Chapter 11
Francesca’s note was written on a 3X5 card:
O,
Thank you.
F.
Warmth rushed through Oliver as he stared at her writing. Francesca was answering in kind; she had accepted his valentine. “What do you think about that, my friend?’’ he asked Verdi. “What do you think about that?’’ Verdi bumped against his ankle, a sign of high satisfaction. It was good to be home.
Oliver looked around the living room. The mantle was empty without the walnut box. He wished that he had a picture of Francesca to take its place. He unrolled the snakeskin and pinned it vertically to the wall by the steps, admiring the silver and ivory colors and the dark diamonds that had curled around the snake.
He went early to bed and spent a long time looking out at the night and remembering the trip: the gardens and the Japanese restaurant in Portland, Michiko standing by her moss–rock, Diamond Head, The Devil’s Churn, his father’s face—there had been much to see and few words. What was there to say about these things? Owl had cautioned him more than once: “Listen to what people say, but pay more attention to what they do.’’ What would he do with the treasures of this trip?
Treasure, literally. One thing he could do was to put his father’s money to work. He decided to open a stock brokerage account. He needed to get a programming project, so that he wouldn’t start spending the money. And he needed to see Francesca. She was more fun to think about than job interviews; he drifted to sleep remembering her on Crescent Beach.
In the morning, he answered two job advertisements that were in the paper and then ate breakfast at Becky’s. The day seemed to have started without him—jet lag. The booth where he had first seen Francesca was empty. He imagined her there and felt better, more centered.
He walked to Monument Square and entered one of the big name brokerages. He left quickly, put off by slick advertisements on the walls and expensively dressed men exuding earnestness. Farther along the Square, he found a local firm staffed by a short man with a tired expression. The top of his head shone. Brown graying hair started just above his ears, swept back, and hung loosely over the back of his shirt collar. He was eating a bagel. A grandfather clock stood in one corner.
“I’m thinking about opening an account,’’ Oliver explained.
The man swallowed and raised his coffee mug. “Why?’’
“I like your clock.’’ The man gave him a longer look and sipped coffee.
“I bought it at an auction. Never been sorry. Sometimes, you’ve got to pay for quality; sometimes you get a deal.’’
“I like auctions,’’ Oliver said.
“My name is Myron Marsh. I’ve been called, ‘Swampy.’ I’ve been called, ‘Mellow.’ I prefer, ‘Myron.’ ”
“What! No ‘Shorty?’ ‘’ The corner of Myron’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing. “O.K., Myron. I’m Oliver Prescott.’’
“You live around here, Oliver?’’
“State Street, near the bridge.’’
“You know anything about investing?’’
“No.’’
“What kind of money are you talking about?’’
“Seventy-two thousand.’’
“Not a bad start,’’ Myron said. “We could get some good balance with that.’’ He opened a filing cabinet and handed Oliver a form. “Tell you what,’’ he said. “Why don’t you fill this out and come back with a check when you’re ready. Then we can talk about where you want to go with this and what we might do.’’
“Thanks,’’ Oliver said.
“Here’s a booklet that explains our fees and general setup.’’
Oliver went home and read the material. The application provided for joint ownership of the account. An idea formed. He didn’t have a will. If he died, his money would go to his mother. She didn’t really need it. Why not make Francesca joint owner? Then, if he died, she could use it for herself and her girls. If she needed money for an emergency, it would be there. She wouldn’t have to do anything, just sign the form and know that the account existed. She might not like the idea, might be afraid of strings attached. But there weren’t any, really—all she had to do was sign the form and forget about it.
The idea made him feel good. He filled out the form with everything but her signature, her mother’s maiden name, and her social security number. He called Myron to check about joint ownership. Either owner could control the account, but he would be the primary owner, responsible for taxes. Monthly statements could be sent to each owner. “No need for that,’’ he told Myron, “just one would be enough.’’ They set a time to meet on the following Monday. Oliver was assuming that he would see Francesca Sunday morning on the beach.
On Saturday night, the weather forecast was for light rain and fog. Oliver could barely see the bridge when he woke up. He made a pot of coffee, drank one cup, and saved the rest in a large thermos which he put in his shoulder bag along with two mugs, half a quart of milk, and a manila envelope containing the account application. Forty minutes later, he was sitting on a driftwood log near the spot at the beginning of the beach where he had last met Francesca and where The Early People had waited for the sun.
It was warm for November. The tide was out. The water was gray, stippled and flattened by light rain. The air was fertile and salty. Mist blurred the rocks. A dog barked somewhere beyond the other end of the beach. Francesca appeared suddenly, holding a black umbrella over her head. When Oliver could see her smile, he stood and smiled back.
“You made it,’’ she said coming closer.
“Quite a trip,’’ he said. He wanted to hug her, but jackets and hats and her umbrella made it awkward. “How about some coffee?’’
“Coffee? Superb!’’
Oliver sat down on the log and poured them each a mug. “Milk?’’
“Mmm.’’
“Say when…”
“When.’’
He handed her the mug. She sat beside him and shifted the umbrella to partially cover him. “I love my valentine.’’
“Good. My friend, George, is an artist. He showed me how to cast it. What did you do with it? Not that it’s any of my business.’’
“Hid it.’’ Francesca giggled. “Where did you get the box?’’
“Made it.’’
“I wondered,’’ she said. “It’s beautiful. Did you find your father?’’
“I did.’’ He told her about Hawaii and meeting his father at The Devil’s Churn in Oregon.
“Dramatic,’’ she said. Her eyes were soft.
“It was. It was the way he wanted it.’’
“Did you feel that he was your father?’’
“Yes. We’re different. I’m American, and he’s Japanese–American, more Japanese—he lives in Japan. But we were the same underneath—same kind of seriousness or intensity or something.’’
“What does he do?’’
“He’s an architect. He was teaching a class at the University of California, Berkeley, until the end of the year.’’
“Is he married?’’
“Yes. Two children—a boy and a girl, grown.’’
“Oliver, you have a half brother and a half sister!’’
“It’s true. I haven’t absorbed it yet.’’
“Did you like him?’’
“Yes. He was pretty impressive. Disciplined. Didn’t say much. He gave me some money—said you were only as rich as what you give away. What’s your mother’s maiden name?’’
Francesca stared at him. “Boisverte,’’ she said.
“How do you spell it?’’ She told him and he repeated the letters to make sure that he had them right. “French,’’ he said.
“Mais oui. Maman married Frankie, and here I am.’’
“They did nice work. You want more coffee?’’ He refilled their mugs and put away the thermos. “Francesca…”
“Yes?’’
“You’re probably going to think I’m nuts. I hope you won’t be mad at me.’’ He took
a deep breath. “I’m putting the money my father gave me in a brokerage account. I want you to be joint owner, so that if anything happens to me you’ll have the money. Or, if you need some for an emergency—it will be there.’’ Francesca took a swallow of coffee and stared out to sea.
“You’re a good one,’’ she said. And then, “I’m married to Conor.’’
“You wouldn’t have to pay any taxes on it. I do that. You wouldn’t get statements or anything. It would just be there if you need it. It could be backup for you and the girls, security…”
“Independence?’’ she teased.
“Well—yes, if you want it.’’ The fat was in the fire.
“Jacky said you were a sweetheart.’’
Oliver’s jaw dropped. Francesca laughed. “She said that she checked you out. She had hopes for you, but she said that the two of you were incompatible for the long run.’’
“Uh—she’s right.’’
“Don’t be embarrassed,’’ Francesca said. “How else were you going to find out? Look, I love Jacky, but I wouldn’t want to be married to her.’’
The image of Jacky attempting to intimidate Francesca with a whip made Oliver burst out laughing. “No,’’ he said, sputtering, “no.’’ Francesca gave him a curious look. “Good looking woman, though,’’ he went on. “Not as beautiful as you.’’
She accepted this without comment. It was a quality Oliver liked in her. Francesca was beautiful. She knew it and didn’t make a fuss about it.
“I want the money to have a purpose outside myself,’’ he said. “Seriously—it would help me. It makes me feel better. I’m going to get some work as soon as I can, so that I don’t spend it. I have the form right here.’’ He held his bag under the umbrella and pulled out the form. “If I can keep it from getting soaked…” He reached into his pocket for a ballpoint pen. “Can I write on your back? I mean, use your back? ‘BOISVERTE.’” He said the letters as he wrote them. “What’s your social security number?’’
She hesitated and then told him. “A very nice number,’’ he said.
“I’ve always thought so. It will be especially nice if I make it to retirement age.’’
“All you have to do is sign,’’ Oliver said. “Here.’’ He handed her the pen and swiveled his body so that she could use his back.
“Yi! What am I doing?’’ The pen moved firmly across his shoulder blade.
“A good thing, that’s what you’re doing—what we’re doing,’’ Oliver said, putting the application in the bag.
“Cute pen,’’ she said.
“It’s a space pen—writes upside down or in zero gravity. NASA uses it.’’
“My father worked for NASA.’’
“Oh, yeah? What did he do?’’
“He was an engineer, called himself a launch pad maintenance man. He and my mom live near Daytona. He’s retired.’’
“You don’t have a southern accent.’’
“I grew up in Brunswick, just down the road from Bowdoin. My dad worked on the base for years. He’s from upstate New York.’’
“And your mother?’’
“Local gal. She’s gotten used to Florida. I don’t know if I could. I mean, you can get used to just about anything; but…”
“Nice in January,’’ Oliver said. “I know what you mean. I grew up in Connecticut.’’ A harder shower passed over them.
“I love the rain,’’ Francesca said.
“Me, too.’’ They sat and finished their coffee, watching the rain and absorbing their conversation.
“Bye, Oliver,’’ Francesca said finally, standing with the umbrella. “You’re going to get wet.’’
“I won’t melt.’’ She smiled quickly, understanding it as he meant, that he would be there for her dependably. She walked back the way she had come. Oliver stayed, enjoying the calm. Francesca had that effect on him. When he was with her, he felt that there was nowhere he needed to go. He was already there, at the center. The world spread around them at greater and greater distances.
Jacky! He felt a stir of affection and shook his head. He should have known she would tell Francesca—the big picture, anyway, if not the details. He hoped Jacky would find someone soon. She wasn’t bashful. There was bound to be somebody in Maryland who would love to oblige her. Whoever he was, he was going to get a workout—and good crab cakes. Jacky had been straight with him. Oliver appreciated that. And he’d been straight with her. Maybe that was why he had a warm feeling when he thought of her; there was no residue of guilt or things held back.
He stretched and walked to the main road, taking the track along the rocks and then though the woods. He had left the Jeep in the approach area by the gate-house; the park was officially closed. A piece of paper was folded under one windshield wiper. It had a heart on it, drawn in pencil. When he got home, he taped it over the mantel.
Myron read through the application the next day and tapped his desktop slowly. “The co-owner,’’ he said, “will have full privileges.’’
“Right.’’
“If she calls and identifies herself and says, “Myron, sell everything and send me a check,’’ that’s what I’ll do.’’
“Right.’’
“Very good,’’ Myron said dubiously. “Just making sure.’’ He put the application and the check in a folder. “So, how quick do you want to get rich?’’
“That’s a trick question, I bet,’’ Oliver said.
Myron appraised him again. “It is and it isn’t,’’ he said. “Rewards are what you get for taking risk. If you want a big reward right away, you have to take a big risk. Over a longer period, you can take smaller risks—the smaller rewards add up; the smaller losses don’t wipe you out. But there’s another consideration.’’ He drew a double headed arrow on the top of a yellow pad. “People have different senses of time.’’
Myron darkened each arrowhead. “Some live for the future; some live in the moment; some—most—are in the middle. It’s a natural thing. As far as risk/reward goes, we can keep a given balance in any time–horizon. We can be risk–adverse, say, short–term or long–term.’’ Myron underlined the arrow.
“What we don’t want to do is mix up the two. Short—term and long–term investments are different. Not only are the investments themselves different, but someone who is patient and looks far ahead won’t be happy with in–and–out activity. Someone who is action–oriented, who is used to seeing results right away, won’t wait years for a company to develop or for interest rates to drop. You see what I’m getting at?’’
“I do,’’ Oliver said. “It’s interesting. I guess I’m more toward the patient end. Risk? I don’t mind risk. But I wouldn’t want to lose more than half. It’s important to me that half, anyway, always be there.’’ Myron wrote a few words on the pad.
“There are advantages to the patient approach,’’ he said. “Taxes are lower if you hold securities long term. You can buy into promising companies cheaply—if you can give them a few years to grow.’’
“I like that,’’ Oliver said. Myron made another note.
“How about if I get you started, make the first buys?’’
“Sounds good.’’
“As time goes on and you get into it, you may want to take a more active part in making the decisions. We’ll talk as we go along.’’
“O.K.’’
“You’ll get a monthly statement.’’
“Just one—to me,’’ Oliver interrupted.
“Yes,’’ Myron added to his notes. “One statement. Call me or drop by any time.’’
“O.K. Thank you.’’ Oliver prepared to leave. “When do we start making money?’’
“Soon as the check clears,’’ Myron said.
Should be interesting, Oliver thought, walking home. Myron was a realist. He didn’t seem like someone who would rip you off or make hurried decisions. Porter came out the front door just as Oliver turned in from the sidewalk.
“Hey Porter, thanks for t
aking care of Verdi. I haven’t seen you since I got back.’’
“No problem. It was a help, actually. And, it gave me a chance to get to know Arlen better.’’ Porter beamed.
Oliver didn’t want to hear any confidences. “How’s the baking going?’’
“Solid.’’ Porter looked amused at Oliver’s unease. “Scones are hot this year—can’t make enough of them. Later, Slugger.’’ He punched Oliver lightly on the arm and unlocked a sleek black Toyota. Oliver watched him drive away. Porter was like a character in a comic strip; a six foot scone in a thought balloon hovered over his car.
Oliver collected his mail. Gifford Sims of The First Fundamentalist Hospital was interested in talking with him. There were a couple of bills. A Thanksgiving invitation from Amanda. “Mother and Paul are coming. Heather has been asking about you.’’