Oliver's Story Page 3

  “That’s good,” said Steve.

  But inwardly I paraphrased the late Queen Dido as I thought, Now I am screwed.

  Chapter Six

  Sunday came. And naturally, I didn’t want to go. But fate did not come through for me. I didn’t get an urgent message on an urgent case. I didn’t get a call from Phil. I didn’t even get the flu. Thus, lacking an excuse—and carrying a large bouquet—I found myself on Riverside and Ninety-fourth. Outside the door of Louis Stein.

  “Aha,” sang out the host when he espied my floral offering. “You shouldn’t have.” And then called out to Mrs. Stein, “It’s Oliver—he brought me flowers!”

  She came trotting up and kissed me on the cheek.

  “Come in and meet the music mafiosi,” Mr. Stein commanded. And he put his arm around my shoulder.

  Ten or twelve musicians were installed at music stands around the room. Chattering and tuning up. Tuning up and chattering. The mood was upbeat and the volume loud. The only fancy piece of furniture was a large and brightly polished black piano. Through a massive window I could see the Hudson River and the Palisades.

  I shook everybody’s hand. Most were sort of grown-up hippies. Except the younger ones, who looked like younger hippies. Why the hell had I put on a tie?

  “Where’s Jo?” I asked to be polite.

  “She’s on till eight,” said Mr. Stein, “but meet her brothers. Marty plays the horn and David winds and flute. You notice they rebelled against their parents. Jo’s the only one who even touched a string.”

  Both were tall and shy. But brother David was so timid he just waved his clarinet in greeting. Marty shook my hand. “Welcome to the music zoo,” he said.

  “I don’t know anything about it, Marty,” I confessed uneasily. “Say ‘pizzicato’ and I’d tell you that it’s veal with cheese.”

  “It is, it is,” said Mr. Stein. “And stop apologizing. You’re not the first who only came to listen.”

  “No?” I asked.

  “Of course not. My late father couldn’t read a note.”

  “Oliver, please tell him that we’re waiting,” Mrs. Stein called out, “or else you come and play the cello.”

  “Patience, darling,” said the host. “I’m making sure he feels at home.”

  “I feel at home,” I said obligingly. He stuffed me in a floppy chair, then hurried back to join the orchestra.

  It was fascinating. I just sat there watching what my preppie buddies might describe as weirdos making lovely music. Now a Mozart, now Vivaldi, then a guy called Lully I had never heard of.

  After Lully came a Monteverdi and the best pastrami I had ever tasted. In the food break, tall, shy brother David whispered to me in clandestine tones.

  “Is it true that you’re a hockey player?”

  “Was,” I said.

  “Then can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “How did the Rangers do today?”

  “Gee, I forgot,” I said, and clearly disappointed him. How could I explain that Oliver the former hockey maniac was so immersed in legal research he forgot to watch the Rangers beat or lose to his once daily worshipped punching Boston Bruins?

  Then Joanna came and kissed me. Actually, it must have been a ritual. She kissed everybody.

  “Have they driven you insane?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m really having fun.”

  And suddenly it struck me that I wasn’t even lying. The harmony I had enjoyed that evening wasn’t just the music. It was everywhere. The way they talked. The way they complimented one another on the execution of a tricky passage. All I’d ever known remotely like this was when Harvard hockey jocks would psych each other up to go and trample people.

  Only here they were psyched up just playing music side by side. Everywhere I sensed so goddamn much . . . affection.

  I had never visited a world like this.

  Except with Jenny.

  “Get your fiddle, Jo,” said Mr. Stein.

  “Are you crazy?” she retorted. “I’m so out of shape—”

  “You practice medicine too much,” he said. “You should be giving music equal time. Besides, I’ve saved the Bach especially for you.”

  “No,” Joanna answered firmly.

  “Come on. Oliver’s been waiting just to hear you.” Now she blushed. I tried to signal, but to no avail.

  Mr. Stein then turned to me. “Tell your friend my daughter to tune up her violin.” Before I could react, Joanna, now a maraschino, ceased protesting.

  “Okay, Daddy, have it your way. But it won’t sound good.”

  “It will, it will,” he answered. Then as she went off, he turned to me again. “You like the Brandenburgs?”

  Inwardly I tightened. For these Bach concertos were among the few I did know. Had I not proposed to Jenny after she had played the Fifth and we were walking by the river back at Harvard? Had that music not been something of a prelude to our marriage? The very thought of hearing it began an ache.

  “Well?” asked Mr. Stein. Then I realized I had not responded to his friendly query.

  “Yes,” I said, “I like the Brandenburgs. Which one are you doing?”

  “All! Why should we show a favorite?”

  “I’m just playing one,” his daughter called, affecting pique. She now was seated with the violins, engaged in dialogue with some old gentleman who shared her stand. The group was tuning up again. But as the intermission had been laced with booze, the volume was a good deal higher than before.

  Mr. Stein had now decided to conduct. “What has Lenny Bernstein got on me? A better hairdo!” He tapped his podium, a TV set.

  “Now,” he said, his accent suddenly Germanic, “I vant sharp attack. You hear me? Sharp.”

  The orchestra was poised. He raised his pencil for the downbeat.

  I held my breath and hoped I would survive.

  Then suddenly the guns went off.

  I mean a kind of fist artillery upon the door. Too loud and—if I may so judge—quite out of rhythm.

  “Open up!” a semihuman voice bellowed.

  “Police?” I asked of Jo, who suddenly was at my side.

  “They’re never in the neighborhood.” She smiled. “It’s much too dangerous. No, it’s Godzilla from upstairs. His real name’s Temple and he’s anti-life.”

  “Open up!!”

  I looked around. There were some twenty of us, yet the orchestra seemed cowed. This guy Godzilla must be pretty dangerous. Anyway, Lou Stein unbolted.

  “Goddamn hell, you s.o.b.s, I tell you every freakin’ Sunday—cut the noise!”

  This he said while looming over Mr. Stein. “Godzilla” was indeed quite apt. He was a huge and hairy creature.

  “But, Mr. Temple,” Mr. Stein replied, “we always end our Sunday sessions right at ten.”

  “Shit!” the monster snorted.

  “Yes, I noticed you had left that out,” said Mr. Stein.

  Temple glared at him. “Don’t push me, creep. I’ve reached the boilin’ point with you!” Hatred smoldered in Godzilla’s tones. I sensed his goal in life was to aggress his neighbor Mr. Stein. And now he was about to make a dream come true.

  Stein’s two sons, though clearly frightened, moved to join their father.

  Temple ranted on. And now, with Mrs. Stein already by her husband’s side, Joanna slipped away from me and headed for the door. (To fight? To bind the wounds?) It all was happening so fast. And coming to a head.

  “Goddammit, don’t you lousy bastards know that it’s against the law disturbin’ other people’s peace.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Temple, I think you’re the one who’s violating people’s rights.”

  I just spoke those words! Before I even realized I was going to pronounce them. And, what surprised me more, I had risen and begun approaching the unwanted visitor. Who now turned to me.

  “What’s your problem, blondie?” said the animal.

  I noticed he was several inches taller and had forty pounds (at
least) on me. But hopefully not all of it was muscle.

  I motioned to the Steins to let me handle this. But they remained.

  “Mr. Temple,” I continued, “have you ever heard of section forty of the Criminal Code? That’s trespassing. Or section seventeen—that’s threatening bodily harm? Or section—”

  “Whatta you—a cop?” he grunted. Clearly he had known a few.

  “Just a lawyer,” I replied, “but I could send you up the river for a lengthy rest.”

  “You’re bluffin’,” Temple said.

  “No. But if you’re anxious to resolve this issue sooner, there’s another process.”

  “Yeah, you fruit?”

  He flexed his looming muscles. Behind me I could sense the orchestra’s anxiety. And inside, a scintilla of my own. But still I calmly took my jacket off, and spoke sotto voce with extreme politeness.

  “Mr. Temple, if you don’t evaporate, I’ll simply have to slowly—as one intellectual to another—beat your Silly Putty brains out.”

  After the intruder’s quite precipitous departure, Mr. Stein broke out champagne (“imported straight from California”). The orchestra then voted to perform the loudest piece they knew, a very spirited rendition of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. In which I even played an instrument: the cannon (empty ash can).

  Several hours later—all too soon—the party ended.

  “Come again,” said Mrs. Stein.

  “Of course he will,” said Mr. Stein.

  “What makes you so sure?” she asked.

  “He loves us,” Louis Stein replied.

  And that was that.

  No one had to tell me that my duty was to take Joanna home. Although the hour was late, she still insisted that we take the number-five bus that goes down Riverside and ultimately snakes across to Fifth. She was sort of tired from her hours of work. And yet her mood was up.

  “God, you were fantastic, Oliver,” she said. And put her hand on mine.

  I tried to ask myself just what I felt about her touch.

  And couldn’t get an answer.

  Joanna still was bubbly.

  “Temple won’t dare show his mug again!” she said.

  “Hey, listen, Jo—it doesn’t take much brains to call a bully’s bluff.”

  I’d used my hands to gesture and they now were disengaged from hers. (Relief?)

  “But still . . .”

  She didn’t finish. Maybe it began to puzzle her the way I kept insisting I was just a stupid jock. My only purpose was to let her know I wasn’t really worth her time. I mean she was so nice. And kind of pretty. Well, at least a normal guy with normal feelings would have found her so.

  She had a fourth-floor walk-up near the hospital. As we stood outside her door, I noticed she was shorter than she’d seemed at first. I mean she had to look straight up at me to talk.

  I also noticed that my breath was kind of short. It couldn’t be from climbing stairs (I run a lot, remember). And I began to feel the vaguest sense of panic as I talked to this intelligent and gentle doctor lady.

  Maybe she’d imagine that I liked her more than just platonically. What if maybe—

  “Oliver,” Joanna said, “I’d like to ask you in. But I go on at six A.M.”

  “Another time,” I said. And suddenly could feel more oxygen within my lungs.

  “I hope so, Oliver.”

  She kissed me. On the cheek. (They were a bunch of touchers, her whole family.)

  “Good night,” she said.

  “I’ll call you,” I replied.

  “I had a lovely evening.”

  “I did too.”

  And yet I was ineffably unhappy.

  Walking back that night, I came to the conclusion that I needed a psychiatrist.

  Chapter Seven

  “Let’s begin by leaving out King Oedipus completely.”

  Thus began my well-prepared self-introduction to the doctor. Finding a reliable psychiatrist involves a simple set of moves. First you call up friends who are physicians and you tell them that a friend of yours could use some help. Then they recommend a doctor for this troubled person. Finally, you walk around the phone two hundred times, you dial, and make your first appointment.

  “Look,” I rambled on, “I’ve had the courses and I know the jargon we could toss around. How we could label my behavior with my father when I married Jenny. I mean all the things that Freud would say is not the stuff I want to hear.”

  Dr. Edwin London, though “extremely fine,” according to the guy who recommended him, was not, however, too inclined to lengthy sentences.

  “Why are you here?” he asked without expression.

  Then I got scared. My opening remarks had gone okay, but here we were already in the cross-examination.

  Why exactly was I there? What did I want to hear? I swallowed and replied so softly that the words were barely audible to me.

  “Why I can’t feel.”

  He waited silently.

  “Since Jenny died, I just can’t feel a thing. Yeah, now and then a twinge of hunger. TV dinners take quick care of that. But otherwise . . . for eighteen months . . . I have felt absolutely nothing.”

  He listened as I struggled to dredge up my thoughts. They poured out helter-skelter in a stream of hurt. I feel so terrible. Correction, I feel nothing. Which is worse. I’m lost without her. Philip helps. No, Phil can’t really help. Although he tries. Feel nothing. Almost two whole years. I can’t respond to normal human beings.

  Now silence. I was sweating.

  “Sexual desire?” asked the doctor.

  “None,” I said. And then to make it even clearer, “Absolutely nothing.”

  No immediate reply. Was London shocked? I couldn’t read his face. So then, because it was so obvious to both of us, I said:

  “No one has to tell me that it’s guilt.”

  Then Dr. Edwin London spoke his longest sentence of the day.

  “Do you feel . . . responsible for Jenny’s death?”

  Did I feel responsible for Jenny’s death? I thought immediately of my compulsive wish to die the day that Jenny did. But that was transient. I know I didn’t give my wife leukemia. And yet . . .

  “Maybe. For a while I guess I did. But basically my anger was against myself. For all the things I should have done while she was still alive.”

  There was a pause and Dr. London said, “Such as?”

  I talked again of my estrangement from my family. How I had let the circumstances of my marriage to a girl of slightly (hugely!) different social background be a declaration of my independence. Watch, Big Daddy Rich-with-Bucks, I’ll make it on my goddamn own.

  Except one thing. I made it rough on Jenny. Not just emotionally. Though that was bad enough, considering her passion when it came to honoring your parents. But even worse was my refusal to take anything from them. To me this was a source of pride. But shit, to Jenny, who’d grown up in poverty, what could be new and wonderful about not having money in the bank?

  “And just to serve my arrogance, she had to make so many sacrifices.”

  “Do you think she thought of them as sacrifices?” asked London, probably intuiting that Jenny never once complained.

  “Doctor, what she may have thought no longer is the point.”

  He looked at me.

  For half a second I was frightened I might . . . cry.

  “Jenny’s dead and only now I see how selfishly I acted.”

  There was a pause.

  “How?” he asked.

  “We were graduating. Jenny had this scholarship to France. When we decided to get married there was never any question. We just knew we’d stay in Cambridge and I’d go to law school. Why?”

  There was another silence. Dr. London did not speak. So I continued ranting.

  “Why the hell did that appear the only logical alternative? My goddamn arrogance! To just assume my life was more important!”

  “There were things you couldn’t know,” said Dr. London. It was a gauche
attempt to mollify my guilt.

  “Still I knew—goddammit—that she’d never been to Europe! Couldn’t I have gone with her and been a lawyer one year later?”

  Maybe he might think this was some ex post facto guilt from reading women’s lib material. It wasn’t that. I didn’t hurt so much from stopping Jenny’s “higher studies,” but for keeping her from tasting Paris. Seeing London. Feeling Italy.

  “Do you understand?” I asked.

  There was another pause.

  “Are you prepared to spend some time on this?” he asked.

  “That’s why I came.”

  “Tomorrow, five o’clock?”

  I nodded. And he nodded. I left.

  I walked along Park Avenue to get myself together. And to gear myself for what would lie ahead. Tomorrow we would start the surgery. Incisions in the soul I knew would hurt. I was prepared for that.

  I only wondered what the hell I’d find.

  Chapter Eight

  It took about a week to get to Oedipus.

  Who has a palace on the Harvard campus: Barrett Hall.

  “My family donated it to buy respectability.”

  “Why?” Dr. London asked.

  “Because our money isn’t clean. Because my ancestors were pioneers in sweatshop labor. Our philanthropy is just a recent hobby.”

  Curious to say, I learned this not from any book about the Barretts, but . . . at Harvard.

  When I was a college senior, I needed distribution credits. Hence along with hordes of others I took Soc. Sci. 108, American Industrial Development. The teacher was a so-called radical economist named Donald Vogel. He had already earned a place in Harvard history by interweaving all his data with obscenities. Furthermore, his course was famed because it was a total gut.

  (“I don’t believe in blanking blanking blank examinations,” Vogel said. The masses cheered.)

  It would be an understatement to report the hall was packed. It overflowed with lazy jocks and zealous pre-med students, all in quest of lack of work.

  Usually, despite Don Vogel’s indigo vocabulary, most of us would get some extra zzz’s or read the Crimson. Then one day, unfortunately, I tuned in. The subject was the early U.S. textile industry, a likely soporific.