Chapter 10
The hotel registration clerk reached under the counter. “Message for you, Mr. Prescott.’’ He handed Oliver an envelope.
“Thanks.’’ Oliver took his bag to his room and sat on the bed.
Message for: Oliver Prescott
Received by: Jack
Time: 2:15 p.m.
Oliver—I have heard from my brother, Ken. I will be at The Devil’s Churn parking area, tomorrow, Monday, at 10:30 in the morning. Route 101 on the coast, 20 miles north of Florence. Muni
Where the hell was that? He would have to rent a car. How far was it? Oliver’s heart raced. He went back to the lobby and borrowed a map from the desk clerk. Florence seemed about two hours away.
“Could I drive to here in two hours?’’ He pointed out the location.
“No problem.’’
Oliver went back to the airport and rented a car. He could leave early from the hotel, stop for breakfast on the way, and have plenty of time. He was still functioning on Hawaiian time; he stayed up late, watched TV, and wondered about his father. Unpredictable, Ken said.
In the morning, it rained off and on as he drove over the coastal range. The road curved and swooped through steep–sided valleys. Douglas Firs grew straight and pointed on every slope; their branches trembled with moisture; the light was luminous. There was an occasional burst of dazzling sun and then the clouds rolled in again. Logging trucks owned the road. Only a few smaller roads met the highway. What would life be like ten miles to the left or right? A gas station? A tavern? Another world.
The coastal highway was wide open, almost barren in comparison to the lush woods. Rain swept in from the ocean. A TV forecaster in a truck stop spoke of the first winter storm. Lucky Oliver. The windshield wipers worked well, though, and the rain let up as he eased into a parking area on a rocky headland. The Devil’s Churn. No one else was there. It was 10:05. He put his head back and closed his eyes. Francesca came into his mind, tall and calm, and he wished she were there so that he could introduce her to his father. He had an urge to start the car, to leave quickly. Francesca looked sorrowful. “O.K.,’’ he said. She was there, in a way. A car much like his turned off the highway.
A short man wearing black pressed pants and a gray windbreaker approached his car. He was wearing a baseball cap that said, “San Francisco Giants.’’ Oliver got out. The man approached and looked at him closely. He was clean–shaven, darker than Oliver, thinner, and more severe. They were the same height.
“You early,’’ his father said.
“You, too.’’ Oliver smiled.
“Come.’’ He turned and motioned with his hand toward a set of wooden steps that led to the rocks below. Oliver followed him to the steps and down. Near the bottom, the steps were damp and slippery. A sign warned them not to go farther: Danger! Large Waves Come Without Warning! His father ignored the sign and walked to the edge of a deep fissure in the dark rock. It was twenty feet wide and thirty yards long, narrowing as it approached a circular grotto eroded into the base of the cliff.
Farther out, a wave broke and raced up the fissure like a suicide express. Water slammed between the rocky edges, wild and frothing, seething, lurching, hissing, and sucking. Gradually, it receded. Oliver’s father pointed to the other side and walked to the end of the fissure where they could look down into the round pool that had been scoured into the rock. Shiny polished stones waited in its bottom for the next wave.
His father continued around the pool and then along the opposite edge on a path six inches wide. The rain had started again. Oliver followed across a steep bank of short wet grass. The next train roared in, just a few feet below them. He was terrified. If he slipped, there was nothing to grab. Anyone who fell in would be torn apart in seconds; there was no chance of surviving the furious water. There was a malevolent feeling to the place. Bad things happened here.
His father walked steadily on. Oliver dropped to his hands and knees and crawled to the end of the path, trying not to look to his left. He scrambled down to a rocky shingle near the mouth of the fissure. His father waited, watching him. Oliver stood up, swallowed, and wiped mud off his hands. “Scary place,’’ he said.
“You not scared there, you an idiot,’’ his father said.
“Shit,’’ Oliver said.
“What’s the matter?’’
“I just realized that we’ve got to go back the same way.’’
“How is your mother?’’
“She’s fine. She gave me your name—Oliver Muni Prescott.’’
“Ah,’’ Muni said. “I am glad she is well. She was a beautiful woman. Smart, too. Didn’t stick around to marry me.’’
“She married Owl Prescott, an English professor. They had a girl, Amanda. Owl died. Then she married a guy named Paul Peroni from New Haven, a good guy, a marble worker.’’ Oliver paused. “Ken told me that you live in Japan.’’
“Near Kamakura. We have a son and a daughter, grown up, not quite your age. You are—35.’’
“Yes,’’ Oliver said.
“You married?’’
“I was. For four years.’’
“You have children?’’
“No.’’
“Mmmm…”
“Large waves come without warning,’’ Oliver said, looking out at the gray ocean.
“Beautiful here,’’ his father said. Oliver nodded. For the first time, a suggestion of a smile crossed his father’s face as he waved at the wild shore guarded by The Devil’s Churn. “Most don’t get this far. What kind of work you do?’’
“I program computers. Used to teach math. I like to make things out of wood sometimes.’’ That seemed to sum it up. Not a very big sum, Oliver thought.
“You know George Nakashima? Made furniture?’’
“No.’’
“Mmmm… He lived in Pennsylvania, died two, three years ago.’’ His father reached inside his jacket and handed Oliver an envelope. “This yours,’’ he said.
“What is it?’’
“Small present. Maybe it help.’’
Oliver folded the envelope and put it in a safe pocket. “Thank you,’’ he said. “But, you don’t need to give me anything.’’
“You only as rich as what you give away.’’
They stood, not minding the rain. “What are you doing in the States?’’ Oliver asked.
“Teaching one seminar at the University of California, Berkeley. I go back, now.’’ He turned toward the path.
“Teach?’’
“Architecture. Japanese kind.’’ His father climbed up onto the path and walked along the edge, not hurrying, not hesitating. Oliver went to his hands and knees again. The express exploded past, but he forced himself to look straight ahead. He was limp when he reached the wooden steps. At the top, his father was waiting as if nothing had happened.
Oliver exhaled and took a deep breath. “Well…” He didn’t know what to say. His father’s eyes were sparkling.
“Maybe you come see us in Kamakura. I will be back there in one month.’’
Oliver nodded in the Japanese way. His father bowed and walked back to his car. Oliver watched. He waved as his father drove toward the road. His father waved back. Oliver thought he saw a smile, and then his father was gone.
He was getting wet, he realized. He stopped in Florence for a cup of coffee. There was no sign of his father. He drove back to Eugene and took a long hot shower. The envelope lay unopened on top of the table by the TV.
Oliver took a nap and went out for dinner. He sipped Glenlivet, a bit disappointed—he had learned so little about his father. Also, he was depressed because the meeting was over; he had accomplished what he set out to do, and now what? His father was controlled, impressive. Oliver felt good about that. If he hadn’t found out many details about his father, he had learned something about himself. There was a sternness in his father—an inner honor—that Oliver recognized immediately. Same as me, he thought. His father helped put a face on it, made it
more accessible and more acceptable.
But what did his father think of him? I didn’t wimp out or fall in and die, anyway, he told himself. Muni had seemed guardedly approving. Hard to tell. Perhaps Muni had felt himself on trial, as well. He hadn’t shown it. An architect—that was interesting. Oliver had a strong visual sense that had never found a satisfactory outlet. His work had always been secondary in some way. Teaching math and programming had kept him going, but he felt unused, wasted. Maybe he should have been an architect. At least, now, he knew where his visual ability came from.
Oliver mused over his drink and avoided opening the envelope in his pocket. He ate a piece of salmon grilled over alder chips and drank a glass of Oregon Sauvignon Blanc. The waiter brought a double espresso. Oliver opened the envelope with misgivings.
There was a check and a note:
Oliver, if I give this to you, it is because you are my son. I can not know until I meet you. I plan to be back home in Kamakura after the first of the year. Maybe you will visit. Years after 50 are extra. Who knows what will happen? My thoughts are with you. Muni
The check was for $72,000. Oliver stared at the numbers. Seventy-two thousand dollars? A lot more money than he’d ever had before. But the moment that he accepted the amount, he realized that the money was his only in the sense that he had control of it. He had it because his father had saved it. How could he just spend it on himself? The money wasn’t his; it was theirs—his and his father’s and probably his father’s parents as well. He replaced the envelope carefully in his pocket. A door opened in his heart, and another door closed.
It would take time for these new feelings to sink in, but Oliver knew that something had changed for good. He lingered over the espresso. An awakened sense of time knocked in his ears and made the present moment more intense. University students at a corner table might have been figures on a screen or spread around a vase. It was right now, Eugene, Oregon. He wanted to shout: “It will never be this way again. We’re here! We’re alive!’’ He smiled as he imagined a full moon appearing from behind a cloud. Francesca was standing on Crescent Beach, looking up at the moon, her hands clasped behind her. Oliver stood and bowed slightly to the waiter and to the room.
The next morning he called Porter and told him when he’d be back. He took a bus from Eugene to Portland. The Willamette Valley was green and fertile, a nice after–image on the following afternoon as the plane lowered over the brown Maine woods and the steely blue Atlantic. He took a cab to State Street and had a reunion with Verdi. Porter had left the apartment in tidy shape. There was a letter from Francesca. She had received the box and the heart.