"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."