by Terri Kraus
Paula stood in the doorway, wearing the same clothes she had on the night before, only now everything was a bit wrinkled, and her hair was tousled and pulled back into a hurried ponytail. “I have to talk to you, Oliver,” she said, her words urgent and clipped.
“Come on in, Paula. It’s cold. Who’s with Bridget?”
She held up the baby monitor. “She never wakes up before seven. If she does, I’m a minute away.”
Paula stood in the entryway, as if unsure where her next step might take her.
“Sit down. Please. Do you want coffee? Tea? I think I have teabags.”
“No. Nothing. I’m fine …”
And then she started to weep, drawing her hands to her face, drooping, shrinking before his very eyes.
“Paula, what is it? Sit down. Please.”
Oliver escorted her to one of the kitchen chairs. Paula slumped down, her arms falling to her side. Oliver caught a glimpse of something black in her left hand. Without looking, she reached up and slapped the ring box on his kitchen table.
“I can’t, Oliver. I can’t do this.”
Oliver sat, stunned, not allowing himself to feel or analyze anything. All he could see was that black box and the top of Paula’s head as she stared at the floor. He was glad he’d vacuumed the night before, not being able to sleep either.
“But why?” he finally said, not in the most convincing tone, then added, “What happened?”
Paula looked up, her eyes bloodshot, her nose red, strands of her hair escaping from the ponytail and falling around her face like reeds in a sudden wind. She sniffed loudly and wiped her arm under her nose. “I can’t tell you … exactly. But I can’t marry you. And you don’t need to know more than that. I just can’t.”
Oliver’s heart felt as if it were beating at twice its normal speed. He knew the cause: Paula’s sudden, shocking denial of his request for marriage. But there was something else, too. The word relief entered his thoughts and he immediately banished it, feeling a tsunami of guilt and deception, dishonesty and duplicity wash over him, crushing whatever nobility and honesty existed inside his heart.
“But … but you can,” he said, insisting, wondering if his words felt as hollow and weak as they did in his own ears as he heard himself give them voice. “It will be okay. We’ll … we’ll be happy together. We will.”
Paula shook her head and waved her hand in front of her face, a wordless double negative.
“We would be,” Oliver said again, a whisper this time, a delicate, dying whisper.
“No. It would be a lie,” Paula said back, her words without any invective or malice but simply the painful truth. “There’s something about … me, Oliver. I can’t go through with this. I can’t hurt you, Oliver. You’re a wonderful man, a sweet and kind and gentle man, honest, and I can’t do this to you. I can’t.”
She stood up. “You can have the ring back.”
She turned and ran to the door. Oliver was certain she wanted him to get up and intercept her, to stop her, but he also knew he wouldn’t and that she believed that it was what she deserved.
“Good-bye, Oliver. I’ve always loved you … in a special way.”
And then she slipped out, closed the door behind her, and padded quickly down the stairs.
Oliver sat still in the chair, staring at the closed door for a long time, then at the black box on the kitchen table. That’s when Robert slowly walked over to him and nuzzled his hand, not expecting to be petted in return, but simply to say, in his Robert the Dog fashion, that he was there and would wait for Oliver to talk to him when the time was right.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
IT WAS FRIDAY, and Oliver showed up at the jobsite around lunchtime. He stepped inside, called out to Henry Pratt, and explained that he would be gone that day, the following day, and the weekend as well. He and Robert the Dog needed some time to think, he said, in way of explanation, and that they planned to head up to Bald Eagle State Park, and camp out for the weekend, even if it was early in the season.
“It’ll be empty, hopefully, and I can get some peace and quiet.”
Henry didn’t appear nervous or taken aback. “Sure, Oliver, we can handle things here. On schedule. We’ll keep things goin’ along.”
Oliver didn’t think much about anything on the drive. The miles clicked past, the towns grew further apart, the scenery became thick with early summer and the scent of new grass and flowers. Summer came later up north, and Oliver felt privileged to step back a few weeks and watch nature bloom all over again.
“So this is what you’ve spent all the money on,” Samuel Cohen declared. “Pretty impressive.”
“You think so, Daddy? Do you really think so?” Samantha asked.
Samuel seldom visited his daughter’s jobsites until they were completely finished. He didn’t have an eye for seeing beyond the mess and the clutter and the chaos of almost-completed projects. He would focus on a pile of debris in the corner, or molding that wasn’t finished, and fixate on those imperfections, never able to make the jump from half-done to done.
But since this project was within walking distance of his house, he allowed his daughter to drag him there, to let him see the direction and scope of the work.
“Yeah, I do. This will be one swell place once it’s done. The windows are magnificent. That big round one is … spectacular. Like an eye, isn’t it?”
Samantha had decided that she didn’t like the thick windows without some illumination after dark, and had the electricians install discrete exterior lighting around each large panel of stained glass. So with the flick of a switch, each window came fully alive at night, the lights carefully angled down and in and hidden by baffles, making them hardly visible from the street but vibrant and alive from the inside.
“Impressive. Really impressive.”
She took him by the hand and led him around the nearly completed space. Booths, cleverly constructed out of the old pews, counters, and cabinets, were all installed, and tables had been brought in and placed around the room.
“There’s something about this place,” Samuel declared, standing in the middle of what used to be the sanctuary. “Makes you feel … like you want to be a better person. Does that make sense?”
“It does, Daddy. It’s a special space. That’s what the old Korean pastor said when he stopped in a few months ago. He said the people in his congregation believe that this will always be a place of truth, that it will always be holy. ‘Sacred space,’ he called it.”
“Really.”
“He said he prays every day that I will know the truth, that this place will always be its home.”
“Every day?”
“I feel it every time I’m inside. Do you feel it too?”
Samuel turned around in a slow circle. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
He stopped and his gaze went from the windows to his daughter’s face. He looked hard at her, as if trying to discern if anything had changed. “Anything new with you and your goy contractor friend?”
Samantha shook her head. “No, Daddy. Apparently Oliver still believes that we’re too different. Me being Jewish and him being a goy. I don’t think it makes a difference, but he does.”
Samuel seldom asked about Samantha’s social life, and it felt a bit uncomfortable now. “Maybe he’s right, Bubeleh. But … maybe there is something else. You give it time. Maybe things will change. Maybe he’ll convert. He made you happy, didn’t he?”
“He did,” she said and sat in one of the chairs by a center table. “He is so kind and gentle, an honorable man, but there’s no possibility of him converting to Judaism, Dad. He has his strong beliefs. He said there was too much distance between us.”
Samuel waved his hand in dismissal. “We’ll see. Maybe it’s bashert—some things are meant to be. You give it time. If it’s supposed to
work out, it will.”
“What about you and Judy?” Samantha asked.
“She’s a wonderful woman. I want you to meet her as soon as possible.”
“What does that mean, Daddy? Are you two getting serious?” Samantha asked with a coy look.
“It means that maybe it’s time for your old man to get a life. Then you won’t have to worry about me so much,” Samuel answered.
“Oh, Daddy!” Samantha answered as she fell into his arms and began to cry, just like when she was his little girl.
Oliver unpacked the truck at the farthest corner of the campground. As he expected, and as he hoped, there were only two other campers in the entire campground, and they had settled in on campsites near the lake. Oliver took the opposite tack, and selected his site at the top of the ridge, looking down on the lake and valley below, with the forest in new leaf spread out before him.
The tent all but set itself up, and in less than thirty minutes, his sleeping bag lay nestled inside, the Coleman lantern hung on a hook, his camp stove ready for cooking, and a small supply of logs and kindling ready for later in the evening. Oliver liked campfires but didn’t like to cook on them; the soot and ash from the wood made cleaning the pots all but impossible, and the heat was notoriously difficult to regulate.
And then he grinned at his compulsiveness.
How much heat regulation do you need to cook hot dogs and baked beans?
He unfolded the camp chair and sat down and stared out at the scene below.
Why do they call this a camp chair? It’s just like the chair in a bag I got at Home Depot—but this one cost three times as much.
Robert sniffed in a circle around the campsite, then again, and again, each circle a few yards wider than the one before. Oliver didn’t camp all that often, but Robert’s routine was inviolate: circle and circle, making sure there were no bears or other wild creatures lurking nearby. He knew Robert would not run off, so he tried to relax.
But relaxation eluded him. His heart seemed to clump in his chest and his thoughts jangled, filled with a tornado of emotions and possible reasons and questions and puzzles and hurts—and relief.
He had stopped at Paula’s house that same morning, the morning she had told him no. She could not, or would not, provide Oliver with more concrete reasons for her decision.
“I can’t tell you any more, Oliver. I can’t. And I will not change my mind.”
And then she had closed the door on him, her sobs muffled by the cheap pine hollow-core model that she should replace with a more secure metal door with a deadbolt, at least.
He had decided on camping in a snap.
Staying home might lead to further questions. His mother might find out. Paula’s mother might find out. He had no answers for either of them. He had no answer for himself. He had believed he was doing the right thing—why did she change her mind?
Oliver dozed, then woke with a start. Darkness crept up the sides of the valley. An unseasonable chill followed the darkness. A stiff breeze, hissing above the tree line, clattered the top bare branches together in a primitive drum beat.
Oliver retrieved a thick fleece pullover from the tent. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all, Robert.”
Robert stared back impassively, sitting on his haunches a few feet away.
“Are you cold, Robert?”
The dog did not move, nor offer any response.
“It’s really not that windy. Maybe I’ll start that fire now.”
There was a stone circle by the tent, filled with the charcoal of a hundred previous fires and roasted marshmallows and sparks crackling into the chill of a hundred clear Pennsylvania nights. Oliver took two resin-soaked pinecones, lit them, placed them in the center of the stones, and stacked a teepee of wood around the flickering but persistent flame. Soon flames began to encircle the logs, and Oliver felt the warmth on his face and bare hands. It felt good, like a sauna, like a balm, a healing warmth.
“So the pans get dirty,” he said to himself out loud. He poured a can of beans into a small pot, tossed in four hot dogs, then thought about it and tossed in the entire half package of six. Robert would eat at least two. Actually, Robert would eat them all if Oliver allowed it, but two, plus his dog food, would be plenty. And without buns, hot dogs weren’t exactly a substantial meal.
He placed the lid on the pot, took a sturdy tree branch, and anchored it well, with the pot hung off of it, just above the flames.
“I can wash it when I get home.”
The two of them shared a silent meal, Robert enjoying the hot dogs like any dog would do, snapping them up in nanoseconds. Oliver ate from the pot, the steam coming off like a special effect, at least at first. When he was done, he placed the pot back in the cab of the truck, along with the rest of his food. The ranger had said that there had not been a bear sighting at the park in several years, but there were scores of raccoons. And raccoons, while not dangerous per se, could be a horrible nuisance.
Robert sniffed about and walked, with some deliberateness, into the tent. Oliver heard him circle inside and lay down. Oliver knew he’d have to move him later, an act Robert always seemed to think was a personal insult.
“Well … here I am. Away. Giving me space and time to think. That’s what I wanted, right?” Oliver said out loud.
He waited in the dark, as the fire slowly ebbed, the warmth eking away as the night grew blacker and thicker and denser.
No deep thoughts came. Oliver didn’t exactly expect them to come. He envied the speakers he’d heard at church, talking about going away on spiritual retreats and returning with renewed vigor and deep spiritual insights from the solitude and silence. Oliver hoped that might happen this weekend, but he was also a realist. Epiphanies happened to other people—not plodding, routine-oriented folk like himself. People who worried about dirty pots.
He stared up into the thickness of stars set against the black sky.
He waited, hopeful, anticipating.
Nothing.
No voices, no flash of awareness, no dramatic insight.
Nothing at all.
Oliver felt guilty that he didn’t feel more horrible than he did. What Paula had done was a shock, for certain, and if the situation were reversed, he imagined that Paula would be disconsolate, miserable.
But Oliver didn’t feel that, not now. Maybe a little when she had told him no, but not at this moment. He felt confused, but that emotion wasn’t at all melancholic. He felt even guiltier when sharp pangs of relief popped into his consciousness. He fought them off, not encouraging them by dwelling on them.
He wondered what had happened.
Was I doing that just to please other people?
Of course I was.
He wondered how God fit into this.
Did He do this? I mean, was this part of His plan? Seems like the long way around to do it. Not that I’m questioning it, if it was God’s plan. I’m sure there are things I can learn from it. It just seems like I was sure I was doing the right thing—but then it blows up.
He stood up. Off in the distance, a ridge away, he heard the hoot of an owl.
You don’t hear that in Jeannette.
He waited, watching the fire die away to a puddle of embers.
But no revelations or insights either.
He climbed into the tent, shoved Robert the Dog ever so gently from the top of the sleeping bag, kicked off his shoes, and slipped inside. As he waited for Robert to reposition himself, he adjusted his pillow, pulled his stocking cap on past his ears, and closed his eyes, knowing sleep was just a dream.
Samantha and Sarah Epstein, Cameron’s college sorority sister, chose an indoor spot at Coffee Tree Roasters. It was too breezy of an evening to sit outside, so they settled for a table by the window.
Sarah, a petite, p
retty woman perhaps a couple of years younger than Samantha, smiled warmly, cradling her coffee in her hands. “So when I arrived, how did you know it was me?”
“Cameron’s told me a lot about you,” Samantha answered. “And you look very Jewish.”
Sarah’s laugh was easy. “Takes one to know one, I guess.”
“I hear you’re a real-estate dynamo with Chapel and Lawton.”
“And I hear your father owns half of Shadyside,” Sarah replied good-naturedly.
“Well, not quite half. Not yet, at least. But he’s working on it.”
“Cameron went on and on about your church project. That’s quite an undertaking. I’ve always admired that building. All those marvelous windows.”
“It’s a beauty, all right,” Samantha said. “When it came up for sale, I knew I had to move on it.”
“And how’s it coming?” Sarah asked, unwrapping a piece of lemon pound cake.
“Great. Really great.”
“No builder horror stories to tell?”
“Actually, none. It’s all gone really smoothly.”
“You’re kidding me! That’s a new one on me. How do you do it?”
“First, you get a perfect contractor,” Samantha answered, smiling.
“Perfect? Really?”
“Perfect. Really,” Samantha replied. “It’s a first for me, too. Oliver Barnett. He’s amazing.”
“That’s what Cameron says. She’s got a lot of respect for him—on and off the job.”
The two sipped at their coffee. Samantha looked over at Sarah, who offered her a piece of pound cake. She felt immediately comfortable with this vibrant woman.
“He’s … like no one I’ve ever met. I’m sure Cameron’s told you he’s a Christian. And that we’ve been dating. I’ve dated other goys before, and their religion, or mine, never came up. It was a total nonissue. But Oliver’s faith is … not just what he does on Sundays. It’s part of everything he does, and does not do, if you know what I mean.”
“So, morally—”
