O+F | Page 2

doing anything."

"O.K., I'll see."
George beeped twice and drove into the thickening snow. Oliver
bought a ticket for Peaks Island. The ferry was nearly empty, cheerful
with its high snub bow painted yellow, white superstructure, and red
roof. It was not as spirited as the red and black tugs that herd tankers to
the Montreal pipeline, nothing could match the tugboats--but the ferry
was close; it had the human touch, a dory that couldn't stay away from
cheesecake, broad in the beam, resolute, proof against the cold rollers
of the outer bay. After two long blasts, the ferry churned away from the
wharf. A line of gulls on the lee side of a rooftop watched them move
into the channel and gather speed.
Twenty minutes later, the ferry slowed, shuddered, and stopped at the
Peaks Island landing. Oliver walked uphill to the main street, unsure
why he had come. Habit took him around by his former house. No
lights were on, no sign of anyone home. He continued around the block,
surprised at his disappointment. He hadn't seen Charlotte for six
months and had no reason to see her now. He considered this over a
cup of coffee at Will's. It was natural to check in sometimes with old
friends. I mean, we were married, he told his cup.
_Jealousy is a symptom--like the effects of drought_. Owl told him that
once. They had been standing on the club dock, having one of their rare
conversations. He was telling Owl about Kiersten, how she wouldn't
take him seriously, her smile always for Gary--star everything. Owl's
voice was sympathetic but with a dissatisfied edge, as though he were
impatient with or imprisoned by his superiority, his tenure at Brown,
his aluminum boat, one of the fastest on the sound.
Oliver never thought to ask for an explanation, and then, sadly, it was
too late. It was years before he understood Owl's jealousy
pronouncement. He wasn't jealous any longer, certainly not where
Kiersten was concerned. God, she'd driven everybody crazy.
Territory--now that was different. You want your own territory, your
own mate, your house, your space. It still pissed him off to see his old
garage surrounded by Mike's messy piles of building materials. But he
wasn't jealous. Charlotte was better off without him; she had a child,
finally.
The waitress had a tolerant smile. Thank God for waitresses. He left a
big tip and got back on the ferry.

Snow was drifting against brick buildings as Oliver walked into the Old
Port. He decided to stop for a pint. Deweys was busy; people were
packing it in early, finding strength in numbers. "A Guinness," he
ordered, "for this fine March day." Sam set a dark glass, overflowing,
on the bar in front of him. Oliver bent forward and slurped a mouthful.
"You could live on Guinness foam," he said.
"And the occasional piece of cheese," Sam said. Patti Page was singing,
"_I remember the night of The Tennessee Waltz . . . _" Her voice, the
fiddle, the stately waltz told the old story: "_stole my sweetheart from
me . . . _" One way or another, sooner or later, we are all defeated.
Oliver felt a swell of sadness and the beginning of liberation.
"God, what a song," he said to Mark Barnes, who had come up beside
him.
"Classic. How you doing, guy?"
"Hanging in there." More people came in, stamping snow from their
boots. Patti Page gave way to Tom Waits belting out, Jersey Girl.
"Another classic," Oliver said. Tragedy was just offstage in _Jersey
Girl_, momentarily held at bay by sex and love and hope. "All downhill
from here, Mark."
"Life is fine, my man."
"What? Must be a new dancer in town. How do you do it, anyway?"
"Innate sensuality," Mark said. "One glance across a crowded
room . . ."
"Yeah, right. My rooms are crowded with women in black pants who
have eyes only for each other. Although, I did see a beauty in Becky's
this morning. Had two little girls with her---and a friend."
"What kind of friend?"
"A lady friend, not a black pantser, I'm pretty sure. Francesca, her name
was."
"Francesca? Tall chick? Good looking?"
"I wouldn't call her a chick, exactly. More like a Madonna by
Modigliani."
"Yeah, Francesca. She lives in Cape Elizabeth. I was in a yoga class
with her once."
"I ought to take yoga," Oliver said.
"The ratio is good, man. Francesca. That was years ago. She married
some guy who works for Hannaford's."

"I knew it," Oliver said.
"They can't help it," Mark said. "They have this nesting thing." Dancers
came to Portland, walked around the block a couple of times, and met
Mark. Six to eighteen months later, they married doctors.
"Did you ever think of