Chapter 9

Oliver drove home. In the mail, there was a large flat package from a bookstore and a letter from Myron saying that the account was open. He wrote the number on a card and put it in his wallet in case he should see Francesca. He decided not to send her a letter; she had her hands full. If she needed cash, she knew how to get it. The arrangement gave him a warm feeling when he thought about it. He was useful to her, even if she never touched the money.

There was a gift note inside the package: "This is the guy I was telling you about. Home in one month. Muni." The book was by George Nakashima, _The Soul of a Tree._ Oliver was immediately attracted to the photographs of walnut, cherry, and chestnut tables. The tops were made from wide slabs that had been left in their natural contours. Where the wood had separated as it dried, Nakashima had inlaid butterfly keys to prevent the splits from widening. The keys were made of contrasting woods--rosewood and oak. Their butterfly or bow tie shapes became design elements, quasi-geometric signatures. Oliver was fascinated.

Later, in Deweys, he tried to explain to Mark. "The tables knock me out. I mean, sure, it's hard to go wrong with a great piece of walnut. The guy must have gotten every trophy tree in Pennsylvania. But what I love is the way he treated splits. He repaired them with these butterfly keys." Oliver made a quick drawing and showed it to Mark. "The keys _improve_ the look. They add the human touch, so that it isn't only a beautiful piece of wood--it's a beautiful piece made even better. He turns a flaw into a strength by acknowledging it, working with it instead of trying to hide it."

"Righteous," Mark said. "I want one."

"They're all in collections, now. The guy is famous," Oliver said. "I think that his daughter is carrying on the tradition."

"Must be nice to make something that lasts," Mark said.

"You've got enough money to make things," Oliver said. "You've got an art degree, right?"

"Yeah, I can draw. But there's no money in it."

"Why can't you do both?"

"I try sometimes, but it's hard to get into it. If I make a good drawing or painting, then what--I've got to frame it and beg some gallery owner to sell it for fifty percent of not much? Frig that. It's not like I'm a frustrated genius."

"Just frustrated," Oliver said.

"Look who's talking. Maybe you ought to forget programming and set up a cabinet shop."

"Maybe," Oliver said.

"Speaking of frustrated," Mark said, "how are the ladies?"

"Not bad," Oliver said. "I'm in love."

"Oh, no!"

"It's complicated," Oliver said. "Remember Francesca?"

"Big trouble."

"Yeah, I guess. She's still with her husband, but maybe not for long. He's a jerk."

"A bill-paying jerk."

"He's not right for her."

"And you are?" Mark set his pint on the bar.

"I am--or could be--if she wanted."

"So what are you going to do, put your life on hold?"

"I'm going to work, save some money."

"No indoor sports?"

"Oh, that," Oliver said. "I don't know."

Mark shook his head. "Well, love is one thing, but I'd keep in practice if I were you."

"Maybe I'll buy a new sweater."

"Now you're talking. What was his name again? George . . ."

"Nakashima."

"The man!" Mark drank. "So how did you hear about him?"

"My father sent me the book I was telling you about."

"You never told me about your father." Oliver's explanation took them through another pint.

"Something else," Mark said. "You're lucky. My father was a drunk--took off when I was pretty young. He was hard on my mom."

"Do you ever see him?"

"No. She heard that he died a few years ago."

"Too bad," Oliver said.

"I don't know what his problem was," Mark said. "My mom said that he had a bad time in the Korean War. But . . ."

"How's your mom doing?"

"Fine. She's got a boyfriend with a bike. They tool around Albuquerque, have a good time."

"Love it! Look, I'm out of here."

"See you," Mark said.

Oliver walked home thinking that Mark seemed more vulnerable than usual. Everybody's got a story. Everybody's got some kind of problem. It started raining. He was wet through when he got home.

"Soaked, Verdi," he said. He changed into dry clothes and considered dinner. Instant red beans and rice? The doorbell rang. He went down the stairs and opened the door to the street. Jennifer Lindenthwaite was standing there, dripping.

"Hi, Oliver."

"Jennifer!"

"Aren't you going to ask me in?"

"Sure. Come in and dry off. I got soaked, too. Just got home." He led her upstairs and into the apartment. "What's happening?"

"Oh, nothing," she said. "Rupert threw me out . . . I'm pregnant."

13.

"Gaaaagh . . . Jennifer, that's terrible! That's great. I mean--here's a towel." Oliver whipped in and out of the bathroom and handed her a maroon towel. "Do you want to take a shower? How about a cup of tea?"

"Tea would be lovely. I _will_ take a shower." She closed the bathroom door behind her, and Oliver rushed to fill the tea kettle. The shower started. Milk? Sugar? Honey?

"Verdi," he called, "Jennifer is here for tea." The words echoed. Verdi was nowhere to be seen; probably he had taken refuge upstairs. Oliver paced back and forth from the stove to the fireplace. Why had she come to him? He felt the future looming, threatening to sweep away the controlled life that he complained about but that suddenly seemed more attractive.

The shower stopped. Jennifer stepped out a few minutes later wearing his Navy blue bathrobe. She was rosy cheeked and much recovered.

"Uh, how do you like your tea?"

"Do you have any chamomile?"

"Umm, no. I should get some herb tea. All I have is English Breakfast."

"Oh, that's fine. Just a little milk, thanks." She sat next to the fireplace and looked around the apartment while Oliver fixed the tea.

"I don't know," he said, handing her a mug. "Whiskey might be a better idea." Jennifer took a sip and sighed.

"That's so good. I forgot how nice your apartment is."

"It's large enough," Oliver said. "Walking distance from Deweys--I like that. So, what happened? You look great."

"I feel great. I'm just starting to show a little--getting into the fifth month." Oliver counted backwards. "What happened is that Rupert freaked out when I told him I was pregnant. He became--I don't know--_distant._ I thought he was just nervous and would get used to it, but he got more and more uptight. I couldn't take it anymore." She drank her tea and sighed again.

"So today, I . . . I said to him: 'Look, Rupert, _what_ is the matter? We're going to have a baby. What is _wrong_ with you?' I guess I should have been more diplomatic. You know--said something like: 'Rupert, I need your affection; I'm feeling all alone here.' But I didn't _feel_ diplomatic. I was mad as hell, actually."

Owl's words echoed: "_Anger is the outer face of fear._"

"Scared," Oliver said.

Jennifer looked at him. "Maybe so," she said. "I thought we had a family. I thought we were all set to go."

"Well, sure," Oliver said.

"'So,' Rupert said, 'who's the father?'

"'What do you mean?' I said.

"'It's not me,' Rupert said. I was shocked. Anyway, it came out that he has a very low sperm count. He knew it all the time and never told me. I told him that you and I had a one time thing last summer, and he freaked out.

"'I'm not paying for his kid, bla, bla, bla.'

"I practically begged: 'Couldn't it be like we adopted him--or her?'

"'It's his problem,' he said. He called my baby a problem. How could he love me if my baby is a _problem?_"

"Good question," Oliver said. "Jesus, Jennifer."

She put down her tea and held her arms out to him. "Come feel," she said. She loosened the bathrobe and guided Oliver's hand to her belly, warm and taut.

"Amazing!" Oliver said.

"I'm still getting used to it," she said. "I'm over the morning sickness."

Oliver withdrew his hand slowly and straightened. "What are you going to do?"

"Tonight?"

"Well, for starters . . ."

"I don't know. I just wanted to see you, to tell you. You weren't here when I got home. I couldn't find a parking place anywhere close." Her voice trailed off. "I've got a credit card; I can stay at the Holiday Inn."

"No way," Oliver said. "You might as well stay here. Your clothes are all wet." A relieved smile brightened her face.

"Thank you, Oliver."

"Music," he said. He was hearing hearing strains from _La Traviata_ in his mind. He wanted to play the opera, but he was afraid Jennifer would find it too heavy. He played a tape of Native American flute melodies echoing down a canyon. Soothing stuff.

"Oh, I love this music," she said.

"Carlos Nakai," Oliver said. "Are you hungry?" He was newly concerned. There were two of her. Check that--one of her and one of them, a new one. Jennifer looked pleased.

"I've been so upset, it's hard to tell. I think so, actually."

"I have some red beans and rice mix--no canyon greens, though." She looked puzzled. He explained, "I was thinking of the music--what would go with the rice and beans and the music--veggies from a canyon."

"You're so imaginative, Oliver."

"Frozen peas, best I can do." He waved the bag in the air. They ate and watched the news. Oliver slid a clean pillow case on the extra pillow and put a lamp on the other side of the bed. Seduction scenes were easier. They happened or they didn't in a great rush. Jennifer couldn't find a book that she wanted to read. She took a copy of _Wooden Boat Magazine_ upstairs, and Oliver followed her awkwardly.

They lay side by side while she paged through the magazine. "I like this one." She pointed out a 32 footer at anchor in Penobscot Bay. The builder and his wife were enjoying cocktails. A golden retriever was slumped near the bow, his head between his paws.

"Nice," Oliver said. "I wonder if Verdi would like it. Remember Verdi, my cat? Verdi, where are you anyway?"

"I haven't seen him since I got here," Jennifer said.

"He's hiding. Anti-social. He'll come out when he's hungry."

"I'm not hungry now," Jennifer said, putting down _Wooden Boat._ "That was a good dinner. Thanks for taking care of me."

"You're welcome." Oliver turned out his light.

"Nighty night," she said and rolled to her side. The comforter went with her. She switched off her light and snuggled back against him. He pulled the comforter back over him and brushed her hip with his hand.

"I'm glad you came," he said.

"Don't be a stranger," she said, settling closer. Her body was warm and self-contained. He patted her in response and said nothing. A baby? He lay there as Jennifer fell asleep. Her breathing was steady and unhurried. There was a lot to figure out. In the morning . . . He'd figure out what to do in the morning.

He awoke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Jennifer climbing the steps. "Here you are, Sleepy." She put a mug and a small glass down near his head. "Milk in here. You don't use sugar, do you? I don't remember you taking sugar."

"Mmmughh. No. Thanks."

"I'll be right back." She returned with another cup and sat beside him, leaning back on a pillow propped against the wall.

"Good," Oliver said, balancing the mug on his chest.

"Do you like it strong?"

"Yes," he said. "I mean--while you're at it. I usually buy a dark roast."

"That's what I like," Jennifer said. "Organic." She drank and put down her mug. "Do you think I'm awful?"

"Huh? No. Why should I?"

"Well, being a loose woman and all that. And then barging in without any warning."

"What else were you going to do?"

"I'm not awful?" She smiled and turned closer.

"Of course not."

"You're not mad at me?" Oliver shook his head. "Well--could I have a little hug?" She moved down and opened her arms. The bathrobe fell open. Oliver put down his mug. He rolled over, partially covering her, his arms around her. "I won't break," she said and drew him closer. "Oh, Oliver . . ." She was deep chested with high flat breasts that were beginning to swell. He fit his face over her shoulder, and she hugged him tightly. "Oh." She moved her hands down his back and under his shorts, pulling him to her. Oliver's thoughts skidded away.

"Jennifer," he breathed in her ear. "Jennifer?"

"God," she said. "Do something." She pushed his shorts down and reached around for his cock. As he entered her, she quivered and pressed against every part of him. "Oh! It's been forever," she said. "Oh!" She wanted him on her. She wanted him to come, to fill her up, to take his due. Oliver became a lord riding his finest horse, his property, his right.

"God," she said an hour later when he woke up again. "Rupert never made love to me like that."

"Yumm," Oliver said. He was in a pleasant haze. "I think . . ."

She waited. "Yes?"

"I think we should have breakfast."

"Definitely."

"I don't have anything--how about Becky's?"

Oliver was first in the bathroom. He was looking out over the street, waiting for Jennifer, when Verdi bumped his ankle. "There you are! Where have you been? Under the couch?" Verdi ran expectantly into the kitchen. "You shall have a mighty breakfast."

Verdi gobbled his food and stood by the door. Oliver let him out. The clouds were low and dark; a three day rain was settling in. Verdi slunk around the corner of the house, and Oliver went back upstairs.

"All dry," Jennifer said, brushing a hand over her skirt.

"Here's a hat, if you want it. Could rain any time. We'd better drive. Hey, you look good in a Mariner's hat."

"I like hockey," she said. "Not the fighting, the skating. They are such great skaters! My father used to take me to Bruins games. My car or yours?"

"Doesn't matter. Mine's closer."

"I love Jeeps," she said, getting in. As they turned down Park Street, Oliver began to be troubled. When he parked at Becky's, he realized that he was worrying about Francesca. He imagined her face, calm and questioning. What if she were there? He took a deep breath, pulled open the front door, and walked in. No Francesca. Good--one problem put off for another time.

He chose a table at the far end of the diner and sat facing the wall. Jennifer made herself comfortable and surveyed the crowd.

"I like it here," she said. "I don't know why I don't come here more often."

"Good place," Oliver said. Jennifer ordered a fruit bowl with granola and yogurt. He asked for bacon and eggs, homefries with green peppers and onions, and Texas toast. "Cruise all day on this," he said when the waitress delivered. He took a bite of bacon. They couldn't put off the conversation forever. "So--my baby, huh?"

Jennifer smiled. "Your baby. You're the man."

"I'll be damned." He found himself grinning.

"You don't look unhappy--to be a daddy." It was a question.

"Well, I'm not." He was getting used to the idea, feeling a bit proud.

"I like this fruit," she said.

"What do you think we should do?" As the words came out of his mouth, Oliver knew that he had crossed a line. The line had been crossed already--she was going to have his, their, baby--but he hadn't admitted it. We.

She looked at him for a moment and dropped her eyes. She poked around in her fruit with her spoon. "We could be happy," she said quietly.

"We'll need a crib or something," Oliver said.

A tear splashed on Jennifer's fruit bowl. "Yes. Yes, a crib. And a baby blanket."

"A car seat," Oliver said solemnly. Jennifer wiped her face clean.

"A car seat." She giggled. "Apple pie. Do you like apple pie?"

"You're kidding," Oliver said. "Of course."

"I make good apple pie," she said.

"What about Rupert?"

"Rupert is history."

"But you're married."

"Not for long, Sweetums. He can't wait to get rid of me and have his precious space back." Oliver thought of his apartment and felt a small pang. "It's not even his house; his parents let him have it when they moved to Hilton Head. Everything in it, practically, was theirs. I couldn't get rid of any of it. God, I hated those chairs."

"My place is big enough," Oliver said.

"Your place is wonderful," she said. "For now, anyway. Is there a washing machine?"

"Around the back--there's a utility room. Damn!"

"What's the matter?"

"Thanksgiving. I'm supposed to go to my sister's."

Jennifer lifted her spoon triumphantly. "No more Hilton Head! That's where Rupert and I were going. Oh, how wonderful!" She lowered her spoon. "The beach is nice, but Rupert's mother--what a trip."

"Wait 'til you meet my sister." Jennifer's face fell. "Just kidding," Oliver said. "To hell with it. Why don't we have our own Thanksgiving?"

"Would they be upset?"

"Not really. I can go another time--maybe over the holidays. We don't get along all that well, but I like her daughter, Heather. I like being 'Uncle Ollie.' "

"Already, I'm a disruptive influence," Jennifer said.

"We could have a good time," Oliver said. "They're going to roast a turkey at Deweys."

"I could make some pies."

"Solid. I'll call Amanda when we get home."

"I'll go get my clothes." She looked at him for confirmation.

Oliver nodded. It was a done deal. "Do you want me to go with you?"

"No. It will be easier if I just go."

"O.K. I'll get some food."

Later, in Shop 'N Save, Oliver marveled at how easy it was to start living with someone. He made reasonable guesses at what Jennifer might like to eat. He remembered chamomile tea. I was married once, he reminded himself. I know how to do this. A baby? That seemed unreal. Yet he had felt it, secure and growing. Probably, Jennifer shouldn't drink too much. He bought a bottle of Merlot and a six pack of ale. He bought organic corn chips made with what he thought was the good kind of fat. She said that she wanted to make pies. Better leave that stuff to her, he thought. We can get baking dishes at The Whip and Spoon on Commercial Street. It would be nice if that programming work came through. He should follow up with Gifford Sims. Jennifer was still working. She could help with the bills.

He made two trips up the stairs with armloads of groceries. Porter's car was parked in front. It had been there often, lately. Oliver wondered if he had moved in. "The house is filling up, Verdi." He put away the food, listening to Van Morrison and The Chieftains. His eye caught the heart that Francesca had drawn--probably not a good idea to leave it there. He peeled the tape from the wall, folded the heart carefully, and put it with the Marsh and Cooley account information in a brown manila envelope. Something told him to keep the account and Francesca to himself. If he could put Francesca in a separate place, keep her from Jennifer, he wouldn't have to choose between them. He was uneasy about this, but he didn't know what else to do. He had a plastic filing box where he kept his income tax information returns. He slid the envelope into the folder for the oldest year, closed the box, and put it in a corner of the closet.

"I'm home, Handsome!" Oliver trotted downstairs and took a load of clothes from Jennifer.

"I'll put them on the couch for now," he said. "I'll make some shelves or something. How did it go?"

"Fantastic. Rupert was just leaving when I got there. I told him I was moving out and he hardly changed expression. I told him I'd have my stuff out by tomorrow night."

"You don't fool around."

"Only with you." Jennifer hugged him and stepped away. "More in the car," she said happily. They made several trips. "This is most of it. The summer clothes are put away; I'll get them tomorrow. And the sheets and towels I bought--I'm damned if Rupert's going to get those."

"Right," Oliver said. "You should park where the Jeep is, behind the house. The next time I go out, I'll park on the street when I come back. There's only one space with the apartment."

"Oh, I'm driving you out."

"No problem. When you get to nine months, you shouldn't be looking around for parking."

"There's my cross country skis and my bike . . ."

"We can put those in the basement. I have a storage area down there."

"It's so cozy here." Jennifer was glowing.

"I bought some chamomile tea."

"Oliver, you're the perfect man--_my_ perfect man--my PM, my Prime Minister."

"Does that mean you want some?"

"It would be wonderful."

Oliver made tea, thinking that Jennifer had a lot of stuff. Shelves were a necessity. There were two bare walls upstairs. He could buy pine and use the two pieces of walnut for the top shelves. Maybe not. Save the walnut for something else.

"Oh God, the books!" Jennifer said.

"Huh?"

"I have a lot of books."

"More shelves," Oliver said. "I'll help you with the books."

"We'll need boxes."

"I'll get some tomorrow at the U-Haul place."

"Rupert will be gone after nine."

"I don't care," Oliver said.

"It just makes things smoother," she said.

By late afternoon the next day, they had carried the last load into the apartment. The living room was full of boxes. They sat at the kitchen table and made plans. Jennifer was going to work in the morning, the day before Thanksgiving. Oliver was going to make shelves and then move his tools down to the basement. They could use his workbench to hold the additional kitchen stuff. Jennifer had a whole set of dishes she had bought, refusing to use the ones that had belonged to Rupert's parents.

Gifford Sims called and asked if Oliver could start the following Monday. Oliver told Gifford that he'd be there bright and early. Jennifer bought a bushel of apples and another baking dish. By noon on Thanksgiving Day, most of the shelves were built and filled. The bed was remade with tan sheets that were bordered with blooming roses. Verdi was calming down, and the rain had stopped. The apartment smelled of pie. Boxes of books were stacked high in one corner of the living room. Not much space left, Oliver thought, but much more homey.

"So--Deweys later?" he asked.

"The pies are ready," Jennifer said. "I hope it won't be too smoky."

"We don't have to stay long," Oliver said.

Jennifer stood. "Nap time," she said. Oliver watched her hips swing easily around the corner of the steps. He thought of laying out the remaining shelves, yawned, and followed her upstairs.

14.

It was cold and crisp, nearly dark. A neon Guinness sign glowed through a window by the door to Deweys. Oliver shifted the box of pies to one arm and hugged Jennifer with the other. He had a momentary desire to go home and keep the news to themselves.

"Here we go," he said, opening the door. Music, warmth and the smell of ale and cigarettes poured out. Jennifer stepped in ahead of him. They stood for a moment, adjusting to the light.

"Olive Oil!"

"Hey, George. Jennifer, this is George."

"Hello, George. What should we do with the pies, Oliver?"

"I'll ask Sam."

The bartender pointed at a table pushed against one wall. "The bird is going over there--any time now." Oliver put three pies on the table and stashed the empty box underneath. He ordered a pint of Guinness for himself and a half for Jennifer.

"Prescribed for young mothers," he said, handing it to her and taking her coat. George stared at Jennifer's stomach.

"Due in April," she said.

"Fatherhood," Oliver said, setting the record straight and sipping his pint.

"Jesus, Oliver . . . I've been making sculptures; you've been making the real thing."

"It sort of makes itself," Jennifer said.

"Boy or girl?"

"Good question," Oliver said.

"We could find out, but I don't really want to," Jennifer said. "Mmmm." She made a face. "This what-do-you-call-it takes a little getting used to."

"Guinness," Oliver said. "Stout."

"Guinness is a kind of stout," George said. "Some stouts are sweeter; some are a little lighter."

"One thing about stout," Oliver said, "it's hard to drink too much of it. You get full first. Looks like most of the regulars are here. Where's Richard?"

"O'Grady? New York. He goes to his sister's every year." George's eyes went back to Jennifer. She was wearing a long sleeved turquoise jersey with a revealing scoop neck. The jersey hugged her breasts and then curved slightly out and back into dark slacks. "Athletic momma," George said.