Chapter 10

"That's a title," Oliver said. "You just got sculpted or something."

"Painted," George said.

"What do you know about painting?" Mark Barnes had drifted next to them.

"Hey, Mark," Oliver said. He introduced Jennifer.

"I've seen you somewhere," Jennifer said to Mark.

"Climbing out a bedroom window," George said.

"Was that it?" Jennifer smiled.

"Couldn't have been recently," Mark said.

Sandy staggered into the room, carrying a huge turkey in a roasting pan. She lowered it to the table as the regulars cheered. Sandy had worked in Deweys for years. She was popular--red-cheeked, oversized, hard-drinking, and tolerant. Another woman brought paper plates, plastic utensils, and a carving set. "Go for it," Sandy said.

"_Where's the broccoli? _" someone called. There was a chorus of boos.

Sandy and her helper made another trip to the kitchen, returning with garlic bread and an oversized bowl of salad. The group took turns hacking at the turkey. George and Mark argued about Giacometti.

George maintained that Giacometti was better than Picasso. Mark would have none of it. "All that angst! He never met a color he didn't like--cuz the color was always black. My God! I mean, for an Italian!"

"He was Swiss," Jennifer said.

"That explains it," Mark said.

"I love you," George said.

"I took Modern Art at Bowdoin," Jennifer said. "I did a paper on Alberto Giacometti."

"My God," George said, "Bowdoin? They let you out of the Impressionists?"

"Oh, yes," Jennifer said. "Giacometti was very good. Cute, too."

"I knew it," Mark said. "Cute."

"How about some turkey?" Oliver suggested.

Bringing the pies turned out to be a good idea; they disappeared quickly. Sam presented Jennifer with a pint on the house. She was treated like a queen by many of the regulars--misty-eyed about motherhood as long as they didn't have to deal with it. Two hours later, she began to yawn. Oliver collected the empty pie dishes, and they drove home, fortified against the cold, pleased to have been accepted as a couple for the first time.

"I like your friends," Jennifer said on the way home. She rubbed her eyes. "It _was_ smoky in there."

"We should have left a little sooner, I guess," Oliver said. "How's Junior?"

"No complaints."

"That was our coming-out party," Oliver said.

"Yep--we're an item now," Jennifer said, patting him on the knee.

The next day, Jennifer came home with a booklet on how to get a Maine divorce. "Great news," she said, "two or three months and it's over. I called Rupert. He was feeling guilty and said he'd sign whatever. It's pretty simple, really. We don't own much in common."

"That's how it was with Charlotte. We had the house together, but she got some money from her parents and bought me out. Wasn't all that much equity, anyway."

"Where was your house?"

"Peaks Island."

"Oooh," Jennifer said, "that must have been nice."

"It wasn't bad . . . I like the ferries, but they get to be a pain."

"I think we should stay right here until the baby is born," Jennifer said.

"Uh, yeah." Doing anything else had never crossed Oliver's mind.

"But, afterwards, I think we should be looking for a place with more room--don't you?"

Oliver rubbed his forehead. "I guess," he said. "I hadn't thought that far ahead."

"April 24th, the big day," Jennifer said.

"Spring," Oliver said.

"I should be able to work until then. I get three months maternity leave."

"Money," Oliver said. "We'll see how the hospital gig works out. Hard to tell."

"Oliver, let's not worry about anything. Let's just enjoy it. God, I'm so glad I'm not at Hilton Head!"

"We've got our own beaches," Oliver said and was immediately sorry as he imagined Francesca walking toward him.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing," he said.

"It _has_ happened fast," she said sympathetically. "Let me fix you some tea." It wasn't such a bad thing to be fussed over, he thought.

They stayed around the apartment most of the weekend. On Sunday morning, Oliver woke up before Jennifer. It was snowing lightly. He thought of getting out of bed quietly and taking coffee to Crescent Beach. Would Francesca be there? Would she miss him if he didn't go? If he did go, how could he explain to Jennifer where he'd been? He wanted to share the new developments with Francesca, but he was afraid of hurting her. Maybe it was better to let it be for a while. Maybe Francesca wouldn't be there. Maybe she was already on a warm beach in Costa Rica, not a snowy one in Cape Elizabeth.

He got up, made coffee, and turned on the radio. The public station was playing a Bach cantata. Oliver repressed a feeling of disloyalty as he took the coffee upstairs. "_Love the one you're with, _" he repeated to himself from The Rolling Stones.

Jennifer hunched herself up on the pillows and accepted a mug with both hands. "Mmmm," she said, sipping. "Have to do it."

"Do what?"

"Call Mother."

"Ah," Oliver said, "me too."

"She'll be fine once she gets used to it."

"You mean, used to me."

"Yes, Silly. She's already excited about the baby."

"Maybe we should drive down."

"Yes, but I'd better go first. Then we'll go together--maybe at Christmas."

"O.K.," Oliver said.

"Daddy won't care; he never liked Rupert."

"Good man."

Oliver took a long shower, standing under hot water, hearing snatches of Jennifer's voice as she talked on the phone. He dried himself with one of her thick white towels and received a vigorous hug when he stepped into the kitchen. "She freaked out when I explained, but the worst is over," Jennifer said. "I'm going to drive down next Saturday, stay the night, get things back on track." Oliver wondered what "on track" meant.

"O.K.," he said. "One down. My mother will be excited, actually."

"It is exciting," Jennifer said. "Go on, get it over with." Oliver called and gave his mother the news, promising to bring Jennifer for a visit during the holidays. "There," Jennifer said, "that wasn't so bad. I want to meet your mom."

"You'll like her," Oliver said. "Want to go down to Becky's? Honeymoon fruit bowl?"

By Monday, they were ready for the working world. Jennifer gave him a goodbye smooch and drove to The Wetlands Conservancy. Oliver stopped for a bagel on his way to the hospital and read the paper like a proper commuter.

Gifford Sims shook his hand and then led him farther down the hall and into another office. "Suzanne," he said, "this is Oliver Prescott. He will be working with us on the computer." He nodded at Oliver and left. A man known far and wide for his small talk, Oliver almost said.

"Gifford is my uncle," Suzanne said neutrally. She was the same tidy chick who had looked him over on his first visit. She wore no make-up or jewelry. Her face had a healthy glow, framed by her soft shoulder-length blonde hair. She smiled quickly, a flash of teeth, an invitation, gone as soon as he took it in. Her mouth settled to a patient hurt expression. "What is your social security number?"

She filled out a form. "We still do payables by hand," she said.

"So, I should give _you_ the bill?"

"Yes. Just leave it on my desk if I'm not here. I'm usually here." The smile again, this time rueful and just as quickly gone. She brushed her hair back with one hand. Oliver noticed lighter streaks in her hair--from the sun, probably. Her eyes were intelligent, a deep chocolate color. "I can mail the check or hold it for you."

"Holding it would be simpler."

"Good," she said. "I'll introduce you to Dan." She rose and moved around him deferentially. My size, he thought. He was used to looking up at women; it was relaxing to be taller for a change, if only by an inch.

"Glad to meet you," Dan said, shaking hands and grinning widely. "We've got plenty to do." Suzanne excused herself. Oliver's eyes lingered on her as she went out the door. "As I was saying, plenty to do."

"Right," Oliver said.

"I'm in charge of billing. That's what we use the computer for, mostly. Let me show you the computer room." He took Oliver into an air-conditioned room where four women were working at terminals. The computer was at the far end of the room, next to an enclosed line printer. "We bought a receivables package years ago, but it has been modified a lot."

"Sure," Oliver said.

"Gifford has asked us to change the late messages. Here's what he wants." Dan pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it. "Over 30 days, this; 60 days, this; 90 days, here." He circled the numbers and underlined the messages.

"O.K.," Oliver said. "Where's the documentation?"

"We don't have much," Dan said. "The original stuff is on that shelf over there."

"Ah," Oliver said. He pulled at one ear lobe. "What language are we talking?"

"RPG II."

"O.K." Oliver groaned inwardly. He'd have to get a book. RPG was supposedly the worst language ever devised. First time for everything. "No problem." That was one thing about being a professional; he knew he could do it. "Might take a while to get started . . ."

"Good! Good! We want it done right." Dan rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. He was in his early forties, medium-sized, balding, energetic. "Let me know if you have any questions. We don't work on Saturdays. Did Gifford tell you that?"

"Yes."

"Good! I'll get you a door key in case you have to get in here after hours. We lock the computer room at night."

"Dan, could you come here a moment?"

"Be right there," he called to someone in the corridor. "This is Oliver, everybody." The women had all been watching them. "Ruth, Edna, Lillian, Vi." He pointed to each in turn. Oliver smiled four times. "O.K. gang, let's get to it." Dan walked quickly out of the room, intent on the next problem. Oliver pulled a yellow pad from his bag and wrote names on the final page where they wouldn't be seen: Ruth, short blonde; Edna, happy; Lillian, glasses, bored; Vi, body; Dan; Suzanne. What a pro, he bragged to himself.

He looked through the manuals and tried to make sense of the system. The terminals in the computer room were used for data entry--billing information and payments. Terminals elsewhere in the hospital allowed people to look up information. Medical records were kept by hand in a different department.

The operating system was complicated but not too different from one he had used a few years earlier. There was a job control language that scheduled daily updates and a weekly billing run. A log kept automatic track of all programs that were executed. This gave him the names of the programs. He found Dan at the other end of the hospital and asked him for a password. Once inside the system, he found the source code for the billing programs. A lot of small programs were run in sequence before the bills were actually produced. He took a guess and printed out the last three to be run; the late messages were probably hard-coded in there somewhere. The code was incomprehensible. He couldn't get anywhere without a book. He said goodbye and drove to the Maine Mall.

There was only one book on RPG II. It was a language from the dawn of computer history, thirty years old. He took the book to the Food Court and began trying to interpret the code listings. Two cups of coffee later, he drove home. He had made some progress, but there was a lot left to figure out.

There was a statement from Myron in the mail. Francesca was listed as joint owner at the top. Her name, next to his, gave him a proud feeling. Together. The feeling of connectedness with Francesca was deep and comforting, as long as he didn't think of Jennifer and the baby at the same time.

Myron had invested most of the money in some kind of fund. There were small amounts of General Electric, Royal Dutch Shell, Pfizer, Microsoft, and Citibank. A note suggested that he stop in. "Keeping powder dry," Myron wrote. "These blue chips will grow with the economy. We'll add to them on dips and as money comes in. Waiting for good entry points on some growth companies." What was Pfizer? He'd ask Jennifer. On the other hand, he thought, maybe it would be best to keep quiet about this account--at least for now. He put the statement in his pocket and walked down to the Old Port.

"What's Pfizer?" he asked Myron.

"Pharmaceutical company. Solid. The long term outlook for the drug industry is good." Oliver inquired about the fund that was listed on the statement. "Right," Myron said. "It's a safe place to park cash--government securities only, decent return."

"I was wondering," Oliver said, "if you could hold my statements here--not send them."

"We can do that. Let me make a note. No problem."

"Thanks," Oliver said. "I'll check in from time to time."

"Or call me," Myron said. "I've got my eye on some companies--domestic natural gas, fiber optics, fuel cell technology."

"I've heard of fuel cells. What are they?"

"They produce electricity directly from a source of hydrogen. You feed them pure hydrogen or a hydrocarbon fuel; you get electricity, heat, and water. No pollution. Very reliable. Cars would be the bonanza market, but there are engineering problems to solve first--to make the cars cheap enough. There are a lot of other applications. Residential power. Industrial power."

"Wowzir!"

"It's a ways off," Myron said. "The people who develop a technology aren't always the ones who make the big money with it. Developing a business takes a different kind of skill." Myron shook his head. "I've been burnt," he said. "You put a winning technology together with winning management--_then_ you've got something."

"It's interesting. Well--do what you think best. I'll start following these companies."

"No statement?" Myron inquired, making sure.

"Save a tree," Oliver confirmed.

"Right." A twinkle quickly disappeared. "Right."

Oliver walked up Congress Street. He saw a rack of postcards in an art supplies store window. I ought to send Muni a card, he thought. There weren't any that he liked, however. Maybe at the Museum. Christmas decorations were already appearing. It was going to be a busy holiday.

Arlen was collecting his mail when Oliver arrived home.

"Hey, Arlen, how are you?"

"Just fine, Oliver."

"Developments, Arlen!"

"I noticed--with a Volvo."

"Jennifer. We must get together soon. She's great. She's going to have a baby. We're going to have a baby."

"Congratulations! I'm happy for you, Oliver. Developments downstairs, as well."

"I wondered," Oliver said.

"Porter," Arlen said simply.

"Excellent! The House of Happy Endings."

"Thank you, Oliver. Let us hope so. When is the baby due?"

"April."

"Oh, my. Definitely we must celebrate. Whoops, there's the phone." He waved goodbye and let himself into his apartment. Oliver felt something at his feet.

"Verdi! Were you out? Well, well, time to eat isn't it?" He closed the front door behind him, and Verdi ran up the stairs. Oliver followed, seeing a can of coconut milk and a smaller can of Thai curry paste. Basil, a bit of chicken, green beans, rice . . . He was almost out of shoyu, but that wouldn't matter with a curry. Tomorrow he would get shoyu. And more veggies. Jennifer was strong on veggies.

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 afterwards. 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.