Charlotte was better off without him; she had a
child, finally.
The waitress had a tolerant smile. Thank God for waitresses. He left a
big tip and got back on the ferry.
Snow was drifting against brick buildings as Oliver walked into the Old
Port. 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. Patti Page was singing,
"_I remember the night of The Tennessee Waltz . . . _" Her voice, the
fiddle, the stately waltz told the old story: "_stole my sweetheart
from me . . . _" One way or another, sooner or later, we are all
defeated. Oliver felt a swell of sadness and the beginning of
liberation.
"God, what a song," he said to Mark Barnes, who had come up beside him.
"Classic. How you doing, guy?"
"Hanging in there." More people came in, stamping snow from their
boots. Patti Page gave way to Tom Waits belting out, _Jersey Girl_.
"Another classic," Oliver said.
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