O+F, Page 2

  “No cowards on this ship, Verdi,’’ Oliver said, standing. Toast. Tea. When Oliver was upset, he turned to food. He had a high metabolism and ate what he wanted. His body looked chubby on its short square frame, but there was more muscle than fat under his skin; he could move quickly when he wished. He had a wide serious mouth with strong teeth. His eyebrows and hair were black. His eyes were large and dark brown with lids that slanted slightly across the corners. Women looked at him and were puzzled by something that was different. He almost never got into it.

  “Oliver Muni Prescott,’’ he had told a few. “Owl Prescott was my stepfather. My father is Japanese—Muni, his name is—I never met him.’’ The toast popped up. Oliver buttered it and laid on marmalade. He put the toast and tea on a tray and carried it upstairs. His mattress was on the floor next to a window set low in the wall, under the eaves. He lay down, munched toast, and watched the snow falling and blowing. When he turned his head, the window was like a skylight. Mother is coming, he remembered. The image of his mother with her flamboyant blonde hair was replaced immediately by that of Francesca—quiet, natural, and no less forceful.

  He finished the toast and held the mug of tea on his chest with both hands. He could see Francesca’s eyes in front of him. They were asking something, and he was answering. Her question was more complicated than he had thought at Becky’s Diner. Were they the same? Was she beautiful? Was he for real? He relaxed and aligned in her direction. The answer was reassuring. “Yes,’’ he said. He lifted his head and sipped tea. “O.K.,’’ he said.

  2.

  The sky was bright blue, the wind gusty out of the northwest. Oliver squinted at the fresh snowbanks on his way to Becky’s. Sunglasses—should have worn sunglasses. He had oatmeal and a blueberry muffin, drank coffee, and listened to the waitresses chatter about their dates. Francesca did not come in, but her image remained vivid. He waited, not so much for her as for something in his mood to change, to see if it would change. It didn’t. He continued to feel slightly excited, as though he had something to look forward to. Francesca had met him in a central place. Was it a place that they made, sheltered between them? Or was it a place inside each of them that was similar, more accessible in each other’s company? Wherever it was, Oliver knew that he wanted to go there again.

  He walked home, shoveled out his Jeep, started it, and scraped the windows, thinking that he’d see what George was up to. He could have walked, but there wasn’t much cat food left. He’d shop, maybe take a drive.

  George had a loft in a warehouse at the foot of Danforth Street. “Hey there, Oliver’’ he said, opening the door. “Big day—Foundry Goodbean!’’

  “I brought some bagels,’’ Oliver said.

  George rubbed his hands together. “Come see.’’

  Near a brick wall, a thirty gallon grease drum stood on a sheet of asbestos-like material. Two copper pipes made a right angle to its base. One came from a propane tank in a corner; one was connected to an air blower driven by an electric motor. “Ta da!’’ George said, lifting off a thick top that had a hole in its center. Oliver looked down into the drum. “I used a stovepipe for a form—cast refractory cement around it.’’ The drum was solid cement around the space where the stovepipe had been.

  “Slick city,’’ Oliver said.

  George picked up a small object from a table. “The Flying Lady,’’ he said. He held it between his thumb and forefinger and swooped it through the air. Oliver looked closely at a wax figure of a trapeze artist. Her brown arms were held out; her back was arched.

  “Wonder Woman.’’

  “I’ve got to make the mold,’’ George said, “burn out the investment.’’

  “Investment?’’

  “Goopy stuff that packs around The Lady. Then I fire it in a kiln. The wax burns and disappears, leaving a hard ceramic mold.’’

  “Aha,’’ Oliver said, “the lost wax process.’’

  “Me and Cellini,’’ George said. “Here, make something.’’ He handed Oliver a sheet of wax. “Not too big. I’ll cast it with The Lady. There’s knives and stuff.’’ He pointed at one end of the table. “And other kinds of wax. Use what you want.’’ He began to mix the investment.

  Oliver laid the wax on the table. Without thinking, he cut out the shape of a heart. He cut four short pieces from a length of spaghetti shaped wax and made a square letter O. It looked stupid. “Can you bend this stuff?’’

  “Heat it,’’ George said. “There’s an alcohol lamp.’’

  Oliver warmed another piece of spaghetti wax and made an oval O. He stuck it on the heart and added a plus sign and the letter, F. “A valentine,’’ he said.

  George made a tree of wax, two inches high with a double trunk. He stuck The Flying Lady on one trunk and the heart, upright, on the other. Using more wax, he planted the tree in a circular rubber base. “Let me have that flask.’’ He pointed at a steel cylinder about six inches long. He slipped the cylinder over the waxes and tightly into the rubber base. “There.’’ He poured creamy investment into the flask until the waxes were well covered and the flask was nearly full. “After it sets, you peel off the base and fire the flask.’’

  They sat in a far corner and had coffee.

  “So who’s F?’’ George’s eyes gleamed.

  “Francesca,’’ Oliver said. “I don’t know her, really. She’s tall and married.’’

  George shook his head. “Can’t live with ’em; can’t live without ’em.’’ He took a large bite of bagel to ease the pain.

  “You do all right,’’ Oliver said.

  “Oh, you know . . .” George threw one arm in the air. “The artist thing. They’re curious. They’re all curious, Olive Oil.’’

  “What happened to Marcia?’’

  “Oh, Marcia!’’ George rolled his eyes and deflated somewhat. “She had allergies, it turned out. Dust. What can I say?’’

  “She was good looking,’’ Oliver said.

  “Oh, yeah, Marcia!’’ George’s voice trailed away. “Look,’’ he said, “it’s going to take a 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 fo
r 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 blower and the pipe that led to the furnace. Oliver lit the torch and knelt by the furnace. George stood by the propane tank. “Hope this works. You ready?’’

  “Do it.’’

  George opened the line, and Oliver angled the torch tip down into the furnace. Nothing happened for several moments. There was a whooshing sound, and George said, “Holy Mama!’’ A blue flame, the size of a beach ball, was bouncing under the wooden ceiling joists. Oliver concentrated. Air. He reached back and grabbed the blower valve, twisting it counter-clockwise. Almost immediately, the blue flame lowered. He continued opening the valve. The flame pirouetted irregularly down an invisible column, drawn toward the furnace.

  “Air,’’ he shouted. “Not enough air until it got way the hell up there.’’

  “Keep going,’’ George said.

  The flame reached the top of the furnace and began to whirl in a tight spiral. It plunged inside, roaring and spinning at high speed. The floor shook. “Jesus,’’ George said.

  “It’s like a Goddamn bomb,’’ Oliver said.

  George put an ingot of bronze into a carbon crucible and gripped the edge of the crucible with long tongs. He lowered the crucible to the bottom of the furnace. “Put the top on,’’ he said. Oliver lifted and pushed the top over the furnace. The roaring became muffled, contained. It felt safer. “Nice going, about the air,’’ George said. “I thought we were going to burn the place down.’’

  “Physics,’’ Oliver said. George looked down through the hole in the top.

  “Nothing yet.’’ He stood back. A few minutes later the ingot began to slide toward the bottom of the crucible. “There she goes,’’ George said. “It’s working.’’ He opened the door of the kiln, and, using a different set of tongs, extracted the flask. He set the flask, glowing cherry red, upside down in a flat pan of sand. He shut off the gas and unplugged the blower. “The top,’’ he said, handing Oliver a pair of heavy gloves and pointing. Oliver worked the top over one edge of the drum, tipped it down, and rolled it onto three bricks.

  George reached into the furnace with the long tongs. He lifted the crucible from the furnace and walked with careful steps to the flask. Holding the lip of the crucible over the flask, he tipped his body to one side. The bronze poured like golden syrup into the hole where the wax had been, quickly filling the mold.

  George lowered the crucible back into the furnace. After the roaring, it seemed unusually silent. “Intense,’’ Oliver said. “Now what?’’ George picked up the hot flask with the second pair of tongs and dropped it into a bucket of water. There was a burst of sizzling and bubbling, and it was quiet again.

  “The temperature shock weirds out the investment. It changes state—to a softer stuff that we can get off the bronze.’’ George poured the water into his bathtub and refilled the bucket with cold water. “Still hot,’’ he said.

  They drank wine while the flask cooled. When George could hold the flask, he pushed the investment out of the cylinder and chipped at it with a screwdriver. A hip appeared. “The Flying Lady,’’ Oliver said.

  “Damn!’’ George said, chipping and prying. Gobs of oatmeal colored investment fell away. “Not bad!’’ George held up the Lady and the heart on their bronze tree. “We cut them off and

  polish. . .”

  An hour later, filled with wine and a sense of accomplishment, Oliver walked up Danforth Street. The bronze heart was solid and heavy in his pocket. He warmed it in his hand, feeling the O, the plus sign, and the F over and over again, a mantra said with the ball 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.