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He liked the financial Russian roulette quality: win or die. He withdrew everything but twenty dollars from his bank account. On his way back from the bank, he stopped at Deweys. It was fun drinking a pint of Guinness with six thousand dollars in his pocket. Mark was there, celebrating another executive placement. "Chemical sales. Houston, poor bastard." "You ever go to Atlantic City?"
He decided to stop for a pint. Deweys was busy; people were packing it in early, finding strength in numbers. "A Guinness," he ordered, "for this fine March day." Sam set a dark glass, overflowing, on the bar in front of him. Oliver bent forward and slurped a mouthful. "You could live on Guinness foam," he said. "And the occasional piece of cheese," Sam said.
Moreover, I had already made up a list of the names of city friends to whom I intended to send handsome specimens of these first fruits of my experiments in farming; the Reillys, the Lynches, the Chapins, the Maxwells, the Scotts, the Fayes, the Deweys, the Morrises, the Millards, the Larneds, the Fletchers, the Ways these and other fortunate cronies were to be made recipients of my bounty in case the fruit held out.
"We could have a good time," Oliver said. "They're going to roast a turkey at Deweys." "I could make some pies." "Solid. I'll call Amanda when we get home." "I'll go get my clothes." She looked at him for confirmation. Oliver nodded. It was a done deal. "Do you want me to go with you?" "No. It will be easier if I just go." "O.K. I'll get some food."
That and the Jennifer connection and some boat talk. He walked to Deweys and was greeted loudly by George. "Olive Oil, my God!" George waved at Oliver's blazer, slacks, and shiny shoes. "What have you done?" "Pilgrim Atlantic is taking me aboard," Oliver said. "My God . . . Is the money that good?" George's eyes gleamed. "Money's good.
The apartment smelled of pie. Boxes of books were stacked high in one corner of the living room. Not much space left, Oliver thought, but much more homey. "So Deweys later?" he asked. "The pies are ready," Jennifer said. "I hope it won't be too smoky." "We don't have to stay long," Oliver said. Jennifer stood. "Nap time," she said.
He sealed it in a Ziploc bag and stored it in a toolbox. The next day, Jennifer left at noon to see her parents. Oliver had a pint at Deweys with Richard and went to bed early. He lay there, not used to sleeping alone, and thought about the relationship. It was like living with Charlotte again, but Jennifer was more fun. She was a natural mother not at all bothered by pregnancy.
Among the noted men who have gone out from the Berkshire region are William Cullen Bryant, Cyrus W. Field and brothers, Jonathan Edwards, Mark and Albert Hopkins, Senator Henry L. Dawes, Governor Edwin D. Morgan, of New York, George F. Root, the musical composer, Governor George N. Briggs, of Massachusetts, Governor and Senator Francis E. Warren, of Wyoming, the Deweys, the Barnards, a list too long for quoting.
Oliver watched her hips swing easily around the corner of the steps. He thought of laying out the remaining shelves, yawned, and followed her upstairs. It was cold and crisp, nearly dark. A neon Guinness sign glowed through a window by the door to Deweys. Oliver shifted the box of pies to one arm and hugged Jennifer with the other.
Their butterfly or bow tie shapes became design elements, quasi-geometric signatures. Oliver was fascinated. Later, in Deweys, he tried to explain to Mark. "The tables knock me out. I mean, sure, it's hard to go wrong with a great piece of walnut. The guy must have gotten every trophy tree in Pennsylvania. But what I love is the way he treated splits. He repaired them with these butterfly keys."
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