O+F Part 2

Verdi was waiting. He jumped from the window sill and made a fuss b.u.mping against Oliver's legs. "Hungry, are we?" Oliver bent over and stroked him from head to tail. "Yes, very large and very fierce is Verdi. Very fierce." Verdi was brown and black, heavyset, with a large tomcat's head and yellow eyes. He padded deliberately over to the lengths of walnut leaning upright in one corner of the room and scratched luxuriously, stretching full length, as though he had been waiting to do this for some time. "Aieee! Swell, Verdi." Oliver hung his coat on a peg and gathered up the boards. For the moment, he laid them on the table. The cat was irritated. "How about some nice pine,"

Oliver said. "Much better than walnut. I'll get you a nice soft piece of pine. In the meantime . . ." He opened a can of salmon Friskies.

Verdi ate, and Oliver refilled his water dish. The boards were beautiful. He'd been right about the color of Francesca's eyes. There was an actual black walnut, a large one, at the edge of the parking area behind his building. It shaded his kitchen window during the summer and dropped hundreds of furry green walnuts that were gathered by squirrels each fall. Oliver had planted six walnuts in yogurt containers. He'd let them freeze first, done everything right, but none of them came up. The seeds were finicky for such a powerful tree. Maybe they had to pa.s.s through a squirrel. "Biology is complicated," he said to Verdi.

The kitchen had been a master bedroom in the original house. The appliances, counter, and sink were arranged along one wall and part of another, leaving plenty of s.p.a.ce for a table in the center. The wall to the adjoining living room had been mostly removed; the two rooms functioned as one. Steps led to a landing and then to an attic bedroom with a view of the harbor. There was a fireplace that he rarely used.

In one corner, a small table held a computer system.

Oliver sat at the kitchen table and ran the heels of his hands along the walnut. He enjoyed making things from wood: easy shelves, chests, a cradle once for a wedding present. He had a table saw and a router in the bas.e.m.e.nt, but he kept his tools under a rough workbench that he had built along one wall of the kitchen. A "Workmate" stood in the living room near the door to the hall. Usually it was covered with mail.

The touch of the wood was rea.s.suring. Deep in the grain, in what might be made from the grain, was something iconic and alive, more alive than what could be said about it. Oliver took particular pleasure in finis.h.i.+ng a shelf or a chest, hand rubbing the surface and seeing the patterns of the grain s.h.i.+ne and deepen. He would have to buy legs if he were going to make a table. Or learn how to use a lathe. He didn't have a lathe. Maybe he could make a small box--to hold something special. He could give it to someone.

Who? A wave of longing swept over him. Who would care? He had an impulse to put his head down on his arms and give up.

"There are no cowards on this s.h.i.+p!" G.o.d, he hadn't thought of that for years. His high school English teacher had said it, loudly. It was the punch line of a war story. The teacher had accompanied a couple of his Navy buddies to the bow of their s.h.i.+p; one of them was bragging that he would dive. The captain had come up behind them, asked what they were doing, and then ordered them _all_ to dive. Apparently, it had been a high point of sorts in his teacher's life.

"No cowards on this s.h.i.+p, Verdi," Oliver said, standing. Toast. Tea.

When Oliver was upset, he turned to food. He had a high metabolism and ate what he wanted. His body looked chubby on its short square frame, but there was more muscle than fat under his skin; he could move quickly when he wished. He had a wide serious mouth with strong teeth.

His eyebrows and hair were black. His eyes were large and dark brown with lids that slanted slightly across the corners. Women looked at him and were puzzled by something that was different. He almost never got into it.

"Oliver Muni Prescott," he had told a few. "Owl Prescott was my stepfather. My father is j.a.panese--Muni, his name is--I never met him."

The toast popped up. Oliver b.u.t.tered it and laid on marmalade. He put the toast and tea on a tray and carried it upstairs. His mattress was on the floor next to a window set low in the wall, under the eaves. He lay down, munched toast, and watched the snow falling and blowing. When he turned his head, the window was like a skylight. Mother is coming, he remembered. The image of his mother with her flamboyant blonde hair was replaced immediately by that of Francesca--quiet, natural, and no less forceful.

He finished the toast and held the mug of tea on his chest with both hands. He could see Francesca's eyes in front of him. They were asking something, and he was answering. Her question was more complicated than he had thought at Becky's Diner. Were they the same? Was she beautiful?

Was he for real? He relaxed and aligned in her direction. The answer was rea.s.suring. "Yes," he said. He lifted his head and sipped tea.

"O.K.," he said.

2.

The sky was bright blue, the wind gusty out of the northwest. Oliver squinted at the fresh s...o...b..nks on his way to Becky's.

Sungla.s.ses--should have worn sungla.s.ses. He had oatmeal and a blueberry m.u.f.fin, drank coffee, and listened to the waitresses chatter about their dates. Francesca did not come in, but her image remained vivid.

He waited, not so much for her as for something in his mood to change, to see if it _would_ change. It didn't. He continued to feel slightly excited, as though he had something to look forward to. Francesca had met him in a central place. Was it a place that they made, sheltered between them? Or was it a place inside each of them that was similar, more accessible in each other's company? Wherever it was, Oliver knew that he wanted to go there again.

He walked home, shoveled out his Jeep, started it, and sc.r.a.ped the windows, thinking that he'd see what George was up to. He could have walked, but there wasn't much cat food left. He'd shop, maybe take a drive.

George had a loft in a warehouse at the foot of Danforth Street. "Hey there, Oliver" he said, opening the door. "Big day--Foundry Goodbean!"

"I brought some bagels," Oliver said.

George rubbed his hands together. "Come see."

Near a brick wall, a thirty gallon grease drum stood on a sheet of asbestos-like material. Two copper pipes made a right angle to its base. One came from a propane tank in a corner; one was connected to an air blower driven by an electric motor. "Ta da!" George said, lifting off a thick top that had a hole in its center. Oliver looked down into the drum. "I used a stovepipe for a form--cast refractory cement around it." The drum was solid cement around the s.p.a.ce where the stovepipe had been.

"Slick city," Oliver said.

George picked up a small object from a table. "The Flying Lady," he said. He held it between his thumb and forefinger and swooped it through the air. Oliver looked closely at a wax figure of a trapeze artist. Her brown arms were held out; her back was arched.

"Wonder Woman."

"I've got to make the mold," George said, "burn out the investment."

"Investment?"

"Goopy stuff that packs around The Lady. Then I fire it in a kiln. The wax burns and disappears, leaving a hard ceramic mold."

"Aha," Oliver said, "the lost wax process."

"Me and Cellini," George said. "Here, make something." He handed Oliver a sheet of wax. "Not too big. I'll cast it with The Lady. There's knives and stuff." He pointed at one end of the table. "And other kinds of wax. Use what you want." He began to mix the investment.

Oliver laid the wax on the table. Without thinking, he cut out the shape of a heart. He cut four short pieces from a length of spaghetti shaped wax and made a square letter O. It looked stupid. "Can you bend this stuff?"

"Heat it," George said. "There's an alcohol lamp."

Oliver warmed another piece of spaghetti wax and made an oval O. He stuck it on the heart and added a plus sign and the letter, F. "A valentine," he said.

George made a tree of wax, two inches high with a double trunk. He stuck The Flying Lady on one trunk and the heart, upright, on the other. Using more wax, he planted the tree in a circular rubber base.

"Let me have that flask." He pointed at a steel cylinder about six inches long. He slipped the cylinder over the waxes and tightly into the rubber base. "There." He poured creamy investment into the flask until the waxes were well covered and the flask was nearly full. "After it sets, you peel off the base and fire the flask."

They sat in a far corner and had coffee.

"So who's F?" George's eyes gleamed.

"Francesca," Oliver said. "I don't know her, really. She's tall and married."

George shook his head. "Can't live with 'em; can't live without 'em."

He took a large bite of bagel to ease the pain.

"You do all right," Oliver said.

"Oh, you know . . ." George threw one arm in the air. "The artist thing. They're curious. They're all curious, Olive Oil."

"What happened to Marcia?"

"Oh, Marcia!" George rolled his eyes and deflated somewhat. "She had allergies, it turned out. Dust. What can I say?"

"She was good looking," Oliver said.

"Oh, yeah, Marcia!" George's voice trailed away. "Look," he said, "it's going to take a while to get the investment ready. Why don't you come back around seven? Then we'll cast."

"Outa sight," Oliver said.

He drove to Shop 'N Save and stacked two dozen cans of salmon Friskies in his shopping cart. He found a box of fancy tea biscuits that he could offer to his mother. She and Paul were stopping in Portland the next night. They always stayed at the Holiday Inn, but she would want to come over and make sure that he wasn't living in filth, had clean towels, and so on. She would sniff around for a female presence, and then she would look at Paul; Paul would suggest that the sun was over the yardarm; and they would go to DiMillo's for dinner.

Oliver turned his shopping cart around the end of an aisle, swerved, and stopped to avoid b.u.mping into Francesca's friend. She was studying the pasta sauces, one hand resting on her cart, one hand on her hip.

Her jacket was open. Oliver's eyes lingered on her solid b.r.e.a.s.t.s and tight red sweater. She looked at him. He cleared his throat. "Not much choice," he said. "I found a good sauce at Micucci's--the one with a great picture of the owner's grandmother when she was young. It wasn't that expensive, either." He was babbling, starting to blush. Her eyes narrowed and a small smile pushed at the corners of her mouth.