O+F Part 21

Farther out, a wave broke and raced up the fissure like a suicide express. Water slammed between the rocky edges, wild and frothing, seething, lurching, hissing, and sucking. Gradually, it receded.

Oliver's father pointed to the other side and walked to the end of the fissure where they could look down into the round pool that had been scoured into the rock. Shiny polished stones waited in its bottom for the next wave.

His father continued around the pool and then along the opposite edge on a path six inches wide. The rain had started again. Oliver followed across a steep bank of short wet gra.s.s. The next train roared in, just a few feet below them. He was terrified. If he slipped, there was nothing to grab. Anyone who fell in would be torn apart in seconds; there was no chance of surviving the furious water. There was a malevolent feeling to the place. Bad things happened here.

His father walked steadily on. Oliver dropped to his hands and knees and crawled to the end of the path, trying not to look to his left. He scrambled down to a rocky shingle near the mouth of the fissure. His father waited, watching him. Oliver stood up, swallowed, and wiped mud off his hands. "Scary place," he said.

"You not scared there, you an idiot," his father said.

"s.h.i.t," Oliver said.

"What's the matter?"

"I just realized that we've got to go back the same way."

"How is your mother?"

"She's fine. She gave me your name--Oliver Muni Prescott."

"Ah," Muni said. "I am glad she is well. She was a beautiful woman.

Smart, too. Didn't stick around to marry me."

"She married Owl Prescott, an English professor. They had a girl, Amanda. Owl died. Then she married a guy named Paul Peroni from New Haven, a good guy, a marble worker." Oliver paused. "Ken told me that you live in j.a.pan."

"Near Kamakura. We have a son and a daughter, grown up, not quite your age. You are--35."

"Yes," Oliver said.

"You married?"

"I was. For four years."

"You have children?"

"No."

"Mmmm . . ."

"Large waves come without warning," Oliver said, looking out at the gray ocean.

"Beautiful here," his father said. Oliver nodded. For the first time, a suggestion of a smile crossed his father's face as he waved at the wild sh.o.r.e guarded by The Devil's Churn. "Most don't get this far. What kind of work you do?"

"I program computers. Used to teach math. I like to make things out of wood sometimes." That seemed to sum it up. Not a very big sum, Oliver thought.

"You know George Nakashima? Made furniture?"

"No."

"Mmmm . . . He lived in Pennsylvania, died two, three years ago." His father reached inside his jacket and handed Oliver an envelope. "This yours," he said.

"What is it?"

"Small present. Maybe it help."

Oliver folded the envelope and put it in a safe pocket. "Thank you," he said. "But, you don't need to give me anything."

"You only as rich as what you give away."

They stood, not minding the rain. "What are you doing in the States?"

Oliver asked.

"Teaching one seminar at the University of California, Berkeley. I go back, now." He turned toward the path.

"Teach?"

"Architecture. j.a.panese kind." His father climbed up onto the path and walked along the edge, not hurrying, not hesitating. Oliver went to his hands and knees again. The express exploded past, but he forced himself to look straight ahead. He was limp when he reached the wooden steps.

At the top, his father was waiting as if nothing had happened.

Oliver exhaled and took a deep breath. "Well . . ." He didn't know what to say. His father's eyes were sparkling.

"Maybe you come see us in Kamakura. I will be back there in one month."

Oliver nodded in the j.a.panese way. His father bowed and walked back to his car. Oliver watched. He waved as his father drove toward the road.

His father waved back. Oliver thought he saw a smile, and then his father was gone.

He was getting wet, he realized. He stopped in Florence for a cup of coffee. There was no sign of his father. He drove back to Eugene and took a long hot shower. The envelope lay unopened on top of the table by the TV.

Oliver took a nap and went out for dinner. He sipped Glenlivet, a bit disappointed--he had learned so little about his father. Also, he was depressed because the meeting was over; he had accomplished what he set out to do, and now what? His father was controlled, impressive. Oliver felt good about that. If he hadn't found out many details about his father, he had learned something about himself. There was a sternness in his father--an inner honor--that Oliver recognized immediately. Same as me, he thought. His father helped put a face on it, made it more accessible and more acceptable.

But what did his father think of _him_? I didn't wimp out or fall in and die, anyway, he told himself. Muni had seemed guardedly approving.

Hard to tell. Perhaps Muni had felt himself on trial, as well. He hadn't shown it. An architect--that was interesting. Oliver had a strong visual sense that had never found a satisfactory outlet. His work had always been secondary in some way. Teaching math and programming had kept him going, but he felt unused, wasted. Maybe he should have been an architect. At least, now, he knew where his visual ability came from.

Oliver mused over his drink and avoided opening the envelope in his pocket. He ate a piece of salmon grilled over alder chips and drank a gla.s.s of Oregon Sauvignon Blanc. The waiter brought a double espresso.

Oliver opened the envelope with misgivings.

There was a check and a note:

Oliver, if I give this to you, it is because you are my son. I can not know until I meet you. I plan to be back home in Kamakura after the first of the year. Maybe you will visit. Years after 50 are extra. Who knows what will happen? My thoughts are with you. Muni

The check was for $72,000. Oliver stared at the numbers. Seventy-two thousand dollars? A lot more money than he'd ever had before. But the moment that he accepted the amount, he realized that the money was his only in the sense that he had control of it. He had it because his father had saved it. How could he just spend it on himself? The money wasn't his; it was theirs--his and his father's and probably his father's parents as well. He replaced the envelope carefully in his pocket. A door opened in his heart, and another door closed.

It would take time for these new feelings to sink in, but Oliver knew that something had changed for good. He lingered over the espresso. An awakened sense of time knocked in his ears and made the present moment more intense. University students at a corner table might have been figures on a screen or spread around a vase. It was _right now_, Eugene, Oregon. He wanted to shout: "It will never be this way again.

We're here! We're alive!" He smiled as he imagined a full moon appearing from behind a cloud. Francesca was standing on Crescent Beach, looking up at the moon, her hands clasped behind her. Oliver stood and bowed slightly to the waiter and to the room.