O plus F

by John Moncure Wetterau

  Chapter 22

  Oliver adjusted his tie. The blue blazer that Jennifer had bought fit well. “You look wonderful,’’ she said, brushing non–existent dust from his shoulder, her face happy behind him in the mirror. The oxford–cloth shirt was soft and expansive. His gray wool slacks were tightly creased. His shoes gleamed. Her creation. “Now don’t be late.’’

  Oliver turned and saluted. “Aye, aye… Jennifer, I don’t know about this.’’

  “You’ll like Tom. He’s a dear.’’

  “I’ll probably stop in for a pint, after. I’ll be back by seven.’’

  “We’ll eat late. You look just right.’’

  Oliver drove into Portland and parked in the Temple Street garage. The downtown high–rise buildings were all banks now. The highest points in the city used to be church steeples, Oliver thought. Now, all you see up there are bank signs.

  He entered the dark and ornate lobby of Pilgrim’s Atlantic. Money was taken seriously here. He looked for the elevator. “Topside,’’ Tom had said.

  When the elevator doors opened at the top floor, Oliver was disoriented by the orange carpet, the color–coordinated flowery wallpaper, and the sunny windows. A well–built maternal receptionist smiled from behind an antique table. Where was he? He returned her smile. Two silver–haired executives approached and passed each other in the center of the large room. They had magnificent chests and sun–bronzed features. They nodded antlers and continued on their separate paths to polished doors.

  Oliver stared, entranced. A red–haired assistant wearing a tight skirt and a close–fitting white blouse came from behind a corner and followed one of the executives into his office. In front of her, she held a silver tray. There was a glass of milk on it and a small plate of cookies. Nursery school, he thought, and started to laugh. The power floor is a nursery school!

  “Do you have an appointment?’’

  “Yes, ha. Yes. Tom Alden. Three o’clock.’’

  “You must be Mr. Prescott.’’

  “Oliver.’’

  “Please make yourself comfortable. Mr. Alden will be with you in just a moment. May I get you a refreshment?’’

  “Ah, that’s very nice of you. Let’s see.’’ Take your blouse off. Laphroiag. A ticket to anywhere… “Coffee—cream, no sugar, if you would.’’ The woman pressed a button and spoke softly. Oliver sat on the edge of a love–seat and considered the reading matter on a coffee table: Fortune, The Rolls Royce, and a copy of The Economist. The redhead appeared at his side, bending fetchingly as she set down a cup and saucer. “Thank you,’’ Oliver said sincerely.

  “Oliver? How good of you to come.’’ Tom, a slimmer darker trophy elk, smiled winningly and shook hands. “How’s that coffee? It’s Pilgrim’s blend; we have it roasted to our specs. Margaret, we’ll be tied up for awhile. If Jack Dillon calls, tell him I’ll get to him by four. Thanks. Come on in, Oliver.’’ He patted Oliver warmly on the shoulder. “How’s Jennifer?’’

  “Fine. She sends her best, by the way.’’

  “Good. Good.’’ Tom opened one of the polished doors and ushered Oliver into his office. The harbor spread out before them. A ferry was halfway to Peaks Island.

  “Nice view,’’ Oliver said. “I love the look of those ferries.”

  “One of the better perks,’’ Tom admitted. “The town is growing fast. I hope we aren’t overstressing the harbor.’’

  “Often a subject of discussion at our house,’’ Oliver said.

  “Jennifer does good work with The Wetlands Conservancy. We do what we can to help. Jacky Chapelle, one of ours, used to be on their board. You know Jacky?’’

  Oliver felt his room to maneuver slipping away. “Yes,’’ he said innocently.

  “One of our best, Jacky. We took her on at a lower position and made quite a career for her. We take care of our own at Pilgrim.’’ Tom swiveled around to face Oliver more directly. “Why do you want to come aboard, Oliver?’’

  “Pilgrim has an excellent reputation,’’ Oliver said.

  “We’re the can–do bank,’’ Tom said, smiling. “Didn’t Mary tell me you guys have added to the crew?’’

  “Yes,’’ Oliver said. “Emma. She just had her first birthday.’’ He shook his head, letting Tom see that he appreciated the gravity and the wonder of it.

  “Mary and I have twins. The future becomes—more important,’’ Tom said. Daddy would love this guy.

  “You want to do your part,’’ Oliver said.

  “I’ll be honest with you,’’ Tom said, leaning forward, “we’re looking for a good man for our MIS position. We need someone who can handle challenge, take on responsibility. Technology is changing fast, Oliver; Pilgrim must change with it. We’re a large organization, but we keep a small turning radius. That’s how we stay in front of the competition. Teamwork. You know—in the last analysis—business is all about people.’’ He stopped to gauge Oliver’s enthusiasm. Underneath all the nautical bullshit, Oliver sensed a fairly sharp guy, hard–working anyway.

  “I can do the work,’’ he said. “But it would take me six months to get up to speed.’’

  “We’ve got four,’’ Tom said.

  “What are weekends for?’’ Oliver asked. That got him the job. That and the Jennifer connection and some boat talk.

  He walked to Deweys and was greeted loudly by George. “Olive Oil, my God!’’ George waved at Oliver’s blazer, slacks, and shiny shoes. “What have you done?’’

  “Pilgrim Atlantic is taking me aboard,’’ Oliver said.

  “My God… Is the money that good?’’ George’s eyes gleamed.

  “Money’s good. It gets better if you keep your mouth shut and work sixty hours a week. I haven’t actually started. I just came from the interview, but it’s a pretty sure thing. I’ll buy.’’ Sam set two pints in front of them.

  “Maybe it won’t be too bad,’’ George said. “Lot of women in there.’’

  “All very well for you, George. I am a man with responsibilities.’’

  “I see them going in. They look like they’re going to jail. I want to save them, carry them away on a white horse.’’ George shook his head sadly. “I can’t afford a horse.’’

  “There aren’t any white horses left,’’ Oliver said. “Silver was it.’’ He raised his glass to the impossibility of it all. “How’s the painting?’’

  “I’m taking a break from painting, working on a sculpture. I’m doing a golden cockroach.’’ George’s face changed when he talked about his projects. His big smile and round eyes were upstaged by his prominent forehead and the bones in his cheeks. His mouth went from boyish to disciplined. “Intelligent,’’ he said. “Indomitable. King of the cockroaches.’’

  “Too much. What’s the King doing?’’

  “He’s poised, feeling with his antennae, sensing his direction.’’

  “I like it,’’ Oliver said.

  “Yeah, come over and see it.’’

  “We talked about Friendship sloops,’’ Oliver said, after a swallow of Guinness. “They’re big on boats at Pilgrim Atlantic.’’

  “Boats!’’ George shook his head wonderingly.

  “Actually, I like them,’’ Oliver said, “I wouldn’t mind trying to make one some day. There was a dinghy that belonged to a neighbor of ours where I grew up. It was very light on the water. Light—but curved and strong—like a winter oak leaf that had drifted down. Herreschoff. It was a Herreschoff dinghy. He was the Mozart of boat designers.’’

  “Like to see that,’’ George said.

  “It was white,’’ Oliver said. “Always seemed freshly painted. Owl, my stepfather, liked boats. He died in one, or—off one. Graceful things are stronger than they look. He told me that once. It’s almost a definition.’’

  “Easy to see. Hard to make,’’ George said.

  Two pints later, Oliver slapped George on the back and walked to the parking garage. It occurred to him, as he drove home, that he had forgotten Pilgrim Atl
antic for a whole hour.

  In the morning, Jennifer was up early. Oliver carried Emma out to the Volvo and secured her in the car seat. “Be careful,’’ he said to Jennifer. She kissed him quickly and lowered herself behind the wheel. “Regards to all,’’ Oliver said. “Wish your father a happy birthday for me.’’

  “I will.’’ Her eyes lingered on his face. “Go back to bed,’’ she said, worried. “You’ve got a long day ahead.’’

  “Last one at the hospital,’’ Oliver said.

  “See you.’’

  “See you. Bye, Emma.’’ Emma smiled for him, and Jennifer took off down the driveway, too fast, as usual. Oliver went back to bed for an hour.

  He stayed around the house, split wood, and organized his tools. He watched a basketball game and took a nap. His plan was to start the day over again around eight in the evening, eat breakfast at a diner, and be at the hospital in time to make sure that everything was ready at midnight for the operating system revision. With luck, he could be at Suzanne’s by one or one-thirty in the morning. “I know you need to be good on Saturdays,’’ he had said to her. “But it will be Sunday. I can actually stay all night, for once.’’ Suzanne thought for a second.

  “If I’m in bed, the door will be open,’’ she said. Oliver felt a jolt of electricity, remembering.

  He looked around the house and ruffled Woof’s ears. “See you tomorrow. So long Verdi—wherever you are.’’ He drove away in the dark and began collecting himself for computer work.

  His schedule was perfect. The reports ran correctly. He made an extra set of backups and had time to clean out his desk before midnight. The operating system went in without a hitch. Shortly after one, he eased up Suzanne’s driveway.

  Her lights were on.

  “Hi, there,’’ he called softly as he stepped inside. She came immediately to the door and held open her arms. “Mmmm, you look sleepy,’’ Oliver said.

  “I’ve been reading, mostly, waiting for you. I took a nap after church. Are you very tired?’’

  “Not really. I took a nap, too.’’

  “Want some tea? I have one strawberry jam left from last summer.’’

  “Love some.’’ He stepped back and looked at her white bathrobe. “Does this come off?’’

  “Pull here,’’ she said, offering him one end of the cotton belt.

  “Later,’’ he said. “I was just curious what was underneath.’’

  “I am underneath,’’ she said. They had tea and toast in the kitchen.

  “Your quilt is a big hit.’’

  “Oliver, you spent too much.’’

  “I had to have it for Emma.’’

  “The church will find good use for the money.’’

  Emma. The church. They fell silent. It was late and still. There were no distractions. Suzanne turned toward Oliver. Her face was rueful and sweet and helpless. He slapped her hard, turning her head sideways. It was like a snake striking.

  She turned her face slowly back to him. A tear welled up in each eye. Oliver’s mouth was open in shock. “Suzanne…” he said, horrified.

  “It’s all right, Baby,’’ she said. The tears slid down her cheek. “You can hit me again, if you want to. It would only help me remember you.’’

  “No, no! I never want to hit anybody again, let alone you. I don’t know what happened.’’

  “It’s the strain of what we’re doing. I feel it, too.’’ She was speaking the truth for both of them. She was braver than he was. “We have to stop,’’ she said.

  “It’s true,’’ Oliver said. “Suzanne,’’ the words came in a rush, “you would be such a wonderful mother. You are so special. You deserve better.’’ A bitter wind was tugging at his heart. “You’re right—we have to stop.’’ He stood up. “This is hard. Better to get it over with.’’

  “You have been so good to me,’’ she said, standing slowly. “Maybe the Lord’s going to let me get away with one.’’ She came to him, and their mouths met—a long gentle meeting. As they pulled apart, Oliver realized that they were separating as equals. He felt a ripping in his chest. He walked quickly to the door and took his coat from the peg. Suzanne stood in the center of the room. She was crying, but her face was clean and shining.

  “Bye, Oliver,’’ she said. “Don’t feel bad.”

  He couldn’t speak, could only acknowledge her and try to thank her with a helpless wave. He went out the door without putting on his coat and drove away without looking back.

  The wind in his chest began to howl. He gripped the steering wheel tighter. Suzanne was right. She was right. He turned south on the main road. He was right, too, to go—before they got caught, before she was seriously hurt. She would get over him. She had a lot going for her.

  The wind howled louder. It was like a dark angel blowing through him. He had never hit a woman before. He hadn’t known he was capable of it. The dark angel was telling the truth, blowing him down the road. He had to set Suzanne free. She was better off without him in the long run. She sensed that, too, although they hadn’t talked about it directly. They were a perfect match physically, and he loved her, but they were just too different. He banged the wheel with one fist and hung on as the angel blew harder.

  Enormously harder. Jennifer. He had to leave her, too. Free everybody. Oh, no! Emma. Emma. He hit the wheel again and shook his head, but the angel wouldn’t let him alone. “Do it now,’’ he told himself. “Do it now. While you can.’’ Could he?

  Yes—if he kept going. The truth kept blowing through him. He couldn’t have continued, otherwise. He bounced to a stop in front of his house, went inside, turned on all the lights, and played La Traviata at top volume. He put his toolboxes in the Jeep and covered them with a tarp. He dumped his clothes in piles on the back seat, shoes and boots on the floor. He filled a cartridge box with cassettes and put it in the front seat with the George Nakashima book. He gathered bathroom stuff together and remembered his briefcase and the file box where he kept his credit card information, the brokerage agreement, bank statements, and his passport. He put these in the front of the Jeep and took another look around the house. He added a flashlight and a picture of Emma to the pile in front. Woof and Verdi watched uneasily.

  He made a mug of black tea and sat at the kitchen table with a pen and a pad of paper.

  “Jennifer, I have to leave. I just realized it. It’s better to do it now while you’re away. I don’t think I could if Emma were here. I can’t give you the life you want and that you should have. It will be better for Emma, too, in the long run. I am very sorry to cause you this pain. You have been nothing but sweet to me, and you deserve better. I don’t know where I’m going, but it won’t be anywhere around here—so you don’t have to wonder if I’m going to come driving in. Take care of Emma. I couldn’t do this if I didn’t know it was best for everybody.

  “Here is enough to keep you going for three months. I’ll send more as soon as I can. You can have the house and everything else. I just took my tools and clothes. I’m sorry. Oliver”

  He wrote a check and left it on top of the note. He washed the mug and left it on the dish rack. Woof made a whimpering sound. Oliver patted her. “Take care of everybody,” he said.

  Verdi sniffed at the door. “You want to come with me?’’ Oliver asked, suddenly hopeful. He opened the door and watched Verdi stalk around the end of the house. “No. You’re better off, here.’’ He turned out the lights and drove down the hill. “So long,’’ he said.

  A band of gray was lightening in the east. The wind was still blowing through his chest but without the angriest gusts. He thought of stopping at Becky’s in Portland, but he couldn’t face leaving another familiar place. It was better to drive. Drive where? South. That’s where people go when they leave Maine. Down the turnpike. He pulled off at the first rest stop and nodded at a trucker who was walking back to the parking lot. Take a leak, a cup of coffee. Go.