Oliver's Story Page 8
“Nothing?”
“Well, let’s put it this way: he is very . . . ‘settled down.’ ” Her tone was strange. She couldn’t possibly have meant what I imagined.
“Marce, you don’t imply you had to . . . pay him?”
“No,” she said, “I don’t imply. I state. He’s now a wealthy divorcé.”
I was astounded. How could Marcie of all people have been so amazingly faked out?
I didn’t ask. She wanted me to hear.
“Look,” she said, “I was a college senior, wondering just what the hell my role in life would be. Then—presto! Enter this extremely charismatic, very handsome guy . . .”
I wished she hadn’t emphasized his looks.
“. . . who told me all the things I wanted to believe.” She paused.
“I was a kid,” she said. “I fell incredibly in love.”
“And then?”
“Well, Father was still hoping to get Bin to take his helmet off and join the business. Naturally, my brother just accelerated in the opposite direction. So when suddenly I show up with my flashy boyfriend, Father absolutely flipped. He thought Mike was Jesus Christ and Einstein—only with a neater haircut! I mean, even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t have cast doubts on Michael’s sheer perfection. Anyway, I think my father loved me most when I delivered this terrific second son. At the wedding I was half expecting him to say, ‘I do.’ ”
“But how did Bin react?”
“Oh, it was loathing at first sight. They hated one another. Bin kept telling me that Michael was ‘a barracuda in a J. Press suit.’ ”
“Which, I take it, he turned out to be.”
“Well, that’s a bit unkind. I mean to barracudas.”
She had clearly tried these bitter jokes before. And failed to make the situation anything but sad.
“But what exactly made you ultimately split?” I asked.
“Michael didn’t like me.”
Marcie tried to speak as if it didn’t hurt.
“What specifically?”
“I think he realized that much as Walter liked him, Bin would someday just show up and be the boss. Since Michael wasn’t born to be an understudy, he just threw the towel in.”
“Too bad,” I tried to quip.
“Yeah. If only he had waited five more months . . .” Her narrative now ended. With no further comment. Even without wishing Michael Nash would rot in hell.
I had no notion what to say (“Gee, sorry you got screwed”?) And so I simply drove. We listened to an eight-track Joan Baez.
And then a thought occurred to me.
“Hey, Marcie, what exactly made you think I might be different?”
“Nothing. I just hoped you would be.”
Then she touched my arm, inducing a most pleasant physical sensation in my spine as well. Things were progressing from the purely spiritual. So let’s have a full disclosure.
“Marcie, have you ever given any thought to my last name?”
“No. Should I have?” And then it dawned on her.
“Barrett . . . the investment bank? The mills? Is that your family?”
“A distant relative,” I said. “My father.”
We rode in silence for a while. Then she said quietly, “I didn’t know.” Which, I confess, made me feel good.
On we drove, into the velvet darkness of New England.
Not that I was stalling. Merely looking for a really special place.
“I think we need a fire, Marce.”
“Yes, Oliver.”
It took us till Vermont to find the perfect setting. Uncle Abner’s Cabins. On a little lake called Kenawaukee. Sixteen-fifty for the night. Including firewood. The nearest place for dining was a local bistro down the road. Called Howard Johnson’s.
Thus before our fireside embracings I took Marcie for a lavish meal at HoJo’s.
Over dinner we exchanged our childhoods.
First I bored her with my competition-admiration for my father. Then she sang the second chorus of that song to me. Every move she ever made in life was always as a challenge or a message to her own Big Daddy.
“Frankly, it was only when my brother died that Walter seemed to notice me at all.”
We were like two actors analyzing our performances in different Hamlets. Only what amazed me was that Marcie hadn’t played Ophelia. Her role, like mine, had been the Melancholy Prince. I had always thought that women’s rivalry was with their mothers. Apropos of which, she hadn’t mentioned Mummy once.
“Did you have a mother?” I inquired.
“Yes,” she said. Without emotion.
“Is she still alive?” I asked.
She nodded yes.
“She and Walter split in 1956. She didn’t ask for custody. She married a developer in San Diego.”
“Do you ever see her?”
“She was at the wedding.”
Marcie’s little smile could not convince me that she didn’t care.
“I’m sorry that I asked.”
“I would have told you anyway,” she said. “Now you.”
“What?”
“Tell me something terrible about your past.” I thought a minute. And confessed.
“I was a dirty hockey player.”
“Really?” Marcie flashed.
“Uh-huh.”
“I want the details, Oliver!”
She really did. Half an hour later she was still demanding hockey stories.
But I then lightly put my hand upon her lips.
“Tomorrow, Marce,” I said.
As I was paying, she remarked, “Hey, Oliver, this was the nicest meal I ever had.” I somehow think she didn’t mean the macaroni or the hot fudge sundae.
Afterward we walked back hand in hand to Uncle Abner’s.
And then built a fire.
And then helped each other not be shy when we both were.
And later in the evening did some more nice things much less self-consciously.
And fell asleep in one another’s arms.
Marcie woke at dawn. But I was out already, sitting by the lake to watch the sun come up. Bundled in her coat, her hair all tousled, she sat next to me and whispered (though there wasn’t anyone for miles).
“How do you feel?”
“Okay,” I answered, reaching for her hand. But knowing also that my eyes and voice revealed a trace of sadness.
“Do you feel . . . uneasy, Oliver?”
I nodded that I sort of did.
“Because you thought of . . . Jenny?”
“No,” I said, and looked out toward the lake. “Because I didn’t.”
Then, forsaking verbal conversation, we stood up and walked back down to Howard Johnson’s for a massive breakfast.
Chapter Twenty
“What are your feelings?”
“Jesus, can’t you tell?”
I was grinning like an idiot. What other symptoms could confirm the diagnosis I was happy—pirouettes around the doctor’s office?
“I can’t put it medically. Your science seems to lack the terminology for joy.”
Still no answer. Couldn’t London say at least “Congratulations”?
“Doctor, I am high! Like a flag on the fourth of July!”
Sure I knew the words were trite. But hell, I was excited, anxious to discuss. Well, not discuss—just crow about it. After endless months of numbness, here at last was something that resembled human sensibility. How could I put it so that a psychiatrist could get the message?
“Look, we like each other, Doctor. A relationship is in the making. Blood is flowing in a former statue.”
“Those are headlines,” Dr. London offered.
“It’s the essence,” I insisted. “Don’t you fathom that I’m feeling good?”
There was a pause. Why was it he could so well comprehend my prior pain and now seem so obtuse to my euphoria? I looked straight at him for an answer.
All he said was: “Five o’clock tomorrow.”
 
; I bounced up and bounded out.
We’d left Vermont at seven forty-five and, stopping twice for coffee, gas and kisses, reached her baroque apartment fortress by eleven-thirty. A doorman took the car. I grabbed her hand and brought her to a nice proximity.
“There are people watching!” she objected. Not too strenuously.
“It’s New York. Nobody gives a shit.”
We kissed. And true to my prediction, no one in the city gave a damn. But us.
“Let’s meet for lunch,” I said.
“It’s lunchtime now.”
“That’s great. We’re right on time.”
“I have a job to go to,” Marcie said.
“No sweat—I’m cozy with your boss.”
“But you have obligations. Who was guarding civil liberties while you were out of town?”
Hah. She wouldn’t hoist me by my previous petard.
“Marcie, I’m here to exercise my fundamental right to the pursuit of happiness.”
“Not in the street.”
“We’ll go upstairs and have . . . a cup of Ovaltine.”
“Mr. Barrett, go directly to your goddamn office, do legalizing or whatever, and come back for dinner.”
“When?” I asked impatiently.
“At dinnertime,” she said, and tried to move inside. But I still held her hand.
“I’m hungry now.”
“You’ll have to wait till nine.”
“Six-thirty,” I retorted.
“Half past eight,” she counteroffered.
“Seven,” I insisted.
“Eight o’clock’s the bottom line.”
“You drive a ruthless bargain,” I responded, acquiescing.
“I’m a ruthless bitch,” she said. Then smiled and sprinted through the iron gates of her enormous castle.
In the office elevator, I began to yawn. Our shut-eye had been minimal and only now were the effects affecting me. I also looked exactly like a human wrinkle. At one of our coffee stops, I’d bought a cheapo razor and attempted shaving. No machines, however, were dispensing shirts. So I inevitably looked like I’d been doing what I had been doing.
“Well, it’s Mr. Romeo!” Anita cried.
Who the hell had told her?
“It says right on your sweater: ‘Alfa Romeo.’ I thought it was your name. You surely aren’t Mr. Barrett. He is always in the office with the dawn.”
“I overslept,” I said, and started for the refuge of my chamber.
“Oliver, get ready for a shock.”
I paused.
“What happened?”
“Flower people have attacked.”
“What?”
“Can’t you smell from here?”
I entered what was once my office and was now a huge botanical extravaganza. Floral effervescence everywhere. Even my own desk was now . . . a bed of roses.
“Somebody loves you,” said Anita, sniffing sweetly at the door.
“Was there a card?” I queried, praying that she hadn’t opened it.
“On your roses—I mean on your desk,” she said.
I reached for it. Thank heaven it was sealed and indicated “Personal.”
“It’s very heavy paper,” said Anita. “When I held it to the light I couldn’t read a thing.”
“You can go to lunch,” I answered, giving her a non-caloric smile.
“What’s happened, Oliver?” she said while scrutinizing me. (My shirt was slightly frazzled, but no other clues. I’d checked.)
“What do you mean, Anita?”
“You neglected totally to hassle me for messages.”
I told her once again to go and snicker out at lunch. And hang “Do not disturb” out on the knob.
“Who has that kind of sign? This isn’t a motel, y’know!” She left and shut the door.
I nearly ripped the envelope to shreds while opening it. The message was:
I didn’t know your favorite and didn’t want to disappoint.
Love,
M.
I smiled and grabbed the phone.
“She’s in conference. May I say who’s calling?”
“It’s her Uncle Abner,” I said, sounding as avuncular as possible. There was a pause, a click, and suddenly the boss.
“Yes?”
Marcie on the line, her tone extremely crisp.
“How come your tone’s so goddamn crisp?”
“I’m in a meeting with the West Coast managers.”
Aha, the upper echelon. The varsity. And she was giving them her imitation of a Frigidaire.
“I’ll call you back,” said Marcie, clearly desperate to preserve her frosty image.
“I’ll just be brief,” I said. “The flowers were a lovely touch—”
“That’s fine,” she answered. “I’ll get back to you—”
“And one more thing. You’ve got the most fantastic ass—”
A sudden click. The bitch hung up on me!
My heart ached and a drowsy numbness filled my soul.
“Is he dead?”
Vaguely I began to comprehend more words on the horizon of my consciousness. The voice resembled that of Barry Pollack, a recent law grad who’d just joined the firm.
“He looked so healthy just this morning.”
Now Anita, trying for an Oscar as bereaved relation.
“How did he get there?” Barry asked.
I sat up. Christ, I had been sleeping on my bed of roses!
“Hi, guys,” I murmured, yawning but pretending that I always took siestas on my desk. “Try knocking next time, huh?”
“We did,” said Barry nervously, “a lot of times. So then we opened up to see if you were . . . uh—y’know—all right.”
“I’m fine,” I answered, nonchalantly flicking petals from my shirt.
“I’ll make you coffee,” said Anita, exiting.
“What’s up, Barry?” I inquired.
“Uh . . . the—you know—School Board case. We’re—you know—prepping it together.”
“Yeah,” I said, as it began to dawn on me that in another world I used to be a lawyer. “Don’t we have a meeting on it sometime?”
“Yeah. Today at three,” said Barry, shuffling papers, shifting from his right foot to his left.
“Okay, see you then.”
“Uh . . . it’s sort of half past four,” said Barry, hoping earnestly that accuracy would not cause offense.
“Four-thirty? Holy shit!” I leapt onto my feet.
“I’ve got a lot of research—” Barry started, thinking that the session had begun.
“No. Hey, Barry—look, let’s meet tomorrow on it, huh?” I headed for the door.
“What time?”
“You name it—first thing in the morning.”
“Half past eight?”
I paused. The School Board case was actually not quite the first thing I had planned for my matutinal activities.
“No. I’m seeing . . . an executive. We’d better make it ten.”
“Okay.”
“Ten-thirty would be better, Bar.”
“Okay.”
As I burst out the door, I heard him mutter, “I’ve done really lots of research. . . .”
I was early for the doctor, but was glad to leave. London wasn’t on my wavelength, and besides, there were momentous things to do. Like get a haircut. And select my wardrobe. Should I wear a tie?
And bring a toothbrush?
Shit, I still had hours more to wait. And so I ran in Central Park to pass the time.
And also pass her house.
Chapter Twenty-one
The castle of the princess is protected by a regiment. At first you meet the Keeper of the Gate, who vigorously questions the legitimacy of your presence in the royal precinct. Then, if satisfied, he will direct you to an antechamber where a footman by a switchboard then attempts to verify if you, a humble commoner, are actually expected by the monarchy.
“Yes, Mr. Barrett,” said the epauletted Cerberus, “you m
ay go in.” His implication was that—to his mind—I’d barely passed.
“That’s splendid news,” I answered him in kind. “Can you direct me to the Binnendale apartment?”
“Cross the courtyard, take the far right entrance, then the elevator to the top.”
“What’s the number?” I inquired.
“There’s only one apartment, Mr. Barrett.”
“Thanks. I’m ever so obliged” (you pompous asshole).
There was no number on the single door. Nor any indication whatsoever of who dwelt therein. As I clutched my small bouquet of flowers purchased on the corner, I rang very couthly.
Seconds later, Marcie opened. She wore a kind of silky thing that women wear around the house—if they’re the Queen of Sheba. Anyway, I liked the parts the garment didn’t cover.
“Hey, you look familiar,” Marcie said.
“I intend to act much more so when I get inside,” I answered.
“Why wait?”
I didn’t. And I ran my hands on lots of silky-covered Marcie. Then I offered her the flowers.
“That’s all I could scrounge up,” I said. “Some lunatic bought up all the others in the city.”
Marcie took my arm and led me in.
And in and in.
The place was so enormous it was disconcerting. Even though the furnishings were all in perfect taste, there just was too damn much of everything. But mostly a preponderance of space.
On the walls were many of the selfsame artworks that had graced my dorm at Harvard. Though of course these weren’t reproductions.
“I like your interesting museum,” I remarked.
“I liked your fascinating phone call,” she retorted, deftly dodging all responsibility for ostentation.
Suddenly we found ourselves inside a coliseum.
I suppose the area was commonly referred to as a living room, but it was truly mammoth. Ceilings twenty feet at least. Huge windows overlooking Central Park. The view distracted me from adequate appraisal of the paintings. Though some, I noted, were surrealistic. Likewise their effect on me.
Marcie was amused that I was acting fazed.
“It’s tiny, but it’s home,” she quipped.
“Jesus, Marcie, you could set a tennis court up right in here.”
“I would,” she answered, “if you’d play with me.”
It was taking quite a while just to traverse this wide expanse. Our footsteps clicked in stereo upon the parquet floor.