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.
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