April & Oliver (36 page)

Oliver stands and goes over. He pulls up a chair and sits down, taking his grandmother’s hand. “Nana, you’ve still got the
moves.”

She rolls her eyes and smiles. “Oliver,” she says, patting his cheek. Her face is flushed, and Oliver wonders if Al overexerted
her. Nana glances across the room at Bernadette. At this distance, her hair looks nearly white, the same hue as her dress,
giving her a lithe, unearthly appearance.

“Oliver,” Nana says. “Are you nervous?”

“Not really.” He turns to her.

“I was nervous when I married your grandfather. I thought: This is too good to be true; there’s got to be a hitch.”

Oliver smiles.

“He was a fine man, your grandfather. Your father turned out just like him.”

“That’s because you did a good job raising him,” April says. She has Nana’s foot on her lap, massaging her toes, unconcerned
that her own dress might get dirty on the floor. It is dark red; a color you might expect of April, but one she rarely wears.
The cotton knit fabric holds her shape, not clingy, but suggestive, the hem just above the knee.

“Enough,” Nana says, pulling her foot away. “Do you want me to embarrass Oliver in front of his in-laws?”

April smiles a quick, easy smile, much like Nana’s. She pats her grandmother’s leg as she sets it down, and catches Oliver’s
eye. Warmth spreads in his chest. The glance is instantaneous, reflexive, yet it contains everything.

“You ought to leave your shoes off,” April says to Nana. “Your feet are swollen.”

“Sure,” Nana says. “And walk to the parking lot in my stocking feet?”

“I’ll carry you,” Al says. “People will think you’re my tipsy girlfriend.”

Nana swats his hand. She touches her curls again as April puts on her shoes. “April, my hair’s falling down.”

“I’ll redo it in the morning. Don’t forget to set your clock. We can’t be late for the wedding.”

“Oliver wouldn’t get married without me, right?” Nana squeezes his hand.

“Never,” he says.

April gets to her feet. Oliver almost helps her up, but decides against it. As she sits down, Al squeezes into the same chair,
edging her to one side, though there are plenty of empty seats. “Hear my news?” Al says.

“What’s that?” Oliver says, taking a sip of Nana’s water.

“Sent my résumé to the
Globe,
and they called me for an interview last week.”

“The
Boston Globe
?”

“Offered me the job yesterday.”

Oliver is not entirely surprised. Al went to BU and always liked the city. “Congratulations.”

“And the best part,” Al says, putting his arm around April, “is that Rose is coming with me.”

Oliver nearly chokes on the water.

“What?” Nana says.

“Al,” April says, pushing his arm off her. “I did not say that.”

“But she’s coming around.” Al winks. “I’ve even scoped out an apartment for her in Nahant, right near the ocean. No one can
refuse that.”

Oliver brings a napkin to his mouth, clearing his throat.

“You okay?” Al asks.

“Went down the wrong pipe,” he says, taking another sip.

“April?” Nana says.

“Relax,” she says. “I’m not going anywhere.” She gives Al an annoyed look. “We should hit the road,” she says, patting Nana’s
hand. “It’s going to be a full day tomorrow.”

“Hal is taking me home,” Nana says.

“Are you sure?” April says, glancing around the room.

“She’s sure,” Al says. “Let’s you and me go for a nightcap.”

“No,” April says. “I’m tired.”

“Just one,” Al says. “Oliver, will you join us? Last night of bachelorhood, after all.”

Oliver glances at Bernadette and sees she is walking in his direction.

“Come on,” Al says. “It’s my responsibility as best man to take you out for a drink. We’ll get Rose here to pop out of a cake.”

April elbows him. Bernadette appears at Oliver’s side. He takes her hand. “No thanks,” he says. “I’ll save my energy for the
morning.”

Bernadette kisses Al good night. “Hope you’re planning to dance with the bride tomorrow.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” He grins, though not convincingly.

Bernadette turns to April. Oliver searches for some sign of jealousy or resentment, but Bernadette’s eyes are clear, her smile
genuine. He is moved by her magnanimity. Whatever fury possessed her a few weeks ago is gone. She is all Bernadette now, graceful,
kindhearted, elegant. He squeezes her hand, and she returns the pressure.

“Come on over to my parents’ house in the morning if you want to get dressed together,” Bernadette says to April. “We’ll have
a hairdresser and makeup artist.”

“Thanks,” April says, “but I’ll be getting Nana together. We’ll meet you at the church, if that’s okay.”

Oliver is aware of Bernadette’s effort to be kind. It humbles him. Eventually they will likely move to California, and except
for occasional trips, April will return to being someone from his past. He reminds himself that years went by in his life
when he barely thought of her at all. He was perfectly happy during that time. Perfectly. It’s normal to feel sadness; marriage
is as much letting go of the past as it is embracing the future. Everyone knows that.

He watches April and Al leave. As soon as they pass through the door, Al slings his arm gruffly around April’s shoulder. He
wonders about Boston, and what might happen now that Oliver is getting married. He tells himself it doesn’t matter.

“I think it went well,” Bernadette says when everyone is gone.

Oliver nods.

They walk to their cars. The parking lot is empty except for a few vehicles, including two at the far end, shrouded in darkness.
He can barely see them.

“You’re quiet,” she says.

“I’m fine,” he says. “How about you? Any jitters?”

“I just hope my hair comes out okay.”

“Bernadette, if there’s anything certain, it’s that you’ll look perfect.”

She smiles, though not happily, he thinks. He opens her door.

“You know I love you, don’t you?” he says.

“Of course.” She laughs, kissing him once more.

“You look beautiful tonight.”

“You told me that already.” She pats his cheek. “I can’t wait for my kids to see my dress tomorrow. They’ll get such a kick.
I can already picture them playing with the train.”

“You’re their princess,” he says.

“Just don’t expect it to be a quiet ceremony,” she says. “I wouldn’t put it past some of them to do cartwheels in the aisle.”

He smiles. “I may do a few myself.”

She smiles sadly, then looks down, covering her eyes. “I only wish my sister could be there.”

He takes her in his arms.

“I’m fine,” she says. “And if I ruin my makeup with tears tomorrow, you can shoot me.”

“Don’t wear makeup,” he says. “You don’t need it. You’re so beautiful. I don’t know how I got so lucky. What are you doing
with me, anyway?”

Her smile fades. She looks at him. “It won’t all be easy, Oliver. The first year usually isn’t. But we’ll do fine. We’re going
to have a good marriage.”

He nods. There are tears in his eyes but he has no idea how they got there. She cups her hands around his face and kisses
each eyelid. “Geez, look at
me
.” He laughs, wiping his eyes.

“You’re a good man, Oliver. Whatever we have to work through, we will.”

He nods, brushing drops from his chin.

She studies him for a long moment.

“Bernadette,” he says solemnly. “I just hope I’m all you deserve.”

“You are,” she says without hesitation, “and more.” She kisses him once more and gets into her car. “See you at the church.”

Oliver waves, watching her drive off.

He stands alone in the empty lot, riveted by the crush of stars overhead, the tattering of leaves along asphalt. He raises
his hands over his head and closes his eyes, feeling the coolness of the air against his skin, the sweet, merciless touch
of the breeze.

He hears movement down by the other cars. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and for a moment he imagines he sees a white
sedan and a red Jeep. If April and Al were still around, would he join them? Why would he even consider it?

The cars are not theirs. Two teenage employees amble from the restaurant, laughing and bumping hips. The boy takes the girl’s
hand. He presses her against the brick wall of the building, her hair framed in ivy, and kisses her until Oliver feels his
knees go weak. He starts his car and shifts into reverse.

He’s not going to deceive himself. Of course Bernadette deserves better, but he will do his best to make it up to her. Over
time, perhaps, he can become the man she thinks he is.

Just as he is about to pull away he notices another car in the lot. A rather tall man is loading cartons into the back of
an old station wagon. He looks familiar. A queer sensation comes over Oliver. He pulls back into his spot and watches the
man. He gets out and walks over. The man, bending over, jerks up with surprise. “Hey, Oliver,” he says. “You scared the life
out of me.”

“Quincy,” he says, dazed.

“Didn’t your father tell you? He asked me to provide the liquor tonight. Apparently, I brought too much. Better that than
running out, I figure.” He grins that gentle, benign smile. “So, son, you all set for tomorrow?”

The odd feeling is getting worse. Oliver stares at him. “Uh, sure,” he says. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Better go on home and get some sleep, then. Good luck tomorrow.”

Oliver gets back in his car, watches Quincy pull away. Only then does he think of his mother’s journal, the back room of the
bar, April’s insistence that it was not her father. “Oh, God,” Oliver says, watching the car swing out of the lot. “It was
him.”

O
LIVER PARKS ACROSS THE STREET
and watches Quincy enter his house. He wonders if he noticed Oliver following him. The lot grades down from the curb so that
the rust-colored ranch sits below street level. Someone has raked a staggering pile of leaves beside the driveway and then
left them to blow. At the edge sits a child’s pink bicycle.

A short, fortyish woman answers the door. She is Asian looking, with a tidy haircut that sweeps beneath her chin. “Can I help
you?” she asks warily. It’s midnight, after all. Her eyes move from Oliver’s suit up to his face. “Were you in an accident?”

It occurs to him only then that he is soaking wet, his hair stuck to his forehead, suit dripping. When had it started raining?

The door opens farther and Quincy appears behind her. His mouth opens in what Oliver takes for fright. “Oliver,” he says.
“Good Lord. Pam, this is Hal’s son, the party I worked tonight.”

“Ah,” she says. “Aren’t you getting married in a few hours?” She looks at her watch.

Oliver knows he should answer, but nothing comes. He turns to Quincy. “Can we talk for a minute?”

Quincy’s eyes widen. “Of course,” he says without stepping aside. “Let me think. We can go to the den.”

“Why not here?” asks his wife, gesturing to the couch. She is attractive, tired looking, older, perhaps, than Oliver first
thought. “I’ll make tea.”

“The den is better,” Quincy says. “To keep from waking the kids. Pam was just getting ready for bed herself.”

“Tea won’t be necessary,” Oliver says. “Thank you.”

She scrutinizes Quincy for a moment. “Fine,” she says. “I’ll say good night then.”

In the den, Quincy does not offer to take Oliver’s jacket. He closes the door behind them, hesitates, and then opens it again.
“I’d better kiss the girls good night in case they’ve waited up for me.”

Alone, Oliver appraises the room. It feels lived-in, with a bowl of half-eaten popcorn on the coffee table and LEGOs scattered
on the worn carpet. Beside the window stands a piano with a child’s practice book open on the ledge. Above the piano are family
photos: the girls, roughly five and eight, both resembling their mother, and grandparents from both sides. Beside these is
a much older, sepia-colored picture, cracked but carefully framed, of an elderly Chinese woman wearing a high-collared jacket.
She is diminutive but elegant. The proportions in the photo are off somehow. Oliver leans closer, his fingers grazing the
piano, and sees that the woman’s feet are the size of lemons. He gives a jolt, accidentally banging the keys. The dissonance
rings through the room.

Quincy comes in, closes the door, and circles the couch without sitting down. “Yes, Oliver,” he says quietly. “Was something
wrong with the liquor?”

Oliver realizes now how drenched he is, shivering inside his clothes. “I want to talk about my mother.”

“Your mother?”

“My mother and you.”

Quincy looks behind him to see that the door is closed. “What are you talking about, son?”

“You don’t seem to have any qualms about doing business with my father, taking his money.”

“Should I?”

Oliver raises his eyebrows. “I see. Why should screwing a man’s wife deter a good business relationship.”

He winces. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“I have my mother’s journal. I have proof.”

“Good Lord, Oliver. You’re talking twenty years ago. I’ve long since done my penance.”

“I’d like to know how it started.”

“No, son, there’s no point. You need to leave.”

Oliver sits down. “Shall we call your wife in? She might be interested.”

“I’ve got nothing to hide. I wasn’t married back then.”

“But my mother was.”

Quincy frowns. “What happened was between us. It doesn’t involve you.”

“You’re right,” he says, standing. “It’s my father you should explain things to. Let’s call him up.”

“Hold on,” he says with irritation. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“From the beginning.”

Quincy sighs miserably. “We’d dated before she met your father. I was her accompaniment at a place in the city called Viva’s.”

“Accompaniment?”

“You know, on the piano. She should have kept singing. You know what a voice she had. Anyway, people give things up for their
own reasons.”

Oliver glances at the piano.