"Not a bad idea," he said. She looked at him, smiled as though
she were on a two second tape delay, and then frowned as she
concentrated on paying. Her arms and legs were like sticks. He wondered
what she'd had to put up with and if she had anyone to put up with her.
He didn't really like vodka, but he ought to get something for George.
What do foundrymen drink? Red wine? Ale? The woman picked up energy as
she wheeled her cart toward the parking lot. Keep going. Good luck.
He drove home and put away the groceries. He went down to the basement
and brought up a piece of pine which Verdi ignored. "Really, it's much
better," Oliver argued. The phone rang.
"Oliver? This is Jennifer Lindenthwaite."
"Hi, Jennifer."
"I'm calling for the Wetlands Conservancy."
"Oh, I thought you wanted to take me to Atlantic City."
"Rupert might not like that," she said.
"I suppose not," he said. "Ah, well . . ."
"Can you do some work for us, Oliver? Our mailing list is in hopeless
shape. We bought a computer, but no one knows how to do anything but
type letters on it."
"You want me to set up a database?"
"I suppose that _is_ what we need."
"How soon?"
"Umm .
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