”
Oliver slid his plate away and pulled his malt closer. “It would have been okay if you had said something. I’m not ashamed of being a virgin. It’s just that in this day and age, with someone my age … people assume things. Or it’s the first thing they think of when they meet me.”
“That’s perfectly understandable,” Samantha replied. “But again, the thing that has me confused is this purity thing. I guess the Torah says the same thing, but it doesn’t seem to be as big a deal to Jews. Or maybe that’s just in my family.”
Oliver drank some of his malt. “You’re right. This is a wonderful malt. Malt-a-licious,” he joked.
Samantha beamed at his approval.
“I guess the same could be said for Christians,” Oliver said. “There are some who don’t seem to think intimacy before marriage is a big deal. I’ve heard people say that as long as you’re in love, or engaged, or committed, then having sex is okay.”
“And is it? I mean—why not, then?”
Oliver drained the last of his malt. “You know, if the waitress hadn’t given you ‘the eye,’ and I don’t think she did, I would be tempted to order another one of each.”
Samantha shook her head. “She did give me ‘the eye.’ And you. You would be hog number one if you ordered a double. But go on about this sex thing. You’ve got my interest.”
“Well, the Bible says that sex is great—but only between people who are married.”
“Really?”
“Sure.”
“No, what I mean is … does the Bible really say that sex is great for married people? It says that? Really? I thought it was against it. Turn the lights off and close your eyes and only once in a while, mostly to have kids, and you better not have fun doing it.”
“Nope. Just read the Song of Solomon. But the catch is—you need to be married,” Oliver explained. “That’s what makes it special, almost holy. It says the marriage bed is undefiled.”
Samantha said with a grin. “There is always a catch, isn’t there?”
“I guess. Maybe. But it’s God’s rules and standards. And if one really believes, and takes the Bible as the truth, it’s not that hard to follow.”
“So … you’ll wait until you’re married?”
Oliver had never, ever talked to a woman about this and never imagined he could do so this freely, without stammering or embarrassment. He wondered how in the world he was doing it today. “I will,” he stated.
Oliver had trouble reading Samantha’s oblique expression. He thought it might be a worried expression—or simply devious.
“So … how far can you go and get away with it?” she asked.
Oliver took her hand gently. “I’ve heard the question before. Not from a woman. I think it was in a sermon or something. It’s a question that doesn’t have a simple answer. It’s not about seeing how close you can come to stepping over some magic line without God zapping you. It’s about Him wanting me to be as obedient as I can to what He says because I love Him more than anything and because He knows what’s best for me, for my good. God’s principles work.”
With eyes wide, Samantha replied, “You mean, we’ve gone as far as we’re going to go?”
Oliver thought for a moment. “Sort of.”
Leaning back in her chair, Samantha said softly, “Oy.”
And in her face, Oliver saw not disappointment or disgust, but something akin to a woman keen on facing a new, unexpected, yet novel challenge.
And that look scared him a little.
Reluctant to leave work on Friday, Oliver wandered about the project, touching piles of raw wood with his fingertips, staring up at unfinished electrical outlets, testing the sturdiness of the temporary basement railings, debating if there was a project he could begin that late at the end of a workweek. He decided, with regret, that there were no simple projects, no I-can-get-it-done-in-an-hour sort of tasks. He could sweep up. That job always needed to be done, but Oliver didn’t really like sweeping up. He could have patrolled the area, looking for debris, but that was not much more appealing than sweeping.
The middle Pratt brother saw Oliver moping about and called out to him, “Why don’t ya just leave? You’re the boss, right? Ain’t no good in bein’ the boss if ya can’t take off a bit early on a Friday afternoon.”
Oliver was tempted to argue with him, thinking the discussion would eat up another fifteen minutes or so, then decided the middle Pratt was correct. “You’re right. I can beat the traffic if I leave now.”
And with that, Oliver called for Robert the Dog, hung up his tool belt, and instructed the middle Pratt to be sure the door was locked behind him when they left. He knew Samantha would be in on Satu
rday, just to check up, and wanted to make certain the place was secure.
“We’ll lock it. Don’t worry. Have a good weekend.”
Robert fell asleep halfway home. The traffic, lighter than usual, let Oliver make the trip in less than an hour.
As he pulled into the driveway, careful to park far enough over so as to not block his mother’s path, he was surprised when her back door banged open.
“Oliver,” she shouted, much too loudly for the distance her voice had to carry.
Robert the Dog nearly cowered in his seat.
“Come on, Robert,” he whispered. “It can’t be that bad.”
As they exited the truck, Oliver replied, “I need to let the dog out for a minute and get him upstairs. Then I’ll come over.”
His mother scowled. “You clean up after that animal, you hear?”
Oliver wanted to count to ten, but didn’t. “When have I not cleaned up after him?”
His mother’s scowl didn’t change. Instead of replying, she simply slipped back inside and snicked the door shut. Almost immediately, it popped open. “Do you want coffee? I could make some. Real coffee. DeLallo’s discontinued some Italian brand and was selling it for half-price. So I bought a can. Real good coffee. I know that you’ll like it. Is that okay?”
“Sure, Ma. That would be great.”
Since when does she buy real coffee—even if it was half-price?
Robert tore around the apartment, making sure it was exactly as he’d left it, all the smells and dog toys in the same place as they had been. He found a rawhide bone, gnarled and bitten, grabbed it, clambered up on the sofa, and began chewing, looking as happy as Oliver had seen him all week.
“Good to be home, isn’t it, Robert?” Oliver said. “Hard to be away from everything familiar.”
Then he grimaced and looked out the window, down at his mother’s place. “Well, maybe not all that hard.” He patted the dog on the head, and Robert appeared a little annoyed at the interruption. “Be back in a few minutes.”
Moments later he sat at his mother’s kitchen table and waited for her to cease her fussings.
“Here you go. Nice hot fresh coffee,” she said. “What else can I get for you? Toast? A sandwich? I have some doughnuts from yesterday. They’re still fresh, mostly.”
Oliver held up his hands. “No, I’m fine. Besides, I’m going out to dinner in an hour or so, so I don’t want to eat twice.”
His mother took the chair next to his, not her usual seat across the table. “That Paula—she’s such a nice girl.”
Oliver stirred a teaspoon of real sugar into his coffee. “She is,” he agreed. “A nice girl.”
“And pretty, too. She’s a real pretty girl.”
Oliver sipped and nodded. He was beginning to get an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, like the start of the flu, the kind you can’t take antibiotics for but simply have to let run its miserable course. “I guess. Yeah, she’s pretty.”
His mother appeared ready with a checklist of questions. “Why did the two of you stop dating after high school?”
Oliver was certain his mother already knew the answer and remembered she had been happy about the breakup. “I don’t know. She wanted to stop, I guess. It wasn’t me.”
His mother took his hand for a moment and patted it, a gesture Oliver had not seen her do since … since forever. “I know,” she said. “She told me. She said it was her biggest regret. She said she never should have let you go. And now you two are dating again. I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.”
Oliver wondered, for a moment, if his mother had had a stroke this week, because she was acting in a way that totally unnerved him. Not only was her opinion of Paula totally different from what it was when he was in high school, but she was also acting civil and kind … almost compassionate.
“And Paula said she’s happy now too,” Rose added. “Happy you’re back in her life and all.”
Whatever bearings Oliver had before this afternoon were now gone; he felt like a little ship in the middle of the ocean with a typhoon on the horizon and the rudder snapped off by a freak wave.
“Well, that’s good. But I wouldn’t go that far. I mean … putting us back together permanently and all.”
It was at this moment that Rose stiffened and almost stood erect.
“Oliver!” she said with a snap. “You are not getting any younger. Or haven’t you noticed? Paula is a wonderful girl. A good Christian girl. Born again. I know she was married before, but he was a bum, and good riddance. She’s a Christian girl now, she’s changed, and I’m not going to let you twiddle your thumbs while she gets away this time. You’re old enough, Oliver. You’re my firstborn; maybe I held you too close and didn’t let you become independent early enough. But I did the best I could, without a husband to help. I worked three jobs back then. Three! And when I wasn’t working, I was with you. And your brother, but he didn’t need me like you did. I gave up my life for you. And for Tolliver. Now that I’m getting old, you want me to die without grandchildren? You want that curse on my life?”
She waited for Oliver to speak, almost as if daring him to defend himself. He did not.
“Paula is a wonderful catch, Oliver. You’re just like your father—slow to make decisions. I had to push him when we got married, you know. He still would have been living at home, or by himself today, if I hadn’t pushed him. That’s no life, Oliver. You need a wife. Paula needs a husband. I want grandchildren. I can’t think of a more perfect match than you two—and now, Oliver, not a year from now. You need to let Paula know that’s where this is going. That you want to be with her.”
She waited again. Oliver did not look at her eyes.
“You hear me, Oliver? I don’t want you to be alone. I don’t want you to end up like me. Old and alone. You don’t want to be alone, do you?”
Oliver shook his head no.
“Then good. Be a good boy, Oliver, and listen to your mother. You’ve always been a good son and a good follower of Jesus. Do what I ask, and bless the few years I have left on earth. You’ll do that, won’t you? Say you will, Oliver. Please?”
The torrent of her words flooded over him like a river overflowing its banks—rushing, tumbling, pushing, and not letting anything stand in its way. Oliver had no defenses. She was alone. She had little in this world to show for her life, save two sons—one a wastrel, the other obedient. Oliver had always been obedient. He had always honored her, just like the Bible instructed.
“Ma …”
“You know what the fifth commandment says—to honor your parents. The only commandment with a promise attached, that you’ll live a long life.”
Oliver was beginning to tune her out, having heard this tactic before, used for a variety of situations.
“You need a wife, Oliver. Paula is pretty. And sexy.”
Oliver looked up. That was the first time he’d ever heard his mother use the word sexy—and the first time she ever implied that physical attraction was a good thing.
“She is, Oliver. Very sexy, don’t you think? I bet all the boys wanted her in high school. And if she was your wife, on your arm, everyone would be jealous. She’s that pretty … has that sort of shape, doesn’t she? Don’t you think other men notice those things? I see where they look and what they look at. Don’t you notice those things?”
Oliver had to make her stop talking. He had to make her stop pushing. “Okay, Ma. I’ll … I’ll think about it. She is pretty. And, yes, I have eyes. I can see.”
“And?”
“I’ll think about it. That’s what I said. I’ll think about it.”
When she picked up his hand again, he almost snapped it back, out of her clutches.
“You are such a good boy, Oliver. Not like your brother at all. You are such a good, obedient Christian boy, just
like your father, who loves Jesus and will make his mother happy … after all these years. I’ll finally be happy, and it will all be because of you, Oliver. Won’t that be such a special gift?”
Oliver could not taste the coffee going down. It might have been sweet, but it just as easily could have been a bitter poison.
Oliver didn’t even get his hand on the handle of his truck’s door before Paula’s front door slapped open. She hurried down the steps, hardly waving to her mother, who stood in the doorway, holding Bridget, both waving good-bye. Oliver did notice what his mother mentioned earlier: Paula was indeed a very alluring woman, more pronounced now perhaps because of what his mother had said, and how she’d said it.
She bounced into the cab, slid close to Oliver, and planted a firm and affectionate kiss on his cheek. He imagined the greeting would have been even more intimate had her mother and daughter not been staring from the front steps.
“You look nice,” Oliver said. “Blue is your color.”
Paula looked pleased. “Aren’t you sweet? This is an old dress. I haven’t had many chances to wear it since Bridget was born.”
“Well,” Oliver said as he shifted the truck into gear and pulled away from the curb, “you should wear it more often.”
Paula slipped her arm into Oliver’s and hugged it. “You’re sweet, and I’m famished,” she declared. “Any idea of where you want to go? After working hard all week, you deserve to treat yourself. I’m just along for the ride.”
“But you did say you were famished. Anything in mind?”
She squeezed his arm against her. “Nope. You decide. You’re the boss. I want you to be happy.”
Oliver thought about returning to Angelo’s but didn’t want to be thought of as a person who gets stuck in a rut. He considered, then decided against a number of nice, but typical, chain restaurants in the area.
“How about The Nest? They have good seafood. Are you up for seafood?”
“Sure, Oliver, that would be great. I like shrimp. They have shrimp, don’t they?”
