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 ofme.You are doing this forME!" 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 ofyourplaces, 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 onLa 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.
5.
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?"
"Howdoyou do it, anyway?"
"Fabric, man. They're helpless for fabric. You got to buy stuff they want to touch. The ladies havenoimagination; 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 forherproblems—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.Iam 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, baboom!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: "Andthatis 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. Nowshewas 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'tcare, 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. "Youarea 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. "Weeachhave two mommies. We are sisters, now."
"Lucky girls," Oliver said.
"Where'syourmommy?"
"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.
6.
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. MayI 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. . .
7.
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."