O + F

John Moncure Wetterau

Library of Congress Number: 00-193498
ISBN #: Hardcover 0-7388-5815-3
Softcover 0-9729587-1-1

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs-NonCommercial License. Essentially, anyone is free to copy, distribute, or perform this copyrighted work for non-commercial uses only, so long as the work is preserved verbatim and is attributed to the author. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0/ or send a letter to:

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Published by:
Fox Print Books
137 Emery Street
Portland, ME 04102

foxprintbooks@earthlink.net 207.775.6860

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This book was printed in the United States of America.

Acknowledgements:

Cover art by Majo Keleshian. I want to thank Majo, Sylvester Pollet, and Nancy Wallace for suffering through early versions of the book and for offering useful suggestions. Thanks to Francois Camoin and the Vermont College MFA program for giving me a good shove down the road to fiction. And thanks to Ellen Miller for her consistent encouragement and support.

for Rosy

Tall. Dark hair. Nose almost straight. Mouth curving around prominent teeth. Beautiful, Oliver realized as their eyes met perfectly.

"Francesca, sorry I'm late," another woman said, guiding two girls into the next booth.

"I just got here."

"Hi, Mommy." Francesca's smile turned down, traveled around, and turned up independently at each corner.

"Hi, Sweetheart. Turn around, now."

One of the girls was looking tentatively at Oliver, holding the top of the booth with both hands. He waved at her, raised his eyebrows, and bent to his eggs. Toast. Nothing like toast. He wiped up the remaining yolk. Where's the husband? Probably one of those jerks in a Land Rover. A bad golfer. Cheats. Christ. Oliver drank the rest of his coffee and prepared to leave. As he slid sideways across the green plastic seat, he again caught the woman's eyes. They were calm and questioning, brown with deepening centers the color of the inner heart of black walnut. He stood and nodded in the Japanese manner. No one would have noticed, unless perhaps for her friend.

He buttoned his coat before pushing open the outer door of the diner. The air was damp, tinged with car exhaust and diesel. The first flakes of a northeaster coasted innocently to the ground. Francesca—what a smile! She reminded him of the young Sinatra in From Here To Eternity, awkward and graceful at the same time. The friend was heavier and looked unmarried, a career teacher, maybe. Problems on short leashes yapped around her heels. Oliver shrugged, pulled a watch cap over his ears, and walked toward the Old Port.

A car pulled over. "Olive Oil!" George Goodbean shouted. "Want a ride?"

"Taking my life in my hands," Oliver said, getting in.

"It's a good day to die," George said.

"Aren't we romantic."

"Artists live on the edge, Olive Oil. Where the view is." A pickup passed at high speed, hitting a pothole and splattering mud across the windshield. "Moron!" George reached for the wiper switch.

The street reappeared. "Ahh," Oliver said, "now there's a view."

"Why is it, the worse the weather, the worse they drive?" George asked.

"Dunno. It isn't even bad yet."

"Assholes," George said.

"Yeah. I bought some black walnut," Oliver said. "I just saw a woman in
Becky's; she had eyes the same color."

"You want I should go back?"

"I'm too short for her," Oliver said.

"You never know. Some of those short people in Hollywood have big reputations."

"They're stars," Oliver said. "I'm just short."

"What are you doing with the wood?"

"Haven't decided—maybe a table."

"I'm getting into casting. You ought to come over; I'm going to try out my furnace."

"Casting what?"

"Bronze. Small pieces."

"Hey, whoa, let me out." Oliver pointed at the ferry terminal, and
George stopped.

"Yeah, come on over tomorrow morning, if you're not doing anything."

"O.K., I'll see."

George beeped twice and drove into the thickening snow. Oliver bought a ticket for Peaks Island. The ferry was nearly empty, cheerful with its high snub bow painted yellow, white superstructure, and red roof. It was not as spirited as the red and black tugs that herd tankers to the Montreal pipeline, nothing could match the tugboats—but the ferry was close; it had the human touch, a dory that couldn't stay away from cheesecake, broad in the beam, resolute, proof against the cold rollers of the outer bay. After two long blasts, the ferry churned away from the wharf. A line of gulls on the lee side of a rooftop watched them move into the channel and gather speed.

Twenty minutes later, the ferry slowed, shuddered, and stopped at the Peaks Island landing. Oliver walked uphill to the main street, unsure why he had come. Habit took him around by his former house. No lights were on, no sign of anyone home. He continued around the block, surprised at his disappointment. He hadn't seen Charlotte for six months and had no reason to see her now. He considered this over a cup of coffee at Will's. It was natural to check in sometimes with old friends. I mean, we were married, he told his cup.

Jealousy is a symptom—like the effects of drought. Owl told him that once. They had been standing on the club dock, having one of their rare conversations. He was telling Owl about Kiersten, how she wouldn't take him seriously, her smile always for Gary—star everything. Owl's voice was sympathetic but with a dissatisfied edge, as though he were impatient with or imprisoned by his superiority, his tenure at Brown, his aluminum boat, one of the fastest on the sound.

Oliver never thought to ask for an explanation, and then, sadly, it was too late. It was years before he understood Owl's jealousy pronouncement. He wasn't jealous any longer, certainly not where Kiersten was concerned. God, she'd driven everybody crazy. Territory—now that was different. You want your own territory, your own mate, your house, your space. It still pissed him off to see his old garage surrounded by Mike's messy piles of building materials. But he wasn't jealous. Charlotte was better off without him; she had a child, finally.

The waitress had a tolerant smile. Thank God for waitresses. He left a big tip and got back on the ferry.

Snow was drifting against brick buildings as Oliver walked into the Old Port. He decided to stop for a pint. Deweys was busy; people were packing it in early, finding strength in numbers. "A Guinness," he ordered, "for this fine March day." Sam set a dark glass, overflowing, on the bar in front of him. Oliver bent forward and slurped a mouthful. "You could live on Guinness foam," he said.

"And the occasional piece of cheese," Sam said. Patti Page was singing, "I remember the night of The Tennessee Waltz . . . " Her voice, the fiddle, the stately waltz told the old story: "stole my sweetheart from me . . . " One way or another, sooner or later, we are all defeated. Oliver felt a swell of sadness and the beginning of liberation.

"God, what a song," he said to Mark Barnes, who had come up beside him.

"Classic. How you doing, guy?"

"Hanging in there." More people came in, stamping snow from their boots. Patti Page gave way to Tom Waits belting out, Jersey Girl. "Another classic," Oliver said. Tragedy was just offstage in Jersey Girl, momentarily held at bay by sex and love and hope. "All downhill from here, Mark."

"Life is fine, my man."

"What? Must be a new dancer in town. How do you do it, anyway?"

"Innate sensuality," Mark said. "One glance across a crowded room . . ."

"Yeah, right. My rooms are crowded with women in black pants who have eyes only for each other. Although, I did see a beauty in Becky's this morning. Had two little girls with her—-and a friend."

"What kind of friend?"

"A lady friend, not a black pantser, I'm pretty sure. Francesca, her name was."

"Francesca? Tall chick? Good looking?"

"I wouldn't call her a chick, exactly. More like a Madonna by
Modigliani."

"Yeah, Francesca. She lives in Cape Elizabeth. I was in a yoga class with her once."

"I ought to take yoga," Oliver said.

"The ratio is good, man. Francesca. That was years ago. She married some guy who works for Hannaford's."

"I knew it," Oliver said.

"They can't help it," Mark said. "They have this nesting thing." Dancers came to Portland, walked around the block a couple of times, and met Mark. Six to eighteen months later, they married doctors.

"Did you ever think of settling down?" Oliver asked.

"I'm trying, man. Who do you like in the NCAA's? Duke?"

"No way. Robots," Oliver said. "Smug. Bred to win from birth."

"I got a hundred on them." Mark made money helping executives scale the job ladder. He was amused and ironic about it. They knocked themselves out; he got the dancers—for a time.

"Hey, Richard!"

"Mark . . . Oliver . . . The boss let us out early." Pleased with this statement, Richard O'Grady, who acknowledged no boss but "The Man Upstairs," shuffled to his customary place at a long table on the other side of the bar. He was bright eyed, slight, and stooped, a survivor of diabetes and severe arthritis.

"Amazing smile!" Oliver said.

"A world authority on blood chemistry," Mark said. "You'd never know it—in here every night drinking scotch."

"Every night but Sunday," Oliver said. "I asked him, one time, where he got that smile. I thought he'd say something like: it was his mother's. He said, 'Don't know.' Then he said, 'Use it!' It was like a command he'd been given."

"Not too many around here that haven't had a drink on Richard," Mark said. "I'm outa here. Duke, man."

"Boo."

"Oliver," Richard called, "Help me with this plowman's lunch." Oliver sat on a wooden bench across the table from Richard.

"I'll have a bite," he said. "What's happening?"

"Oh, the usual," Richard said. "Palace intrigue. Too many chemists in one lab. I shouldn't complain; they do a good job." He bent over the table and lowered his voice. "One of the supervisors is a bit rigid. I hear about it, you know. I've tried to talk to her. It's delicate." He brightened as he straightened. "I'm sending her to a conference in Amsterdam. Maybe something will happen."

"That would be the place," Oliver said, cutting a slab of Stilton.

"How are you doing? Working?"

"In between programming projects at the moment," Oliver said. "Not sure what to do next. Sometimes I wonder what's the point of doing anything."

"Oliver . . ." Richard reminded him, pointing at the smoky ceiling, "you've got to trust The Man Upstairs. It's His plan." This would be too corny to take if it weren't coming from Richard.

"I wish He'd let me in on it." Oliver took a long swallow of stout.

"I'll tell you what I do when I feel bad," Richard said. "I find somebody who's worse off than I am, and I do something to help him out. Or her out. Works every time." He turned toward Sam and held one crippled hand in the air. "Over here, Sam, when you can." Oliver didn't think in terms of other people. He related to them as required, but his focus was inward. He imagined Richard's process: let's see, I feel bad; therefore, it's time to find person X who is worse off than I am and help him out. Or her. He could picture eligible persons, but he stumbled on the help part. What did he have to offer? Was a dollar bill going to make a difference? He felt blocked from the part of himself that might contain helpful things he could pass along.

"I like this chutney," he said, "good with this cheese. What was your father like, Richard?"

"Great guy," Richard said. He sloshed the scotch and ice cubes around in his glass. "I'll tell you a story about my father. He couldn't tell time. Someone gave him a watch, but he didn't want to learn. He was proud of the watch, wore it every day. He used to go to people and say, 'I'm having a little trouble reading this,' and then he'd hold his wrist up." Richard raised his arm proudly out in front of him. "And he'd squint, as if he had eye trouble. 'Oh, it's a quarter to nine,' they'd say." Richard threw back his head and laughed. "My dad was a great guy—could barely read, always singing. He worked on the docks."

"Hi, Richard." A thin woman approached. She had dark eyes and bleached blonde hair pulled into a tight pony tail.

"Hi, Sally. How are you?"

"O.K."

"Do you know Oliver?"

"Seen you around," she said, appraising him. Oliver felt about a four out of ten, maybe a three.

"Sally works at Mercy Hospital. That cigarette isn't doing you any good, you know."

"Nag, nag, nag."

"You got one for me?" Richard lit up the room with his smile.

"Oh, Richard!" Sally felt in her purse with one hand.

"What are you drinking?" Richard asked.

"I'll see you guys," Oliver said, sliding to the end of the bench and standing. Sally took his place. "Thanks for the eats, Richard."

"Stay warm," Richard said.

A plow rumbled by, as Oliver stepped out into the storm. He followed it along the white empty street. He considered stopping at Giobbi's Restaurant, but he turned up Danforth and walked to State Street where he lived in a second floor apartment on the last block before the Million Dollar bridge.

Verdi was waiting. He jumped from the window sill and made a fuss bumping against Oliver's legs. "Hungry, are we?" Oliver bent over and stroked him from head to tail. "Yes, very large and very fierce is Verdi. Very fierce." Verdi was brown and black, heavyset, with a large tomcat's head and yellow eyes. He padded deliberately over to the lengths of walnut leaning upright in one corner of the room and scratched luxuriously, stretching full length, as though he had been waiting to do this for some time. "Aieee! Swell, Verdi." Oliver hung his coat on a peg and gathered up the boards. For the moment, he laid them on the table. The cat was irritated. "How about some nice pine," Oliver said. "Much better than walnut. I'll get you a nice soft piece of pine. In the meantime . . ." He opened a can of salmon Friskies.

Verdi ate, and Oliver refilled his water dish. The boards were beautiful. He'd been right about the color of Francesca's eyes. There was an actual black walnut, a large one, at the edge of the parking area behind his building. It shaded his kitchen window during the summer and dropped hundreds of furry green walnuts that were gathered by squirrels each fall. Oliver had planted six walnuts in yogurt containers. He'd let them freeze first, done everything right, but none of them came up. The seeds were finicky for such a powerful tree. Maybe they had to pass through a squirrel. "Biology is complicated," he said to Verdi.

The kitchen had been a master bedroom in the original house. The appliances, counter, and sink were arranged along one wall and part of another, leaving plenty of space for a table in the center. The wall to the adjoining living room had been mostly removed; the two rooms functioned as one. Steps led to a landing and then to an attic bedroom with a view of the harbor. There was a fireplace that he rarely used. In one corner, a small table held a computer system.

Oliver sat at the kitchen table and ran the heels of his hands along the walnut. He enjoyed making things from wood: easy shelves, chests, a cradle once for a wedding present. He had a table saw and a router in the basement, but he kept his tools under a rough workbench that he had built along one wall of the kitchen. A "Workmate" stood in the living room near the door to the hall. Usually it was covered with mail.

The touch of the wood was reassuring. Deep in the grain, in what might be made from the grain, was something iconic and alive, more alive than what could be said about it. Oliver took particular pleasure in finishing a shelf or a chest, hand rubbing the surface and seeing the patterns of the grain shine and deepen. He would have to buy legs if he were going to make a table. Or learn how to use a lathe. He didn't have a lathe. Maybe he could make a small box—to hold something special. He could give it to someone.

Who? A wave of longing swept over him. Who would care? He had an impulse to put his head down on his arms and give up.

"There are no cowards on this ship!" God, he hadn't thought of that for years. His high school English teacher had said it, loudly. It was the punch line of a war story. The teacher had accompanied a couple of his Navy buddies to the bow of their ship; one of them was bragging that he would dive. The captain had come up behind them, asked what they were doing, and then ordered them all to dive. Apparently, it had been a high point of sorts in his teacher's life.

"No cowards on this ship, Verdi," Oliver said, standing. Toast. Tea. When Oliver was upset, he turned to food. He had a high metabolism and ate what he wanted. His body looked chubby on its short square frame, but there was more muscle than fat under his skin; he could move quickly when he wished. He had a wide serious mouth with strong teeth. His eyebrows and hair were black. His eyes were large and dark brown with lids that slanted slightly across the corners. Women looked at him and were puzzled by something that was different. He almost never got into it.

"Oliver Muni Prescott," he had told a few. "Owl Prescott was my stepfather. My father is Japanese—Muni, his name is—I never met him." The toast popped up. Oliver buttered it and laid on marmalade. He put the toast and tea on a tray and carried it upstairs. His mattress was on the floor next to a window set low in the wall, under the eaves. He lay down, munched toast, and watched the snow falling and blowing. When he turned his head, the window was like a skylight. Mother is coming, he remembered. The image of his mother with her flamboyant blonde hair was replaced immediately by that of Francesca—quiet, natural, and no less forceful.

He finished the toast and held the mug of tea on his chest with both hands. He could see Francesca's eyes in front of him. They were asking something, and he was answering. Her question was more complicated than he had thought at Becky's Diner. Were they the same? Was she beautiful? Was he for real? He relaxed and aligned in her direction. The answer was reassuring. "Yes," he said. He lifted his head and sipped tea. "O.K.," he said.

The sky was bright blue, the wind gusty out of the northwest. Oliver squinted at the fresh snowbanks on his way to Becky's. Sunglasses—should have worn sunglasses. He had oatmeal and a blueberry muffin, drank coffee, and listened to the waitresses chatter about their dates. Francesca did not come in, but her image remained vivid. He waited, not so much for her as for something in his mood to change, to see if it would change. It didn't. He continued to feel slightly excited, as though he had something to look forward to. Francesca had met him in a central place. Was it a place that they made, sheltered between them? Or was it a place inside each of them that was similar, more accessible in each other's company? Wherever it was, Oliver knew that he wanted to go there again.

He walked home, shoveled out his Jeep, started it, and scraped the windows, thinking that he'd see what George was up to. He could have walked, but there wasn't much cat food left. He'd shop, maybe take a drive.

George had a loft in a warehouse at the foot of Danforth Street. "Hey there, Oliver" he said, opening the door. "Big day—Foundry Goodbean!"

"I brought some bagels," Oliver said.

George rubbed his hands together. "Come see."

Near a brick wall, a thirty gallon grease drum stood on a sheet of asbestos-like material. Two copper pipes made a right angle to its base. One came from a propane tank in a corner; one was connected to an air blower driven by an electric motor. "Ta da!" George said, lifting off a thick top that had a hole in its center. Oliver looked down into the drum. "I used a stovepipe for a form—cast refractory cement around it." The drum was solid cement around the space where the stovepipe had been.

"Slick city," Oliver said.

George picked up a small object from a table. "The Flying Lady," he said. He held it between his thumb and forefinger and swooped it through the air. Oliver looked closely at a wax figure of a trapeze artist. Her brown arms were held out; her back was arched.

"Wonder Woman."

"I've got to make the mold," George said, "burn out the investment."

"Investment?"

"Goopy stuff that packs around The Lady. Then I fire it in a kiln. The wax burns and disappears, leaving a hard ceramic mold."

"Aha," Oliver said, "the lost wax process."

"Me and Cellini," George said. "Here, make something." He handed Oliver a sheet of wax. "Not too big. I'll cast it with The Lady. There's knives and stuff." He pointed at one end of the table. "And other kinds of wax. Use what you want." He began to mix the investment.

Oliver laid the wax on the table. Without thinking, he cut out the shape of a heart. He cut four short pieces from a length of spaghetti shaped wax and made a square letter O. It looked stupid. "Can you bend this stuff?"

"Heat it," George said. "There's an alcohol lamp."

Oliver warmed another piece of spaghetti wax and made an oval O. He stuck it on the heart and added a plus sign and the letter, F. "A valentine," he said.

George made a tree of wax, two inches high with a double trunk. He stuck The Flying Lady on one trunk and the heart, upright, on the other. Using more wax, he planted the tree in a circular rubber base. "Let me have that flask." He pointed at a steel cylinder about six inches long. He slipped the cylinder over the waxes and tightly into the rubber base. "There." He poured creamy investment into the flask until the waxes were well covered and the flask was nearly full. "After it sets, you peel off the base and fire the flask."

They sat in a far corner and had coffee.

"So who's F?" George's eyes gleamed.

"Francesca," Oliver said. "I don't know her, really. She's tall and married."

George shook his head. "Can't live with 'em; can't live without 'em."
He took a large bite of bagel to ease the pain.

"You do all right," Oliver said.

"Oh, you know . . ." George threw one arm in the air. "The artist thing. They're curious. They're all curious, Olive Oil."

"What happened to Marcia?"

"Oh, Marcia!" George rolled his eyes and deflated somewhat. "She had allergies, it turned out. Dust. What can I say?"

"She was good looking," Oliver said.

"Oh, yeah, Marcia!" George's voice trailed away. "Look," he said, "it's going to take a while to get the investment ready. Why don't you come back around seven? Then we'll cast."

"Outa sight," Oliver said.

He drove to Shop 'N Save and stacked two dozen cans of salmon Friskies in his shopping cart. He found a box of fancy tea biscuits that he could offer to his mother. She and Paul were stopping in Portland the next night. They always stayed at the Holiday Inn, but she would want to come over and make sure that he wasn't living in filth, had clean towels, and so on. She would sniff around for a female presence, and then she would look at Paul; Paul would suggest that the sun was over the yardarm; and they would go to DiMillo's for dinner.

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.

"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.

"You like them, don't you?" He swallowed. "Come with me," she said. "I'll show you something." He followed her into a large bedroom. She opened a dresser drawer and took out a long belt. Oliver held his hands near his waist feeling foolish and short of breath.

"Are you the sheriff?" he asked.

She laughed and came toward him. "Much better than that," she said. She looped the belt through his arms and pulled him slowly across the room. "Let me know if you are not O.K. about this." He heard it as a challenge. She dragged a chair over without letting go of the belt. "Put your hands over your head." He raised his arms, and she stepped up on the chair. She passed one end of the belt through a heavy eye bolt that was screwed into the ceiling and which he hadn't noticed. She buckled the belt so that his arms were held above him.

"Much better," she repeated, stepping down and placing the chair back against the wall. She studied him. "You look very nice, Oliver. Just a moment." She went out to the kitchen and came back with their ale. She drank some of hers and said, "Let me know if you are thirsty." He nodded. She was happier. Her color was higher. Good looking, actually, he thought.

She read his mind. "Yes—you are feeling new things now." She moved a step closer. She arched her back and slowly rolled her shoulders. "Do you like my body, Oliver?" He reddened and swallowed. "How sweet! You blush," she said. "You are my captive. I can tease you now . . ." She went to the dresser and took another swallow of ale. She tugged at the bottom of her jersey, tightening it against her breasts. She moved closer and swiveled slowly from side to side. "Mmmm," she said. "You do like me!" Oliver's mouth opened and he began to breathe harder. He nodded dumbly.

Jacky stepped back and looked him up and down. "Very nice," she said, "but you have a lot to learn. Would you like to? Learn?"

"Yes," he said.

"Nothing leaves this room," Jacky said. "I don't even tell my girlfriends about this." That was a relief, he registered in a far corner of his mind. She brought over his glass and held it to his lips. "Yes?" He nodded, not trusting his voice. She tipped the glass enough for him to take a small sip of ale. "I am in control," she said, looking down at him. She was close, almost touching. She smelled of honeysuckle. "You will learn to please me, to care only for my pleasure. You will suffer for me. When you are good, you will be rewarded. But you must prove yourself." There was a practiced sound to her words.

To his surprise, he wanted to prove himself. He wanted to please her.

"Well?"

"Yes," he promised.

"You will serve me without question. Then, you will be happy." She freed him. "Come back Friday at six o'clock. Bring a heavy wooden ruler that you have decorated. You are to buy it at an office supply store, saying that it is for your mistress. You may go. Oh, and take the rest of that steak sandwich with you." She went into a bathroom and closed the door.

Oliver drove away shaking his head. What was that all about? He couldn't deny the urge he had to surrender to her, to obey her. It pulled at him like an undertow as he crossed the bridge. He walked down to Deweys.

Mark was holding up one corner of the bar. "Hey Buddy, how's your love life?" Intuitive bastard.

"What love life?" Oliver said and listened to Mark crow about Duke. Mark could probably explain this sexual strangeness, but it was none of his business. After a Guinness, Oliver felt more like himself, but as he walked through the Old Port he passed an office supply store, closed for the weekend, and he remembered the ruler. Decorate? Could you even buy a wooden ruler any more? It was disturbing. Too much. He put the experience in the back of his mind and resumed working on the box and the mailing list program.

On Wednesday, he entered the office store and asked if they sold wooden rulers. An elderly lady with exaggerated make-up showed him a blue box in a far corner of the store. "We sell mostly plastic ones," she said. "But some prefer these. They last." He bought an eighteen inch ruler with an inlaid brass edge. "For my mistress," he said, "yuk, yuk." The woman gave him change without replying.

He sprayed the ruler with black paint he had in the cellar. "I wouldn't call it decorated," he said to Verdi the next day. The dovetail template caught his eye. He took it down to the cellar and found a can of Rustoleum.Using the template as a stencil, he sprayed a pattern of triangles along both sides of the ruler. The reddish brown color on the black background gave it a Navajo look. If you're going to do something, do it well, he reminded himself, pleased. That was another of Owl's sayings; one that Oliver had made his own. Poor Owl. He had not done something well the night he disappeared from his boat. Did he have time to regret that he never won the Bermuda race? Was it a relief or just a stupid accident? Oliver imagined dark water closing over Owl. He shivered and put it out of his mind.

On Friday, Oliver nearly backed out. But the ruler glowed on his kitchen table like a promise. "I don't know," he said. He took a shower, put on clean clothes, and parked tentatively in Jacky's driveway. He rang and waited. When she opened the door, he held the ruler up in both palms. She looked at it and asked him in. Her eyes were bright.

"Wine, Oliver." She pointed to glasses on the kitchen table. He poured Washington State Chardonnay for each of them and held up one glass in a silent toast. "Salud," she said. She turned the ruler over in her hand thoughtfully. "Did you say it was for your mistress?"

"Yes," Oliver said. "The saleslady didn't say anything—probably happens every five minutes."

"Good job," Jacky said, looking at the ruler.

"Kind of raw out," Oliver said.

"An indoor kind of night," she said. "Finish your wine." She spoke gently but firmly. Oliver looked at her and felt the same urge to yield that he had before. He was ready for her to tell him what to do. He wanted her to. "Yes," she said as he put down his glass. She waited. His eyes opened and a little thrill ran through him as he surrendered to her. "Go in the bedroom and strip to your underwear. Kneel on the floor with your hands on the bed."

She sipped her wine. He did as he was told and waited. There was a beige shag carpet under his knees, a pale pink bedspread under his arms. Jacky went into the bathroom and came out a few minutes later wearing a red cotton nightshirt, open in front. She put the cuffs on his wrists and placed a blue rubber ball in his right hand.

"Squeeze this," she said. "And if what I give you is too much, let it go." She weighed the ruler in her hand and cracked him across the ass. His body surged forward against the bed and he grunted. "It was a long week," she said. "A long week." Crack. He grunted more loudly and squeezed the ball. "Yes," she said, hitting him again, harder. To his astonishment, he began getting an erection. She reached underneath him and felt it. "You like it, too, don't you?" He grunted and then made a louder noise of pain as she hit him. Each blow rammed his cock into the mattress. He hung onto the ball as she hit him faster and faster, stopping finally to get her breath.

"Very good," she said after a moment. Pain had spread across his body; his mind reeled. "Stand up." This wasn't so easy. He lost his balance, lurched against the bed, and stood with his feet wide apart. "Over here." She hooked him to the eye bolt and slowly pulled down his shorts. "You please me," she said. Oliver's senses were spinning. "You present yourself well," she said. She put her hands on his chest, feeling his nipples through his T-shirt. "Mmm," she said brushing her fingers down his sides and trailing them over his hips. Her cleavage was close to his mouth. Honeysuckle. She stepped back.

"Watch me," she said. She played with her body, rubbing her breasts slowly and hitching up her nightshirt. She took a vibrator from the dresser and stood directly in front of him. She brought herself toward orgasm, looking into his eyes, making small noises. He began to whimper in sympathy, encouraging her. A broad smile spread slowly across her face. She tipped her head back, closed her eyes, and cried out.

"Oh," Oliver cried out with her. She came back to herself and took several breaths.

"That—makes a girl feel better," she said. She held the vibrator in front of his face. "Clean," she ordered. He touched it with his tongue. She shook her head and put it firmly in his mouth, waiting and smiling while he sucked on it. "Very good," she said, removing it. "You are learning your place." She was pleased, light hearted. "You like this," she said. Oliver felt himself smiling. He nodded helplessly.

"You will come back next Friday for more training. You are to save yourself for me." She cradled his balls with one hand. "Do you understand?"

"Yes," he said.

"Yes, Mistress."

She squeezed him gently. "Good. Now go—and behave yourself."

"I will," he promised. "Mistress," he remembered. She released him.

Oliver dressed and drove home. He was oddly elated. Save yourself for me. An order. An implied promise. Another thrill ran through him.

Oliver worked on the mailing list all week. He tried not to think about
Jacky, although she came into his mind regularly, especially at night.
Her big eyes held him before he fell asleep; her body was just out of
reach.

When he wasn't sitting in front of the computer, he worked on the walnut box. He finished the dovetails. Fitting the bottom of the box was a puzzle. He had cut it to rest inside; it had to be supported just above the low bottom arches. He didn't want to put screws through the sides of the box, and if he put supporting ledger strips on the inside, the bottom would be raised too high. He fastened a small block to the lower inside of each corner. The blocks strengthened the feet of the box and supported the bottom just above the arches. He was satisfied with that solution, but when he pushed the bottom down on the blocks it did not fit perfectly flush against all four sides. The cracks bothered him.

By Friday, after much experimenting, he had made tiny moldings to cover the cracks. "Thank God for routers," he said to Jennifer Lindenthwaite. "Took me about five tries, but I did it."

"I wish Rupert had your talent," she sighed.

"It's not talent; it's pig-headedness."

"Pigs are sweet, really," Jennifer said. "They get a bad rap." She stood. "Let's see the program."

She liked what he'd done and asked him whether Jacky had approved it.

"Jacky said that, as long as I included everything that she wanted, you should be the judge—since you would have to use it and train others to use it."

"It looks good to me," Jennifer said. "I'll have Mary mail you a check on Tuesday. We pay bills on Tuesdays."

"Thanks."

"It was good of you to help, Oliver. We may have to call on you again. I think you should be entitled to a member discount. We have some nice trips lined up this summer—day trips, and a canoe trip: Marsh, Myth, and Earth Mother."

"Sounds buggy," he said.

"Oh, Oliver! Tents, silly. No-see-um netting."

"The cry of the loon across the night," Oliver interrupted.

"Right," she said. "Drumming for Gaia is a popular trip. Sometimes I go along—quality control, you know."

"Inspector Jennifer," Oliver said. She reached for his arm, to shove him or to slap him, but she stopped herself.

"Marshmallows," she said.

"Now you're talking. I'll let you know," he said, ducking out.

"We'll put you on the mailing list."

"Great," he called over his shoulder.

He went shopping for hardware. He found brass strap hinges and a hasp and a lock that were well-matched. He would inlay the hinges—a pain in the neck—but the brass would be fine with the walnut.

Oliver made progress on the box. He was pleased that evening as he described it to Jacky. She listened quietly and waited for him to finish. They were sitting on the couch in her living room. She was wearing a black silk blouse that fell loosely over white jeans. She stretched her legs, wiggled her toes in leather huaraches, and looked at him closely.

Oliver felt the moment approach. He had been in a different world all week; it was time to return. Jacky's face was firm and concentrated, her eyebrows raised slightly. He looked into her eyes and felt again the thrill of surrendering. He was hers. He wanted to be hers. He gave himself to her utterly.

That evening and the ones that followed, once or twice a week, continued the pattern. She beat him and humiliated him, bound him to her pleasure, taught him how to massage her after a hot shower and how she wanted oral sex. It was an alternate universe that existed only in her house and only for a few intense hours at a time. His reward was to be allowed to come at her command as she counted slowly to twenty or twenty-five. If he came too soon or not at her number, she whipped him with a riding quirt. "You are not thinking of me. You are doing this for ME! " He learned to think only of her as he masturbated, or, less often, as she worked him with her hand. When he dedicated himself completely, she counted him to orgasm at the perfect moment; she was pleased; there was no whipping.

They went out to dinner several times, a normal experience—at least externally. Beneath the conversation, Oliver was well aware of what was coming after dessert. She would encourage him to be assertive and then she would pull him back, reminding him of his place with a glance or a small smile, a good natured cat and mouse game.

She told him about the two older brothers who had bullied her on the basketball court. She was a power forward in high school but too small for the team at the University of New Hampshire. "Same game, different scale," she said. "I should have been a guard." Oliver was impressed. She had trained to be a referee and still reffed high school games.

"You just like the uniform," he teased. "The black shoes."

"You'd like one of them on the back of your neck," she said. "I know you, Oliver." He was rewarded that night.

Late one afternoon, toward the end of June, Jacky called. "I need you to come over," she said and hung up. This was unusual; their meetings were always planned in advance.

"Oh, oh, Verdi. She's not happy."

Things were going well for a change. The Wetlands Conservancy had asked him to recommend and install an accounting system. They'd gotten a generous donation, Jennifer told him, from a bank. "Did you know that Jacky Chapelle is on the Board?"

"I didn't," he said, surprised.

Jacky smiled when he asked her about it. "Community money," she said.

"Small community," Oliver said.

"Keep it in the family," she laughed.

The marinas were filled with white boats. Bikers and pedestrians were crossing the bridge in both directions. Oliver parked in Jacky's driveway. "Hi, Bubbles," he said. That was a mistake.

"I've had a disappointing day."

"I'm sorry," he said instantly. Her eyes narrowed and she pointed to the bedroom.

"Everything off."

He undressed quickly and knelt by the bed. She gave him the rubber ball and handcuffed him. "Bastards," she said and swung the ruler. Oliver groaned for her. He had learned to wait out the initial blows. When she hit faster, she didn't hit as hard. It seemed that groaning sped her up.

"Don't bullshit me, Goddamn it!" What? She cracked him hard twice, paused for breath, and then hit him twice more. "Bastards," she said again. She took her time, winding up for each swing, not speeding up. Oliver began to groan for real. He squeezed the ball, but he was losing control. He thought of getting up and running away, but he was handcuffed and naked.

"Cry, why don't you?" She cracked him again. She was deliberate. "Cry!"
Boys don't. "Cry!" Crack. "Who am I?" Crack.

"Mistress," he managed.

"Damn you." She hit him again. A hot tear squeezed from the corner of his left eye.

"Cry!" Crack.

"Please," he said. Crack. "Please." Tears began to fall.

"Yes," she said. "More." Crack. He fell forward sobbing, helpless, howling each time she struck him. He cried so convulsively, so hard, that he didn't register the moment when she stopped and began to rub his shoulders, comforting him. He hadn't cried like that since he was a baby.

"Get up on the bed and turn over." She took off her jeans and panties, put them on the chair, and came back from the dresser with a condom. Oliver lay on his back, numb and floating, as she teased and rolled the condom into place. Her eyes were huge as she straddled him. "Fifty," she said.

He wiggled into position and gave himself to her voice and the long slow thrusts of her body. At thirty, her voice cracked. By forty, she was whispering and beginning to tremble. At forty-five, she gasped sharply and slumped forward. She caught and braced herself with her hands on his shoulders, crying out with each new number as he strained up into her. At fifty, he exploded; a blind white jet took them drenched and mingled into the universe. He heard her laughing in the nebulae, and then he collapsed. She lowered herself forward. A button dug into his chest. Her hair pressed against his cheek. Awkwardly, he brought his arms over her head and cradled her as best he could.

She was half off when he awoke. She removed the condom and came back wearing a white bathrobe. "You are beautiful," she said, pulling tight the cotton belt of her robe. He felt his cheeks glowing. "Beautiful. Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you." She nodded and released the handcuffs. He dressed slowly, feeling each movement of his body as though it were for the first time. Jacky watched silently. He always left as soon as he was dressed. "Good night—Mistress." His voice was quiet.

"Behave yourself," she said, looking at him thoughtfully.

He was on the bridge before he realized that he was driving and had better be careful. He was hungry. Alberta's. Why not? He found a parking spot, walked into his favorite restaurant, and got the last open table, in a far corner of the upper level.

"How are we, tonight?" Claudine asked, smiling broadly. She knew perfectly well. Women always do. Oliver imagined a sign over his head, visible only to females: "Spent Male."

"Hungry," he said.

"You've come to the right place. Good halibut tonight, lime and ginger sauce."

"I think it's a red meat night."

"Lamb? Lots of garlic, rosemary and Dijon crust? New potatoes?"

"Sold. I'll have a glass of Kendall Jackson Merlot." Claudine brought him a large glass of wine, extra full. Oliver was a regular. He ate there once a week or so on nights when he wanted to think. They left him alone to make notes and sketches, to stare out the window at the quiet street. He tipped well and felt that everybody was winning in the exchange—so what if he were spending all his money.

Candlelight gleamed from glasses and warmed the walls. The room was formal and cozy at the same time. He ate slowly, feeling calm and unburdened. He ordered espresso and Death By Chocolate, then lingered over Courvoisier. Verdi was aggrieved when Oliver finally got home. Oliver made a great fuss over feeding him and apologized for the unforgivable delay. He climbed the stairs to bed in a warm swirl. The next morning he was very thirsty.

Jacky was called away on business the following week. The week after that, in her kitchen, when the moment came, Oliver looked into her eyes and felt no impulse to surrender. She reacted immediately. "Not tonight," she said. And then, "That's all right. It doesn't have to happen every time." They chatted, and he carried her smile home across the bridge. It was warm, a bit troubled.

The week after that, she asked if he would meet her for dinner. "Oh, boy," he said.

"Let's go to one of your places, for a change," she said. They agreed on Alberta's.

Oliver was early. He sat by a window and sipped a glass of wine. He took a moment to recognize Jacky when she arrived. She was wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat that covered her face, a low-cut magenta summer dress, and leather sandals.

"You look terrific," he said. She took off her hat. There were extra swirls in her hair and a small diamond post in each ear. Lip gloss accented the color of her dress—a pale but deep pink, fresh and elegant, white but tinged with the sadness of departing light; there were babies in it and the silver of moonlight on old barns. "Some dress!" Her breasts moved toward him.

"Would you like something to drink?" Claudine's voice straightened him.

"Can you make a martini?" Jacky asked.

"I'll try." Claudine glanced at Oliver, amused.

"Dry, please. One olive." The door opened and George Goodbean entered. He was thinking about something and didn't notice them until he was passing their table.

"Holy Moly!" he said, looking at Jacky.

Oliver introduced them. "Holy Moly means he wants to paint you," he said to Jacky.

"Really," George said. "Who wouldn't?" He threw his arms in the air.
Claudine dodged around him and set a martini in front of Jacky.

"Perhaps we can talk about it another time," she said, smiling.

"Yes," George said. "Yes." He walked up the stairs to the upper level.

"He's been known to burst into arias," Oliver said.

Jacky sipped her martini. "Ah . . ." She put the glass down carefully.
"I like him."

"He's a good guy," Oliver said. "Good painter." He told her about the casting adventure, leaving out the bronze valentine.

Midway through dinner, Jacky reminded him of their last session on her bed. "That was very special," she said. "You please me in so many ways, Oliver." She put down her fork. "I've been transferred. That's why I was in such a bad mood that night. We acquired a bank. I'm supposed to run it, turn it around. I thought I could get out of it, but I couldn't."

"Transferred?"

"Maryland," she said. "It's a promotion, really."

"Oh," Oliver said. He put down his fork. "Damn."

"Come with me." It was part command, part question.

"No—I can't." He knew it was true as soon as he said the words. Am I crazy? he thought, looking at her closely. "It is you who are beautiful," he said.

She tapped the fingers of one hand on the table. "Are you sure, Oliver?
Money is no problem." He nodded slowly.

"Oh, Oliver . . ." She brushed away a tear. He had never seen her cry. "Oh." She shook her head. "Who trains who?" she asked the window in a tight voice. Oliver swallowed. He couldn't speak. This was happening too fast.

"Sex," she said, looking back at him. "There's sex and there's love—two different things. Sometimes they overlap. Sometimes, if you're real lucky, they overlap a lot. Most people settle for a little of one or a little of the other." She pushed her chair back. "I love you," she said. She stood up. "Oh, well."

She regained control. "Good night, Oliver." It was a dismissal.

"Good night," he said obediently and bent his head. The mistress word wasn't there any more. He felt terrible—honest, but terrible. He tried to fix the image of her walking away down the sidewalk. He had an urge to run after her, to sink to his knees with his arms around her hips, to make her happy, but a dumb veto held him in his chair. It wasn't right, or it wouldn't have remained right. He stayed seated and finished his dinner. Claudine was tactfully silent.

He paid and climbed the stairs to George's table. "The lady's gone.
I've taken the high road," he said gloomily.

"My God, Olive Oil, she was . . ." George's eyes expanded. "I mean, bazumas!"

"Yes," Oliver said. "Bazumas."

"That dress! That color!"

"How about a little Courvoisier, George?"

An hour later, he lurched home and put on La Traviata. George had diverted him with a long story about how his father had made his whole family jump through hoops during his last years and then had snuck off to Atlantic City and spent most of his money before he collapsed. "The old goat," George said, annoyed all over again, partially approving.

Sad glorious voices filled the apartment. Oliver began to hate himself. What the hell good was he to anybody? The walnut box caught his eye, shining and complete. It angered him, refuted his mood. He put it on the floor. "Fuck it," he said and lifted his right foot high over the box. Verdi let out a loud warning meow. "What?" Oliver demanded of the cat. "What's the matter with you?" The cat took two steps forward and let out another long low sound of protest.

"Huh?" Oliver bent over and put the box back on the table. "All right, all right." He opened it. The bronze valentine stared up at him. "Shit," he said. Verdi rubbed against his ankle. "Fucking box," Oliver said with a certain amount of pride. He scratched Verdi between the ears. There was nothing to do but go to bed.

The phone rang. He answered, but the person on the other end was silent. He knew it was Jacky. "I'm sorry," he said. She hung up.

Jacky's transfer left a hole in Oliver's life. He tried to explain it to Mark Barnes without getting into details. "I mean, we were going in different directions anyway. She wanted a lot . . ."

"Yeah." Mark laughed. "How it goes."

"But I got used to seeing her. She has a house in South Portland. I used to go over there sometimes on weekends—nice place, garden out back, blueberries, the high bush kind. I pruned them. We'd have a glass of wine, get into it . . . Now, nothing. And the hell of it is: I don't feel like seeing anyone else."

"Used to take me 18 months to get over a relationship," Mark said. "Now it's 18 weeks and dropping. You know what they say about falling off a horse."

"Climb back on—right." Oliver said. "All very well for you. I'm not, like, in demand. I got lucky, was all."

"Come on! Just cuz you're four feet, two . . ."

"Five feet, two," Oliver said. "Don't you forget it."

"Ork. It doesn't mean shit," Mark said. "Do I look like Mr. Studley?"

"How do you do it, anyway?"

"Fabric, man. They're helpless for fabric. You got to buy stuff they want to touch. The ladies have no imagination; if they can't touch it, it doesn't count." Mark drank and smiled. "I spend a fortune on shirts and sweaters. 'Oooh,' they say. I hold out my arm for the feel. 'Yeah, nice—silk and cashmere,' I say. 'Alpaca,' or whatever the hell it is. Next day, I mail it to them. Would look better on you, I tell them."

"I don't have a fortune," Oliver said.

"Shop around," Mark said. "Linen. You got to start somewhere."

"Yeah," Oliver said.

For the hell of it, he checked out Filene's Basement, but he couldn't find anything that didn't have the executive leisurewear look. The next day he was in Freeport and stopped at the Ralph Lauren factory outlet store. He bought a linen bush jacket that was radically marked down. It was dyed a dark sandy color and looked as though it would last. The traditional cut made it seem less trendy. Maybe that was why it had been marked down.

Oliver was lonely, but he continued to feel as though a weight had been lifted from him. The crying fit at Jacky's had liberated him. He wondered why. Why had it felt right, somehow, to be punished by her? He missed the sex, ached for it, but he didn't miss the beatings. He just didn't feel guilty any more.

Guilty. As soon as he thought the word, Oliver knew that he was onto something. He realized that he had felt guilty for as long as he could remember—so long, in fact, that he didn't register it as guilt; it was just the way he was. Why should he feel this way? He couldn't be sure—this was murky territory—but he suspected that it had to do with his mother. She seemed to hover around the edges when he thought back. He wondered if he hadn't, at a very young age, taken on responsibility for her problems—with Owl, with him, with life. Maybe he had felt that they were his fault, somehow. Whatever it had been, Jacky had beaten it out of him. Probably that was why she picked him in the first place. She had sensed his need, matching hers.

He continued to work at home and at the Conservancy. One afternoon,
Jennifer talked him into the "Drumming For Gaia" trip.

"I can't drum anything," he said.

"Oliver, you like music. I know you do." It was true. "We have a teacher—a Master Drummer. A lot of people have never drummed before, and they always have a good time."

"I don't have a drum."

"We sell them—simple ones. I have an extra one. I'll bring it for you." She was enthusiastic and meant well. He couldn't say no.

The morning of the trip was cool and foggy. The group was to meet at the Conservancy and then be bussed to Wolf Neck State Park. Jennifer spotted him as soon as he drove in.

"Morning! I love your jacket." She reached out and felt it between her thumb and first two fingers. That Mark.

"Morning, Jennifer. Yeah, it's nice. Linen," he said, but he was damned if he was going to mail it to her.

"I brought your drum; it's in the car. I'll get it." She skipped over to a white Volvo and took a drum from the back seat. "You're going to love this." He accepted it, feeling foolish. She handed him a wooden striker. "You can hold it any way that is comfortable." She took it back and tucked it between her left arm and side. "Like this, or straight up, if you're sitting."

"O.K., I get it," Oliver said.

"We'll be leaving in about ten minutes." He took a seat near the front of the bus and tried to look relaxed. The drum was shaped like a miniature conga, handmade with a skin head that was lashed tight. He rested it on his lap and watched cars drive in. Twelve or fifteen people got on the bus, most of them his age or younger, mostly women in twos and threes.

Jennifer bounced in and sat beside him. "We'll pick up a few more on the way. There's another group coming down the coast. I hope it doesn't rain. Think positive thoughts, Oliver."

"What are they?"

"Oh, Silly," she slapped him on the arm. "Don't worry; you'll have fun. I am going to have fun!" She passed around a box of name labels and a magic marker. "Aliases permitted," she said.

Forty-five minutes later, they stepped from the bus and gathered around tables standing in a grassy field. Oliver had been there before. The ocean was just out of sight through trees and down a steep bank. Paths wound along a narrow wooded peninsula with views of islands, tiny coves, wetlands, and pine groves. Picnic tables and grills waited in small clearings. It was a popular place in winter for cross-country skiing.

The second bus arrived. People milled about reading each other's name tags. Oliver helped carry folding chairs from the back of the bus. A van drove up. Its horn tooted twice, and a short round man popped out. He was holding a stick adorned with feathers and bells. He stamped it on the ground and shook it. When he had everyone's attention, he said, "Bogdolf's the name; merriment's the game!"

"Good grief," Oliver said.

"Shhh, he's the Lore Keeper," Jennifer explained. She stepped closer and whispered, "He's expensive, but he brings in extra contributions; he's worth it."

"Good morning, fair folks," Bogdolf said, twinkling. "Good morning,
Jennifer. Have we time for a story?"

"Yes," Jennifer said. "Raul will be here at eleven for the drumming. For those of you who don't know," she raised her voice and addressed the group, "this is Bogdolf, Lore Keeper. I've asked him to speak to us this morning." She sat in one of the chairs. Oliver sat next to her. The others made themselves comfortable, and Bogdolf took a position in front of them.

"Drumming For Gaia," Bogdolf said. "Fine. Very fine. I don't often have an orchestra. Oh, we're going to have fun this morning. Ba, ba, boom!" He made a pirouette and stamped his stick playfully. His eye fell on Oliver, and he pointed at him with the stick. "Let me hear it, son." He made striking motions with his stick. "Ba, ba boom! Ba, ba, boom! Let me hear it now." He had twirled his way directly in front of Oliver. His eyes were sharp and blue beneath shaggy gray eyebrows. He smiled happily, letting the group feel his joy. Oliver felt Jennifer's foot on his; he stopped staring and struck his drum three times.

"Yes," Bogdolf said, spreading his arms approvingly. "The power!" He looked upward and staggered back several steps. He looked again at Oliver and made a commanding motion with the stick. Oliver struck the drum three times. "Gaia, " Bogdolf said. Oliver felt a pat on his arm.

"A long time ago," Bogdolf began, "in the time of the Water People . . ." He paced back and forth as he told the story. His voice rose and fell. He was on the verge of tears. He laughed. He whispered. Threatened. Trembled. Finally: "And that is how the little drum saved the Water People." He looked at Oliver. Jennifer's foot pressed down. Oliver struck his drum three times, and there was loud clapping.

"Gaia!" someone called. Bogdolf bowed modestly and made his way to the coffee table where he was soon surrounded.

"Whew!" Oliver said.

"I'm sorry," Jennifer said. "I didn't know you were going to be the orchestra." She giggled.

"First time for everything," Oliver said. They took a walk and watched an osprey bring fish back to a nest of sticks high in a tree on an island just offshore. They got down to serious drumming for an hour before lunch and then for several hours afterwards. They warmed up with straightforward Native American rhythms. Oliver found that he could contribute as long as he played the most basic beat.

In the afternoon, they got into a Latin groove. Raul assigned parts and demonstrated the son clave. Oliver, another drummer, and a boy with a triangle were to play just the clave. Thank God for the other drummer. Oliver and the boy followed him through the center of the complications as the group got into synch and began to rock. He felt a duty to do it right, to keep the beat, keep the faith. When they broke up for the day, he felt refreshed. They continued sporadically on the bus, but later, when Oliver was by himself, he couldn't recapture the beat. This irritated him.

"I bought a book," he told Jennifer the following week. "I guess I'm not musical. It just isn't inside me naturally; I need help to hear it. Anyway," he explained, "if you take 16 even beats, numbers 1,4,7,11, and 13 are the son clave beats. So, it is asymmetrical within the 16 beats, but symmetrical outside; the pattern repeats every 16 beats. That's what gives it that rocking quality—the train leans one way and then pulls back and leans the other. Ba, ba, ba—baba. Ba, ba, ba—baba."

"There you go," Jennifer said, "who says you aren't musical?"

Oliver changed the subject. "How's Rupert doing?"

"Rupert . . ." She shrugged, frustrated. "Sometimes I think he doesn't even see me when he looks at me."

"Do you think you'll have kids, someday?" It just popped out of his mouth.

"I hope so. We've been trying."

"This could be the weekend," Oliver said hopefully.

"I don't think so," she said. "Rupert's at a stamp collectors' convention . . . You want to go to a movie Saturday afternoon, maybe have a drink?" Her eyes opened wide. Now she was surprised at herself. Oliver blinked.

"Jesus, Jennifer. That sounds a lot like a date."

"Well—yes! Rupert is always telling me I should go out more, get out of the house."

Oliver liked Jennifer. She was easy to be around. She was earnest in a way that he understood. He found it hard to say no to her, which is why, on Saturday night, he found himself on top of her while she kissed him and pulled at his belt buckle.

He objected weakly, and she said, "I don't care. I don't care, Oliver. I've never done this before. I need you." She clamped her mouth on his and put the matter out of reach. She was as purposeful in bed as she was in the office. She took him inside her and urged him on, as though something might pull him away at any moment. It was fast and satisfying. He barely registered that she was both softer and stronger than he thought before she sighed and rolled him to one side. She had that special full and contented woman's smile.

"That was so good," she said. She put her fingers on his lips. "Shhh. I've got to go, now." She dressed quickly. "Will you be in on Monday?" He nodded. She bent over him and put her hand on his chest, as if to measure his strength while at the same time keeping him in place. She lingered for a second. "Good night, Handsome."

"Good night." And she was gone.

The next day, Oliver stayed around the house wondering what he was getting himself into.

On Monday, when he and Jennifer were alone, she blushed and said, "God! That was wonderful, Oliver. But—it will just have to be a lost weekend." She lowered and then raised her eyes. "I feel like I took advantage."

"It was terrible," Oliver said. "There ought to be a law against it."
She threw her arms around his neck and just as quickly stepped back.
She bit her lip.

"I can't get used to you," she whispered.

"I'll be done, Wednesday," Oliver said.

That was that. A month later, he saw her with Rupert at the Maine Mall, on the other side of the Food Court. She looked normally married and involved in what they were doing. Oliver went in a different direction, feeling lonely, remembering how tightly she had held him. He stopped at Deweys. "I got back on," he informed Mark.

"Nice going. Quick work!"

"It was the linen jacket," Oliver said.

"No shit?" Mark was pleased. "There you go. This one's on me."

A few weeks later, Oliver was waiting for a seat in Becky's, standing by the door, when Francesca came in with her two girls. Oliver looked at her and all doubt left him. It was as if they had arranged to meet. "Hi," he said.

"Hi." She was tanned, wearing a large white "Harbor Fish" T-shirt over dark brown cotton pants.

"Mommy, I have to go to the bathroom."

"It's right over there, Elena—the first door." Francesca pointed and put her free hand on the other girl's head. "Stay with me, Maria."

"Takes two hands—motherhood," Oliver said.

"Two aren't enough, really." Her voice was low and easy. An elderly couple passed them on their way out. Oliver waved at their table which was being cleared.

"Why don't you take it?"

"It's crowded, today. Thank you," Francesca said. "Why don't we share?"

"Sure," Oliver said. "Is anyone joining you?"

Francesca tipped her head to one side and ran fingers through her hair. She looked at Oliver and shook her head deliberately. There were no words, or too many, to explain. "My lucky day," Oliver said. She smiled—tribute was tribute, even in Becky's at rush hour. Maria tugged at her hand.

"I'm hungry."

"Let's eat, then," Francesca said, moving toward the table. When she reached the booth, she said, "Mr. . . . is going to eat with us."

"Oliver."

"Mr. Oliver."

"No. Oliver Prescott is my name. Oliver Muni Prescott. But—Oliver, please."

"I see." She laughed. "I am Francesca Malloy. This is Maria. And here is Elena." She held an arm out to Elena who was pleased with her conquest of the bathroom. "Elena, this is Oliver. We are sharing a table, today." Elena stared at him.

"I'm almost as big as you," she said.

Maria leaned toward her. "Stupid—you're supposed to say: 'How do you do.' "

"How do you do, Elena," Oliver said. "You are a big girl. Strong too,
I bet."

"Very," she said.

"You have such pretty girls," Oliver said to Francesca.

"I am from Ecuador," Maria said. "Elena is from Colombia." She gave the names their Spanish sounds. Oliver wanted to put his arms around her and keep her from harm forever. "We have two mommies." She concentrated. "We each have two mommies. We are sisters, now."

"Lucky girls," Oliver said.

"Where's your mommy?"

"Connecticut," Oliver said. "Far away."

"Oh." Maria nodded sympathetically. One corner of Francesca's wide mouth curved up; the other curved down. Her eyebrows were raised.

"Lucky everybody," Oliver said, including himself. He felt the rings of calm again, rippling outward from their table.

"Something to drink?" One of the regular waitresses laid down menus.

"Coffee for me," Oliver said.

"Tea. Juice for the girls—orange."

"I want apple," Elena said.

"Please," Francesca said.

"Please."

"One apple, one orange." The waitress swept away.

They talked about how the summer was nearly over. They talked about learning how to swim and how hard it was to eat a lobster. Oliver didn't ask about her husband. She didn't ask about his work. They stayed with what mattered: themselves, lunch, the girls, the moment. When they said goodbye, there was a lovely quiet between them. They were together in the act of parting.

Oliver was giddy walking home. He looked at the walnut box and the bronze heart. "She's the one," he said to Verdi who was staring at him from the window sill.

If Francesca weren't married, Oliver would have been after her in an instant. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't think of a way to give her the box and the valentine without putting her in an awkward position. He placed them on the mantelpiece in the living room. The walnut and the bronze gave him a warm feeling; they signalled a future or at least a connection with her.

He might have hustled a programming project, but the thought of business meetings sent him across the bridge to Crescent Beach. The air was fresh and salty, softened by the waxy smell of beach roses. Children played. Dogs chased Frisbees. Waves curled and crashed along the sand. In September, in Maine, time has a way of crystallizing and standing still. Oliver soaked up the sunny shortening days. He was rested and tan, increasingly coiled for some kind of action.

He received a postcard from Jacky saying that she was living in a motel but was about to move into a house. Her job was a lot of work but going well. She missed him. He sent a housewarming card to the new address and said that he missed her, too. No harm in that. Besides, it was true.

One afternoon in October, when the leaves were beginning to change color, he came home and heard Jacky's voice on the answering machine. "Oliver, are you there? No? I'm in town. I'm staying at the Regency. I'm wondering if you would join me for dinner. I've got a meeting in ten minutes. Just come to the restaurant in the hotel, if you can, at six." There was a short pause. "I'll understand if you can't make it. I know it's short notice. Bye." Her voice softened on the "bye," and she hung up.

Oliver paced a couple of tight circles and decided to go. He did his laundry and ironed a white linen shirt. At six, he walked into the Regency and said to the hostess, "I'm meeting someone . . ." He looked around for Jacky.

"Are you Oliver?"

"Yes."

"Ms. Chapelle called to say that she would be fifteen minutes late. May
I get you a drink?"

"Glenlivet, please. Rocks."

Twenty minutes later Jacky swept in, apologizing.

"No problem," Oliver said. "You look well." She was tanned and buzzing with energy.

"Forgive my banker suit," she said. "No time to change. I talked them into more money."

"Congratulations."

"Dinner's on me. Mmm," she said, opening a menu.

"So, how's Maryland?"

"Crab cakes are great. Weather's warmer. After that—Maine wins." She told him about her job and the house she was buying. "And you?"

"Pretty much the same . . . I found out what a clave beat is." He explained and she applauded. "No, like this," he said, clapping out two bars.

"It's warm in here," she said, taking off her jacket and opening the top two buttons of her tight blouse.

"Yes." As they talked and drank, Oliver settled in his chair, his eyes on the opening in her blouse and the lacy rising edge of her bra. A familiar undertow pulled him down; he wanted to be lower than she was. She watched, opened her blouse farther, and let it happen. They finished dinner and drank the rest of the wine. "I'd forgotten . . ." he started.

"Oliver," she said, "I have something for you. Why don't you come up for a drink?" He nodded, yes. She stood, signed the check, and led him to the elevator. "There's wine in the convenience bar," she said, shutting the door of her room behind them. He poured two glasses and sat on a plushly upholstered love seat, waiting for her to come out of the bathroom.

"That's better, isn't it?" she said, sitting beside him and kicking off her shoes. Another button was undone. She sipped wine slowly, in no hurry, enjoying herself. Oliver couldn't stop looking at her breasts.

"Do you know what I have for you?" she teased.

"Yes," he said in a small voice. His heart was beating loudly. He put his glass on the end table and held out his wrists.

"Look at me, Oliver."

He didn't resist. He gave himself to her eyes.

"Sweet," she said. She took the handcuffs from her roll-on bag and closed them on his wrists. "Stand up." She unbuckled his belt and slid his pants and shorts down to his ankles. "How sweet." She reached into the luggage and held up the riding whip.

"You remembered everything," he said helplessly.

"Have you?" She swished the whip, smiling. She didn't have to hit him.

"Please . . ." He sank to his knees, desperate to please her, to be close to her. She took off her blouse and approached with the whip in the air.

"Much better," she said, shrugging her shoulders forward and back. "Don't touch, Oliver. Just look." She leaned over him. "You'd like me to take off my bra, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," he said. "Mistress." His throat was dry.

"I love how you want me," she said. "Can I trust you to—control yourself?"

"Yes, Mistress." She removed her bra slowly, watching him with pleasure. He swallowed.

"You are the sweetest love," she said, laughing. She stripped the rest of the way and guided him to the bed where he devoted himself to her until she was wet and happy, incoherent, thankful . . . From a distance, he heard her say, "Now you."

"Doesn't matter," he mumbled.

She rolled him over and snuggled his head into her lap. "I'm going to give it to you for a change," she said. "Here." She leaned over and placed a breast in his mouth. She stroked him. "Jacky's got you. Suck me, Baby." She pushed her breast deeper into his mouth and brought him steadily along with her hand. "I've got you. It's all right." He opened his mouth wide and drew her in. Love came in with her breast—a strange new feeling that scared him—but she continued, and he accepted and then couldn't get enough. She brought him to the top and cried out with him, "Ohhhh! Yes. More. Oh . . ." His head fell back and he reached for her hip, clutching, clinging to her as if she were a life raft. She put the palm of her hand on his forehead. "Baby," she said, rocking him with her body. "It's all right. I've got you. I've got you." He sighed and pushed deeper against her.

Oliver awoke in the morning with Jacky leaning over him. She was dressed and glowing. "Hey, there," he said.

"No need to get up," she said. "The room is paid for. Just leave when you're ready." She kissed him.

"Mmm, toothpaste," Oliver said. "Where you going?"

"Breakfast at Becky's with my friend, Francesca, and then catch a bird to Baltimore." Oliver sat up straight in the bed. "No, no," she said and pushed him down. "I left a card in your pants pocket. Call me tonight."

"Uh . . . O.K."

"Sweet Oliver," she said and left. The door clicked shut, and Oliver stared at the ceiling. Francesca? Crap! He imagined Jacky describing their evening in full detail. She wouldn't. But she might well mention his name. How many short Olivers were there in Portland? He got out of bed and took a quick shower. Aside from a manageable headache, he felt loose and relaxed. Jacky had seen to that, for sure. He left the hotel by a side door and walked home.

"Verdi? There you are. Good old Verdi. I was bad last night. Very bad. Here you go." He spooned out a whole can of salmon Friskies. "Full breakfast, this morning. None of those little snackies, no." It was important to stay on the right side of Verdi.

He considered shaving. To hell with it. He let Verdi out and walked down to the Victory Deli for a cranberry-blueberry pancake. Jacky. She knew just which buttons to push. He couldn't help himself. He had been feeling helpless enough lately without this demonstration of it. She reveled in his helplessness, rolled in it like Verdi in catnip. I like it, too, he admitted. I do. I do and I don't. He was so independent most of the time that it was a relief, a sweet relief, to give in, to trust her and be controlled by her. But there was also a whiff of something forbidden about the relationship, something to do with his mother again. Jacky was a little like her. It was a powerful mix.

He called her at six o'clock. "Hi, how was breakfast?"

"Hi, Oliver! Fun. Francesca's a good buddy."

"Did you tell her about me?"

"Why—no. You're my secret, Sweet; I'm keeping you to myself. Besides, Francesca's beautiful. Men go gaga over her. She's one of these tall, dark, silent types. Gorgeous eyes, inner fires. I'd go for her myself if I weren't so friggin straight."

"Hallelujah!" Oliver said with feeling.

"Thank you," she said. "Poor Franny, she has a terrible marriage. Two of the cutest little girls. Oliver, I'm hoping you will come visit. I want to show you the Bay and feed you some proper crab cakes. The weekend after next would be perfect."

"How far are you from Atlantic City?"

"About two hours."

"I've never been to Atlantic City," Oliver said. "I've been wanting to see what it's like. I could drive down on Friday, see you on Saturday? Unless you want to meet me at one of the casinos?"

"You come here," she said. "I went once and it didn't do a thing for me. All those grandmothers lined up at the slot machines . . . Cross over the Delaware Bridge by Wilmington. I'm in northern Maryland, not too far from there." She gave him directions, and they agreed to meet around one o'clock.

"Behave yourself with the working girls," she said. "I'll see you in two weeks."

"Bye," Oliver said.

Jacky hung up, and Oliver turned to Verdi. "I'm in trouble," he said.

At least she hadn't said anything to Francesca. He paced around the room. What was happening? He was sliding into a life with Jacky. She could keep him going while he looked for work; he could work anywhere. Maybe he would do most of the cooking. What would it be like to wake up next to her every morning? His head spun. What was wrong with this picture? Anything? Something.

Atlantic City. When Oliver was confused, he tended to put himself in a situation and see what happened. He was better at resilience than calculation; he relied on his ability to pick himself up, dust himself off, and learn from experience. When he tried to think about the future, his mind turned off. He needed something more concrete to think about. Casinos.

The next morning, he bought a book on gambling from the bookstore next to the Victory Deli. He had never been crazy about cards. He had played enough poker to know how brutal it was. The smartest and toughest player won. If you were smarter and tougher, you might as well just take the other person's wallet. It was worse than that. Not only did you take his money, but you left him feeling responsible, stupid, and broken. Oliver didn't want to be on either end of that exchange.

As he read about blackjack, he decided against it. He would actually have odds in his favor if he could count cards without being caught and thrown out of the casino. He probably could count cards with practice; he'd been a math major in college; he was comfortable with numbers. But it would be a lot of work. And he didn't like the idea of relating to the dealer as an opponent, an enemy working for the house. The dealer was just trying to make a living.

Roulette was O.K., but it seemed too mechanical and small in scale. The best roulette odds were not as good as the best odds in craps. Craps had a traditional sound to it. Oliver studied craps.

Players stood around an enclosed table and took turns throwing a pair of dice. On the first throw, the player "passed" if a 7 or an 11 came up. A 2, 3, or 12 was a "no pass." Any other number became the "point." The player continued to roll until either the point came up again, a pass, or a 7 was rolled, a no pass. All players could bet on every roll.

Custom required that a player continue rolling until he or she did not pass. The dice were then pushed to the next player in turn around the table. There were many different bets, simple and complicated. You could bet that a player would pass or not pass or that a number would be rolled before a 7. The complicated bets had large payoffs and correspondingly smaller chances of winning. The simplest bet had the best odds, winning just under 50% of the time. If you played only the bets with the best odds, you could consider the house edge as a 2% charge for hosting the game and keeping it honest. You would lose if you played long enough. But you could get ahead and quit. Maybe.

The stakes could be as high as you wanted. This appealed to Oliver. He liked the financial Russian roulette quality: win or die. He withdrew everything but twenty dollars from his bank account.

On his way back from the bank, he stopped at Deweys. It was fun drinking a pint of Guinness with six thousand dollars in his pocket. Mark was there, celebrating another executive placement.

"Chemical sales. Houston, poor bastard."

"You ever go to Atlantic City?"

"Sure, man." Mark snapped his fingers. "Down on the boardwalk . . . boardwalk."

"Where did you stay?"

"Bally's, most of the time."

"What was it like?"

"Bally's?"

"No, I mean the whole thing," Oliver said.

"Good time—if you don't get into it too deep. Have a few drinks, check out the ladies. Lot of money flying around. They have these hard-nosed dudes called 'pit bosses' that keep an eye on things, head off trouble . . . I usually go on a travel package for a couple of nights. They're a good deal; the casinos subsidize them. I take all the money I feel like blowing off and one credit card in case I get stuck or something. You going?"

"I was thinking about it," Oliver said. "I've been learning how to play craps."

"Yeah, craps, the best. Down on the boardwalk . . ."

Oliver made a reservation at Bally's and considered what to wear. A plaid shirt and jeans weren't going to do it; there was something significant and ceremonial about this trip. He had a summer linen suit that he'd worn to his sister's wedding, years ago. He bought a mulberry colored T-shirt to wear under the jacket. He wanted to look like a star, a player. When in Rome . . . He stopped short of buying a gold neck chain.

He put the cash in the walnut box and then hid the box behind old sheets in the bedroom closet. The box made a good bank, but he missed seeing it on the mantelpiece.

Verdi. He couldn't just leave food and kitty litter—Verdi needed to prowl around outside. And what if he didn't get back right away, for some reason? Maybe Arlen, downstairs, would look after him. A few minutes after he heard Arlen return from work, he knocked on his door.

"Hello, Oliver."

"Nice shirt, Arlen. Aloha!"

"Aloha, Oliver." White tropical blossoms and blue sky hung from Arlen's thin shoulders. He was wearing faded jeans and cowboy boots.

"I was wondering if you could do me a favor?"

"If I can—of course. Would you like to come in?" Oliver entered an immaculate apartment. Parakeets and finches were hopping back and forth in large cages near the windows.

"I'm going on a short trip—three days, maybe four, next weekend. I need someone to look after Verdi, feed him, and let him out once a day. I know it's a nuisance . . ."

"But I like Verdi. It will be no trouble. When are you leaving?"

"Friday."

"No problem. Would you like a drink? We don't get to chat often."

"Sure."

"Let me see. I have ale and, of course, the hard stuff."

"You wouldn't have any Glenlivet, by any chance?"

Arlen smiled. "Would Laphroiag do?"

"Damn, Arlen. I'll choke it down. Yes."

Arlen poured two drinks. "Another day, another dollar," he toasted.

"Single malt," Oliver replied, holding his glass high. There was a moment of reverence after the first taste. "God, that's good!" Oliver said. "I have plenty of cat food. I'll leave clean kitty litter. You probably won't have to change it if he goes outside."

"I'd have a cat if it weren't for the birds," Arlen said. "I don't think enemies should live together, do you?"

"No." Arlen was an accountant for one of the big firms. He had a slim orderly face.

"Sometimes I think cats are smarter than people," Arlen said, "but I love to hear the birds. They sing whenever they damn please." He sighed, leaned back on his couch, and crossed his legs. An embossed boot swung prominently in front of him, oddly flamboyant.

"Yeah, Verdi's my buddy," Oliver said. "He likes you, too."

"Birds can be your friends," Arlen said. "People don't realize." He looked out the window. "I had a parakeet once. His name was Tootsie."

"Tootsie," Oliver repeated, sipping whiskey.

"An ordinary parakeet, green and yellow—but Tootsie could sing! A wonderful singer." Arlen looked back at Oliver. "Parakeets are tough, you know. They are little parrots, actually, strong birds."

"Really? Parrots? I didn't know that."

"Yes," Arlen said. "Tootsie belonged to William." His voice lingered on the name, and he looked out the window again. "I was just getting to know William. He asked me to keep Tootsie for him while he was away one summer . . . I suppose he was testing me."

"Ah," Oliver said, vaguely.

"Tootsie and I got along very well. I tried to teach him to say
'William,' but he preferred to sing." Arlen paused to drink.

"I moved in with William that fall." He uncrossed his legs and crossed them again, waving the other boot in the air. "To make a long story short, I moved out three years later. William was away for the night. I was feeling shitty, and I explained the situation to Tootsie. 'I'm leaving in the morning,' I told him. 'It's not your fault; it's not William's fault; it's not anybody's fault. We just didn't quite make it, that's all. Almost, but not quite.' Tootsie listened to me. You know how they do, with their heads cocked to one side. He was in a cage with a fail-safe door; the kind that are hinged at the bottom—if they aren't positively latched shut, they fall open so you'll know to latch them." Arlen swirled the whiskey around in his glass.

"In three years, Tootsie never got out of his cage. The next morning, I got up and went into the living room. 'Goodbye, Toots,' I said. 'Toots?' He wasn't in his cage. I walked over, and there was Tootsie on the table beneath his cage. He was lying on his side, stone dead."

"No way," Oliver said.

"Stone dead. I don't know how he got out. I don't know what happened. All I know is that he died when the relationship did. I think his heart was broken."

"What did you do?"

"I buried him beneath a tree on the Eastern Prom," Arlen said. "I haven't seen William for years. He moved out of town." One of the parakeets burst into song. "There he is now."

"Who?"

"William," Arlen said.

"Oh." They drank in silence. "Guess I'll be going," Oliver said.
"Thanks. I'll put a key under the mat when I leave on Friday."

"You're welcome, Oliver. Don't worry about Verdi." Oliver went upstairs glad to have solved the problem but feeling sorry for Arlen. He was a decent guy. Usually alone. You'd think he could find someone to be with.

"Arlen will take care of you," he said to Verdi.

Early Friday morning, Oliver retrieved his stash and placed the walnut box back on the mantel. "So long, Verdi. Don't give Arlen a hard time." He slid a spare key under the mat and took a last look around. He hesitated. The box. The box bothered him. What if I don't come back? he thought. Get hit by a truck, or something.

It seemed stupid, but Oliver was used to following his intuition. He wrote a note: "Francesca, I made these for you. Oliver." He put the note, the bronze heart, the lock, and one key inside the box. He put the other key on his key ring. There was only one Malloy listed in the telephone book. He wrapped the box with paper cut from two grocery bags and addressed it to: Francesca Malloy, Cape Elizabeth, Maine. He put all the stamps he had in a double row across the top. If something happened to him, the package would get to her.

Feeling better, he skipped down the stairs, threw his carry-on bag into the Jeep, and headed out of town. He stopped for coffee at the first rest area on the turnpike. The sun wasn't even up as he got back in the Jeep. On the road again, he sang, picking up speed and passing a Shop 'N Save truck. "Fuck you, Malloy," he said, leaving the truck behind. Francesca's husband worked for Hannaford Brothers, who owned the grocery chain. On the road again . . .

Traffic was moderate. Oliver hummed along, enjoying the oranges, reds, and yellows of New England in October. He crossed the Hudson on the Tappan Zee Bridge, bypassing New York, glad to be moving again after weeks of inaction. His money and what felt like his entire future was in his pocket.

At five o'clock he cruised slowly through Atlantic City. He found Bally's, parked, and went to his room. He washed his face, changed into his outfit, and went back outside. The boardwalk stretched out of sight along the beach. It was warmer and more humid than in Maine. Lazy waves collapsed on the sand. Beach-goers and gamblers of all ages strolled back and forth—studs with oiled glistening muscles, grandmothers with straw hats and outrageous sunglasses, Afro-Americans, Latinos, Asians. He was too warm in his suit. He returned to the air conditioned hotel and entered the casino.

Loud music. Hellish reds and blacks. The women that Jacky had remembered were seated in front of rows of flashing slot machines. The women pulled long levers mechanically; win or lose, they pulled again. Bells rang as an occasional jackpot cascaded from a machine.

Oliver recognized the crap tables—elongated mahogany figure eights, surrounded by players leaning over the action. Dice rolled, bounced, and tumbled to a stop on the gleaming green felt. People cheered or groaned.

The roulette wheels were in a different section. The blackjack dealers were beyond the roulette wheels. At the far end of the casino, behind bars, cashiers exchanged chips for money or vice versa. Cashing in your chips, for real, Oliver thought. He pushed $1000 toward a cashier.

"What do you want?" Oliver hesitated. "Hundreds, twenties, tens, fives, what?"

"Give me one hundred dollar chip," Oliver said, "the rest, tens and fives."

"You want to leave some in the cage?"

"Five hundred," Oliver said. The cashier issued him a plastic card with a magnetic strip.

"Give this to the pit boss when you want more."

"I got these complimentary dollars," Oliver said, "when I checked in."

"Over there." The cashier pointed to a barred room within the main room. "Promotions." Oliver walked over to Promotions.

"Could I exchange these for chips, please?" A man with a neat mustache swept up the fake coins. He flicked his wrist and thumb. Oliver's chips fell on the counter in front of him. Oliver counted. "Wasn't there supposed to be thirty-five?"

"Yeah, man. You short?" Oliver pushed the chips toward him. "Sorry, man. Mistake," he said, adding a five dollar chip to the pile without changing expression. Oliver put them in his pocket and walked toward the crap tables. That was a scam, he thought. Get away with that once an hour, your pay would go up—a couple of hundred a week.

He straightened as a feeling shot through him. It was like waking up. It was time. He approached the front craps table and stood with his arms hanging down and his weight evenly balanced. Fifteen feet away, a man shifted sideways so that he was directly in front of Oliver. He was expensively dressed, medium sized with wide shoulders and a dark angular face. He stared at Oliver. I see you, he was telling Oliver. You aren't like the rest of them. I'm watching. He was intense and deadly. Pit boss, Oliver realized. Well, fuck you. Oliver's spirit and body fused as though they had been sleeping in separate rooms. For the first time in years, he felt his whole strength. A slight smile crossed his face.

The pit boss was called away, and Oliver continued to watch the table. They're not getting my money. The resolve came out of nowhere, clear and absolute. A woman left the table. He took her place, bent over, and placed a $5 chip on the pass line. An older man in a baseball cap threw the dice low and hard. They bounced off the far end of the table and skittered back to the center. A two, snake eyes. Most of the players groaned. Oliver's chip was raked in. He bet again to pass. The next player threw a six. There was a flurry of bets. A four. Another flurry of bets. The player reached down with one hand and arranged the pair of dice so that threes showed on top. He was overweight, red faced with a closely trimmed white beard. He tossed the dice gently up into the air so that they stayed together until they hit the felt. They bounced to a four. "Yes!" Cheers and clapping. The players who had bet that a four would be rolled before a seven had won. No one had lost. The start of a good run. Burl Ives / Colonel Sanders arranged the dice again and threw a six—the point. Uproar. All were winners but those few who had bet "no pass." Oliver had his chips back.

He stepped away. He had won, and he had lost. He wandered over to a roulette table. Two Asian women, middle-aged sisters perhaps, or cousins, or lovers, sat side by side betting large sums on every spin of the wheel. Their hair was long and lustrous, elaborately wound and held by jade. Light disappeared into the blackness of their hair and re-emerged at different points as they tilted their heads toward each other and toward the whirling ball. They bet on lucky numbers, sometimes winning big, often losing all. They were indifferent to loss and satisfied when they won. Their faces were masks—beautiful and timeless.

Oliver bet $10 on red, a gesture after losing himself in admiration of the women. The steel ball whirred around the rim and bounced down into a red numbered slot. Everybody won. He picked up his winnings and nodded to the pair. They scarcely noticed.

Oliver was ten dollars ahead and hungry. He left the casino and found a coffee shop where he ate a turkey club sandwich and relaxed. So far, so good.

As he neared the crap tables again, a bar hostess with long legs in black mesh stockings asked if he wanted a drink. "Diet Pepsi, please." She came back a few minutes later with the drink. "Thanks." He put a dollar tip on her tray.

He moved to a place at the ten dollar craps table. The man next to him had a name tag on his short sleeved shirt that read, "R. Melnick M.D." He was pale and sweating lightly. His fingers drummed on a stack of black $100 chips, twenty at least. He placed four chips on the no pass line, won, and added to his stack. He left, irritated, as though the inevitable humiliation was just being postponed.

Oliver bet ten dollars and won. He left his chips on the pass line and won again. He put one chip back in his pocket and won again. He put two more chips in his other pocket and lost the rest on the next roll. Twenty dollars ahead. He kept his original stake in one pocket and his winnings in the other.

When he lost three times in a row, he went over to the roulette tables to change his luck. He put one chip on red and lost. He doubled his bet and won, leaving him one chip ahead. He went back to craps and began betting larger amounts. He stayed with his system. He was $375 ahead when he lost three times and headed back to the roulette wheel. He lost the first three times he bet on red. He doubled his bet again, eight $10 chips, his largest bet so far. The ball went around and around and hopped into the double zero slot. Neither red nor black. The house won all bets. Oliver swallowed. What were the odds that he would lose an almost even bet, five times in a row? About one out of thirty-two times. He counted out sixteen chips, $160. The dealer looked at him with a flicker of interest—one of these guys who would go down with his system? The ball whined around the rim of the wheel a long time before it slowed, fell into the center of the wheel, and bounced to a stop.

Red. Oliver collected his chips, relieved, and put all but one back in his stake pocket. All that risk on the last spin to win a net total of one chip. If he had lost, he would have had to bet $320 on the next spin to have a net win of one chip. And then $640. The dealer had seen it all before. Sooner or later, the improbable happened, and a run of losses wiped out the double-or-nothing players.

Oliver put his $100 chip on pass. He lost. He lost twice more and returned to roulette. This time he won on the second spin. He went back to craps and lost again. His winnings sunk to $45 and then climbed back to $120.

"How's your luck tonight?" A young blonde smiled appealingly.

"Not too bad."

"You want to bet a couple for me? You know, have a good time?"

"I'd love to," Oliver said, "but I'm too shot. I'm going to bed."

"I could help with that," she said.

"No thanks, Beautiful—not tonight." She shrugged and moved on. Oliver went up to his room and was asleep in five minutes.

At 4 a.m. he was wide awake. He dressed and returned to the casino. The room was mostly dark and shut down. Only one row of slot machines by the door was active. Overhead lights illuminated a single craps table, a bright mahogany raft floating in the darkness. Old men held on to its edges, playing quietly and grimly. Oliver put himself in their place. Why go to bed? Save themselves for what? They clung to a different kind of life raft than Jacky had been for him, but it was just as real. He watched for ten minutes and left. He found an open cafeteria and took a cup of coffee back to bed. The steam from the cup and the warmth in his hand were comforting.

Oliver woke up late in the morning. He cashed in all but fifty dollars of his chips and ate a large breakfast. He walked along the beach to the Taj Mahal casino and found that it was much the same as Bally's. He returned to the hotel and checked out. Before he left, he placed a fifty dollar bet on pass. He would leave seventy dollars ahead or a hundred and seventy dollars ahead, a winner either way. My kind of bet, he said to himself. He won. Yesterday's pit boss was not there. Oliver imagined himself nodding to him—superior, free, out of there. It didn't matter. He could tell Jacky.

Finding the Delaware Bridge was the next challenge. Two hours later, Oliver was in Maryland easing around a curve on a gravel driveway. Stones crunched under his wheels as he stopped in front of a white colonial. Jacky came out to meet him. She was wearing a Red Sox T-shirt and a wrap-around cotton skirt.

"Well, well," she said looking at his suit and holding her arms open.
"What have we here?"

"A player," Oliver said, coming close. Her arms drew him against her.
He smelled honeysuckle, and his hands found their familiar places.

"Mmm," she said, "I'll bet you're hungry."

"You win."

Jacky stepped back. "Good. I'm going to show off. I've been practicing my crab cakes."

"Yumm."

"I thought we'd eat home, relax, maybe go out later . . . I'll give you the Bay Tour tomorrow."

"Finest kind," Oliver said. "Nice house. That T-shirt isn't going to make you any friends."

"Just because I'm living in Maryland, doesn't mean I'm a traitor," she said, leading him into the kitchen. "How was Atlantic City?"

"Weird. I won. It wasn't what I was expecting." Jacky took the crab cake mix from the refrigerator. She turned on a burner under a Dutch oven half full of oil. "I thought I might get into a big deal all-or-nothing scene, a go-down-in-flames kind of thing. I brought all my money." He told her about the pit boss and the icy focus that had come over him and taken control. "I didn't even drink," he said. "It was tiring, but I won."

"Very good," she said. She flicked drops of water into the oil. The drops sizzled and danced. "You're safe now. There's a nice Sauvignon Blanc in the refrigerator. I think it's time."

Oliver responded to her choreography. He uncorked the wine and poured two glasses. "To us," Jacky said. Oliver clinked his glass against hers and sipped.

"Yowzir! You must have gotten a good raise."

"Wait until you taste these," she said, lowering crab cakes into the hot oil.

The crab cakes were delicious. "What's your secret?" Oliver asked.

"Mustard and capers," she said, pleased. The bottle was quickly empty and they opened another. Drinking with Jacky usually made Oliver softer and more open. Today, he began to feel focused again, revved up, not unlike the way he had felt in Atlantic City. Jacky was smiling.

"Oh, this is so much better," she said. Let me show you the rest of the house . . . I could use some of your special attention." She led him through a comfortable living room and up the stairs. Oliver looked at the ceiling in the bedroom.

"No eye bolt," he said.

Jacky giggled. "Funny you should mention that." She opened a drawer and took out a large bolt. "I thought maybe you could help me with this. Maybe tomorrow." She laid the bolt on the dresser. "Take your clothes off, Oliver."

The focus inside him strengthened. He dropped his clothes at his feet without changing expression, kicked off his shoes, took three steps, and pulled her to him. "Aren't we strong, today," she teased. He turned her backwards onto the bed. She fell beneath him and wrapped her legs around him. "My fierce little man."

This was the way it was going to have to be, Oliver realized. Talk wasn't going to do it. A counselor wouldn't work. This was their language.

He pulled up her skirt and curved his right hand between her legs. His left hand reached up under her head and took a fistful of hair. He pulled her head down, immobilizing it, and rubbed slowly with his right hand. Her shoulders strained upward twice in resistance or surprise. Oliver held her head back and continued to rub.

Jacky adjusted quickly. She pushed up against his hand. "Take them off," she said. Oliver rolled sideways without letting go of her hair. He pulled her panties down, and she bent her knees. He slid them over her feet and then moved back on top of her. "Give it to me," she said.

Oliver entered her, slowly and deeply until she was pinned to the bed. She made a small gurgling noise. He withdrew and then pushed into her again. "Oliver?" He increased the pressure on her hair and went on fucking her silently and slowly. "Oliver?" He didn't trust himself to speak. He was afraid to speak. She would regain control, somehow. "Ohh," she groaned. "Sweet?" The question in her voice was increasing, changing to doubt. His intensity strengthened, feeding on her doubt.

He kept an impersonal rhythm, driving her into the bed with each stroke, holding his grip on her hair. "Baby," she said. "Fuck me." She began to writhe beneath him, meeting him, trying to draw him on. Oliver refused to hurry. "Oliver?" She was pleading, now. Deeply in. Slowly out.

Jacky began to strike him in the back. She made angry sounds. Her fists drummed on his back. I—am—in—control, he said to himself. "Damn you!" she exhaled. She stopped hitting him. "All right. All right." She went limp.

Oliver continued without varying. She gave up. Her hands went to his back and her body molded to his. Her breath began to whistle on each exhale as he drove into her. She came with a sudden release and a series of falling sighs. Her hands fell back on the bed.

Oliver released his grip on her hair and cradled her cheeks in both hands. He kissed her for the first time. Holding her lips softly under his, he began to move faster. Her hands went to his shoulder blades. Her tongue touched lightly in and out of his mouth. In a minute, he was done. She stroked his back.

"Oliver?"

He was off her and dressing.

"Oliver, please . . ." She sat up, uncertain. He saw the little girl in the strong woman. He wanted to comfort her, but he didn't trust himself not to give in. She would control him forever. It wasn't her fault; it was just the way she was. Arlen's words came to him.

"It's not your fault," Oliver said. "It's not anybody's fault. You are wonderful, Jacky. Queen of crab cakes. The greatest fuck in the western world. But—I've changed. It won't work." He shook his head. "I wish it could."

"Why did you come?" She reddened. "Well, go then!" She looked around and picked up a book from the table next to the bed. "Go!" She threw it at him. He ducked sideways and walked downstairs. She followed him, shouting "Go!" As he went out the front door, a glass shattered against a wall. "Get out of here!" The other glass smashed and he heard her begin to cry.

The Jeep started and he was on the road again.

Oliver drove a mile and stopped, ears buzzing from wine and the violent emotion. He saw Jacky again, sitting up on the bed, one hand across her heart, and he felt a stab of pain and longing. It wasn't too late to turn around. They could put the pieces back together; he could serve her, and she would take care of him. Why not? What else was he going to do? He searched around in the glove compartment and found a Willy Nelson tape. Might as well have the real thing. On the road again . . . Shit. He pounded the steering wheel once and kept going.

Philadelphia. He made it past the city and began to wear down. He didn't need to hurry—Arlen wasn't expecting him home for a couple of days. He turned off the highway and stopped at a motel. He put his bag on a chair and lay down for a moment. Had he done the right thing? Or was he just running away from commitment? He was in a bind. He couldn't stay in a submissive relationship with Jacky, but the more powerful that he felt as an individual, the lonelier he became and the more he wanted her—or someone.

Pie. At least there was pie. Somewhere. He drove down the road until he came to a diner. Two state cops were drinking coffee at one end of the counter. A truck driver and three construction workers sat at the other end. Oliver sat between the two groups and sank further into his feelings. Thirty-five and what did he have to show for it? Six thousand dollars and a cat. An old Jeep.

He finished his apple pie and watched the double doors to the kitchen swing shut behind the waitress. The swinging doors dissolved into dark water. He saw Owl overboard, holding his head above the waves. "Find your father," Owl said. Oliver's eyes opened wide. Owl had said that once. "Someday, you should find your father."

Oliver thought hard. He had to do something. It was good advice. He made up his mind to try.

"More coffee?"

"Uh—yes. Please."

Oliver took a deep breath and peeled the top from a creamer. He poured the liquid into his coffee and watched white swirls turn the black to brown. Owl had done his best for him. He had acknowledged their difference without really talking about it. He hadn't tried to be everything to him. Tears came to Oliver's eyes. He stared straight ahead and let them slide down his cheeks. Wiping them away would have been disrespectful.

No one seemed to notice.

Oliver returned to the motel and slept twelve hours. The next day he considered stopping in New Haven, but he decided to drive straight through to Portland. His mother had not been in contact with his father, Muni, since she had left Hawaii. She wouldn't know any more than what she'd already told him. The Nakano's had owned a small hotel in Honolulu. Muni's brother, Ken, was a teacher. Muni had been a student at the University. That was it. His mother had split soon after she learned that she was pregnant. According to her, Muni had wanted to marry, but she knew it wouldn't work.

Not a lot to go on, but it would have to do.

"Welcome back, Oliver. You're home early," Arlen said.

"Don't get used to it. I'm going to Hawaii." Arlen's jaw dropped.
"Don't worry," Oliver said. "I'm not going to stick you with Verdi.
Thanks very much for taking care of him, by the way. We just had a
chat. He says you're a nice man and you have some Laphroiag left."

"You can't tell a cat anything, these days," Arlen said. "It's not quite cocktail hour, but I suppose it's close enough."

"Just a drop," Oliver said.

They sat near the birds. "Perseverance furthers," Oliver toasted.
"That's from the I Ching."

"Ninety percent of success is showing up," Arlen answered. "Woody
Allen."

"It's true, isn't it," Oliver said. "You just have to keep at it. What was your father like, Arlen, when you were a kid?"

"Very much as he is now," Arlen said. "Early to bed, early to rise. We had a dairy farm near Unity. We didn't have a lot of money, but we always had clothes and whatever we needed for school. If we wanted extra, we had to work for it. He still has the farm, but he sold the herd after Mother died." Arlen's eyebrows raised with the memory, then settled. "He's hung on, doing a little of this and a little of that, getting by with social security. He sold a small piece of land three years ago. He keeps saying he's going to sell out and move to Florida, but he doesn't get around to it."

"Good for him. I never met my father. That's why I'm going to
Hawaii—to see if I can find him."

"Oh," Arlen said. "Well. It's a long flight. But there's no place like
Hawaii. I usually stay over on the west coast, break the trip in two.
The jet lag isn't so bad that way, and the flight isn't such an ordeal."

"Not a bad idea."

"San Francisco is wonderful, of course. Seattle and Portland are nice. There's a marvelous Japanese garden in Portland, high on a hill overlooking the city."

"I'll think about that. I'm not sure when I'll be going or how long
I'll be. Depends on when I can get a cheap ticket and what happens."

"I would stay at least a week or two. You might as well make a trip of it while you're at it."

"I'll call one of those professional cat-sitter people—unless you know someone who might want to live here for a couple of weeks?"

Arlen rubbed one of his cowboy boots. "Porter might like that. His situation at the moment is—tenuous."

"Porter?"

"I'll ask him if you like," Arlen said. "He might be up for some peace and quiet. Porter is trustworthy."

"Any friend of yours . . ."

"I'll ask," Arlen said.

"O.K., thanks." Oliver sipped whiskey. "My stepfather was a good guy.
He drowned—nearly twenty years ago."

"I'm sorry. Fathers can be bad, too, you know."

"I guess I'll just have to find out. Bound to learn something, either way."

"A drop more?"

"Sure."

"Fathers, then," Arlen toasted. "I remember when I told mine that I was gay. I was pretty nervous."

"What happened?"

"He rubbed his chin with both hands in a way he had when he was thinking. He said: 'They say people are wired that way or they choose that way. I think you're wired that way.'

"'I am,' I said. 'But I choose it, too.' I didn't want him thinking I was sorry for myself. My father pointed across the valley.

"'Louis, over there—he's got six boys been chasing everything in skirts since they were big enough to sit on a tractor. I wouldn't trade you for two of them.'

"'Two!' I said. 'Three, anyway.'

"'He'd be getting a deal at three,' my father said." Arlen smiled and lifted his glass in the general direction of his father.

"All right!" Oliver said.

That week, Oliver bought a round trip ticket to Portland, Oregon and a seven day Hawaiian vacation package that left from Portland. Porter would be glad to stay in the apartment and cat-sit, Arlen informed him. The three met for lunch in the Old Port. Porter was round and jovial, balding with a small spade shaped beard and one gold earring. He was a baker. His fists bunched like hard rolls when he wasn't eating or telling jokes. Oliver was well satisfied with him.

Oliver took to walking on Crescent Beach early in the morning. It was cold, foggy sometimes, but always refreshing. He walked the upper path that led through woods and across a field to a rocky shoreline. From there, the path turned eastward, following the shore to the beach and to the main parking lot, closed at that time of year. One morning he noticed an unusual arrangement of sticks and rocks near the beginning of the beach. The sticks were jammed into the sand at odd angles. Small rocks were piled to suggest barricades. It was like a kid's fort but more sophisticated.

The next morning, the fort had become a small town with a watchtower at its center. Two days later, there was only a low wall protecting a woven matting of driftwood sticks. Oliver imagined an art student practicing, seeing what things looked like as he or she made them.

On Sunday, Oliver had breakfast at six. The park was empty when he arrived. The leaves were damp and thick on the ground except for a few coppery oak leaves, always the last to fall. Tough stuff, oak, Oliver thought. He stopped to look for the latest sculpture. At first, he saw only random driftwood. It was as though a storm at high tide had leveled all traces of beach-goers. It was a loss. He had begun to connect with the anonymous arrangements; he looked forward to seeing them.

His attention was drawn to a protected spot below an eroded bank. Beach grass hung forward over the edge of the bank. A semicircle of thin flat stones stood upright in the sand. Oliver approached. They stood like Easter Island miniatures, thin sides facing the ocean. Oliver's imagination shrunk and stood on the stand looking up at them. Just then, the sun rose. Golden light swept over the ocean, up the beach, caught in the overhanging bank, and leaped on across the continent. The stone people were the first to see it.

"Oliver?"

He jumped. Someone had come along the path. Francesca! "Oh, hi!" he said. "You scared me. Look at this." He motioned her over and pointed. "The Early People—they've been waiting for the sun."

"So have I," Francesca said. She was wearing tan jeans and a long gray sweatshirt. "Brrr."

"Somebody keeps making sculptures here," Oliver said. "I started noticing them this week."

"Do you come here often?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"I try to walk here on Sunday mornings. Conor takes care of the girls, and I get some time to myself."

"It's so beautiful, here. Any time of year," Oliver said. Francesca bent over.

"Cute," she said. "Did you see the little ones?" She put a finger in the sand behind one of the Early People. There were three very much smaller stones imitating their elders.

"Pretty good," Oliver said. "I didn't see them."

Francesca straightened. "Let's walk."

Oliver fell into step beside her.

"I haven't seen you in ages," she said.

"I know. How are the girls?"

"Maria has an earache, but it's getting better. They're fine." She gave him an encouraging look.

"I made something for you—a present."

"Oooo . . ."

"I was going to mail it, but I didn't want to embarrass you."

"It's been a long time since I was embarrassed."

"It's a valentine."

"Now I'm really curious," she said. What am I doing? he asked himself. Too late now. Francesca rubbed the end of her nose with her palm. "You could bring it to me next Sunday."

"Yes. Oh, damn! I'm leaving on Thursday; I won't be here."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to Hawaii. I'm going to try and find my father. I've never met him. He's Japanese. I am too, I guess. Half."

"Caramba!" Francesca said.

"So I can't be here, Sunday. I wish . . ."

"Mail it," she said. "I could use a valentine."

"O.K. Will just 'Cape Elizabeth' get to you?"

"Old Toll Road, 420," she said. A lobster boat started its engine in the distance.

"How tall are you?" Oliver asked.

"Six feet, even."

"I'm five, two. Funny thing is—I don't feel short around you. I did when I first saw you in Becky's, but now I don't." A quick smile crossed her face. She turned her head toward the water.

"Careful," she said quietly. He barely heard her. "When will you be back?" she asked more loudly.

"Don't know. Couple of weeks, I think. Maybe I'll see you out here?"

"Until the snow gets too deep," she said.

"I'll see you, then," Oliver said, stopping. "I'll leave you to your peace and quiet."

"Be safe," she said. Oliver waved and walked back the way they had come. The sun was clear of the horizon, promising warmth.

"Yes!" he said. The Early People had an air of being off duty. They had waited for the sun, welcomed it, and were now free to enjoy it.

Oliver changed planes in Chicago and landed in Oregon at one o'clock,
Pacific time. "Funny thing," he said to a cab driver. "I always thought
Portland was on the ocean. It's a river port."

"The Columbia," the driver said. "Where you from?"

"The other Portland—in Maine."

"Back east. I'm from Worcester, Mass, myself. Long time ago."

"You like it out here?"

"It's all right. Beats shoveling snow."

"It feels a lot milder," Oliver said. "We could get snow anytime in
Maine."

"Friggin snow," the driver said. "Here you go."

"You want to wait a couple of minutes—off the meter? I'll need another ride."

"Where to?"

"There's supposed to be a big Japanese garden up on a hill. . ."

"I'll wait."

"Be right out." Oliver checked in, left his bag in his room, and came out feeling light-footed. He had a map in one pocket of his bush jacket. He unfolded it in the cab. "So—where is it?"

"Washington Park, Kingston Avenue."

"I see it. Great. Let's go." They drove into the city and climbed through a residential district. The driver stopped at the entrance to the garden.

"You can get a bus downtown on that corner over there," he said, pointing.

"Thanks." The cab rolled away down the hill. It was quiet. The neighborhood trees and hedges were lush. A layer of cloud imparted a soft gray tone to the buildings and the streets stretched out below.

Oliver entered the park and strolled along paths that were nearly deserted. He walked up and down through trees, past tiny ponds, mossy rock faces, handmade bamboo fountains, patches of flowers, and unexpected views. The effect was both wild and intensely cultivated. The garden was an homage to nature, a carefully tended frame within which blossoms fell and birds flitted in their own time.

A light drizzle began to fall. Oliver sat on his heels, warm enough in his jacket and his canvas hat. The live silence of the garden gradually entered him, replacing an inner deafness. When he stood, his knees were stiff, but he had become otherwise more flexible. His plans were not so important—they mattered, but not to the exclusion of what was around him.

He caught a bus downtown and wandered through an area of mixed industry, galleries, and restaurants. He spent time in a leather shop that sold skins and hides. Oliver had never seen an elk hide. He bought a rattlesnake skin, five feet long, that had intricate brown and black diamond-shaped markings. The clerk rolled it in a tight coil and put a rubber band around it.

Oliver ate in a Japanese restaurant. A scroll hung in an illuminated recess at one end of the room. The characters were bold, the brush strokes fresh and immediate. Stringed music twanged of duty, consequence, and the inevitable flow of time. The waitress, middle-aged and respectful, brought him dinner with a minimum of talk. Oliver ate slowly, feeling no need for conversation. He was conversing, he realized, with each move of his chopsticks, each glance around the room.

The cab ride and the hotel seemed loud in comparison. He turned the TV on and turned it off. It was better to lie in bed and revisit the garden. Tomorrow was coming. Another long flight.

In the morning, Oliver's spirits rose as the jet cleared the coast, high above the ocean. "Here we go," he said to the slim woman seated next to him. She smiled and resumed reading what appeared to be a textbook. He had a glass of Chardonnay with lunch, but he was too wide awake to sleep afterwards. The plane passed above slabs of cloud and intermittent vistas of empty ocean. Once, a jet slid by below them, several miles away, flying in the opposite direction.

Hours later, as they descended toward the islands, a general excitement spread through the plane and the student became talkative. "There is tourist Hawaii," she said, "and military Hawaii, and everywhere else—the real Hawaii."

"I'm staying in Waikiki," Oliver said. "I guess that's tourist Hawaii."

"Yes," she said. "But the buses are good. You can get out, go around the island."

"I will. I'm going to try and look up family I've never met."

"Where do they live?" Oliver had found a listing for Kenso Nakano in a phone book at the airport.

"Alewa Heights," he said.

She laughed. "Ah—LEV—Ah . . . That's the real Hawaii."

"Look at that!" The plane was banking over a large crater with a grassy center and steep green sides.

"Diamond Head," she said. She wiped away a tear.

"Diamond Head? I didn't know it was a crater. I never saw a crater before."

"It nice and green, this time year," she said in a different voice, intense and musical. The tires jerked and the plane slowed with a rush of engines. They taxied to the terminal. Passengers unlatched overhead bins and waited in the aisle for the door to open.

"Goodbye," Oliver said to the woman.

"Aloha," she said, "good luck, huh."

"Aloha," Oliver said, for the first time without irony. The word felt good in his mouth.

He stepped through the door into a perfume of flowers and burnt jet fuel. White clouds ballooned over green mountain ridges. Heat waves eddied on the tarmac. The passengers moved quickly into the terminal and dispersed.

A young woman with brown skin and black hair, dressed in shorts and halter top, held a sign that read: Polynesian Paradise Adventures. She put a lei around Oliver's neck and directed him to a bus where he waited half an hour while other vacationers collected their luggage and boarded in small groups. The flowers in his lei were white with yellow centers. They had the same sweet smell that had greeted him at the airplane door. "Plumeria," the hostess told him.

The bus passed through an industrial area and then along the shore by several blocks of downtown business buildings, a marina, a park, and a large shopping mall. They entered an avenue congested with high-rise hotels and condominiums. "Waikiki," the hostess announced. The bus stopped in front of a nondescript hotel, and the hostess wished them a good vacation. "You have your discount coupons," she said.

"Where's the beach?" someone called.

"Over there." She pointed across an avenue choked with cars, taxis, and buses. "Two blocks."

Oliver's room was spare. The walls were made of concrete blocks painted a light aqua color. Sliding glass doors opened on a tiny porch. He went out and sat in a white plastic lawn chair for a moment. He was on the tenth floor, overlooking a side street. There was a building directly in front of him and more buildings in the direction of the beach. In the other direction, he could see a strip of mountain and what appeared to be a canal a few blocks away. It wasn't Paradise, and it wasn't particularly Polynesian, though there were palm trees by the canal.

The map that he had been given showed tourist attractions and how to get to them. He bought a decent map in the lobby and walked over to Kalakaua Avenue and down to the beach. It was a pretty beach, a gentle crescent that curved along a green park. In the other direction, back the way he had come, the sand fronted a strip of hotels. The waves were quiet, though larger than they had been in Atlantic City. Diamond Head guarded the far end of the beach. He felt differently about the postcard view now that he knew its secret. There's a crater in there.

He took off his shoes and socks and walked to the Diamond Head end of the beach, turning back at a small cluster of expensive houses and condominiums. The sand underfoot made him feel like a little kid. He retraced his steps and stopped by the first hotel that he reached on the beach side of Kalakaua. It was older than the others. A huge tree shaded a polygonal bar and a courtyard paved with stone. He ordered a Glenlivet.

"Some tree! What kind is it?"

"Banyan," the bartender said.

"Oh." Hanging roots, dense green leaves, and thick nearly horizontal branches created an inviting world. Oliver imagined a tree house. He took a table in the shade and looked out over the ocean. Maybe he should just be a tourist and forget the whole thing. He'd gotten along without his father this long; what difference would it make to meet him now? He didn't know. That was the problem. That was why he had to look up Kenso Nakano—Ken—on Alewa Heights. Chances were good that Ken was his uncle.

Oliver rolled the whiskey around in his glass. A very tall man in shorts trudged past on the sand. He was a foot taller than a tall man. Long legs held his upper body high in the air. Like a heron, Oliver thought. Holy shit! Wilt Chamberlain! Wilt looked patient, proud, and tired. A sports king, still holding his head up. He scored a hundred points once. No one could take that away from him. A familiar pang squeezed Oliver. The nothing pang. What have you done? Nothing.

Scotch trickled down Oliver's throat. Wilt kept a steady pace down the beach. Oliver thought of getting a ticket to another world—the Philippines, say—and disappearing. He could go to a village on a remote island and live until he ran out of money. It would be perfect for a while, and then, to hell with it, he would get kidnapped or lost in the jungle; it wouldn't matter.

No use. A force inside him would not let go. His spirit assumed a stone face. Forward.

He awoke the next morning at 4 a.m., out of synch from jet lag. Half an hour later he gave up trying to get back to sleep. He dressed and walked toward the shopping mall, stopping at a Tops Restaurant busy with cab drivers, early risers, and night owls winding down. He had half a papaya, served with a piece of lemon. Delicious. Eggs came with two scoops of rice. Eggs and rice? Not bad. Full daylight came as he finished a second cup of coffee and looked at his map.

Alewa Heights was on the other side of the city. He could find a bus that would get him close, no doubt, but it was early to be visiting. Should he call? No. That was too much of a commitment. He wanted to walk to the address and see how he felt when he got there, leaving open the chance for a last-minute escape.

He decided to wait a day. Look up Kenso Nakano tomorrow, he told himself. He walked back to the hotel by a different route and fell asleep easily.

Later that morning, he walked to Tops again and on to the Ala Moana Shopping Center. Acres of parking lot surrounded two decks of stores—mainland chains and local names. There were fountains and sculptures, a mix of tourists and islanders, and, at one end, a Japanese department store named, "Shirokya." He spent an hour in Shirokya admiring the packaging and design, listening to Japanese music, and feeling proud of the evident care taken with details. If you're going to do something, do it well.

He crossed Ala Moana Boulevard to the yacht harbor where rows of large sailboats were moored behind a stone breakwater. "Salty boats," he said to a guy who was smoking at the end of a long dock.

"Better be. It's a mile deep right out there." He looked down at
Oliver, amused. Oliver was evidently too short for the Pacific.

He spent the rest of the day poking around Waikiki and considering his visit to Kenso Nakano. The next morning, he caught a bus to the other side of the city.

He walked up Alewa Drive in bright sunshine, enjoying the view of the city and the ocean which grew in immensity as he climbed. The higher he got, the more vast the ocean became and the smaller the island, until he began to sense that he was standing on a happy accident, a green miracle in a marine world. The planes taking off from the airport below him looked puny. It was an added pleasure to turn away from the Pacific to the street, to the plumeria, the bougainvillea, and the different shades of green. Doves called. There was little traffic.

The street bent higher around a switchback curve. A pickup was parked in front of a wall and a gate which bore the number Oliver was seeking. Two heavyset men wearing shorts, T-shirts, and baseball caps were easing a boulder from the truck bed onto an impromptu ramp of two-by-sixes. A woman with trim graying hair and tanned cheeks watched. The planks sagged ominously.

"She hold?"

"Plenty strong."

"Damn—stuck. Excuse me, Mrs. Nakano."

"I've heard worse," she said. Oliver approached and braced one shoulder against the rock.

"What is this?" one man said. "Who you?"

"Superman," Oliver said.

"You shrunk." There was a cracking noise from one of the planks. "Watch it!" The other man got both hands under one edge of the boulder, bent his knees, and heaved. The boulder rocked and began to slide down the planks. They bowed farther but held as the three of them guided the boulder to the street.

"One good moss-rock, Mrs. Nakano. Kind of small, though."

"I know you guys like a challenge," she said.

"Where you want it?"

She pointed through the gate.

"We better do it. This start down the road, it end up in somebody's living room." They walked the boulder through the gate and to one end of a flower bed. It took three of them to move it without using crowbars; Oliver helped until it was in place.

"Hard to find a good moss-rock these days," Mrs. Nakano said. "How about a soda?"

"Too early for anything else," one said. "Sure."

"Thank you so much for helping," she said to Oliver. "Are you thirsty?"

"Yes. I was looking for you. I think. Actually, I'm looking for Muni
Nakano who has a brother—Ken?"

"Oh," she said. "Muni is my brother-in-law."

"My name is Oliver, Oliver Prescott."

"How do you do, Oliver. This is Jimmy. This is Kapono." The others nodded, and she went inside.

"Superman without a license—serious offense," Jimmy said.

"Batman worse," Kapono said.

"Still—he pretty strong for a midget."

Oliver grinned and brushed the dirt off his hands. There were times to
keep your mouth shut. Mrs. Nakano returned and handed out cans of
Pepsi. "This was good of you guys." She turned to Oliver. "I'm sorry.
Ken is on a trip. Can I help you?"

"Oh." Oliver thought. "I need to find Muni."

"Ken will be back the day after tomorrow. He is coming in tomorrow night—late."

"I'll call on the phone, then, the day after tomorrow? Maybe around nine in the morning?"

"That will be fine."

"Thanks," Oliver said. He drained his soda and gave the can back to
Mrs. Nakano. "Good," he said. He waved and started out the gate.

"You want a ride down the hill?" Jimmy asked.

"No need," Oliver said.

"He fly," Kapono said.

When Oliver got back to Waikiki, he had lunch at the banyan bar and thought about what had happened. Mrs. Nakano was nice. The moss-rock delivery duo had been most respectful. The house was in an upscale neighborhood. Ken Nakano was well established, for sure. You couldn't tell much from the house; like the other houses near it, the side facing the street was simple, almost anonymous. What was individual was out of sight. He was glad that he hadn't given Mrs. Nakano his middle name. Who knows what Jimmy and Kapono would have thought? They were pretty sharp.

The following day, he took TheBus around most of the island. That's what it said in big letters on the side: "TheBus." Mountains three thousand feet high separated the leeward and windward sides. The windward side was cooler, breezier, and less touristy. Steep sharp ridges radiated out to a coastal plain. Deep valleys disappeared into mysterious shade, wilder than he would have thought, so close to a city. TheBus returned across a central highland between two mountain groups. They passed a pineapple plantation, long rows of spiky bushes in red dirt, and a military base, Schofield Barracks. Pearl Harbor spread out before them—large, calm, and silver, warships moored at docks, small boats moving about. Then they were back in traffic, back in the city. He got out at the shopping center and walked to Waikiki.

It had been cloudy most of the day. The wind had begun to blow hard. Gusts caught the hair of young women and whipped ebony parabolas three feet over their heads. The women turned their heads like wild mustangs, laughing—counterpoint to their Asian composure and perfect make-up. This is it, Oliver thought. I could die right here. I'll never see anything more beautiful.

He ate dinner in a Thai restaurant. His waitress was another knockout. Across the room, someone who looked like Gomer Pyle was eating and joking. It was Gomer Pyle—Jim Nabors. Wilt. Gomer. Gorgeous women. Oliver began to feel that this was the way things should be, that it was his due. He was Oliver. He had family on Alewa Heights, he was sure of it. Tomorrow would tell.

At nine the next morning, Oliver called the Nakano's number.

"Hello?" A quiet male voice. Island.

"Hello, this is Oliver Prescott. Are you Ken?"

"Yes."

"I'm trying to find Muni."

"Michiko told me you helped with the moss-rock."

"Not much. Those guys were pretty big . . ."

"They my football coaches, phys-ed teachers," Ken said.

"Aha."

"Do you have business with my brother?"

"Not business, exactly. My mother knew him a long time ago. Did he ever mention Dior Del'Unzio?"

"Mmmm . . ." Silence. "That was a long time ago."

"My middle name is Muni. My mother told me that Muni was my father and that he had a brother named Ken. I think you are my uncle." Ken made a sound deep in his throat.

"Mmmm . . . What year were you born? Do you have identification?"

"1958. Yes, I have I.D."

"Mmmm . . . Muni lives in Japan, but he is in California, now. I will try and contact him. I will give him your number."

"Thank you." Oliver gave him the hotel and room number and the name of the hotel in Eugene where he would be staying for a few days the following week. "I live in Maine. He could reach me there, after that." He gave Ken the address.

"I'll see what I can do," Ken said.

"Thank you."

"It may take a while. Muni unpredictable sometimes."

"I'll wait," Oliver said.

"O.K. . . . Maybe we get together sometime."

"I'd like that," Oliver said.

When Ken hung up, Oliver felt truly disconnected. Ken had sounded like a decent guy. Made sense, with a wife like that. My coaches . . . He must be a principal or a superintendent in the school system. Having finally made contact, Oliver wanted more.

But no one called the next day. Or the next. Oliver thought about visiting another island, but he didn't want to be away from the hotel that long. He couldn't sit by the phone for four days, so he explored the city, checking back for messages at least once during the day.

Honolulu was interesting. With the exception of Waikiki and the downtown district, it was a residential city. There were distinctly different neighborhoods in each of the narrow valleys that stretched two and three miles back into the mountains. Other areas, like Alewa Heights, were built on the faces of the ridges; at night their lights reached with sparkling fingers high into the dark. He found formal gardens, temples, and a red light district with hustlers of every race and description. He found a dirt alley with mud puddles, wandering chickens, barefoot children, and a grandmother with two gold teeth. He discovered small factories and, incredibly, in the middle of the city, a watercress farm.

He read The Advertiser every morning in Tops. He got to know the city as well as he could in a few days. But no one called.

At the end of the week, he took a city bus to the airport, preferring not to travel with the vacation group. He was sad when he boarded the plane. He sat next to the small oval window and buckled his seat belt. The buckle clicked together with a finality that seemed to say: that's it; you did what you could.

The tour package had originated in Eugene. Oliver had chosen to return there instead of Portland. The cost was the same, and he could see another part of Oregon. He slept most of the way to the mainland. As he rode to his hotel in a light rain, shivering a bit, he thought, Hawaii made me soft. Good place, though. "Aloha," he said, thinking of Ken and Michiko.

10.

The hotel registration clerk reached under the counter. "Message for you, Mr. Prescott." He handed Oliver an envelope.

"Thanks." Oliver took his bag to his room and sat on the bed.

Message for: Oliver Prescott

Received by: Jack

Time: 2:15 p.m.

Oliver—I have heard from my brother, Ken. I will be at The Devil's Churn parking area, tomorrow, Monday, at 10:30 in the morning. Route 101 on the coast, 20 miles north of Florence. Muni

Where the hell was that? He would have to rent a car. How far was it? Oliver's heart raced. He went back to the lobby and borrowed a map from the desk clerk. Florence seemed about two hours away.

"Could I drive to here in two hours?" He pointed out the location.

"No problem."

Oliver went back to the airport and rented a car. He could leave early
from the hotel, stop for breakfast on the way, and have plenty of time.
He was still functioning on Hawaiian time; he stayed up late, watched
TV, and wondered about his father. Unpredictable, Ken said.

In the morning, it rained off and on as he drove over the coastal range. The road curved and swooped through steep-sided valleys. Douglas Firs grew straight and pointed on every slope; their branches trembled with moisture; the light was luminous. There was an occasional burst of dazzling sun and then the clouds rolled in again. Logging trucks owned the road. Only a few smaller roads met the highway. What would life be like ten miles to the left or right? A gas station? A tavern? Another world.

The coastal highway was wide open, almost barren in comparison to the lush woods. Rain swept in from the ocean. A TV forecaster in a truck stop spoke of the first winter storm. Lucky Oliver. The windshield wipers worked well, though, and the rain let up as he eased into a parking area on a rocky headland. The Devil's Churn. No one else was there. It was 10:05. He put his head back and closed his eyes. Francesca came into his mind, tall and calm, and he wished she were there so that he could introduce her to his father. He had an urge to start the car, to leave quickly. Francesca looked sorrowful. "O.K.," he said. She was there, in a way. A car much like his turned off the highway.

A short man wearing black pressed pants and a gray windbreaker approached his car. He was wearing a baseball cap that said, "San Francisco Giants." Oliver got out. The man approached and looked at him closely. He was clean-shaven, darker than Oliver, thinner, and more severe. They were the same height.

"You early," his father said.

"You, too." Oliver smiled.

"Come." He turned and motioned with his hand toward a set of wooden steps that led to the rocks below. Oliver followed him to the steps and down. Near the bottom, the steps were damp and slippery. A sign warned them not to go farther: Danger! Large Waves Come Without Warning! His father ignored the sign and walked to the edge of a deep fissure in the dark rock. It was twenty feet wide and thirty yards long, narrowing as it approached a circular grotto eroded into the base of the cliff.

Farther out, a wave broke and raced up the fissure like a suicide express. Water slammed between the rocky edges, wild and frothing, seething, lurching, hissing, and sucking. Gradually, it receded. Oliver's father pointed to the other side and walked to the end of the fissure where they could look down into the round pool that had been scoured into the rock. Shiny polished stones waited in its bottom for the next wave.

His father continued around the pool and then along the opposite edge on a path six inches wide. The rain had started again. Oliver followed across a steep bank of short wet grass. The next train roared in, just a few feet below them. He was terrified. If he slipped, there was nothing to grab. Anyone who fell in would be torn apart in seconds; there was no chance of surviving the furious water. There was a malevolent feeling to the place. Bad things happened here.

His father walked steadily on. Oliver dropped to his hands and knees and crawled to the end of the path, trying not to look to his left. He scrambled down to a rocky shingle near the mouth of the fissure. His father waited, watching him. Oliver stood up, swallowed, and wiped mud off his hands. "Scary place," he said.

"You not scared there, you an idiot," his father said.

"Shit," Oliver said.

"What's the matter?"

"I just realized that we've got to go back the same way."

"How is your mother?"

"She's fine. She gave me your name—Oliver Muni Prescott."

"Ah," Muni said. "I am glad she is well. She was a beautiful woman.
Smart, too. Didn't stick around to marry me."

"She married Owl Prescott, an English professor. They had a girl,
Amanda. Owl died. Then she married a guy named Paul Peroni from New
Haven, a good guy, a marble worker." Oliver paused. "Ken told me that
you live in Japan."

"Near Kamakura. We have a son and a daughter, grown up, not quite your age. You are—35."

"Yes," Oliver said.

"You married?"

"I was. For four years."

"You have children?"

"No."

"Mmmm . . ."

"Large waves come without warning," Oliver said, looking out at the gray ocean.

"Beautiful here," his father said. Oliver nodded. For the first time, a suggestion of a smile crossed his father's face as he waved at the wild shore guarded by The Devil's Churn. "Most don't get this far. What kind of work you do?"

"I program computers. Used to teach math. I like to make things out of wood sometimes." That seemed to sum it up. Not a very big sum, Oliver thought.

"You know George Nakashima? Made furniture?"

"No."

"Mmmm . . . He lived in Pennsylvania, died two, three years ago." His father reached inside his jacket and handed Oliver an envelope. "This yours," he said.

"What is it?"

"Small present. Maybe it help."

Oliver folded the envelope and put it in a safe pocket. "Thank you," he said. "But, you don't need to give me anything."

"You only as rich as what you give away."

They stood, not minding the rain. "What are you doing in the States?"
Oliver asked.

"Teaching one seminar at the University of California, Berkeley. I go back, now." He turned toward the path.

"Teach?"

"Architecture. Japanese kind." His father climbed up onto the path and walked along the edge, not hurrying, not hesitating. Oliver went to his hands and knees again. The express exploded past, but he forced himself to look straight ahead. He was limp when he reached the wooden steps. At the top, his father was waiting as if nothing had happened.

Oliver exhaled and took a deep breath. "Well . . ." He didn't know what to say. His father's eyes were sparkling.

"Maybe you come see us in Kamakura. I will be back there in one month."

Oliver nodded in the Japanese way. His father bowed and walked back to his car. Oliver watched. He waved as his father drove toward the road. His father waved back. Oliver thought he saw a smile, and then his father was gone.

He was getting wet, he realized. He stopped in Florence for a cup of coffee. There was no sign of his father. He drove back to Eugene and took a long hot shower. The envelope lay unopened on top of the table by the TV.

Oliver took a nap and went out for dinner. He sipped Glenlivet, a bit disappointed—he had learned so little about his father. Also, he was depressed because the meeting was over; he had accomplished what he set out to do, and now what? His father was controlled, impressive. Oliver felt good about that. If he hadn't found out many details about his father, he had learned something about himself. There was a sternness in his father—an inner honor—that Oliver recognized immediately. Same as me, he thought. His father helped put a face on it, made it more accessible and more acceptable.

But what did his father think of him? I didn't wimp out or fall in and die, anyway, he told himself. Muni had seemed guardedly approving. Hard to tell. Perhaps Muni had felt himself on trial, as well. He hadn't shown it. An architect—that was interesting. Oliver had a strong visual sense that had never found a satisfactory outlet. His work had always been secondary in some way. Teaching math and programming had kept him going, but he felt unused, wasted. Maybe he should have been an architect. At least, now, he knew where his visual ability came from.

Oliver mused over his drink and avoided opening the envelope in his pocket. He ate a piece of salmon grilled over alder chips and drank a glass of Oregon Sauvignon Blanc. The waiter brought a double espresso. Oliver opened the envelope with misgivings.

There was a check and a note:

Oliver, if I give this to you, it is because you are my son. I can not know until I meet you. I plan to be back home in Kamakura after the first of the year. Maybe you will visit. Years after 50 are extra. Who knows what will happen? My thoughts are with you. Muni

The check was for $72,000. Oliver stared at the numbers. Seventy-two thousand dollars? A lot more money than he'd ever had before. But the moment that he accepted the amount, he realized that the money was his only in the sense that he had control of it. He had it because his father had saved it. How could he just spend it on himself? The money wasn't his; it was theirs—his and his father's and probably his father's parents as well. He replaced the envelope carefully in his pocket. A door opened in his heart, and another door closed.

It would take time for these new feelings to sink in, but Oliver knew that something had changed for good. He lingered over the espresso. An awakened sense of time knocked in his ears and made the present moment more intense. University students at a corner table might have been figures on a screen or spread around a vase. It was right now, Eugene, Oregon. He wanted to shout: "It will never be this way again. We're here! We're alive!" He smiled as he imagined a full moon appearing from behind a cloud. Francesca was standing on Crescent Beach, looking up at the moon, her hands clasped behind her. Oliver stood and bowed slightly to the waiter and to the room.

The next morning he called Porter and told him when he'd be back. He took a bus from Eugene to Portland. The Willamette Valley was green and fertile, a nice after-image on the following afternoon as the plane lowered over the brown Maine woods and the steely blue Atlantic. He took a cab to State Street and had a reunion with Verdi. Porter had left the apartment in tidy shape. There was a letter from Francesca. She had received the box and the heart.

11.

Francesca's note was written on a 3X5 card: