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."