O+F | Page 8

of his thumb. When he
got home, he placed the heart on one of the walnut boards, fed Verdi,
and went to bed.
He lay there remembering the bronze pouring into the heart. A bit of
him had poured with it, and an exchange had taken place: something
bronze had entered him at the same moment.

3.
"Mythic," Oliver said to Paul Peroni, the next afternoon. They were
sitting at the kitchen table with his mother. Paul was weighing the heart
in his palm as Oliver described the bronze casting. Oliver's mother took
another tea biscuit.
"Never too old for a valentine," she said, seeming to note the absence
of a female presence in the apartment.
"Yes . . . No . . ." Paul answered them both. He was medium sized,
sinewy, and graying--surprisingly light on his feet for someone who
installed slabs of ornamental marble.
"It's so nice to see Verdi again. Kitty, kitty," she called. Verdi stretched
and remained in the corner. "Oh well, be that way," she said,
straightening. Lip gloss, touches of eye shadow, and her full wavy
blonde hair broadcast femaleness like a lighthouse. The good body
could be taken for granted. You might as well assume it, the message
flashed, cuz you sure as hell weren't going to be lucky enough to find
out. She and Paul were well matched. "I knew I was onto something,
our first date," she'd told Oliver. "I was cooing about Michelangelo and
Paul said, 'yes, but he used shitty marble.' "
She looked pointedly at Paul. "Sun's over the yard arm," he said.
DiMillo's was uncrowded. They sat at a window table, ordered drinks,

and talked as boats rocked quietly in the marina and an oil tanker
worked outward around the Spring Point light. Oliver's mother bragged
about his niece, Heather, and her latest swimming triumphs. She
complained about the long winter and how crowded the Connecticut
shore had become. "It may be crowded," Oliver said, "but you get
daffodils three weeks before we do."
Oliver sipped his second Glenlivet and looked back from the darkening
harbor. "I wish I had known my grandfather," he said to his mother. "I
remember when he died. I was eight, I think."
"Yes, you were in third grade," she said. "It was sad. He was living in
Paris. When he wrote, I called him at the hospital--but he didn't want
me to come. He said that he wanted me to remember him as he was."
"When was the last time you saw him?" Oliver asked.
"Oh . . . I . . ." She looked at Paul. He raised his eyebrows
sympathetically. "I guess I never told you that story," she said to Oliver.
"It was a long time ago. My sixteenth birthday, in fact." She sighed.
"It was at Nice, on the Riviera. He arranged a party on the beach--wine,
great food, fireworks . . . After the fireworks, he gave me a bamboo
cage with a white dove inside.
"'This is your present, Dior,' he said. 'You must let it go, give it
freedom.' I opened the cage, and the dove flew up into the dark. 'Very
good,' my father said. He hugged me. Then he said, 'Now, we will say
goodbye. You are grown, and I will not be seeing you and your mother
any more. Be good to your mother.' He hugged me again and just
walked down the beach--into the night."
Oliver watched tears slide down his mother's cheeks.
She lifted a napkin and wiped away her tears. "He was very
handsome."
"No need of that shit," Paul said.
They were silent.
"Paul's right," Oliver said.
"My mother packed up and brought us back to New Haven. We lived
with her folks for a while."
"Good old New Haven," Paul said.
"Now, your father . . ." She smiled at Paul.
"He liked the ladies," Paul said.
"What did he do?" Oliver asked.

"He was a stone mason, made his own wine, raised hell. Fought with
Uncle Tony until the day he died. They were tight, though--don't let
anybody else say anything against them. Bocce ball. Jesus." Paul shook
his head and held up his glass. "Life," he said.
"Yes, life." Oliver's mother raised her glass.
"Coming at you," Oliver added.
"Us," Paul said.
They touched glasses and got on with a shore dinner of lobsters and
clams.
Oliver said goodbye in DiMillo's parking lot. He walked home
imagining the sixteen year old Dior Del'Unzio with her mouth open as
the white dove flew upward and then with her hand to her mouth as her
father walked away. "No need of that shit." He was glad Paul was
around to take care of his mother. She was vulnerable under the big
smile; Oliver often felt vaguely