Chapter 2

Oliver turned his shopping cart around the end of an aisle, swerved, and stopped to avoid bumping into Francesca's friend. She was studying the pasta sauces, one hand resting on her cart, one hand on her hip. Her jacket was open. Oliver's eyes lingered on her solid breasts and tight red sweater. She looked at him. He cleared his throat. "Not much choice," he said. "I found a good sauce at Micucci's--the one with a great picture of the owner's grandmother when she was young. It wasn't that expensive, either." He was babbling, starting to blush. Her eyes narrowed and a small smile pushed at the corners of her mouth.

"Yes," she said. "Micucci's."

"Great place," he said, rolling by, pretending to be in a hurry. God, the woman was some kind of menace. But she knew about Francesca . . . And those breasts. He clung to the cart and let his vision blur as the red sweater came back into focus. He blinked and joined a checkout line. A skinny woman in front of him put a gallon jug of vodka on the counter. "Not a bad idea," he said. She looked at him, smiled as though she were on a two second tape delay, and then frowned as she concentrated on paying. Her arms and legs were like sticks. He wondered what she'd had to put up with and if she had anyone to put up with her. He didn't really like vodka, but he ought to get something for George. What do foundrymen drink? Red wine? Ale? The woman picked up energy as she wheeled her cart toward the parking lot. Keep going. Good luck.

He drove home and put away the groceries. He went down to the basement and brought up a piece of pine which Verdi ignored. "Really, it's much better," Oliver argued. The phone rang.

"Oliver? This is Jennifer Lindenthwaite."

"Hi, Jennifer."

"I'm calling for the Wetlands Conservancy."

"Oh, I thought you wanted to take me to Atlantic City."

"Rupert might not like that," she said.

"I suppose not," he said. "Ah, well . . ."

"Can you do some work for us, Oliver? Our mailing list is in hopeless shape. We bought a computer, but no one knows how to do anything but type letters on it."

"You want me to set up a database?"

"I suppose that _is_ what we need."

"How soon?"

"Umm . . ."

"Yesterday, right?"

"Well, sometime soon, at your convenience."

"As it happens," Oliver said, "I've got time in the next couple of weeks. How about if I come over Tuesday, say--around nine?"

"Thank you, Oliver. You're a sweetheart. See you then." Jennifer hung up, and Oliver looked at the computer. "Can't buy Friskies on my good looks," he said. That was how work came in for him--two weeks here, six months there. He got by, barely.

The day drifted along. He took a nap, watched a basketball game on TV, and cleaned, minimally, for his mother's inspection. At seven, he walked down to George's.

"Foundrymen's Red!" he said, holding up a liter of Merlot. "Foundry workers, I should say."

"Good timing." George rummaged for glasses, found one, and handed it to Oliver. "The guest gets the clean glass." He washed one for himself and filled them both. "Cellini," he toasted.

"Pavarotti," Oliver responded. "And other great Italians. Did you know my mother is Italian?"

"Some people have all the luck."

"Yeah," Oliver said. "She was a singer when she was young."

"Probably cooks, too," George said.

"Yeah."

"Jesus, Olive Oil."

"She's coming through this weekend. She and Paul, her husband. They go to Quebec every year."

"Good eating in Quebec."

"You bet," Oliver said. "She likes to dress up. They have a good time."

"Wow," George said. "I don't think my mom has bought a dress in twenty years. Says she's too old for that foolishness."

"My mom is too old, but it doesn't stop her." He looked at the furnace. "So, what are we doing?"

"We're set," George said. They crossed the loft, and he handed Oliver a propane torch. "I'll turn on the gas at the main tank. You light it. There's the blower valve." He pointed to a round handle mounted between the blower and the pipe that led to the furnace. Oliver lit the torch and knelt by the furnace. George stood by the propane tank. "Hope this works. You ready?"

"Do it."

George opened the line, and Oliver angled the torch tip down into the furnace. Nothing happened for several moments. There was a whooshing sound, and George said, "Holy Mama!" A blue flame, the size of a beach ball, was bouncing under the wooden ceiling joists. Oliver concentrated. Air. He reached back and grabbed the blower valve, twisting it counter-clockwise. Almost immediately, the blue flame lowered. He continued opening the valve. The flame pirouetted irregularly down an invisible column, drawn toward the furnace.

"Air," he shouted. "Not enough air until it got way the hell up there."

"Keep going," George said.

The flame reached the top of the furnace and began to whirl in a tight spiral. It plunged inside, roaring and spinning at high speed. The floor shook. "Jesus," George said.

"It's like a Goddamn bomb," Oliver said.

George put an ingot of bronze into a carbon crucible and gripped the edge of the crucible with long tongs. He lowered the crucible to the bottom of the furnace. "Put the top on," he said. Oliver lifted and pushed the top over the furnace. The roaring became muffled, contained. It felt safer. "Nice going, about the air," George said. "I thought we were going to burn the place down."

"Physics," Oliver said. George looked down through the hole in the top.

"Nothing yet." He stood back. A few minutes later the ingot began to slide toward the bottom of the crucible. "There she goes," George said. "It's working." He opened the door of the kiln, and, using a different set of tongs, extracted the flask. He set the flask, glowing cherry red, upside down in a flat pan of sand. He shut off the gas and unplugged the blower. "The top," he said, handing Oliver a pair of heavy gloves and pointing. Oliver worked the top over one edge of the drum, tipped it down, and rolled it onto three bricks.

George reached into the furnace with the long tongs. He lifted the crucible from the furnace and walked with careful steps to the flask. Holding the lip of the crucible over the flask, he tipped his body to one side. The bronze poured like golden syrup into the hole where the wax had been, quickly filling the mold.

George lowered the crucible back into the furnace. After the roaring, it seemed unusually silent. "Intense," Oliver said. "Now what?" George picked up the hot flask with the second pair of tongs and dropped it into a bucket of water. There was a burst of sizzling and bubbling, and it was quiet again.

"The temperature shock weirds out the investment. It changes state--to a softer stuff that we can get off the bronze." George poured the water into his bathtub and refilled the bucket with cold water. "Still hot," he said.

They drank wine while the flask cooled. When George could hold the flask, he pushed the investment out of the cylinder and chipped at it with a screwdriver. A hip appeared. "The Flying Lady," Oliver said.

"Damn!" George said, chipping and prying. Gobs of oatmeal colored investment fell away. "Not bad!" George held up the Lady and the heart on their bronze tree. "We cut them off and

polish. . ."

An hour later, filled with wine and a sense of accomplishment, Oliver walked up Danforth Street. The bronze heart was solid and heavy in his pocket. He warmed it in his hand, feeling the O, the plus sign, and the F over and over again, a mantra said with the ball of his thumb. When he got home, he placed the heart on one of the walnut boards, fed Verdi, and went to bed.

He lay there remembering the bronze pouring into the heart. A bit of him had poured with it, and an exchange had taken place: something bronze had entered him at the same moment.

3.

"Mythic," Oliver said to Paul Peroni, the next afternoon. They were sitting at the kitchen table with his mother. Paul was weighing the heart in his palm as Oliver described the bronze casting. Oliver's mother took another tea biscuit.

"Never too old for a valentine," she said, seeming to note the absence of a female presence in the apartment.

"Yes . . . No . . ." Paul answered them both. He was medium sized, sinewy, and graying--surprisingly light on his feet for someone who installed slabs of ornamental marble.

"It's so nice to see Verdi again. Kitty, kitty," she called. Verdi stretched and remained in the corner. "Oh well, be that way," she said, straightening. Lip gloss, touches of eye shadow, and her full wavy blonde hair broadcast femaleness like a lighthouse. The good body could be taken for granted. You might as well assume it, the message flashed, cuz you sure as hell weren't going to be lucky enough to find out. She and Paul were well matched. "I knew I was onto something, our first date," she'd told Oliver. "I was cooing about Michelangelo and Paul said, 'yes, but he used shitty marble.' "

She looked pointedly at Paul. "Sun's over the yard arm," he said.

DiMillo's was uncrowded. They sat at a window table, ordered drinks, and talked as boats rocked quietly in the marina and an oil tanker worked outward around the Spring Point light. Oliver's mother bragged about his niece, Heather, and her latest swimming triumphs. She complained about the long winter and how crowded the Connecticut shore had become. "It may be crowded," Oliver said, "but you get daffodils three weeks before we do."

Oliver sipped his second Glenlivet and looked back from the darkening harbor. "I wish I had known my grandfather," he said to his mother. "I remember when he died. I was eight, I think."

"Yes, you were in third grade," she said. "It was sad. He was living in Paris. When he wrote, I called him at the hospital--but he didn't want me to come. He said that he wanted me to remember him as he was."

"When was the last time you saw him?" Oliver asked.

"Oh . . . I . . ." She looked at Paul. He raised his eyebrows sympathetically. "I guess I never told you that story," she said to Oliver. "It was a long time ago. My sixteenth birthday, in fact." She sighed.

"It was at Nice, on the Riviera. He arranged a party on the beach--wine, great food, fireworks . . . After the fireworks, he gave me a bamboo cage with a white dove inside.

"'This is your present, Dior,' he said. 'You must let it go, give it freedom.' I opened the cage, and the dove flew up into the dark. 'Very good,' my father said. He hugged me. Then he said, 'Now, we will say goodbye. You are grown, and I will not be seeing you and your mother any more. Be good to your mother.' He hugged me again and just walked down the beach--into the night."

Oliver watched tears slide down his mother's cheeks.

She lifted a napkin and wiped away her tears. "He was very handsome."

"No need of that shit," Paul said.

They were silent.

"Paul's right," Oliver said.

"My mother packed up and brought us back to New Haven. We lived with her folks for a while."

"Good old New Haven," Paul said.

"Now, _your_ father . . ." She smiled at Paul.

"He liked the ladies," Paul said.

"What did he do?" Oliver asked.

"He was a stone mason, made his own wine, raised hell. Fought with Uncle Tony until the day he died. They were tight, though--don't let anybody else say anything against them. Bocce ball. Jesus." Paul shook his head and held up his glass. "Life," he said.

"Yes, life." Oliver's mother raised her glass.

"Coming at you," Oliver added.

"Us," Paul said.

They touched glasses and got on with a shore dinner of lobsters and clams.

Oliver said goodbye in DiMillo's parking lot. He walked home imagining the sixteen year old Dior Del'Unzio with her mouth open as the white dove flew upward and then with her hand to her mouth as her father walked away. "No need of that shit." He was glad Paul was around to take care of his mother. She was vulnerable under the big smile; Oliver often felt vaguely guilty and responsible for her.

She had done the same thing as _her_ mother: hooked up with an exotic stranger--Muni Nakano, proper son of a proper Japanese family in Honolulu. But, his mother hadn't stuck around for sixteen years. She'd come back from Hawaii to Connecticut, pregnant, and eventually married Owl Prescott. They raised him and Amanda, his half sister. His mother had made a go of it in New England. Only once in awhile would she show signs of her Italian childhood. "Topolino mio," she used to call him when he was little and she'd been partying.

He poured a nightcap and put on a tape--Coltrane and Johnny Hartman. I'm wasting my life, he thought suddenly. What am I going to do? He knew that he needed to change, but it seemed hopeless. He looked at the walnut boards. Maybe a box . . .

He sketched a little chest with a hinged top. He erased the straight bottom lines and drew in long low arches. "That's better." The top should overhang. Should its edges be straight or rounded? Straight was more emphatic; he could always round them afterwards.

He could make each side from a single width of walnut. Dovetailed corners. A small brass hasp and lock. Why not? He could make the whole thing out of one eight foot piece and have two boards left over for something else or for extra if he screwed up the dovetails.

"Here you go," he said to Verdi. He replaced the offending piece of pine with the original scratched walnut. "Nothing but the best for Team Oliver." He looked at the heart. "Team O." Verdi forgave him without moving. "Bedtime," Oliver said.

On Monday, Oliver cut pieces for the sides, top, and bottom of the box. He bought a dovetail saw and made several cardboard templates for the joints. It was a way of thinking about them. They were tricky, had to interlock perfectly, one end male, one end female.

"What have you been up to?" Jennifer Lindenthwaite asked on Tuesday morning.

"Making a box," Oliver said.

"Oh, that's exciting."

"It's harder than it looks--for me, anyway."

Jennifer wanted him to look at her and not at an imagined box. She was a solid blonde, Nordic, with broad cheeks and a big smile. "I worry about Rupert when he does things around the house. Something usually goes wrong."

"Ah . . ." Oliver said. "A minor flaw."

"Rupert is wonderful," she said. "Now, the mailing list. Hi, Jacky." Oliver turned and was astonished to see Francesca's friend in the doorway. "Jacky is one of our volunteers. She does a lot of the mailing list work. I thought you could work together on this. Jacky, this is Oliver Prescott."

Jacky stepped forward. "Jacky Chapelle," she said. She had strong cheekbones and dark blonde hair, cut short and swept back. Her eyes were hazel colored. She had a winged messenger look that lightened her direct, almost blunt, expression and her powerful shoulders.

"Uh, hi." Oliver shook her hand. "Did you find any pasta sauce?"

"Eventually."

"Oh," Jennifer said. "You know each other."

"Not exactly," he said. Jennifer looked at him closely. _Hell is being in one room with two women_, Owl said. Oliver cleared his throat. "Where's the computer?"

"Just down the hall." Jennifer led them to another room. "Let me know if you need anything."

"Well," Oliver said as they were left alone.

"You don't look like a programmer," Jacky said.

"Thank you."

She showed him a box of file cards--the mailing list. "Here is what we have. It would be nice to be able to print mailing labels, and we need to keep track of who has contributed."

"Sure," Oliver said. "And probably some other things."

"Yes," she said. "Some of the members are summer people. We need to know their winter addresses."

"What's winter?"

"Labor Day to the 4th of July," she said.

"The Maine we know and love," Oliver said. "We can keep individual winter start and end dates for each name, use defaults if we don't have the information."

"Right," she said. "Ideally, the list would interact with other programs someday. It has members on it, and people who aren't members but who are interested. Also, media people. And legislators. Sometimes we send special mailings. I suppose we'll need some kind of type code."

"O.K.," Oliver said. They discussed requirements and agreed to meet the following Saturday morning. Jacky left, and Oliver gave a thumbs up sign to Jennifer who was talking on the phone.

Not a bad little job, he thought, driving back to Portland. He'd been itching to ask Jacky about Francesca, but something had stopped him. He wanted to know Jacky better. She was sure of herself and moved comfortably. Her breasts were invading his consciousness; he found it hard to think about Francesca at the same time.

That afternoon, he began cutting the dovetails. It took concentration; hours went by. But when he fit the first two ends together it seemed as though it had been only a few minutes. "All right!" he said, leaving the attached pieces on the table.

Verdi came in looking satisfied. The weather was warmer, much better for prowling. More snow was possible, but the chances were against it. Oliver put away his long johns for the winter. "Probably too early," he said to Verdi, "but so what."

The next morning, as he waited for a seat in Becky's, he saw a familiar figure in a booth. She was facing away from him, but he was fairly sure it was Francesca when she turned her head. She stood and walked toward him, following the man who was with her. Francesca, yes. The man was tall and blonde with a wide forehead and a long triangular face. He had an easy vain expression, as though he had a full day ahead of being admired. Francesca's head was down. She walked carefully. As they passed, her eyes met Oliver's and he realized that she had already recognized him, had known that he was there. Her face was resigned with traces of humor around the edges. He was struck by her calm, so much like his. They shared a moment of this calm--the briefest of moments--but it felt as though it expanded infinitely outward around them. Did she raise her eyebrows? He thought he saw her flush, but she was past him before he could be sure. He remembered the bronze heart, and warmth stirred in him. When he got home, he put it in his pocket and rubbed his thumb over the O, the plus sign, and the F.

By Saturday, he had programmed a prototype design for the mailing list. In the early days of programming, every detail had to be laid out on paper before you sat in front of a computer. It was too slow and expensive to rework code. Now, you could make changes easily. It was more efficient to show a customer a quick design that could be used as a starting point for discussion and improvement.

He tossed a canvas shoulder bag containing notes and diskettes into the Jeep. Verdi took up a position behind the bare forsythia bushes. "Go get 'em," Oliver said. His house was on the south side of the hill overlooking the harbor. The first crocuses were popping up, several days ahead of the ones at the Conservancy. He was early; no one was there.

Ten minutes later, Jacky drove up. She got out of a red Toyota truck and waved one hand. "I've got the key," she said. "Did you get anything done?"

"Yeah, a start," Oliver said. He installed the software while she made a pot of coffee.

"Coffee's on," she said, carrying a cup for herself. "Mugs are in the cupboard above the sink." Oliver decided against a joke about a woman's role in the office. He walked down the hall and poured his own. He looked at his hiking boots, light colored jeans, and dark plaid shirt. It was Saturday, for God sake. Every day was Saturday for Oliver as far as clothes were concerned. What difference did it make? Jacky was wearing tan jeans and a denim jacket, open over a mahogany colored jersey. She was a big woman. His eyes were at the level of her collarbone. Her jacket would swing back easily. Stop it, he told himself.

She objected to his mailing list screens. "Cluttered," she said. She was right. He explained that he had jammed everything in as a beginning, so that they could see what they were working with. She was clear about what she wanted. Forty-five minutes later, they were back outside.

"Beautiful day," he said. She smiled enigmatically and turned her ignition key.

"Damn," she said.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing happening." She turned the key several more times.

"Pop the hood," Oliver said. The hood sprang open just as the words left his mouth. He felt for the second latch and leaned his head over the engine. "Try it again." He could hear the solenoid clicking. "How about the lights?" The lights were fine, plenty of juice. "Don't know," he said. "Could be the starter. I don't think a jump will do it."

Jacky called triple A. An older man went through the same procedure and then hoisted the truck behind his wrecker.

"Ride home?" Oliver asked.

"If you don't mind," Jacky said. "South Portland."

"Right in my direction," Oliver said. He drove into the city and pointed out his house as they approached the bridge. "Back soon, Verdi," he called out the window.

"Verdi?"

"My cat." They crossed the bridge, and Jacky directed him to a quiet street in a residential neighborhood. He stopped in her driveway intending to back out and return the way they had come.

"You look hungry," she said.

"I am." He was surprised.

"I have something for you. Come in." She slid out and walked to the front door without waiting for an answer. He followed her into a house which was sunnier and more spacious than it appeared from the front. A long living room opened to a sun porch at the back. "I have a double lot," she said, showing him the porch. Two large willow trees framed the end of the yard. "High bush blueberries," she said, waving at a stand of bushes that ran along one side. "Salad garden over there. Flowers. Fun."

"Nice," he said.

"I had a craving for rare steak last night. I could only eat half of it, though. It's in the refrigerator." She led him to the kitchen. "There's mayo, mustard, horseradish--if you're feeling wild. Bread's in there." She turned. "Oh, there's ale in the bottom of the refrigerator. I'll have a glass." She left the room.

"Do you want a sandwich?" he called after her.

"No, thanks, I'll just nibble," she said. A door closed.

Oliver opted for horseradish, not a usual choice for him. "Not bad," he said when she came back, "the horseradish." Jacky took a long swallow of ale. She had taken off her jacket and washed her face.

"It's been a good truck," she said.

"Starters go," Oliver said. "Toyotas are fine. Where do you work?"

"I'm a banker," she said. He sat straighter.

"Fooled you," she said.

"I wouldn't have guessed. I thought maybe you were a teacher." When I saw you with Francesca, he almost added.

"Bankers are discreet," she said. She looked at him directly. "Are you--discreet?"

He considered. "Yes." He was apologetic for some reason.

She approved. "You look like someone who keeps things private."

Well, it was true. He confirmed with a nod and took another bite of sandwich.

"Have you explored your sexuality, Oliver?" Whoa! His throat closed, and he sat there chewing foolishly.

"I was married," he managed to get out.

"I didn't think you were a virgin. I mean, for instance, have you ever been restrained?" She spoke quietly, but Oliver felt the tension ratchet up a notch.

"Restrained?" Jacky left the kitchen and returned with a pair of handcuffs which she placed on the table.

"Oh," Oliver said. "No."

"It takes a lot of character and trust," she said, matter of factly. "Not many can do it. Would you like to see how they feel?" He hesitated and felt something inside him start to slip, to accede to her. "Hold out your hands," she said. Her eyes were large. He held up his arms without taking his eyes from hers. She smiled and closed the handcuffs around his wrists. "There," she said. "How do they feel?" She watched him, still smiling.

"Not bad," he said.