Oliver shifted the box of pies to one
arm and hugged Jennifer with the other. He had a momentary desire to go
home and keep the news to themselves.
"Here we go," he said, opening the door. Music, warmth and the smell of
ale and cigarettes poured out. Jennifer stepped in ahead of him. They
stood for a moment, adjusting to the light.
"Olive Oil!"
"Hey, George. Jennifer, this is George."
"Hello, George. What should we do with the pies, Oliver?"
"I'll ask Sam."
The bartender pointed at a table pushed against one wall. "The bird is
going over there--any time now." Oliver put three pies on the table and
stashed the empty box underneath. He ordered a pint of Guinness for
himself and a half for Jennifer.
"Prescribed for young mothers," he said, handing it to her and taking
her coat. George stared at Jennifer's stomach.
"Due in April," she said.
"Fatherhood," Oliver said, setting the record straight and sipping his
pint.
"Jesus, Oliver . . . I've been making sculptures; you've been making
the real thing."
"It sort of makes itself," Jennifer said.
"Boy or girl?"
"Good question," Oliver said.
"We could find out, but I don't really want to," Jennifer said.
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