April & Oliver (32 page)

Dubious charges back, crashing into April’s knees, and sits against her, panting.

“Base,” says Oliver.

“What a chicken,” says April.

“So what kind of relationship was it?” Oliver asks, offering the cashews.

“You’re not really supposed to bring food in here,” she says. “Some dogs can be food-aggressive. Look, this one is already
on to you.” A dalmatian mix sits expectantly at Oliver’s feet. A boxer follows, sniffing his pockets.

“Oops,” Oliver says, putting the nuts away. “Shoo,” he tells them. “Before you get me in trouble with the drill sergeant.”
But the supervisor has her back turned. The dogs give up and move away.

“So?” Oliver says.

“Hm?”

“My question.”

“I don’t know, Oliver. I didn’t give it much thought.”

“But what did you two talk about?”

“Let’s just say that words were not the basis of the relationship. Doobie!” she shouts as the dog starts chewing on a pinecone.
“Drop it!”

The dog dutifully drops the prize and looks up, head tilted.

“Seeing anyone now?” Oliver asks, popping another cashew into his mouth.

April puts her hand on her hip, looking up at him.

“Just curious,” he says, shrugging.

“I’m on sabbatical, if you must know,” she says.

He passes her some cashews. She can see he is pleased with her answer. The dalmatian returns.

“You’re a troublemaker here,” April tells Oliver. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“Sabbatical, eh? I guess I’ll have to give up on the idea of a double wedding.”

She laughs. “I’m never getting married,” she says, as if nothing could be more obvious.

“Ever?”

“Why should I?”

“Well, you might fall in love.”

“People use that expression as if it’s something that happens involuntarily, like getting clubbed by a caveman.”

“Ah, you’re such a romantic.”

“Marriage isn’t for me. Mowing a lawn, basting a turkey, I wouldn’t know how to do those things.”

“Not all marriages are ordinary, you know. People live in lofts in the city, cabins in the woods. It doesn’t always involve
lawns and turkeys.”

“I’m not up for the crapshoot, which is what marriage is. Except for you and Bernadette,” she adds quickly. “You two are cut
out for it. You’re grown-ups, I mean.”

“And you’re not?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“April, you were grown up when you were nine years old.”

“Well, maybe that’s my problem. Look, you can appreciate why I don’t want to have a life like my parents. Nothing against
them. They did their best.”

“Did they?”

“I’ve made my peace with them, Oliver. They had limitations, but so do we all. I just happen to be aware of mine, and that’s
why I’m staying single.”

“So what then? A lifetime of tending bar?”

“I didn’t say that, either. I haven’t figured things out yet. I’m a late bloomer.”

He smiles at this, and spontaneously kisses her on the cheek.

“Good-bye, then,” she says, flustered.

“Same time next week?”

“No,” she says. “You need to hit the books.”

“Chloe!” a woman screams at her wrestling dog. “Knock it off!”

A queer sensation comes over April. Without realizing it she puts her hand on Oliver’s sleeve. He pauses, watching her. “Chloe,”
April says. “That name was in my dream last night. A little girl on a beach. She was running away from me, giggling. She had
black hair, and when she turned to look at me, her eyes were the most amazing blue.” She looks up at Oliver, those clear,
cerulean eyes. A feeling of recognition crosses her mind, and in the same instant fear. She withdraws her hand, folding her
arms in front of her.

He looks at her, his smile fading as he tries to piece together what he’s heard.

“Right, then,” she says. “Good-bye, Oliver.”

He nods and takes his leave. April stares curiously at the three perfect little cashews still in her hand.

O
LIVER’S VOICE IS
hoarse from talking above the music. The roughly hewn rafters of the Buckboard Inn are incongruous with the whirling strobe
lights and amplified sound. A leather harness hangs over the bar, and a yoke for oxen on the wall near Oliver’s head. Bernadette
sits beside him, tapping her fingers to the beat, a hint that she wants to dance.

Oliver looks at the dance floor and decides it’s too crowded. His eyes fall to one couple in particular. The beat is fast,
and they dance without looking at each other, the woman twisting in place, chin raised, elbows at her sides, and the man flailing
his arms and legs as if ridding himself of fleas. There is no synchronization, each dancing with an imaginary partner.

Oliver and Bernadette have spent the evening in a candlelit booth, drinking wine and dancing only occasionally. Oliver left
a message on Al’s machine suggesting he join them, and bring a date, but he is not surprised that his brother didn’t show.

“How are you holding up?” Oliver asks.

“Fading,” Bernadette says.

He reaches for the check and cracks open a peanut shell, though he isn’t hungry anymore. “Look who’s here,” she says. “And
it’s only midnight.”

Oliver spots Al weaving through the dance floor, April in tow. She is wearing the black dress from Buddy’s funeral. Drop waist.
Swingy hem above the knee. He thinks of the button he never returned.

Al spots them and comes over, his face ruddy and animated. “Look who I dragged out,” he says, holding up April’s hand like
a prizefighter. She smiles, pulling her arm away. It was only a week ago that he saw her at the dog park, but meeting her
here feels entirely different. “You guys aren’t leaving, are you?” Al asks.

“We’ve been here all night,” Oliver says.

“We can stay a little longer,” Bernadette says. “Why not?”

“Order us two glasses of champagne.” Al tosses a twenty on the table. “I’m feeling lucky.”

April smiles. “He’s been saying that all night.”

Al leads her to the dance floor, his hand low on her back. Bernadette looks at Oliver and raises her eyebrow. “Someday you’ll
have to explain their relationship to me.”

“I wouldn’t mind an explanation myself,” Oliver says.

Al and April move in staccato percussion. Oliver saw them dance once before, at a friend’s wedding. Their presence on the
floor is electrifying, the kind of couple you have to stare at. Bernadette clears her throat, fanning herself.

The new song is slow. A man taps Al’s shoulder in an apparent effort to cut in. Al lets go of April and puts his arms around
the man, who leaps back, cursing. April laughs. The man reaches for her hand, but Al pulls her against him, hand around her
waist, and dismisses him with a shake of the head.

“Come on,” Oliver says to Bernadette. “This one and we’ll go.”

She smiles gratefully and follows him onto the dance floor.

Al and April dance cheek-to-cheek, his leg between hers, their bodies pressed together. Her eyes are closed, his open.

“Holy smokes,” Bernadette whispers, fanning herself.

Oliver draws Bernadette closer, but no matter how he positions himself, he cannot hold her as closely as Al does April.

Al moves over to where they are dancing. “Okay,” he says, releasing April’s hand and taking Bernadette’s. “Time to spice things
up.” He draws Bernadette against him, her eyes startled, and sways her to the music. Bernadette looks at Oliver with alarm.
She is too polite to object, Oliver thinks, but Al ought to see for himself that she isn’t the type of woman who appreciates
his melodrama.

“Yo, Al,” Oliver says. “What do you think you’re doing?”

April takes a step back toward the table. Al dips Bernadette dramatically and her bun comes undone, her hair brushing the
floor. To Oliver’s amazement, Bernadette shrieks, her laughter hard and bright. “Hey,” Al calls. “Don’t just stand there,
dimwits.”

Oliver’s skin goes cold. He looks at April, her smile tense.
What the hell,
he offers his hand. She hesitates, then takes it. Her fingers are icy, her body wooden in his arms. He watches his brother
slide his hand down Bernadette’s hip as he sings to the music. They look surprisingly natural, unlike April and him, who dance
with bodies apart, stiff and formal. Bernadette catches Oliver’s eye and winks with a bemused smile.

The same man who tried to cut in on Al taps Oliver’s shoulder. “Adele,” he says. “Remember me? We met—”

Oliver responds by pulling April closer, turning her away from the man. Her hand on his shoulder feels tentative, her posture
rigid. Her hair smells of his brother’s cigarettes. Oliver looks for Al and Bernadette but can no longer see them.

“Doobie’s home alone?” Oliver asks.

“I left the radio on for him. He likes the talk stations.”

“Chewed any more slippers?”

“No, but the landlord’s on to me. I had to put down an extra security deposit. See what you got me into?”

“I think you should consider agility classes for him, that is, once he masters the basic stuff.”

“Sure,” she says. “And when he’s old enough, why not soccer and Little League?”

He meets her eye. The nearness of her smile makes him waver on his feet.

“Maybe we should sit down,” she says, glancing away again.

“Right,” he says, but a new song begins, “I Heard It Through the Grapevine.”
Without needing to discuss it they release each other and start moving to the music. His body remembers the way he used to
dance with her as teenagers, the rhythm and synchronicity they shared intuitively without ever having to touch. He sees the
music take possession of her down to every finger and pore. They don’t touch because they don’t need to. The song takes hold
of them, and for a few exhilarating moments they are not their own.

The notes end. She smiles at him in a satisfied way and turns to leave.

Oliver spots Bernadette and Al in a far corner and goes over to them. “Think you can get any closer, Al?” It’s the right thing
to say, though Oliver is not jealous.

“All in fun,” Al says, raising his hands. “Terrific dancer, your bride.”

“I’m aware of that,” Oliver says, putting his arm around her.

Al tips an imaginary hat. “Night, folks.” He moves to the bar and sits beside a blond woman wearing polka-dot tights and a
striped mini skirt. He takes out a cigarette and offers her one, gesturing toward the door.

“He’s too much.” Bernadette smiles, a little breathless. They walk back to the table.

“You didn’t seem to mind,” Oliver says, panning the room.

“He’s quite a dancer.” Bernadette slings her purse over her shoulder.

“I’m not sure I’d call what he was doing dancing.”

“I trust you didn’t suffer too much with April.”

Oliver glances at her, but she does not meet his eye. He counts out the tip money. Bernadette drapes her sweater over her
shoulders and puts her arm through his. They step out the front door. April is sitting on the steps with her jacket huddled
around her.

“Isn’t Al taking you home?” Oliver asks.

She smiles. “Something came up, so to speak.”

“Come on,” Bernadette says. “We’ll drive you.”

“I already called a cab.”

The doors open and Al comes out with the polka-dot girl.
It didn’t take him long,
Oliver thinks.

“Oh, Rose,” he says. “There you are.”

April bats her eyelashes.

“Priscilla, this is my pal, Rose. Do you need a lift, sweetheart?”

“I called a cab,” April says, standing up.

“Here, take my Jeep.” He puts his keys in her hand. “Priscilla’s driving. In fact, why don’t you stay at my place?”

“Thanks, but you know I can’t sleep without trains.” April returns the keys.

Al exhales smoke and kisses her, giving the illusion that their lips are smoldering. He steps away then comes back. “One for
the Yankees,” he says, and kisses her again, longer this time. The blonde folds her arms across her chest. “Old family friend,”
Al explains, wiping his mouth. He takes the woman’s arm and they walk off.

Oliver shakes his head.

A taxi pulls into the lot and toots its horn. “Night,” April says, slipping into the back.

In the car, Bernadette folds her hands in her lap while Oliver drives. He keeps his eyes on the highway. The thought of Al
irritates him.

“April was certainly decked out tonight, wasn’t she,” Bernadette says, smoothing out her skirt.

“Hm?” he says. “Oh, I guess so.”

“I take it you’ve danced with her before. No one moves like that their first time out.”

“Ages ago,” he says. “I guess it’s one of those things, like riding a bicycle.”

She gazes out the window. “Is there anything else I should know about?” she says. “From ages ago?”

“No, Bernadette. It was never like that.”

She nods uncertainly. “But you’ve thought about it, haven’t you.”

Oliver glances over at her. The car shudders violently as the wheels hit the rumble strip on the shoulder. Oliver rights it
at once. A tractor trailer whizzes by them on the left. The car wavers in the back draft. “Sorry,” Oliver says, steadying
the wheel. He catches his breath.

Bernadette’s hand is braced on the dashboard. She brings it back to her chest. “Should I take that as an answer?”

“The answer is no, Bernadette, and I wish you wouldn’t do this.”

“But you have to admit that you want to help her, don’t you?”

He wants to see Bernadette’s expression but tells himself to watch the road.

“The dog,” she says calmly. “The money.”

“I offered her money for the vet. She didn’t take it.”

“I’m talking about the fact that you offered.”

“She’s lost everything,” he says. “She’s still paying the bank for Buddy’s funeral. Her father left her nothing but debt.”

“What about the bar?”

“Knowing Quincy, there are probably liens on it.”

“I know you sympathize with her. You’re a good person, Oliver. I just think you should be careful.”

He waits for a long moment, studying the traffic. “Careful of what?”

“The way you look at her now, it’s different from when we first moved from California.”