Oliver was supposed to say, "Thank you, Sir," or some such. "It was an easy birth," he said. "I'm going to pick them up tomorrow."
"Fine, fine," Gene said, "we can't wait to see her."
"Come on up."
"Fine. Dolly will call, tomorrow or the next day."
Oliver's mother shrieked, sobbed, and made him promise to call the moment that they were ready for a short visit. Oliver agreed and hung up thinking that good news was easy to pass along. He had already written his father and explained the situation, so he needed only to send a birth announcement. "Emma Dior Prescott—April 26th, 1994—7 lbs 6 oz. Looks a little like us," he added beneath.
He walked to the corner and dropped the card in the mailbox. On his way back, he met Arlen and told him the news. "A major event. I'm happy for you," Arlen said. Oliver took a nap and walked down to Deweys for more Guinness and congratulations. He went to bed feeling as though he had made it through a one-way turnstile. Things were different on this side; there was a lot to do.
The next day he brought Jennifer and Emma home from Mercy Hospital. Verdi had gotten used to Jennifer. He sniffed Emma for a moment and then jumped to his place on the living room windowsill, settling down as if to say: one more—what's the difference?
Emma slept and fed. Jennifer spent happy weeks keeping her close and occasionally preparing a meal or cleaning the apartment. Oliver enjoyed holding Emma and being fatherly, although he sensed that his presence was not entirely necessary.
Dior and Paul came for a one night visit. His mother liked Jennifer and gushed endlessly over Emma. He and Paul had drinks in the background and talked about work and the Red Sox. It had been how many years since Carleton Fisk had gone to Chicago? One of the all-time great catchers, a son of New Hampshire—the event still felt like the death of an era, almost the death of New England.
Dolly and Gene were more formal. They were pleased and full of instruction. Gene inquired after Oliver's life insurance.