When the bar closed, Oliver walked out and swayed on the sidewalk. He went to the Jeep and thought about rearranging things so that he could put the back seat down and sleep inside. Later, he thought. Deep need pulled him towards Francesca's house. He walked back up the hill. When he got to her house, the lights were out. He stood there, half out of his mind. He walked into the dark carport and stopped by a set of wooden steps that led to a side door. There was a doormat on the concrete floor by the steps. Oliver looked at the door, kneeled, curled on the mat, and passed out in his new red shirt.
He woke up just before dawn. The house was quiet. My God, he thought, what am I doing? He got stiffly to his feet and left as quietly as he could. He was still drunk, but he was able to drive out of the city and find a truck stop where he slept in the Jeep for three more hours.
He awoke with a bad hangover and ate breakfast shakily. Shaving wasn't worth it. He drove aimlessly south, back the way he had come. When he reached Portland, he turned toward the coast and drove with more purpose. The Devil's Churn wasn't that far from Portland.
24.
The hurt that Oliver had felt since Tucson was much worse. Being true had taken him far from everyone, had torn his connections to everything outside himself. He had always been a bit remote, distant from others, an observer; now he was completely alone. He felt an intense pain, a kind that he had never known, a gnawing and ripping internal pain from which he couldn't escape. He was being torn apart. When he reached the parking area at The Devil's Churn, he opened the Laphroiag and took two long swallows. He put the bottle on the front seat and got out of the Jeep.
The sun was setting behind a layer of low dark clouds. Oliver walked slowly down the wooden steps—slippery from spray at the bottom. The surf was high. Waves exploded up the fissure in the rocks, roaring and seething. The violent water matched his internal state perfectly. For a moment, he was suspended in an eerie calm between the two madnesses. He understood for the first time why people committed suicide. The pain hurt too much. End it.
He moved closer to the edge of the rocks. Large Waves Come Without Warning. So what? Owl disappeared in the Atlantic. One in each ocean, Oliver thought. Another wave bore in. He walked gallantly to the edge and turned to look back. His father was standing on the steps—stoic, concerned, non-judgmental. Come what may, he was with Oliver. A loud whistling sound came from the wave. Oliver took a deep breath, paused, exhaled, and followed his father up the steps.
At the top, he waved goodbye again as he had the last time Muni drove away. "So," Oliver said. He shivered and shook himself like a dog. "So." He didn't know what was ahead, but he knew that he wasn't going to kill himself. He was his father's son; he had the same tenacity; he was going to go the distance. The knowledge came from a deeper place than the pain. It gave him secure footing, a place where he could stand and bear the hurt. His father had given him life twice. He stared out at the sea and sky, wondering at the cold dark beauty of it all and feeling deeply sorry for all those who had put guns to their heads or swallowed too many pills or jumped from bridges.
It began to rain. Oliver drove back toward Portland and stopped at the first motel. The woman on duty looked at him suspiciously. He remembered that he hadn't shaved and that he'd slept in his clothes. It seemed a long time ago. "I'm all right," he said. "It's been a long trip, that's all."
When Oliver awoke the next morning, he was sober and hungry. The intense pain was gone. Only a residual ache reminded him of the storm that had almost gotten him. He took a long hot shower and dressed. Once again he had no plan, but he had something much more precious—time. He ate a large breakfast in a café and thought things over.