O+F Part 17

"All right!" Oliver said.

That week, Oliver bought a round trip ticket to Portland, Oregon and a seven day Hawaiian vacation package that left from Portland. Porter would be glad to stay in the apartment and cat-sit, Arlen informed him.

The three met for lunch in the Old Port. Porter was round and jovial, balding with a small spade shaped beard and one gold earring. He was a baker. His fists bunched like hard rolls when he wasn't eating or telling jokes. Oliver was well satisfied with him.

Oliver took to walking on Crescent Beach early in the morning. It was cold, foggy sometimes, but always refres.h.i.+ng. He walked the upper path that led through woods and across a field to a rocky sh.o.r.eline. From there, the path turned eastward, following the sh.o.r.e to the beach and to the main parking lot, closed at that time of year. One morning he noticed an unusual arrangement of sticks and rocks near the beginning of the beach. The sticks were jammed into the sand at odd angles. Small rocks were piled to suggest barricades. It was like a kid's fort but more sophisticated.

The next morning, the fort had become a small town with a watchtower at its center. Two days later, there was only a low wall protecting a woven matting of driftwood sticks. Oliver imagined an art student practicing, seeing what things looked like as he or she made them.

On Sunday, Oliver had breakfast at six. The park was empty when he arrived. The leaves were damp and thick on the ground except for a few coppery oak leaves, always the last to fall. Tough stuff, oak, Oliver thought. He stopped to look for the latest sculpture. At first, he saw only random driftwood. It was as though a storm at high tide had leveled all traces of beach-goers. It was a loss. He had begun to connect with the anonymous arrangements; he looked forward to seeing them.

His attention was drawn to a protected spot below an eroded bank. Beach gra.s.s hung forward over the edge of the bank. A semicircle of thin flat stones stood upright in the sand. Oliver approached. They stood like Easter Island miniatures, thin sides facing the ocean. Oliver's imagination shrunk and stood on the stand looking up at them. Just then, the sun rose. Golden light swept over the ocean, up the beach, caught in the overhanging bank, and leaped on across the continent. The stone people were the first to see it.

"Oliver?"

He jumped. Someone had come along the path. Francesca! "Oh, hi!" he said. "You scared me. Look at this." He motioned her over and pointed.

"The Early People--they've been waiting for the sun."

"So have I," Francesca said. She was wearing tan jeans and a long gray sweats.h.i.+rt. "Brrr."

"Somebody keeps making sculptures here," Oliver said. "I started noticing them this week."

"Do you come here often?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"I try to walk here on Sunday mornings. Conor takes care of the girls, and I get some time to myself."

"It's so beautiful, here. Any time of year," Oliver said. Francesca bent over.

"Cute," she said. "Did you see the little ones?" She put a finger in the sand behind one of the Early People. There were three very much smaller stones imitating their elders.

"Pretty good," Oliver said. "I didn't see them."

Francesca straightened. "Let's walk."

Oliver fell into step beside her.

"I haven't seen you in ages," she said.

"I know. How are the girls?"

"Maria has an earache, but it's getting better. They're fine." She gave him an encouraging look.

"I made something for you--a present."

"Oooo . . ."

"I was going to mail it, but I didn't want to embarra.s.s you."

"It's been a long time since I was embarra.s.sed."

"It's a valentine."

"Now I'm really curious," she said. What am I doing? he asked himself.

Too late now. Francesca rubbed the end of her nose with her palm. "You could bring it to me next Sunday."

"Yes. Oh, d.a.m.n! I'm leaving on Thursday; I won't be here."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to Hawaii. I'm going to try and find my father. I've never met him. He's j.a.panese. I am too, I guess. Half."

"Caramba!" Francesca said.

"So I can't be here, Sunday. I wish . . ."

"Mail it," she said. "I could use a valentine."

"O.K. Will just 'Cape Elizabeth' get to you?"

"Old Toll Road, 420," she said. A lobster boat started its engine in the distance.

"How tall are you?" Oliver asked.

"Six feet, even."

"I'm five, two. Funny thing is--I don't feel short around you. I did when I first saw you in Becky's, but now I don't." A quick smile crossed her face. She turned her head toward the water.

"Careful," she said quietly. He barely heard her. "When will you be back?" she asked more loudly.

"Don't know. Couple of weeks, I think. Maybe I'll see you out here?"

"Until the snow gets too deep," she said.

"I'll see you, then," Oliver said, stopping. "I'll leave you to your peace and quiet."

"Be safe," she said. Oliver waved and walked back the way they had come. The sun was clear of the horizon, promising warmth.

"Yes!" he said. The Early People had an air of being off duty. They had waited for the sun, welcomed it, and were now free to enjoy it.

9.

Oliver changed planes in Chicago and landed in Oregon at one o'clock, Pacific time. "Funny thing," he said to a cab driver. "I always thought Portland was on the ocean. It's a river port."

"The Columbia," the driver said. "Where you from?"