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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 one, and handed it to Oliver. "The guest gets the clean glass." He washed one for himself and filled them both. "Cellini," he toasted.
"Pavarotti," Oliver responded. "And other great Italians. Did you know my mother is Italian?"
"Some people have all the luck."
"Yeah," Oliver said. "She was a singer when she was young."
"Probably cooks, too," George said.
"Yeah."
"Jesus, Olive Oil."
"She's coming through this weekend. She and Paul, her husband. They go to Quebec every year."
"Good eating in Quebec."
"You bet," Oliver said. "She likes to dress up. They have a good time."
"Wow," George said. "I don't think my mom has bought a dress in twenty years. Says she's too old for that foolishness."
"My mom is too old, but it doesn't stop her." He looked at the furnace. "So, what are we doing?"
"We're set," George said. They crossed the loft, and he handed Oliver a propane torch. "I'll turn on the gas at the main tank. You light it. There's the blower valve." He pointed to a round handle mounted between the