O+F | Page 2

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 settling down?" Oliver asked.
"I'm trying, man. Who do you like in the NCAA's? Duke?"
"No way. Robots," Oliver said. "Smug. Bred to win from birth."
"I got a hundred on them." Mark made money helping executives scale the job ladder. He was amused and ironic about it. They knocked themselves out; he got the dancers--for a time.
"Hey, Richard!"
"Mark . . . Oliver . . . The boss let us out early." Pleased with this statement, Richard O'Grady, who acknowledged no