O+F Part 34

"Well, we have four months," Jennifer said.

In April, early on the morning of the 26th, two months after they were married in City Hall and had their celebratory dinner at F. Parker Reidy's, Jennifer felt the first serious contraction. Six hours later, Emma Dior Prescott wrinkled her nose, squinted, made two fists--triumphantly, according to Oliver--and went back to sleep, breathing on her own. Jennifer was thrilled and tired. Oliver felt a new kind of pang when he saw Emma. She had dark hair and seemed to be clutching part of his heart with her tiny hands, as though she had moved from one support system to another.

Deweys was barely open when he got there. "One for me and one more for my baby," he said to Sam. "Jenn had a little girl."

"No s.h.i.t! Congratulations. Hey, the Guinness is on the house, man; you're going to need your strength."

Oliver drank and relaxed. The winter had pa.s.sed in a blur. Each day had been filled with work and things to do at home; the months had slipped past scarcely noticed. Jennifer's growing weight had defined the season that mattered.

"I have responsibilities," he announced after his second pint. "I must call the grandparents."

He walked home and talked to his mother and to Jennifer's father. Gene was particularly pleased. "I had my order in," he said. "Does she look like Jenny?"

"More like me, actually."

Gene was quick. "Sweet thing! You're a lucky man, Oliver."

Oliver was supposed to say, "Thank you, Sir," or some such. "It was an easy birth," he said. "I'm going to pick them up tomorrow."

"Fine, fine," Gene said, "we can't wait to see her."

"Come on up."

"Fine. Dolly will call, tomorrow or the next day."

Oliver's mother shrieked, sobbed, and made him promise to call the moment that they were ready for a short visit. Oliver agreed and hung up thinking that good news was easy to pa.s.s along. He had already written his father and explained the situation, so he needed only to send a birth announcement. "Emma Dior Prescott--April 26th, 1994--7 lbs 6 oz. Looks a little like us," he added beneath.

He walked to the corner and dropped the card in the mailbox. On his way back, he met Arlen and told him the news. "A major event. I'm happy for you," Arlen said. Oliver took a nap and walked down to Deweys for more Guinness and congratulations. He went to bed feeling as though he had made it through a one-way turnstile. Things were different on this side; there was a lot to do.

The next day he brought Jennifer and Emma home from Mercy Hospital.

Verdi had gotten used to Jennifer. He sniffed Emma for a moment and then jumped to his place on the living room windowsill, settling down as if to say: one more--what's the difference?

Emma slept and fed. Jennifer spent happy weeks keeping her close and occasionally preparing a meal or cleaning the apartment. Oliver enjoyed holding Emma and being fatherly, although he sensed that his presence was not entirely necessary.

Dior and Paul came for a one night visit. His mother liked Jennifer and gushed endlessly over Emma. He and Paul had drinks in the background and talked about work and the Red Sox. It had been how many years since Carleton Fisk had gone to Chicago? One of the all-time great catchers, a son of New Hampshire--the event still felt like the death of an era, almost the death of New England.

Dolly and Gene were more formal. They were pleased and full of instruction. Gene inquired after Oliver's life insurance.

"No?" He gave Oliver his most forgiving and father-in-law knows best smile, stopping just short of issuing an order. It happens to all of us; you might as well get with the program--that was the message.

Jennifer was satisfied with both visits. Nothing really mattered but Emma, anyway. "Isn't she a doll baby? The most precious doll baby," she would say, answering her own question and thrusting Emma into Oliver's arms.

"Yes, she is. Yes, you are," he would say, holding Emma carefully. She was a good-natured baby. Her hearing was sensitive; she made faces and sometimes cried at loud noises. She liked music. Oliver had fun twirling her around the living room, keeping her high against his shoulder so that she could see the walls spin by.

One Sat.u.r.day late in May, he received a note from Francesca saying that she was coming back that week and that the winter had not gone well.

Jennifer didn't ask about the letter, perhaps she hadn't noticed it.

Oliver said nothing. Later that afternoon, he took a roundabout route shopping and walked out to Crescent Beach. The log had shifted position during the winter, but it was close to the same spot. He left a note in their format: "O+F" in a heart on the outside. Inside, he wrote: "Welcome back. Much to tell you." That was all he could bring himself to say. If Francesca came out in the morning, at least she would have a welcome. Maybe he could get there, maybe not.

Sunday morning, he went out for bagels and a newspaper. On his way home, at the last moment, he kept going down State Street. He crossed the bridge, drove to Cape Elizabeth, and walked quickly to the beach.

He didn't know what to say, but he was suddenly glad and hopeful that Francesca might be there. The force of his feeling surprised him. The note was gone. She wasn't around. She got it anyway, he thought as he hurried back. Probably.

That week, when he thought of Francesca, he twisted his wedding ring around and around his finger. He worried about her and about the girls.

It occurred to him that Emma would be as large as Maria and Elena in a few years. It didn't seem possible. The following Sunday, he got up early, put on running shoes, and told Jennifer that he would be back with bagels in an hour or so. He bought coffees to go and carried them to the log in a paper bag. The water was cold that early in the season.

There was no one on the beach. No note. No sculptures or arrangements.

He and Francesca might never have been there.

A figure appeared in the distance, walking with long familiar strides.

He balanced the bag on the log and started toward her. She was wearing a gray sweatshirt and jeans. Her hair was shorter than it had been. Her eyes. Her beautiful mouth. They walked into an embrace that became tighter and tighter. There was no time, no weather, no ocean. Getting closer was all that mattered. Francesca was trembling. Oliver dug his feet deeper into the sand and moved one hand slowly across her back.

She let out a deep breath and relaxed against him. When they stepped apart, it was like waking up in the morning.

"Hi," he said, stupidly.

"Oliver . . ."

"You look like you've had a hard time. I brought coffee." He pointed back to the log.

"The worst is over," she said. "I've left him. I'm still at the house--but only for a little while. Conor's staying with a friend."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm taking the girls to the West Coast. Seattle, I think. I need a clean break. If I stay here, Conor will keep hanging around and using the girls to keep me down."

"Oh," Oliver said. "Seattle is supposed to be a good place. I like the Northwest. s.h.i.t." They sat on the log, and Oliver handed her a cup.

"From Mr. Bagel," he said. "There have been changes in my life, too."

He paused. "I got married," he blurted out. "I have a daughter, five weeks old." Francesca put her cup down on the sand and took two steps toward the water. She stood with her fingers to her lips in a prayer position. Oliver explained what had happened.

"How wonderful to have a baby," she said in a low voice. "Emma--how wonderful."

"She is," Oliver apologized.

"Are you happy?"

"I guess so," he said.

She turned. "Oh, Oliver!" She opened her arms, and this time it was she who was consoling. A part of him wanted to scream with fury, but a deeper part became calmer as she held him. There were big problems off in the future--impossible problems--but they were _their_ problems.

"G.o.d, I love you," he said, stepping back.

"It's a strange time to feel lucky," she said, "but I do." She looked at his wedding ring. "I'm a bad woman now, too--along with everything else."

"Bad to the bone," Oliver said. He reached down for her coffee and handed it to her. "Some bones," he said. He sat on the log and shook his head. "d.a.m.n . . ." They were quiet for a minute. "When are you leaving?"

"In three or four weeks. I'm going to drive out, bring as much as I can with me. I've got to get a better car--something that will pull a small U-Haul trailer and hold up."

"The money is there if you need it," Oliver said. "Jennifer wants to buy a house in c.u.mberland or North Yarmouth. I'm going to use some for a down payment, but there will be plenty left--ten, twenty, thirty thousand--just call Myron and he'll send you a check."

"I have enough to go on. And Conor will pay child support. I can work, you know. Did I tell you I was a registered nurse?"

"No."