April & Oliver (16 page)

She looks down and buttons her coat.

Someone touches his shoulder. He smells Mr. Bergfalk’s cigar breath. “Can’t find her? Well there she is, right over there.”

She comes over, smiling. “Who bumped into whom?”

“We spotted Oliver,” says Mr. Bergfalk. “Had to shout him down, he was so oblivious.” He chuckles. “I remember those pre-wedding
days.”

“There is a lot to think about,” says Oliver, glancing at April. “You’ve lost weight.”

“Have I?”

“Pretzels for dinner.” Mr. Bergfalk nods at the bar. “It’s no wonder.”

“Well, thanks, I guess,” she says.

“It wasn’t a compliment,” says Oliver.

Mr. Bergfalk raises his eyebrows. April laughs, then wedges through the crowd in the direction of Nana and Bernadette.

“I only meant that you should take care of yourself,” calls Oliver.

“Son,” says Mr. Bergfalk quietly, shaking his head. “Quit while you’re ahead.”

As the others chat in the entrance, April plays with her keys, looking toward the door. “How about the diner for dessert?”
asks Oliver.

“It’s up to our chaperone,” says Nana, giving April a wink.

The diner is crowded. They take the only open booth, though it means squeezing three on one side. April gets in first to give
Bernadette the middle and Oliver the aisle for his long legs. But after a few minutes Bernadette leaves for the restroom,
and when she returns, Oliver slides into the middle. He feels his hip meet April’s.

“Can you breathe?” he laughs, trying to make light.

“Good thing I lost weight.” She smiles, but her eyes flash. He has cornered her.

Nana is talking nonstop about a childhood trip to Italy, where her father had relatives. “In Venice we saw the Bridge of Sighs,”
she says, “where prisoners could look back at the floating city one last time before their execution. Everyone should stand
there once in his life. Did you hear me, Oliver?”

“The Bridge of Sighs. I’ll put it on my list.”

“Lists are for people who don’t do what they want,” she says. “Just go.”

“Right now?” He laughs.

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Well,” he glances at his watch. “Who’s coming?”

“Italy wouldn’t be a bad honeymoon spot,” says Bernadette.

“On the Bridge of Sighs, you’ve got to be alone,” says Nana. “Even if you’re with someone, you’re not. April, you should go.”

“To tell you the truth, Nana, it doesn’t sound tempting.”

“That’s what everyone thinks until he stands there. You’d be surprised what a little solitude can work in your soul.”

“A little companionship don’t hurt, neither,” says Mr. Bergfalk. “These are young people, Reina. What they need is to be in
love, not standing on some lonely bridge.”

“You think there’s a difference?” says Nana.

Oliver’s skin prickles. He feels April fidget, the scruff of her jeans rubbing his. Warmth radiates from her thigh. He takes
a sip of water, not daring to look at her.

“If you don’t mind me saying so,” says Mr. Bergfalk to April, “you ought to devote less time to me and your grandma’s social
life and more to your own.”

“The men she picks,” says Nana, “she’s better off sitting here with us.”

April rolls her eyes. “I need to use the bathroom,” she says to Oliver. “Excuse me.”

“You must know some nice fellows in law school,” says Nana.

“What about Jeff?” says Bernadette. “We could invite him next week.”

“I need to get out of here,” April says, but no one moves.

“We’re having a barbecue on the twenty-fourth,” says Bernadette. “Why don’t you come?”

“No,” April says. “I mean, thanks for the invitation, but can you please let me out so I can use the bathroom?”

Bernadette and Oliver stand, letting April slip by.

Oliver runs his hand down his face. Trying to push April always backfired. In that way, she has not changed at all.

She takes her time coming back. Oliver spots her at the counter, watching the last minutes of the Knicks game. He gets up
to take the check to the register and goes to her.

“They’re losing in overtime,” she says. “I just saw Al in the press box.”

Oliver gives her shoulder the faintest touch. “April,” he whispers. “It’s only been six months. You can’t expect to feel better
already.”

Her eyes flash. “Why do you think everything has to do with Buddy? This has nothing to do with him. For God’s sake, I go out
for a few drinks and everyone worries that I’m going out for drinks. I stay home, everyone worries that I’m staying home.”

“Come on the twenty-fourth,” he says. “No hidden agendas.”

“If I do, I’ll bring my
own
date.”

“Good,” he says. “Do that.”

K
ENNY TAKES A HARD LEFT
, forcing April against the door. He looks at her and laughs. She slaps his arm in mock indignation. He likes the car’s power,
driving with one hand on the wheel, the other draped out the window. His fingers are stubby, arms covered with pale, fleecy
hair. He is clean-shaven, his silken red hair cropped to his skull. He has the face of a boy, round and soft, squinty-eyed,
always smiling. Seeing him there, chin cocked, April feels her stomach quiver.

“So will there be anything good at this party?” he asks.

“I’ll be there.” She smiles.

“You know what I mean.”

“I told you, they’re not exactly the wild type. We’ll just stay a few minutes.”

“Ashamed of me?” He raises an eyebrow.

She laughs, though she isn’t sure.

They pull into the town house complex. A neat row of boxwood lines the drive, and urns of periwinkle announce each doorway.
Beyond the tennis court glints the shimmering surface of a pool. A cyclist crosses in front of them wearing a lime-green jersey
and a torpedo-shaped helmet. The bike, April supposes, is worth more than her car.

“Tell me he’s a student and he lives here,” Ken says.

“He works, too. Number thirty-three. Over there.”

“Jesus Christ,” Kenny says, parking.

April knows she must be out of her mind. Oliver left another message on her machine asking her to come, saying she was isolating
herself and that she needed the family. Family, she thinks. She and Oliver aren’t even from the same planet.

She freshens her lipstick, glancing in the mirror on the visor. Kenny opens her door, smiling as she stands. “You look hot,”
he says.

She flushes, unsure if it is a compliment or threat. “Let’s skip the party,” she says.

A muscle twitches at the base of Kenny’s jaw. A swift, almost imperceptible shadow crosses his pale gray eyes. “One beer,”
he says. “So I can check out your folks.”

They walk around to the back patio of the town house. The grass is lush and uniform, without a single weed. “Kenny.” She puts
her hand on his arm. “Let’s split. I’m not feeling well.”

“Nice try.” He smirks and enters the yard.

The air smells of hamburgers and lighter fluid. There are two dozen or so people standing around, some sitting in lawn chairs.
They all look young and collegial, casually but expensively dressed. She wants to die.

When she spots Oliver at the grill, he looks at her with astonishment, skewer in hand. Clearly, he didn’t expect her to show.
His eyes go to her skirt, which is short, the color of cantaloupe. God, what was she thinking? Oliver comes directly over,
wiping his hands on his apron.

“Ken,” she says, reaching for a potato chip. “This is my cousin Oliver.”

“Oliver?” Ken says. “For real?”

She elbows him.

“Can I call you Ollie?”

“No,” April says firmly.

Oliver glances at April, more amazed than insulted.

“Like them puppets,” Ken says. “Kukla, Fran, and Ollie. Wasn’t Ollie the snake?”

“His name is Oliver, and wasn’t that before your time?”

“I watch a lot of late-night television, babe. Nice to meet you,
Ol-iv-er,
” he says, exaggerating each syllable.

“You, too,
Ken-neth
.” Oliver smiles.

“See that?” Ken grins, poking April. “Ollie here’s joshing around with me. Hey, got any brew?”

Oliver ignores the question and kisses her cheek. “April,” he says, squeezing her arm too tightly. “I’m glad you decided to
come.” His clothing smells of hickory from smoking the meat. “Honey,” he calls. “Come meet April’s friend.”

“How do you do.” Bernadette’s eyes graze Ken’s massive arms, then April’s legs. Seeing her horror, April feels queasy. She
is aware that everyone is staring at them.
What the hell,
she thinks. She’s here now. This is happening. She may as well play the part. “Got any beer, Oliver?” She keeps her sunglasses
on.

“In the cooler.”

April walks away briskly, leaving them alone. It won’t do any good to stand around and finesse things. Whatever is going to
happen will happen whether or not she tries to control it; that’s one thing she’s learned.

She goes inside to use the bathroom and pauses in Oliver’s living room. She kicks off her sandals so as not to dirty the creamy
carpet, which feels thick beneath her feet. She takes a deep breath and tries to steady her pulse. Except for his childhood
home, she’s never been in a place that belonged to Oliver. Although Bernadette has not officially moved in, April sees her
influence: gingham curtains, the lavender smell of potpourri, and cheerful artwork colored by children—butterflies and rainbows.
She looks around for the portrait of Oliver’s mother, but it’s not here.

April always loved that portrait, painted when her aunt Avila was in her twenties. It made her look elegant, kind, like Princess
Grace. When she died and Hal offered it to the boys, they flipped a coin for it. Al lost. But where is it now?

After using the bathroom, April enters Oliver’s room. She knows it is the wrong thing to do, but she’s so deep in mistakes
now, what does it matter? As a teenager, Oliver kept a photograph on his bureau of the four stepcousins. It was taken on the
water flume at Great Adventure when they were children. They were sitting in a pseudo-log, tightly packed in size order. Buddy
was four, April and Oliver twelve, and Al fifteen.

As the photograph was taken, the log was careering down a precipice, water hurling at the children. Buddy was wide-eyed, holding
on with elbows locked. Al was howling, fist in the air. April had both arms flung skyward, half out of her seat, laughing
with her mouth open as Oliver, taking a gush of water in his face, held on to the back of her belt to keep her from going
overboard.

The photograph is not here. Instead April sees a picture of Oliver and Bernadette standing under a blooming dogwood, a posed
shot. His arm is firmly around her waist, their smiles wide. April touches it, wondering where it was taken, and what backdrop
was cut away to make it fit in the oval frame.

She hears voices and quickly leaves. Outside, she heads for a beer.

“Hey, Rose,” Al says as she bends over the cooler. “That’s one hell of a skirt you almost have on.”

“Better watch yourself, Al. My guy is here.”

“I can see that,” he says, signaling for her to pass him a cold one.

She sits next to Al on top of the picnic table. Oliver and Kenny are still talking; Bernadette has drifted away. Kenny is
standing with his sunglasses on, hands folded over his chest, shaking his head at something Oliver said. April cannot imagine
what they are talking about.

“Pretty gutsy of you, Rose,” Al says.

“Ken’s just a friend.”

“Right.”

“Don’t you believe in platonic relationships?”

“No.”

“What about us?”

“Case in point.”

She laughs, wiping the bottle of Amstel on her sleeve. She takes a sip.

“Rose, do me a favor. Tell me this new guy of yours is a teddy bear.”

“He is.”

“Wouldn’t raise a hand to you if his life depended on it.”

“Damn right.”

“Does he work?”

She takes another sip.

“Don’t tell me,” Al says. “Just checked out of Riker’s Island.”

“He’s a debt collector.”

“What?”

“A repossessor.”

“Oh, God.”

“Hey, at least he pays his bills.”

“And yours, too?”

She looks at him sharply.

“Listen, Rose, if you need cash I’d be more than happy—”

“I don’t, and no one pays my bills but me.”

“T.J. leave you with some debt?”

“It’s fine, Al.”

“Rose, you should let us help you out.”

“I got myself into this, I’ll get myself out. I just don’t want to lose Buddy’s car.”

“Your car,” he says. “And frankly, you could do better.”

The bottle is cold and wet in her hand. She holds it between her knees, feeling goose bumps on her thighs. Al slides closer,
glancing back at Kenny. “You know, Rose, I’ve seen hockey players with no teeth, linebackers with necks like tree trunks,
but your guy there has got to be the ugliest son of a bitch I ever laid eyes on.”

She laughs. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She takes another swig, tilting her head back, and feels her skin go warm all
at once. Someone has come up close behind her. “Besides,” she says. “It’s never the mean-looking ones who are dangerous. It’s
the clean-cut guys you got to look out for. Right, Oliver?” She feels his breath.

“You’re the expert,” Oliver answers.

She turns to look at him, her skin tingling. “Where’s Ken?”

“Taking a piss.”

“Like my skirt?”

“If it were any shorter, it would be around your neck,” Oliver says. Al laughs, but Oliver does not.

“Oops,” she says. “Have I embarrassed you?”

“No,” he says. “Only yourself.”

“Get off it, Oliver,” Al says. “A woman with legs like that has a responsibility to show them.”

April laughs nervously. As someone goes into the house, she catches her reflection in the sliding glass door. It is true;
the skirt is short, even by her standards. She remembers as a teenager trying on her mother’s lingerie, which she found in
an attic trunk—garters that took forever to snap, a crotchless teddy with the tits cut out. She caught her breath as she saw
her reflection: The lingerie made her look curvaceous, seductive, cheap; more grown-up than she ever imagined she would be.
But her face in the mirror was stark. She felt ashamed of her mother for the futile, demeaning measures she had taken to keep
her husband home.