Deweys was barely open when he got there. "One for me and one more for my baby," he said to Sam. "Jenn had a little girl."
"No shit! Congratulations. Hey, the Guinness is on the house, man; you're going to need your strength."
Oliver drank and relaxed. The winter had passed in a blur. Each day had been filled with work and things to do at home; the months had slipped past scarcely noticed. Jennifer's growing weight had defined the season that mattered.
"I have responsibilities," he announced after his second pint. "I must call the grandparents."
He walked home and talked to his mother and to Jennifer's father. Gene was particularly pleased. "I had my order in," he said. "Does she look like Jenny?"
"More like me, actually."
Gene was quick. "Sweet thing! You're a lucky man, Oliver."
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.
"No?" He gave Oliver his most forgiving and father-in-law knows best smile, stopping just short of issuing an order. It happens to all of us; you might as well get with the program—that was the message.
Jennifer was satisfied with both visits. Nothing really mattered but Emma, anyway. "Isn't she a doll baby? The most precious doll baby," she would say, answering her own question and thrusting Emma into Oliver's arms.
"Yes, she is. Yes, you are," he would say, holding Emma carefully. She was a good-natured baby. Her hearing was sensitive; she made faces and sometimes cried at loud noises. She liked music. Oliver had fun twirling her around the living room, keeping her high against his shoulder so that she could see the walls spin by.
One Saturday late in May, he received a note from Francesca saying that she was coming back that week and that the winter had not gone well. Jennifer didn't ask about the letter, perhaps she hadn't noticed it. Oliver said nothing. Later that afternoon, he took a roundabout route shopping and walked out to Crescent Beach. The log had shifted position during the winter, but it was close to the same spot. He left a note in their format: "O+F" in a heart on the outside. Inside, he wrote: "Welcome back. Much to tell you." That was all he could bring himself to say. If Francesca came out in the morning, at least she would have a welcome. Maybe he could get there, maybe not.
Sunday morning, he went out for bagels and a newspaper. On his way home, at the last moment, he kept going down State Street. He crossed the bridge, drove to Cape Elizabeth, and walked quickly to the beach. He didn't know what to say, but he was suddenly glad and hopeful that Francesca might be there. The force of his feeling surprised him. The note was gone. She wasn't around. She got it anyway, he thought as he hurried back. Probably.
That week, when he thought of Francesca, he twisted his wedding ring around and around his finger. He worried about her and about the girls. It occurred to him that Emma would be as large as Maria and Elena in a few years. It didn't seem possible. The following Sunday, he got up early, put on running shoes, and told Jennifer that he would be back with bagels in an hour or so. He bought coffees to go and carried them to the log in a paper bag. The water was cold that early in the season. There was no one on the beach. No note. No sculptures or arrangements. He and Francesca might never have been there.
A figure appeared in the distance, walking with long familiar strides. He balanced the bag on the log and started toward her. She was wearing a gray sweatshirt and jeans. Her hair was shorter than it had been. Her eyes. Her beautiful mouth. They walked into an embrace that became tighter and tighter. There was no time, no weather, no ocean. Getting closer was all that mattered. Francesca was trembling. Oliver dug his feet deeper into the sand and moved one hand slowly across her back. She let out a deep breath and relaxed against him. When they stepped apart, it was like waking up in the morning.
"Hi," he said, stupidly.
"Oliver . . ."
"You look like you've had a hard time. I brought coffee." He pointed back to the log.
"The worst is over," she said. "I've left him. I'm still at the house—but only for a little while. Conor's staying with a friend."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm taking the girls to the West Coast. Seattle, I think. I need a clean break. If I stay here, Conor will keep hanging around and using the girls to keep me down."
"Oh," Oliver said. "Seattle is supposed to be a good place. I like the Northwest. Shit." They sat on the log, and Oliver handed her a cup. "From Mr. Bagel," he said. "There have been changes in my life, too." He paused. "I got married," he blurted out. "I have a daughter, five weeks old." Francesca put her cup down on the sand and took two steps toward the water. She stood with her fingers to her lips in a prayer position. Oliver explained what had happened.
"How wonderful to have a baby," she said in a low voice. "Emma—how wonderful."
"She is," Oliver apologized.
"Are you happy?"
"I guess so," he said.
She turned. "Oh, Oliver!" She opened her arms, and this time it was she who was consoling. A part of him wanted to scream with fury, but a deeper part became calmer as she held him. There were big problems off in the future—impossible problems—but they weretheirproblems.
"God, I love you," he said, stepping back.
"It's a strange time to feel lucky," she said, "but I do." She looked at his wedding ring. "I'm a bad woman now, too—along with everything else."
"Bad to the bone," Oliver said. He reached down for her coffee and handed it to her. "Some bones," he said. He sat on the log and shook his head. "Damn . . ." They were quiet for a minute. "When are you leaving?"
"In three or four weeks. I'm going to drive out, bring as much as I can with me. I've got to get a better car—something that will pull a small U-Haul trailer and hold up."
"The money is there if you need it," Oliver said. "Jennifer wants to buy a house in Cumberland or North Yarmouth. I'm going to use some for a down payment, but there will be plenty left—ten, twenty, thirty thousand—just call Myron and he'll send you a check."
"I have enough to go on. And Conor will pay child support. I can work, you know. Did I tell you I was a registered nurse?"
"No."
"Yeah, I went through a program after I got out of college. I only worked for a year before I met Conor. I'm glad I did, now . . . It's nice to know about the money. I don't know what's going to happen, really. I just know I've got to move." She paused.
"I wish I were moving with you."
"Never leave someone for someone else," Francesca said. "You've got to live through these things."
"That's what Mark says—my friend, Mark. Anyway, take the money if you need it; I know you won't waste it. I wish I could help with the moving, but I don't think I'd better."
"Youarehelping, just by being you. Emma's going to need lots of money, you know."
"Not for a while. Listen, how am I going to find you?"
"My folks will know where I am: Richard Boisverte in Edgewater, near Daytona. Conor will know—because of the girls. I'll send you a card when I have an address." She covered one of his hands with one of hers. "You're right—it's probably not a good idea to see each other. I'm a bad woman now; I could be averybad woman any moment."
"Damn," Oliver said again. They were quiet again.
"I've got to go," he said, standing up.
"I think I'll stay here for a bit," she said. "I want to watch you walk away."
"Be careful," he pleaded.
"Bye, Baby," she said.
He looked at her for a long moment. She smiled for him, the smile that entranced him the first day he saw her in Becky's. Her mouth traveled slowly down, along, and up a complex curve, sexual at its center, sensitive at its corners, wholly alive and in the moment. He nodded in the Japanese manner, the way he had that day. Then he smiled quickly—an American promise laid on top of the Japanese one—and left. He looked back from the top of the bank at the end of the beach. She was watching him, unmoving. He lifted one arm high and walked out of sight. A hundred yards farther, he followed a smaller path to a clearing overlooking the water. He dropped to the ground and lay in a fetal position on his side with his knees drawn up and his hands between his legs. He hurt too much to cry. He just wanted to survive. There was only one level of feeling beneath his love for Francesca; he had to get there. The hard cold ground was anesthetic and numbing. Half an hour later, he brushed himself off, an animal on the earth, needing food and warmth.
"Where have you been?" Jennifer asked.
"I ran into a friend who's moving," he said. "Sorry to be so long."
"Emma's asleep again."
"Cold out there. Bagels," Oliver said, raising the bag. "I'm hungry."
16.
Emma turned over. Emma crawled. Emma made smiling googling noises when Oliver came home and picked her up. Jennifer had three months of maternity leave, and she arranged to work part time for six months after that. Oliver did not get life insurance, but he worked steadily at the hospital. He took another smaller project to round out the week and to try and get a few bucks ahead.
Francesca did not come into Oliver's mind while he was busy. Sometimes he thought of her when he was extra tired. She was a reassuring presence, even though she was far away. Sunday mornings, when he went out for bagels and a paper, he often wished that he were driving to Crescent Beach to bring her coffee. Instead, he would sit for a minute in his Jeep remembering the calm that they shared. Then he would drive home, play with Emma, and do things around the apartment.
On the Wednesday after Labor Day, Jennifer met him at the door. "I found it, today!"
"Hi, Scrumptious, how's Ms. Perfect?" He held Emma high. "That good, huh? Found what?"
"A house!" Jennifer said. "It's just right. I'm sure you'll like it."
"Oh, yeah? Where?"
"North Yarmouth, about two miles from Gillespie's. It's on a dirt road—off Route 9."
"I like Gillespie's," Oliver said. They sometimes drove out there to buy vegetables and eat donuts at outside tables that overlooked the Royal River.
"It's a real Maine house with an ell and an attached barn, not too big, perfect for a garage and tools and stuff. We could get a doggie for Emma."
"How much?"
"They're asking one-twenty. The house needs painting. There isn't much land with it—four acres."
"Four acres is a lot," Oliver said. "I mean, not in the middle ofKansas, but . . ."
"It's about half field and half woods," Jennifer said.
"I guess we ought to go look."
"Let's go!"
"Now?'
"Of course, now. If we want it, we have to make an offer fast. It just came on the market. My friend Martha who works in real estate called me this morning."
"O.K., let me get an ale. You drive." Oliver put four bottles of ale, bread, and a piece of cheddar in a day pack. "Back later, Verdi."
The house sat up nicely on a stone foundation. Lilac bushes framed the kitchen door. "What do you think?" Jennifer asked after Oliver had walked around the house.
"It looks dry, and it faces south," he said. "One-fifteen. That's as long as there isn't anything major wrong—rotten sills, bad water, or something."
"We can get my friend Steve to inspect it," Jennifer said. "He's got a business inspecting houses. He's very good."
"Where are the owners?"
"Owner. It's a guy. I guess his wife died, and he's moving out of town."
"Too bad," Oliver said. "Looks like he had a good garden in back."
"I saw that," Jennifer said.
"The house seems all right, but you can't be sure from the outside.Heating system could be shot. Septic system might not be any good."
"I'll make an offer contingent on the inspection," she said. "Steve will find anything that's wrong. He does a radon check and all that. Costs about three hundred, I think. Three-fifty, maybe."
"Worth it," Oliver said. "The driveway is pretty rough, but that's no big deal." He looked around. "I like it. What do you think, Princess?" Emma googled. "That does it," Oliver said.
"I knew you'd like it," Jennifer said.
"Let's go down to Gillespie's and buy a pie, sit outside, and finish this ale." They drove slowly away from the house and out to Route 9. Jennifer had good bank connections; she was sure she could get a mortgage for most of the money. Oliver said he had fifteen thousand toward a down payment. Jennifer had another ten thousand.
"Daddy will give us another fifteen. That would leave seventy-five. I know I can get seventy-five out of the bank. We make enough to take care of the rest, fix it up, get furniture and all."
"Maybe we could go easy on the furniture," Oliver said.
"Don't worry, I won't go crazy. We'll have a housewarming!"
"You're right about the place—plenty of room, but not too big. It would be good to get my tools laid out."
Five weeks later, they slid a check across a glass-topped table. A tired balding man with a red face tossed Oliver a set of keys. "Kentucky, here I come," he said.
"We want to wish you the very best of luck," Jennifer said.
"Weren't for bad luck, I wouldn't have no luck at all—that's how the song goes. But, thank you." He stood, pulled a baseball cap down on his forehead, and touched the brim in salute. "I'll be getting along." He walked out.
"B.B. King," Oliver said. "Didn't he sing that?"
"Never mind, Oliver; we're bringing the good luck with us."
"Congratulations," Martha said.
"Oh, thank you!" Jennifer jumped up and hugged her. "Come on, Oliver.We've got to move."
A week later, Oliver was sleeping in a new bed, high off the floor. The physical move doesn't take long, he thought; getting used to it takes a while. He missed knowing that Arlen and Porter were downstairs. Porter had made an extravagant cake for Jennifer the week after she had Emma. Driving home from Deweys to North Yarmouth wasn't as easy as walking up the hill to State Street. No five minute walk to Becky's for breakfast, either. On the other hand, he had a good work space in the barn, and it was quiet at night.
Oliver counted his blessings. Verdi had made his first patrols and was adjusting. The leaves were changing color fast. It was beautiful, really. Jennifer loved the new house. Emma had a room with a baby bed and a playpen right next to their bedroom. There were plenty of projects; that was fun. Old storm windows were leaning against the wall in one corner of the barn. He had to clean them and figure out where they went. There was a wooden ladder missing a couple of rungs.
Oliver swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. "I'm going to go buy a decent ladder. I want to put those storm windows in."
Jennifer yawned. "Come back soon."
"I won't be long."
A few minutes later, he was bouncing down the road. There had been a light frost overnight; the air was snappy; it was a good day to get things done. He needed to write to Francesca. Her letter was in the bottom of the toolbox in the back of the Jeep. He knew it by heart. She was renting a house in a section of Seattle called Ballard. Maria was in school. Elena was in pre-school. Francesca was working in a family clinic, lonely, but glad to be starting a life on her terms. It was signed, "Love, F."
He drove to the Yarmouth post office and waited five minutes for it to open. He was going to send her a postcard, but he changed his mind and bought a stamped envelope. He went over to the Calendar Island Motel and wrote her a letter as he ate bacon and eggs and homefries. He described the new house and reported that Emma was crawling and would be walking soon. Work was O.K.; there were nice people at the hospital. He was thinking mainly of Dan and Suzanne, but he didn't go into it. He signed his own love and then added, "I miss you. I wish I could be two places at once." He tore the page out of his notebook and folded it into the envelope. Crap. He really was two places at once, but he didn't want to think about it. Better to get to work.
The morning was warming when he untied the new ladder and carried it from the roof rack. He laid it on the grass and assembled it, tying off the lifting rope. Jennifer put her head out the front door. "Where've you been?"
"Hi, pretty good, huh?" He pointed to the shiny aluminum ladder. "I stopped for breakfast." He pointed to Verdi who was motionless beneath a rose bush by the corner of the house. "I see you. Where's Princess?"
"In her room. Why don't we bring the playpen out here? Will you watch her? I want to go to Gillespie's."
"Sure." They took the playpen apart and put it back together on the lawn. Emma sat in the sun surrounded by rattles, balls, and small stuffed bears. Jennifer left and Oliver set up a window-washing station in front of the house. Should I wash them all first, or one at a time as I put them in? he asked himself. One at a time. He cleaned the first and noticed a small lead disk numbered, 7, nailed to the outside face of the bottom of the sash.
"Aha," he said. "But where is window seven, Emma? Where is window seven?" He walked along the front of the house, checking each window for some kind of number. On the end of the windowsill of the fourth window, he found a disk numbered, 3. That makes a lot of sense, he thought. He continued around the end of the house. There was a two on the next window. Itdidmake sense; the starting point was different, that was all. There were two windows at that end of the first floor. The numbering started at the far corner, came around the end, and continued across the front of the house. The windows that looked into the ell at the other end were not fitted for storms, so number seven was the first one on the back side.
"Looking good," he said to Emma. He took the clean window around to the back of the house and put it in place. The sash fit flush with the outer casing. Metal clips held the window in place. He swiveled them over the sash and tightened them down with a screwdriver. "O.K. Thirteen to go."
He was down to nine when Jennifer returned with a carload of groceries."I got some cider from Gillespie's. How's Emma?"
"Having a good time," Oliver said. "A couple of bees checked her out.No harm done. I think she likes it outside."
"That's my precious," Jennifer said, lifting her out of the playpen. "Oh, you need changing, oh my precious!" She looked at Oliver accusingly.
"Whoops," he said. He unloaded the car while she changed Emma. "Great stuff, this cider," he said, knocking down a glass.
The afternoons were short in October, but Oliver had the windows in place by four o'clock. Jennifer had cooked a ham and baked two pies. The house smelled good. Emma was asleep. Oliver opened a bottle of Rioja, and they ate, listening toPrairie Home Companionon the public radio station. He would rather have talked about something—Garrison Keillor was too smug for Oliver's taste—but Jennifer loved him. He was funny, sometimes, Oliver admitted. And the music was good.
Later, in bed, Jennifer sighed contentedly. "I love it here," she said. Oliver snuggled closer. "I've been thinking about two weeks from today," she went on.
"Two weeks?" he mumbled.
"For the housewarming."
"Housewarming." He put a hand on her breast.
"Mmmm," she said. "I want to inviteeverybody!"
"O.K." Oliver moved one leg farther up on hers. He put his mouth against her neck. "Everybody," he murmured. A small shiver went through her. She was wifely now in bed, accommodating, easily satisfied. Oliver did his part; she did hers. They fell asleep peacefully and properly. Oliver did not hear her get up to attend to Emma.
In the morning they decided that "everybody" meant everybody but their parents. The holidays were coming; they would see them soon. Besides, the party might be loud and last into the night, not a parents' kind of party. "The telephone man is coming tomorrow," Jennifer said. "I'll call my friends; you call yours."
"O.K.," Oliver said. "I might stop in at Deweys."
At the hospital the following day, he invited Dan to the housewarming. Dan had twin girls in junior high and a devout wife. Oliver didn't expect him to accept, but he liked Dan and wanted to ask.
"Saturday after next? Can't make it," Dan said. "I'm going to see my brother."
"Oh. Where does he live?"
"Upstate New York. He works on a farm." Dan saw Oliver's surprise and continued. "It's a long story. We're twins. And now I have twins—strange. Something happened at birth; my brother was born retarded, mentally challenged." Dan rubbed the back of his neck. "We were given up for adoption. I didn't find out about this until I was grown up."
"No," Oliver said.
"Dale was raised in an institution and eventually got work on this farm where he gets room and board. It took me quite a while to find him. I go see him every three or four months."
"That's too bad," Oliver said.
"He's a worker!" Dan said proudly. "He's strong. He's in a lot better shape than I am."
"Is he happy there?"
"Yeah. We keep asking him to come and live with us, but he wants to stay there. He likes his responsibilities, takes them seriously. He comes over for a week's vacation every year." Dan smiled. "He splits all our wood when he's here. The girls love him."
"Nice family," Oliver said.
"That's what it's all about. Sorry to miss the party, though."
"Well, some other time," Oliver said, raising one hand.
"Lucille," Dan called to a nurse down the hall, walking quickly after her.
"He does the work of two people at least," Oliver said later to Suzanne.
"Kind of a workaholic, really," she said.
"A great guy," Oliver said.
"He is."
"Human," Oliver said. "The other day . . . I shouldn't tell you this."
"I can keep a secret."
"We went out for lunch and Dan had chicken—barbecued chicken. 'I thought you were a vegetarian,' I said to him.
"'I weaken sometimes,' he said, chewing. 'Do you think the Lord will forgive me?'
"'If He doesn't forgive you, there's no hope for me whatsoever,' I said."
Suzanne laughed. "Or me."
"Sinners," Oliver said.
"'Fraid so," she said more softly.
"Can you make it to the housewarming?"
"I don't think so."
"Damn. What are you doing?"
"I've got a book," she said.
"Aha. Romance. A blonde hulk who will carry you away." Oliver was looking levelly into her eyes.
A small smile turned the corners of her mouth down. "I'm waiting for someone my size." They were in her office. Oliver registered that it was very warm. He saw her shudder and give in to a wave of longing. Her lips parted and her breasts lifted. He reached for her in slow motion and stopped himself just before he touched her.
He was shocked. "I . . ."
"I know," she said. She closed her eyes. "God, I know."
"Suzanne . . ." She shook her head and smiled helplessly.
"I'll read my book."
"We've got to talk sometime," he said. She nodded. He took a deep breath and left.
Oliver was trembling as he drove away. What was that all about? He and Suzanne had become more friendly as time had gone by. They often talked, and she was always sympathetic. But he hadn't expected anything like what had just happened. His breathing was still messed up. When she had surrendered to him, he had been jolted by a rush of strength. He felt like Ghengis Khan or something.
Suzanne was sharp. She remembered everything he said about the computer system, repeating things back to him word for word months later. She was very helpful. He depended on her support, he realized. There was something about her that got to him, a lonely bruised quality. She had eloped in high school, run away to Tennessee, and returned eighteen months later. Her family and the church took her back, but . . . She was still living in a shamed shadow.
He decided that he needed a Guinness. He stopped at Deweys, and two pints later he was back in control. Better than that. The last of the warrior-lovers invited the entire bar to the housewarming and went home.
17.
Oliver didn't know what to do about Suzanne. They worked together; he couldn't avoid her. He didn't want to avoid her. She was alive and vital andfor him, somehow. He turned toward her like a plant toward light. That's the problem, he thought the next morning as he drove into the hospital parking lot. I've been attracted to her all along. I've flirted with her and leaned on her. I'm a creep.
Holding that thought firmly, he marched by Molly, waved good morning, rounded the corner, and went directly to Suzanne's office. She wasn't there. Her light was off. He went back to Molly and asked whether Suzanne had come in.
"She called in sick, Honey."
"Ah. Too bad."
"She said she'd be in tomorrow."
"What's so funny?" Molly was giggling.
"I asked her what was sick, and she said it was her hair. Her hair was sick. I wishmyhair was that sick. I hope she doesn't go and do something foolish."
"I like your hair," Oliver said, setting off the flashing "creep" sign.The phone rescued him. "I'd better get to work."
"First Fundamentalist Hospital," Molly said, her gorgeous drawl following him around the corner.
At least he had another day to think things over. His marriage was going smoothly enough. Dull at times, sure. Weren't all marriages? Jennifer and he didn't have that much in common, as it had turned out. But they were good humored, and they shared a disposition to make the best of things. He had his responsibilities; she had hers; they avoided confrontation. He was genuinely fond of her. And they had Emma. Emma was a delight, a little like each of them, although she took after him in looks. He should have been on top of the world, compared to most people.
So—why was he reaching for Suzanne? There was something coiled inside him, a force that he wasn't sure he could control. Intuition told Oliver that if he ran from it or pretended it wasn't there, he would be in even bigger trouble.
He was at work before Suzanne arrived the next day. He watched her drive in and walk toward the front entrance. Even at that distance and under a parka, her body radiated a compact grace. Her hair was gathered and held by a red scarf that hung to the nape of her neck. She hadn't done anything drastic. He waited a few minutes and went to her office. His heart was beating fast.
"I'm sorry," he began.
She shook her head. "It's my fault, Oliver. You're married and you have a child. I lost control. I'm—not a good woman."
"You're a wonderful woman."
"I've been praying," she said. "I don't pray like the rest of them, butGod hears everyone."
Oliver pulled at one ear lobe, off balance.
"I'm asking Him to take this want out of me." Suzanne's voice trailed off. "I don't think I can do it by myself." Oliver's cheeks grew hot. "I was going to cut my hair practically off, but I couldn't."
"I'm glad you didn't."
She looked at him, helpless again. "What are we going to do?"
"I don't know," Oliver said. "I have the want, too."
Suzanne smiled for the first time. "If you've got it like I do, one of us is going to have to leave the state."
"Maybe there's some other way," he said. "Tell me how much you love disco."
"I hate disco," she said apologetically. "I like old time country music. And jazz. Coltrane."
"Oh swell," Oliver said. "Have you ever been to the Cafe No, inPortland?" Suzanne shook her head. "Terrific place to hear live jazz."He stopped, frustrated.
"I'll leave if you want me to," she said. "I ought to be able to get a job somewhere else."
"Don't do that." He didn't know what else to say. "Don't do that."
"Maybe if we didn't talk," she said. "Only just about work."
"O.K.," Oliver said. "I'll try. I'd hug you but I think something would catch fire."
"Burning already," she said, trying to smile. Oliver closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His feet felt like they were in cement. He dragged them up, one after the other, and left.
He finished a small project but couldn't bring himself to start the next one. He drove into Portland without saying goodbye to Suzanne. This wasn't going to be easy, he thought. He went to Gritty's for party kegs. They brewed ale downstairs and pumped it directly from the bar. He didn't know how many people would come to the housewarming—some would rather drink wine or the hard stuff. Five gallons of ale should be enough. He bought six, to be on the safe side.
He had lunch in Deweys, hoping to calm down. But the more he thought about Suzanne, the more confused he got. Mark came in and Oliver asked him, "What do you do when you've got a strong attraction going that isn't—appropriate?"
"You're asking me?"
"Well," Oliver said, "just an opinion."
"What does she look like?"
"Nice looking. Nothing unusual. My size. Great body." Oliver thought. "I guess what's unusual about her is howconnectedshe is. I mean, her body is in her face. She walks the way she feels. She's all one piece."
"It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that zing." Mark said. "Ellington."
"Hmmm," Oliver said.
"If it's inappropriate—whatever that means—and you go ahead with it, you suffer. If you don't go ahead with it, you suffer anyway. You're fucked, man."
"Swell," Oliver said.
"Could be worse," Mark said.
"How?"
"You could be a zombie executive in suburbia."
"North Yarmouth is close," Oliver said. "Speaking of which—are you coming to the housewarming?"
"Saturday, right?"
"Yeah—middle of the day, anytime. Bring a friend."
"Friend? You thinkyougot problems? Later, man." Mark rushed off.
Suffer? Was it the male condition? I guess women suffer, too, Oliver thought. The human condition, then? He resisted this. Whyshouldwe suffer? The "we" he had in mind, he realized, was mostly Suzanne. Jacky was in there somewhere, and Francesca, higher and in the distance. Jennifer wasn't there. Jennifer and he did not suffer. She was his partner. He admired her energy, respected her, loved her, even—in a general way. Wasn't that what marriage was all about?
It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that zing.
You're fucked, man.
Do something.
He drove back to North Yarmouth. "I'm home!"
"Hi, Sweetums. What's the matter? Here." Jennifer thrust Emma into his arms. "Watch Emma for a while, will you? I'm glad you came home early; I've got some things to do at The Conservancy. Oh, good!" She did not wait for an answer. "Tell me later—bad day at work?"
"Nah," Oliver said. "Never mind. How's Precious?"
"Precious had a good nap. See you in a couple of hours."
"Down," Emma said. "Down."
"O.K.," Oliver said. "Down, it is." He put her on her hands and knees in the center of the living room rug. He heard the Volvo start and race down the driveway. Too fast, he thought—hard on the front end. Emma made a laughing sound as she crawled around in a small circle, the way Verdi used to chase his tail. She rolled over, sat up, and looked at him with delight.
"What a show off!" he said. "Very good crawl. Very good. Want to try the toddle? Try the walk?" He got to his knees and closed her hand in his fist. "Try walk?"
"Da Da," she said. He pulled her slowly to her feet. Her other arm went out for balance and she sat back down.
"Very good!" Emma smiled victoriously.
"She almost stood up," he told Jennifer when she got back. "I'll bet she's walking in a couple of months."
"I hope you're not pushing her."
"The Olympic Trials are right around the corner."
"Oh, Oliver. The Germans always win the baby walk."
Oliver laughed. "What's for dinner?"
"Pizza—pesto and chicken."
"God," Oliver said.
"Oh, something good happened at The Conservancy. Jacky Chapelle dropped by—remember Jacky? She's in town for a week. She said she'd come to the party."
"Ah . . ." Oliver cleared his throat. "I like Jacky."
"I thought you did."
"Surprised she isn't married," he said, "a bit bossy, I guess." He shook his head sadly, reactivating the "creep" sign.
"Well, you're taken."
"Quite so," Oliver said. "Just another hungry breadwinner."
"Half an hour. Oh, Precious, did Daddy make you walk?"
"Mama," Emma said as Oliver retreated to the barn.
It was good that Jacky was coming, Oliver decided; it meant that she had forgiven him or gotten over it or something. Maybe she had a new lover. That was a cheerful thought. He was in a good mood when Jennifer called him in for dinner.
In the following days, Oliver stayed away from Suzanne as much as possible. The few times that they were by themselves were uncomfortable, but at least they could show the hurt they felt, even if they didn't talk about it. Passing in the hallway was harder. Others would notice if they tried to ignore each other; they were forced to be friendly in a phony way, as though they didn't feel the force drawing them together. Suzanne began to look strained. Oliver kept his head down and worked hard.
The day of the party was gray and drizzly, warm for late fall. Oliver stood in the open door of the barn, holding a paper cup of ale and welcoming guests. By mid-afternoon, cars were parked around the first bend of the driveway. Thirty or forty people were milling about in the house giving Jennifer advice and admiring Emma. Jennifer was flushed and pleased. She kept the conversations lively while she brought appetizers in and out of the kitchen. Porter had come through with a quantity of scones, apricot—walnut and cranberry—orange. Oliver took special pleasure in pouring a Glenlivet for Arlen. They stood in amiable silence as rain dripped from the barn roof.
"Couple of cows and I'd be right at home," Arlen said.
"I've been thinking of getting a little John Deere."
"Well—they can come in handy."
"I guess." Oliver's thoughts drifted to Jacky. She appeared, on cue, walking up the drive. He met her with a hug. "Jacky! You look great." She held him tightly and then stepped back, knuckling the top of his head.
"How's married life?"
"Fine," he said. She looked at him closely.
"I'm thinking of trying it myself," she said. "I don't know."
"Uh, Jacky, this is my buddy, Arlen."
"How do you do," Arlen said, extending his hand.
"A pleasure to meet you," Jacky said. "What's that in your glass?"Arlen held his glass up for inspection. Jacky bent forward and sniffed."Sarsaparilla!"
"Quite good on a rainy afternoon," Arlen said.
"Yumm," Jacky said.
"Oliver, sarsaparilla for the lady."
"Right away. Does the lady like water with her sarsaparilla?"
"Half and half."
"Yes," Arlen said approvingly. Oliver prepared her drink and handed it to her.
"To your new family and your beautiful old house," she toasted.
"Jacky! How nice!" Jennifer swept in and gave Jacky one of those lengthy woman to woman hugs, timed to the microsecond to communicate eternal devotion, unceasing turf vigilance, equality before the Great Sister, and other messages beyond Oliver's understanding. Arlen exuded calm; the two women might have been cows rubbing shoulders. "Come and see Emma." Jennifer led Jacky into the house.
Arlen and Oliver resumed their positions in the doorway. "I don't want to intrude, Oliver, but wasn't she the one . . ."
"Yup," Oliver interrupted. "She was."
"Interesting," Arlen said. "Very attractive."
"What do you think makes someone attractive?" Oliver asked.
"Hmmm. Physical health. Energy. Integrity is most important, I think."
"Integrity," Oliver imagined Jacky and then Suzanne.
"Of course, it's different for everybody. We all have our weaknesses. Little things. Porter's forearms, for instance—the way they swell up from his wrist. As soon as I saw them, I thought, oh, oh . . ."
"Lucky Porter," Oliver said.
"Olive Oil!" George bounced in from the ell. "Hi, Arlen, how're you doing?"
"Just fine, George."
"Bazumas, Olive Oil! My God! I thought I'd never see her again. I asked if I could paint her. She said yes but I'd have to drive to Maryland." George hung his head. "It's a curse—art."
"Maryland's just down the way," Arlen said.
"Arlen, my car!" George threw one arm in the air. "I'm lucky it starts.Maryland?"
"Life is hard," Oliver said.
"Food," Arlen said, heading for the kitchen.
"Yes," George said, following him. Oliver looked down the driveway and focused on a man walking slowly toward the house. The man smiled when he was closer.
"You must be Oliver. Ah, yes."
"I am. I remember you from somewhere."
"Ba, ba, boom," the man said and twirled around.
"Bogdolf!"
"Eric Hallston, actually. I'm an old friend of Jennifer's."
"You look so much younger," Oliver said.
"The miracle of make-up. When I do a Bogdolf, I use a lot of gray.People like an older Bogdolf."
"I'll be damned," Oliver said. "Well, come on in. What are you drinking? Mead?"
"Mead? Very funny. Horrible stuff. Scotch would be nice, but that ale I see would be fine."
"Glenlivet, right there." Oliver pointed to the table that was inside the barn. "Help yourself. Jennifer's in the house." Bogdolf Eric poured himself a stiff one.
"I have a surprise in here," he said, waving a manila envelope. "You don't have to like it. You don't have to accept. I'm sure Jennifer will, but you are Lord of your Keep."
"Bogdolf, what are you talking about?"
"Eric, please."
"Eric." Oliver watched him extract an eight by ten glossy photograph from the envelope. He handed it to Oliver.
"Last one left." A puppy with big paws and big ears stared up atOliver. "She has her shots and everything."
"Cute," Oliver said. "What kind is she?"
"Mother is a golden. Father is a lab. Total retriever."
"Could bring me my paper," Oliver said, starting to slip.
"Might be nice for your daughter."
"Emma," Oliver said, brightening. "Come see her." He took Eric through the ell and into the kitchen. "Here we are," he said.
"Eric!" Jennifer hugged him warmly.
"Eric has a puppy for us."
"A puppy?" Jennifer looked at the photograph.
"Oh, how cute! How cute! Oh, Oliver, wouldn't it be just perfect forEmma?"
"Mmm." It was hard for Oliver to disagree.
"I can bring her any time you'd like. Sooner would be better—you know—bonding and all that." Jennifer nodded wisely and took Eric to see Emma who was in her playpen in the living room. Oliver went back to the barn. Christ, he said to himself. It was beginning to get dark, a relief.
"Gotta go, Handsome." Jacky appeared at his elbow.
"So soon?"
"Long day tomorrow. Driving back."
"I'll walk you down," Oliver said.
"Where's your coat? You'll get wet."
"I don't need one," he said. They walked down the driveway in comfortable silence. The light rain had gradually wet things through. Branches and leaves were dripping, and the drive was muddy in patches.
"You don't look so great," she said.
"I'm O.K."
"Terrific kid."
"She is. I don't know . . . It's the sex thing."
"I thought so," Jacky said. She was surprisingly sympathetic for someone who had been throwing wine glasses at him the last time he'd seen her.
"How'syourlove life?"
"Improving," Jacky said. "I found a real nice guy. He works on CapitolHill, actually."
"I'm glad," Oliver said. "You look mellower."
"I've been working my way through some of this sexual stuff," she said. "I'm not so different. I mean—I still like my equipment." Oliver put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her. "But it's notsoimportant. There are other kinds of bonds." She paused. "I think maybe you have some work to do in that area. But—leave it in the bedroom, Oliver." They walked on.
"I'm trying," he said.
"I think you have a little dom in you," Jacky said. Oliver realized that he was having a talk that actually meant something. He filled with gratitude.
"I love you," he said. "I can't live with you, but I love you." They reached her car.
"Thank you," she said. "That's sweet." She got in the car, started it, and rolled down her window. Oliver put both hands on the window and leaned over. "Be true," she said. "That's the main thing." He straightened.
"Take care," he said. He didn't kiss her; his mind was going too fast.Be true? To what? He fought for understanding.
"Bye, Oliver," she said. She backed out and continued backwards down the driveway at a good clip. Coordinated, he conceded.
"Bye, Jacky," he said, waving as she disappeared around the corner. The rain came a little harder. Drops washed down his face like tears. No wonder things can grow, he thought. The rain forgives them.
18.
Bogdolf Eric delivered the puppy two days later while Oliver was at work. Emma loved her and vice versa. As soon as Bogdolf's presence faded, Oliver loved her too. They tried "Jesse" for a name, then "Jesse Woofwoof." "Woof" was what stuck. She was good—natured and full of energy, forever trying to get Verdi to play. Verdi would tolerate her briefly and then swipe her in the nose. Woof would yelp and jump back, feelings hurt. Verdi would leap to a windowsill and ignore her.
Oliver stayed away from Suzanne, although he badly wanted to talk to her. He could have gotten out of the hospital Christmas party if he had made an effort. He didn't.
When the day of the party came, Jennifer was happy to stay home with Emma, Woof, and Verdi. Oliver put on a warm jacket and drove to the hospital where he passed a slow two hours exchanging glances with Suzanne. Various employees made speeches, and her uncle presented awards. Dan's daughters were a hit playing a fiddle and accordion medley of dance tunes and Christmas carols. Suzanne was wearing a caramel-colored cashmere sweater over a tight red skirt. She made an effort to be cheerful, but she seemed tense. Without either of them making an obvious effort, they moved next to each other.
"I've got to talk to you," he said quietly.
"Not here," she said.
A minute later she turned toward him and said, "Follow me when I leave." Her lips barely moved. He nodded.
When the party ended, she exited the parking lot, turned right, and drove slowly until he came up behind her. She led him seven or eight miles away from the coast and into the country before turning into a narrow driveway. They climbed between pines to the top of a short rise where a small house faced away from the driveway. Suzanne parked in the carport and got out as Oliver stopped. She waved for him to follow her and walked around to the front of the house. A screened porch looked out on a two acre field, a tangle of browns and yellows in the weak December sun. A rectangle of field near the porch had been made into a lawn. A flower border separated the lawn from the field.
"Isn't this pretty," Oliver said.
"I guess it'd be easier to live in a condo," she said, "but I like it out here." The way she said "I" and "out here" was instantly familiar to Oliver. She was comfortable with being alone, in the company of the trees and the field. A chickadee flitted to a large bird feeder and flew back toward the woods. The quiet hammered in Oliver's ears. He took a deep breath. Suzanne was looking at him in a concerned way. She was concerned abouthim, he realized—not their future, not their work, not their child—him.
His knees began to shake. She felt it and moved closer. "I need to sit down," he said. Suzanne looked at the porch. Oliver went to his knees on the hard ground. She bent over and put a hand on his shoulder.
"I can fix us some tea," she said. Oliver closed his hand on her wrist and pulled her slowly to the ground beside him. She rolled gracefully to her back, her eyes wide open on his. Her other hand was on his arm, lightly holding him to her. Time slowed.
He brought his mouth down on hers. She softened and opened. He pressed harder, flattening her lips against her teeth. He could feel the ground through her head as he rocked in each direction. Her hand went to the back of his head, pulling him closer. Oliver's mind began to spin from not breathing. He started to pull away. Suzanne's head came up with his. She made a pleading sound and drew him back to the ground. His hand went to her hip. Heat spread across his upper chest and into his arms. He put one hand on each side of her head and held her down as he raised his body and gasped for air.
Suzanne's eyes were closed. She was breathing rapidly through her mouth. Oliver got to his knees, took off his jacket, and spread it next to her. She did not resist as he lifted her hips and moved her onto the jacket. He lay next to her and put the fingers of one hand across her mouth. She kissed his fingers. He pushed up her skirt and reached between her legs with his other hand. Her knees fell open, and her mouth opened under his fingers. She tilted her pelvis, pushed against his hand, and helped him to remove her warm underwear.
He took off his pants and put his fingers back on her mouth as he lowered himself over her. As he slid into her, she took the heel of his hand between her teeth. When he withdrew, she bit harder. He came in deeper, and she lifted against him. Her arms were flung out wide, palms up. He was cradled in her hips. With each stroke, he felt the ground beneath her, felt closer and closer to home. Suzanne strained up, jerked twice convulsively, and sent a clear cry across the field. She wrapped him with both arms and urged him, helped him through the door. He fell headfirst, grateful, filling her as he fell, filling her for good and all.
He lay collapsed and quiet while his breathing straightened out.Suzanne giggled. "What?" he mumbled.
"I'm hot on top and getting cold below," she said.
He pictured them from above. "Ummm," he said, "spy satellites . . ."
"It's your ass going to be saved for intelligence," Suzanne said.
Oliver raised himself from her. "Enough to make a man put his pants on."
"I've got a shower big enough for two," she said.
Minutes later, they were trading places under a stream of hot water, soaping each other and rinsing off bits of grass and dirt. "Great breasts," Oliver said, rubbing each one respectfully.
"The Lord was in a good mood," she said, pushing against him.
"Oh, oh," Oliver remembered. "What about babies?"
"I'm on the pill," she said. "Have been ever since Donny."
"Donny?"
"He's the one I ran away with."
"Oh. Good about the pill."
"I wouldn't mess you up," she said. "Or me, either. I could never have an abortion. How about that tea?"
"Yes," Oliver said.
"You're a much better fuck than Donny," she said. Oliver was embarrassed and pleased. "Well look at you blush! Come on, Lover—here's a clean towel."
He dried himself and dressed. As he waited for tea, he thought about going home. Impossible. "We're in big trouble," he said.
"I knew that the first time I saw you," she said. "If my uncle finds out, I'm a goner. Milk and honey?"
"Sounds good."
Suzanne handed him a steaming mug. "I just don't get it," she said."How can anything that feels that right be wrong?"
"I don't know," Oliver said. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-seven."
"I'm thirty-six."
"Perfect," Suzanne said. Oliver sipped his tea. The room was comfortable—clean and furnished simply.
"Leaving isn't going to get any easier," he said, a few minutes later.
Suzanne got to her feet quickly. "I know." Oliver took another swallow of tea and put his mug down slowly. He stood. Suzanne came into his arms, tucking her head against his shoulder. He buried his face in her hair, breathed deeply, and squeezed her. Her hair smelled of mint.
"Don't worry," she said. "I'll do whatever you want." He squeezed her again in response and left, not trusting himself to look back.
He couldn't go home. He drove into the city and had a Guinness at Deweys. He called Jennifer and said that he needed strong drink after the non-alcoholic Christmas party and that he'd be back soon with a pizza.
Richard came in, and Oliver ordered another pint. "What's your definition of home?" Oliver asked him.
"Home is where you're most yourself," Richard said without hesitating.He looked comfortably around the bar.
"Ah," Oliver said. "Not necessarily where you sleep, then."
Richard raised his eyebrows. "Not necessarily. I have two homes—at the lab and right here."
"Lucky dog," Oliver said. Richard flashed his smile. Be yourself and you are home anywhere. Oliver drank up. "Well, I've got to be going."
"Have a good holiday, Oliver."
"You, too."
"You smell like Deweys," Jennifer said, when he walked into the kitchen. She took the pizza from his hands.
"Good old Deweys," Oliver said. "How's Precious?"
"Sound asleep. Oooh, it's getting chilly."
"I'll get some wood," Oliver said quickly. "Come on, Woof." They had a couple of cords stacked in the barn, cut to two foot lengths. He turned on the light and found the maul leaning against the corner where he had left it. He swung the maul and tossed the wood and pretended that Suzanne wasn't sitting in her quiet living room, pretended that nothing had happened. Woof sat attentively in the doorway. There was only the splitting, the thunk of the maul into the chopping block, the klokking sound of pieces thrown on the pile . . .
"Pizza's ready. My goodness, Sweetums, what a pile!" Oliver gathered up an armful.
"Should hold us for awhile," he said. Woof bounded into the house, wagging her tail. "You know," Oliver said, "we really ought to get a decent wood stove. More efficient. And if we have furnace trouble, it would be good to have something besides the fireplace."
"Maybe we could get the kind with glass doors, so we can see the fire,"Jennifer said.
"They make good ones now," Oliver said.
"Let's go tomorrow."
"Solid," he said. Little by little, normality was returning, but he had to work at it. Luckily, he didn't have to go to the hospital until Monday.
19.
Saturday morning, Oliver and Jennifer bought a stove and brought it home in the Jeep. Mark came out and helped move the stove from the Jeep to the living room in front of the fireplace. It would go in the corner when they put a chimney up for it, but, for now, they could use the old chimney. A hole for the stovepipe was waiting, covered by a decorated pie plate.
Sunday afternoon, Emma lay contentedly in her playpen near the new stove while a fire burned and Oliver watched the Patriots lose another one. Jennifer had driven in to The Conservancy for a couple of hours. Woof was outside. Verdi was curled by a window. The stove had cost a bundle, but it was worth it, Oliver thought. They charged it on one of Jennifer's credit cards.
"Da Da."
"Yes, Emma." He lifted her and held her in the crook of his arm. She looked up at him steadily as he walked back and forth across the living room. Muffled snapping sounds came from the stove. He heard the wind outside and saw bare branches moving in the trees across the lawn. The sky was gray and darkening. "Here comes the storm, Emma," he said. "Here it comes." He put her down in the playpen, turned off the TV, and playedLa Traviata.
Pavarotti's voice swelled through the house. "Listen to that, Emma!" He stroked Verdi and watched the lowering clouds.
Jennifer came home full of enthusiasm and plans. "Eric is having a party!"
"Hot diggety."
"It will be fun! And lots of Conservancy people will be there. I reallyhaveto go. And I think it's good for Emma."
"Well, it's that time of year," Oliver said, giving in.
"We won't stay long."
"We'll stay as long as you want," he said.
They went to bed early that night. When Jennifer reached for Oliver, he followed her lead, waited for her, and tried to stay close. He floated away and brought himself back. She was uncomplicated sexually. Thank goodness.
She rubbed his back. "Oooh, that was nice," she said. "You worked so hard on the stove. You're tired. Poor Sweetums."
"Mmmm," he said, nuzzling and hiding his face on her shoulder."Sweetums sleep now."
The storm dumped eight inches overnight, the first real snow of the winter. It was blustery and clearing when Oliver went outside in the morning. The Volvo was in the barn. Jennifer was staying home until the road was plowed. He cleared off the Jeep and crunched slowly down the hill. As the clouds shifted, the light changed from gray to white and back to gray. The Jeep slid around a little, not much. He had concrete blocks in the back, three by each wheel. The heater threw out a blast of hot air. Four wheel drive is great, he told the world. People were brushing snow from their cars and shoveling walks. Several waved as he passed. The first snow was always a relief.
He couldn't stop thinking about Suzanne. It would be best not to see her. When he walked into his office, the first thing that he saw was an envelope on his desk. It looked like the ones that his paycheck came in. "Oliver," was written on the front. He opened it and took out a note.
Hi. I'll understand if you don't want to see me. But if you do—I get off at noon Friday. I can go straight home and do the shopping Saturday. If you can't make it, next Friday would be good too. But if you don't want to, I'll understand. (I said that already.) Missing you. S.
P.S. Eat this note.
Oliver folded the note into a small square and buried it in his pocket. Suzanne looked up when he put his head in her door. She was dressed plainly in a white blouse. Her hair was pulled back. Her eyes were soft. "Saturday's a good day for shopping," he said.
She lowered her eyes for a moment. The corners of her mouth moved down and back, the beginning of her smile. "If you go early," she said. She was tender and proud, so compact that Oliver wanted to sweep her into his arms and keep her inside his shirt. He smiled helplessly and went back to his office. Didn't mean to do that, he said to himself. But he knew he couldn't run from her; it would be like running from himself. This thing was going to destroy him if he didn't come to grips with it, if he didn't understand what was going on.
It was a relief to sit at his desk. One thing about computer work, he thought. You can't do it and do anything else at the same time. Auditors were coming from national headquarters, and the trial balance was off by $185,000. Dan was hoping to find the problem before they arrived. It was a lot of money. Oliver wondered if it had been stolen. Was there a First Fundamentalist embezzler? He concentrated until lunch time, leaving his office only once. Suzanne drove out at noon, and he left five minutes later. He wasn't sure he could take seeing her again that day.
He drove into Portland and had lunch at Becky's, glad to be back. He stared at the booth where he first saw Francesca. It occurred to him that he hadn't checked on his brokerage account for months. He ate the last of his homefries and slid the plate across the counter.
"Had enough?" The waitress paused.
"No, but. . ."
"We've got good pie, today. Dutch apple? Banana cream?"
"Can't help myself," he said. "Dutch apple."
"Warm that up," she said, stretching behind her for a coffee pot and filling his cup with one motion. "You want that pie heated?"
"Sure." He added creamer to the coffee, relaxed, and looked at a large photograph hanging on the wall behind the counter. A wave was washing completely over the bow of a tanker. Both the ocean and the ship were muddy shades of gray. It was a gray stormy day. There were no people in sight—just the deck, battened down, waiting to rise through a crushing weight of water. A simple black frame. No caption necessary, not in a waterfront diner.
He remembered eating lunch with Maria and Elena. That was fun. Cute kids. Walking the beach with Francesca. The memories eased his mind. But this is now, he reminded himself. He set his mug down with a clunk to emphasize the point. Now. He left a big tip and walked to the brokerage office.