O+F | Page 6

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 bumping 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 breasts 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.

"Yes," she said. "Micucci's."
"Great place," he said, rolling by, pretending to be in a hurry. God, the
woman was some kind of menace. But she knew about Francesca . . .
And those breasts. He clung to the cart and let his vision blur as the red
sweater came back into focus. He blinked and joined a checkout line. A
skinny woman in front of him put a gallon jug of vodka on the counter.
"Not a bad idea," he said. She looked at him, smiled as though she were
on a two second tape delay, and then frowned as she concentrated on
paying. Her arms and legs were like sticks. He wondered what she'd
had to put up with and if she had anyone to put up with her. He didn't
really like vodka, but he ought to get something for George. What do
foundrymen drink? Red wine? Ale? The woman picked up energy as
she wheeled her cart toward the parking lot. Keep going. Good luck.
He drove home and put away the groceries. He went down to the
basement and brought up a piece of pine which Verdi ignored. "Really,
it's much better," Oliver argued. The phone rang.
"Oliver? This is Jennifer Lindenthwaite."
"Hi, Jennifer."
"I'm calling for the Wetlands Conservancy."
"Oh, I thought you wanted to take me to Atlantic City."
"Rupert might not like that," she said.
"I suppose not," he said. "Ah, well . . ."
"Can you do some work for us, Oliver? Our mailing list is in hopeless
shape. We bought a computer, but no one knows how to do anything
but type letters on it."
"You want me to set up a database?"
"I suppose that is what we need."
"How soon?"
"Umm . . ."
"Yesterday, right?"
"Well, sometime soon, at your convenience."
"As it happens," Oliver said, "I've got time in the next couple of weeks.
How about if I come over Tuesday, say--around nine?"
"Thank you, Oliver. You're a sweetheart. See you then." Jennifer hung
up, and Oliver looked at the computer. "Can't buy Friskies on my good
looks," he said. That was how work came in for him--two weeks here,
six months there. He got by, barely.

The day drifted along. He took a nap, watched a basketball game on TV,
and cleaned, minimally, for his mother's inspection. At seven, he
walked down to George's.
"Foundrymen's Red!" he said, holding up a liter of Merlot. "Foundry
workers, I should say."
"Good timing." George rummaged for glasses, found