O plus F

by John Moncure Wetterau

  Chapter 15

  Oliver concentrated on programming. He found and successfully changed the late messages. Dan gave him a list of projects which he put aside until he could finish documenting the system. “You have to understand the data before you can work with it,’’ he explained to Jennifer. “The data is everything. Most people don’t know how to lay out a database; they make a mess that just keeps getting worse.’’

  “You did a nice job at The Conservancy,’’ she said.

  “At some point, you have to start fresh,’’ Oliver said. “The hospital can get by for awhile—if they don’t try to change too much. I don’t think they will. I don’t think they want to spend the money. I mean, it works—the present system. I’ll know what I’m doing in a couple of weeks.’’

  “They’re lucky to have you,’’ Jennifer said.

  “They’re good to work with. You’d think that they would be a little screwy—First Fundamentalists and all that, but they aren’t. They’re cheerful, mostly. Practical. The women can’t wear jewelry.’’

  “Keeps them in their place,’’ Jennifer said.

  “Wedding rings are about it,’’ Oliver said.

  Jennifer cleared her throat loudly.

  “Oh, yeah…” Oliver said. “We should do something about that—once you get your divorce.’’

  “Was that a proposal?’’ She smiled appealingly.

  “Sure—you don’t mean church and all that?’’

  “No, Silly.’’

  Oliver was relieved. “City Hall,’’ Jennifer said. “We’ll have a nice dinner afterward. Do something for us.’’

  “F. Parker Reidy’s,’’ Oliver said. “Eat teriyaki and watch shoppers on the snowy street.’’

  “Wherever you like, Dear. Speaking of snow, we’re lucking out—I shouldn’t have any problem getting to Wayland.’’

  “How far is Wayland from Boston?’’

  “Depends on what time it is—half an hour, usually. I take 495 right around the city, no problem. Umm… Sweetums?’’

  “Yes?”

  “I was wondering if you would do something for me. I know I’m being awful, but—well—it’s that snakeskin. It gives me a chill when I look at it.” She put one hand on her stomach. “It’s so—deadly.”

  Oliver walked over to the steps and pulled out the thumb tacks that held the snakeskin. “Can’t have you getting a chill,” he said.

  “Oh, thank you. I just can’t help it—how I feel,” she said.

  “Of course you can’t.” Oliver rolled the skin into a coil and put a thick rubber band around it. He hefted it in his palm. “I’ll take it down to the basement. He sealed it in a Ziploc bag and stored it in a toolbox.

  The next day, Jennifer left at noon to see her parents. Oliver had a pint at Deweys with Richard and went to bed early. He lay there, not used to sleeping alone, and thought about the relationship. It was like living with Charlotte again, but Jennifer was more fun. She was a natural mother—not at all bothered by pregnancy. All in all, the relationship was pretty good, but he avoided comparing Jennifer to Francesca.

  In the morning he got up and took coffee to Crescent Beach as though his life hadn’t changed during the last two weeks. There was an inch of snow—not enough to keep Francesca away. As he approached the beach he saw a shiny patch on the driftwood log. A Ziploc bag was taped to the log where they usually sat. The bag looked as if it had been there several days.

  He bent over and saw a heart drawn on the paper inside. “O+F.’’ He tore the bag from the log and removed the paper. It was folded. Inside, a note read: “Missed you yesterday. Leaving Wednesday. Be back in the spring, I guess. I hope you’ll be here.’’

  Oliver folded the note carefully and looked south. “I’ll be here,’’ he said. It was an acknowledgement and a promise. He felt a deep conflict in his loyalties, but it was bearable. The promise came from a different place than his attachment to Jennifer and the baby.

  He stayed a few minutes savoring the coffee and the cold damp air. Gulls circled and dove at the other end of the beach. The geese were long gone. When he left, he took with him all traces of Francesca’s note.

  Jennifer arrived home during the early game. “Hi, Sweetheart,’’ she said. “The roads were fine. Mother is withholding judgment until she sees you, but Daddy is on board. Don’t worry, she’ll love you.’’

  “The Patriots don’t look too good,’’ Oliver said. “I’ll wow her with my knowledge of RPG II.’’

  “I said we’d come down at Christmas.’’

  “O.K.,’’ Oliver said. “Jesus!’’

  “What’s the matter?’’

  “He dropped it,’’ Oliver said. “You’re back nice and early.’’

  “We had a big breakfast around nine. I left right after. What do you think of ‘Emma’ as a name?’’

  “No!’’ Jennifer’s face fell. “Not another one! Get him out of there!’’

  “Oliver…”

  “Yes—Emma,’’ he said. “I like it. Why Emma?’’

  “My grandmother’s name was Emma.’’ Jennifer was smiling again.

  “Sure,’’ Oliver said, “I like it. What if it’s a boy?’’

  “I don’t know,’’ she said. “My father’s name is Gene.’’

  “How about Frisco?’’

  “Frisco? But that’s a place, not a person…”

  “Nakano. Nakano Prescott, now there’s a name.’’

  “I don’t know.’’ Jennifer’s hands went protectively to her belly. “Nak? Naky?’’

  Oliver raised his voice. “Nakano Prescott stretches, makes the grab, takes a big hit and holds on! The Patriots got something when they signed this guy.’’ He patted her. “Just trying it out—I’m not real strong on Gene.’’

  “Well, we have four months,’’ Jennifer said.

  In April, early on the morning of the 26th, two months after they were married in City Hall and had their celebratory dinner at F. Parker Reidy’s, Jennifer felt the first serious contraction. Six hours later, Emma Dior Prescott wrinkled her nose, squinted, made two fists—triumphantly, according to Oliver—and went back to sleep, breathing on her own. Jennifer was thrilled and tired. Oliver felt a new kind of pang when he saw Emma. She had dark hair and seemed to be clutching part of his heart with her tiny hands, as though she had moved from one support system to another.

  Deweys was barely open when he got there. “One for me and one more for my baby,’’ he said to Sam. “Jenn had a little girl.’’

  “No shit! Congratulations. Hey, the Guinness is on the house, man; you’re going to need your strength.’’

  Oliver drank and relaxed. The winter had passed in a blur. Each day had been filled with work and things to do at home; the months had slipped past scarcely noticed. Jennifer’s growing weight had defined the season that mattered.

  “I have responsibilities,’’ he announced after his second pint. “I must call the grandparents.’’

  He walked home and talked to his mother and to Jennifer’s father. Gene was particularly pleased. “I had my order in,’’ he said. “Does she look like Jenny?’’

  “More like me, actually.’’

  Gene was quick. “Sweet thing! You’re a lucky man, Oliver.’’

  Oliver was supposed to say, “Thank you, Sir,’’ or some such. “It was an easy birth,’’ he said. “I’m going to pick them up tomorrow.’’

  “Fine, fine,’’ Gene said, “we can’t wait to see her.’’

  “Come on up.’’

  “Fine. Dolly will call, tomorrow or the next day.’’

  Oliver’s mother shrieked, sobbed, and made him promise to call the moment that they were ready for a short visit. Oliver agreed and hung up thinking that good news was easy to pass along. He had already written his father and explained the situation, so he needed only to send a birth announcement. “Emma Dior Prescott—April 26th, 1994—7 lbs 6 oz. Looks a little like us,’’ he added beneath.

  He walked to
the corner and dropped the card in the mailbox. On his way back, he met Arlen and told him the news. “A major event. I’m happy for you,’’ Arlen said. Oliver took a nap and walked down to Deweys for more Guinness and congratulations. He went to bed feeling as though he had made it through a one–way turnstile. Things were different on this side; there was a lot to do.

  The next day he brought Jennifer and Emma home from Mercy Hospital. Verdi had gotten used to Jennifer. He sniffed Emma for a moment and then jumped to his place on the living room windowsill, settling down as if to say: one more—what’s the difference?

  Emma slept and fed. Jennifer spent happy weeks keeping her close and occasionally preparing a meal or cleaning the apartment. Oliver enjoyed holding Emma and being fatherly, although he sensed that his presence was not entirely necessary.

  Dior and Paul came for a one night visit. His mother liked Jennifer and gushed endlessly over Emma. He and Paul had drinks in the background and talked about work and the Red Sox. It had been how many years since Carleton Fisk had gone to Chicago? One of the all–time great catchers, a son of New Hampshire—the event still felt like the death of an era, almost the death of New England.

  Dolly and Gene were more formal. They were pleased and full of instruction. Gene inquired after Oliver’s life insurance.

  “No?’’ He gave Oliver his most forgiving and father-in-law knows best smile, stopping just short of issuing an order. It happens to all of us; you might as well get with the program—that was the message.

  Jennifer was satisfied with both visits. Nothing really mattered but Emma, anyway. “Isn’t she a doll baby? The most precious doll baby,’’ she would say, answering her own question and thrusting Emma into Oliver’s arms.

  “Yes, she is. Yes, you are,’’ he would say, holding Emma carefully. She was a good-natured baby. Her hearing was sensitive; she made faces and sometimes cried at loud noises. She liked music. Oliver had fun twirling her around the living room, keeping her high against his shoulder so that she could see the walls spin by.

  One Saturday late in May, he received a note from Francesca saying that she was coming back that week and that the winter had not gone well. Jennifer didn’t ask about the letter, perhaps she hadn’t noticed it. Oliver said nothing. Later that afternoon, he took a roundabout route shopping and walked out to Crescent Beach. The log had shifted position during the winter, but it was close to the same spot. He left a note in their format: “O+F’’ in a heart on the outside. Inside, he wrote: “Welcome back. Much to tell you.’’ That was all he could bring himself to say. If Francesca came out in the morning, at least she would have a welcome. Maybe he could get there, maybe not.

  Sunday morning, he went out for bagels and a newspaper. On his way home, at the last moment, he kept going down State Street. He crossed the bridge, drove to Cape Elizabeth, and walked quickly to the beach. He didn’t know what to say, but he was suddenly glad and hopeful that Francesca might be there. The force of his feeling surprised him. The note was gone. She wasn’t around. She got it anyway, he thought as he hurried back. Probably.

  That week, when he thought of Francesca, he twisted his wedding ring around and around his finger. He worried about her and about the girls. It occurred to him that Emma would be as large as Maria and Elena in a few years. It didn’t seem possible. The following Sunday, he got up early, put on running shoes, and told Jennifer that he would be back with bagels in an hour or so. He bought coffees to go and carried them to the log in a paper bag. The water was cold that early in the season. There was no one on the beach. No note. No sculptures or arrangements. He and Francesca might never have been there.

  A figure appeared in the distance, walking with long familiar strides. He balanced the bag on the log and started toward her. She was wearing a gray sweatshirt and jeans. Her hair was shorter than it had been. Her eyes. Her beautiful mouth. They walked into an embrace that became tighter and tighter. There was no time, no weather, no ocean. Getting closer was all that mattered. Francesca was trembling. Oliver dug his feet deeper into the sand and moved one hand slowly across her back. She let out a deep breath and relaxed against him. When they stepped apart, it was like waking up in the morning.

  “Hi,’’ he said, stupidly.

  “Oliver…”

  “You look like you’ve had a hard time. I brought coffee.’’ He pointed back to the log.

  “The worst is over,’’ she said. “I’ve left him. I’m still at the house—but only for a little while. Conor’s staying with a friend.’’

  “What are you going to do?’’

  “I’m taking the girls to the West Coast. Seattle, I think. I need a clean break. If I stay here, Conor will keep hanging around and using the girls to keep me down.’’

  “Oh,’’ Oliver said. “Seattle is supposed to be a good place. I like the Northwest. Shit.’’ They sat on the log, and Oliver handed her a cup. “From Mr. Bagel,’’ he said. “There have been changes in my life, too.’’ He paused. “I got married,’’ he blurted out. “I have a daughter, five weeks old.’’ Francesca put her cup down on the sand and took two steps toward the water. She stood with her fingers to her lips in a prayer position. Oliver explained what had happened.

  “How wonderful to have a baby,’’ she said in a low voice. “Emma—how wonderful.’’

  “She is,’’ Oliver apologized.

  “Are you happy?’’

  “I guess so,’’ he said.

  She turned. “Oh, Oliver!’’ She opened her arms, and this time it was she who was consoling. A part of him wanted to scream with fury, but a deeper part became calmer as she held him. There were big problems off in the future—impossible problems—but they were their problems.

  “God, I love you,’’ he said, stepping back.

  “It’s a strange time to feel lucky,’’ she said, “but I do.’’ She looked at his wedding ring. “I’m a bad woman now, too—along with everything else.’’

  “Bad to the bone,’’ Oliver said. He reached down for her coffee and handed it to her. “Some bones,’’ he said. He sat on the log and shook his head. “Damn…” They were quiet for a minute. “When are you leaving?’’

  “In three or four weeks. I’m going to drive out, bring as much as I can with me. I’ve got to get a better car—something that will pull a small U–Haul trailer and hold up.’’

  “The money is there if you need it,’’ Oliver said. “Jennifer wants to buy a house in Cumberland or North Yarmouth. I’m going to use some for a down payment, but there will be plenty left—ten, twenty, thirty thousand—just call Myron and he’ll send you a check.’’

  “I have enough to go on. And Conor will pay child support. I can work, you know. Did I tell you I was a registered nurse?’’

  “No.’’

  “Yeah, I went through a program after I got out of college. I only worked for a year before I met Conor. I’m glad I did, now… It’s nice to know about the money. I don’t know what’s going to happen, really. I just know I’ve got to move.’’ She paused.

  “I wish I were moving with you.’’

  “Never leave someone for someone else,’’ Francesca said. “You’ve got to live through these things.’’

  “That’s what Mark says—my friend, Mark. Anyway, take the money if you need it; I know you won’t waste it. I wish I could help with the moving, but I don’t think I’d better.’’

  “You are helping, just by being you. Emma’s going to need lots of money, you know.’’

  “Not for a while. Listen, how am I going to find you?’’

  “My folks will know where I am: Richard Boisverte in Edgewater, near Daytona. Conor will know—because of the girls. I’ll send you a card when I have an address.’’ She covered one of his hands with one of hers. “You’re right—it’s probably not a good idea to see each other. I’m a bad woman now; I could be a very bad woman any moment.’’

  “Damn,’’ Oliver said again. They were quiet again.

  “I’ve
got to go,’’ he said, standing up.

  “I think I’ll stay here for a bit,’’ she said. “I want to watch you walk away.’’

  “Be careful,’’ he pleaded.

  “Bye, Baby,’’ she said.

  He looked at her for a long moment. She smiled for him, the smile that entranced him the first day he saw her in Becky’s. Her mouth traveled slowly down, along, and up a complex curve, sexual at its center, sensitive at its corners, wholly alive and in the moment. He nodded in the Japanese manner, the way he had that day. Then he smiled quickly—an American promise laid on top of the Japanese one—and left. He looked back from the top of the bank at the end of the beach. She was watching him, unmoving. He lifted one arm high and walked out of sight. A hundred yards farther, he followed a smaller path to a clearing overlooking the water. He dropped to the ground and lay in a fetal position on his side with his knees drawn up and his hands between his legs. He hurt too much to cry. He just wanted to survive. There was only one level of feeling beneath his love for Francesca; he had to get there. The hard cold ground was anesthetic and numbing. Half an hour later, he brushed himself off, an animal on the earth, needing food and warmth.

  “Where have you been?’’ Jennifer asked.

  “I ran into a friend who’s moving,’’ he said. “Sorry to be so long.’’

  “Emma’s asleep again.’’

  “Cold out there. Bagels,’’ Oliver said, raising the bag. “I’m hungry.’’