Authors: Erich Segal

Oliver's Story (17 page)

BOOK: Oliver's Story

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Joy to the World . . .

To this processional, zestfully performed by Mr. Weeks, the organist, we entered church and headed for our pew. The house was full of all our “peers,” who were in fact discreetly peering at our female guest. (“She isn’t one of us,” I’m sure they said.) No one turned to gaze overtly save for Mrs. Rhodes, whose ninety-odd—extremely odd—long years could license such behavior.

But the congregation did watch Mrs. Rhodes. And couldn’t help but notice that she smiled after a thorough look at Marcie. Ah, the hag approves.

We sang politely (not as loudly as last evening) and we heard the Reverend Mr. Lindley drone the service. Father read the lesson and, give credit, did it well. He took his breaths at commas, not, like Lindley, everywhere.

The sermon, Lord have mercy, showed the reverend was in sync with world affairs. He made mention of the conflict out in Southeast Asia, bade us think—at Christmastide—how much the Prince of Peace was needed in a World at War.

Thank Heaven Lindley is asthmatic so his sermons are gasped mercifully brief.

All benedicted, we retired to the steps of church. To have a replay of the after Harvard-Yale game meetings. Save this morning everyone is sober.

“Jackson!” “Mason!” “Harris!” “Barrett!” “Cabot!” “Lowell!”

God!

Things of minor consequence were mumbled in between articulations of the cronies’ names. Mother also had some friends to greet. But in a quiet manner, natch.

Then all at once a voice distinctly bellowed:

“Maah-cie dear!”

I whirled and saw my date embracing someone.

It was someone antiquated or—despite the church—he would have swallowed teeth.

Instantly my parents were at hand to see who had saluted Marcie with such fervor.

Good old Standish Farnham still had Marcie in his arms.

“Oh, Uncle Standish, what a nice surprise!”

Mother seemed enthused. Was Marcie niece to this distinguished “one of us”?

“Maah-cie, what would bring a city gal like you out to these bahrbr’ous pahts?” asked Standish,
a
’s as broad as Boston Harbor.

“She’s staying with us,” Mother interposed.

“Oh, Alison, how fine,” said Standish, and then winked at me. “Do gahd her from that rakish lad of yours.”

“We keep her under glass,” I answered wryly. And old Standish larfed.

“Are you two related?” I inquired, wishing Standish would remove his hand from Marcie’s waist.

“Only by affection. Mr. Farnham and my father were in partnership,” she said.

“Not pahtners,” he insisted, “brothers.”

“Oh,” said Mother, clearly hoping for a juicy new detail.

“We had some hosses,” Standish said. “I sold ’em when her father died. The fun went out.”

“Indeed,” my mother said, beneath her Christmas bonnet a Vesuvius of curiosity. (For Standish just
assumed
we knew who Marcie’s daddy was.)

“If you have time, come over in the afternoon,” old Farnham said in parting.

“I have to be in New York City, Uncle Standish.”

“Ah—the busy little gal,” he crowed. “Well, shame on you for sneaking into Boston like a criminal.” He blew a kiss to her and turned to us.

“Be sure she eats. If I recall my little Maah-cie, she was always on a diet. Merry Christmas.”

Then as an afterthought he called, “Keep up the good work, Maah-cie. We’re all proud of you!”

Father drove us back in Mother’s station wagon. And in pregnant silence.

Pre-Christmas dinner, Father cracked a bottle of champagne.

“To Marcie,” said my mother.

We all raised our glasses. Marcie merely wet her lips. Quite out of character, I then proposed a toast to Jesus.

There were six of us. The four who rose this morning supplemented now by Geoff, my mother’s nephew from Virginia, and Aunt Helen, spinster sister of my father’s father, who, I think, recalls Methuselah when both of them were studying at Harvard. Helen’s deaf and Geoffrey eats as if he had a tapeworm. So the conversation wasn’t noticeably changed.

We praised the mighty bird.

“Tell Florence, don’t tell me,” my mother humbly said. “She was up at dawn to start it off.”

“The stuffing’s simply marvelous,” my New York roommate effervesced.

“Ipswich oysters, after all,” said Mother, pleased as punch.

We feasted, everything aplenty. I and Geoff competed to be glutton of the day.

And strangely now, a second bottle of champagne was opened. Though I vaguely was aware that only I and Father were imbibing. Actually, I was so vague because I had imbibed the most.

Florence’s perennial mince pie, then coffee in the parlor made it 3
P.M
.

I’d have to wait a bit before we started to New York. To let my stomach settle and my brain grow clear.

“Marcie, would you like to take a walk?” my mother asked.

“I’d love to, Mrs. Barrett.”

And they did.

Meanwhile Auntie Helen snoozed, and Geoff went up to plug into the football on the tube.

That left my father and myself.

“I’d really like some cool air too,” I said.

“I wouldn’t mind a walk,” my father answered.

As we put our coats on, and went out into the winter frost, I was aware that
I
had asked him for this promenade. I could have copped out with the football game like Geoff. But no, I wanted conversation. With my father.

“She’s a lovely girl,” he said. Unasked.

But yet I think that’s what I hoped we would discuss.

“Thank you, Father,” I replied. “I think so too.”

“She seems . . . fond of you.”

We were in the woods now. Framed by leafless trees.

“I’m . . . sort of fond of her,” I said at last.

My father weighed each word. He wasn’t used to my
receptiveness
. Conditioned by the years of my hostility, he doubtless thought I’d turn him off at any point. But gradually he came to realize that I wouldn’t. Thus he dared to ask me, “Is it serious?”

We walked along. At last I looked at him and answered quietly.

“I wish I knew.”

Although I had been vague and almost enigmatic, Father sensed that I had honestly expressed what I was feeling. That is, confusion.

“Is there . . . a problem?” he inquired.

I looked at him and nodded silently.

“I think I understand,” he said.

How? I hadn’t told him anything.

“Oliver, it’s not unnatural that you would still be grieving.” Father’s insight took me by surprise. Or had he merely guessed that his remark might . . . touch me?

“No, it isn’t Jenny,” I replied. “I mean I think I’m ready for . . .” Why was I telling this to
him?

He didn’t press. He waited for my thoughts to be complete.

After several moments he said softly, “You did say there was a problem?”

“It’s her family,” I answered.

“Oh,” he said. “Is there . . . resistance?”

“On
my
part,” I replied. “Her father . . .”

“Yes?”

“. . . was Walter Binnendale.”

“I see,” he said.

And with those simple words concluded the most intimate communication of our lives.

Chapter Thirty-three

“D
id they like me?”

“I would say you snowed them.”

We had reached the Massachusetts Turnpike. It was dark. Not a creature was stirring.

“Are you pleased?” she asked.

I didn’t answer. Marcie had expected verbal cartwheels. And instead I focused on the empty road.

“What’s the matter, Oliver?” she said at last.

“You were courting them.”

She seemed surprised that this had irked me.

“What’s wrong with that?”

I let a little temper show. “But why, goddammit? Why?”

A pause.

“Because I want to marry you,” she said.

Fortunately she was driving. I was stunned by the directness of her words. But then she never minces them.

“Then try romancing
me!
” I said.

She let us drive along with just the wind for background music. Then she answered, “Is it still a courtship with the two of us? I should think we passed that stage awhile ago.”

“Hmm,” I murmured in most noncommittal tones. Because I feared that total silence might imply assent.

“Well, where exactly
are
we, Oliver?” she asked.

“About three hours from New York,” I said.

“What have I done, precisely?”

We had stopped for coffee at the HoJo’s after Sturbridge.

I wanted to say: Not enough.

And yet I was sufficiently composed to keep inflammatory words in check.

Because I knew I had been shaken by her matrimonial announcement. And was in no shape to frame a rational response.

“Well, what have I done to piss you off?” she asked again.

I longed to say: It’s what you haven’t done.

“Forget it, Marcie. We’re both tired.”

“Oliver, you’re angry at me. Why don’t you communicate instead of brood!”

This time she was right.

“Okay,” I started, drawing circles with my finger on the laminated table. “We’ve just spent two weeks apart. Even though we both were busy, I dreamed all that time of getting back with you—”

“Oliver—”

“I don’t mean just in bed. I mean I craved your company. The two of us together . . .”

“Oh, come on,” she said. “It was a Christmas madness up in Ipswich.”

“It’s not just this weekend. I mean all the time.”

She looked at me. I had not raised my voice, but still betrayed my fury.

“Ah, we’re back to all my voyages these past few weeks.”

“We’re not. I mean the next ten thousand weeks.”

“Oliver,” she said, “I thought what made us work was that we each respected that we had career commitments too.”

She’s right. But just in theory.

“Hey—try reaching for ‘career commitments’ when you’re all alone at three
A.M
.”

I sensed a women’s lib-stick blow was imminent. But I was wrong.

“Hey,” she softly answered, “I have. Lots of times.”

She touched my hand.

“Yeah? And what’s it like to feel just hotel pillows?” I inquired.

“Lousy,” she replied.

We were always near the end zone, but we never scored. Wasn’t it her turn to say let’s change the game?

“How do you deal with lonely nights?” I asked.

“I tell myself I have no choice.”

“Do you
believe
yourself?”

I sensed hostilities at hand, a kind of Armageddon of the life styles.

“What do you want from a woman, Oliver?”

The tone was gentle. And the question loaded.

“Love,” I said.

“In other words, a clinging vine?”

“I’d settle for a few more evenings in the same apartment.”

I would not be philosophical. Or let her in the slightest way invoke the nature of my marriage. Jenny also worked, goddammit.

“I thought the two of us were happy as a couple.”

“Yeah, when we’re
with
each other. But, Marce, it’s not a goddamn inventory you replenish just by phone.”

The irony of my commercial metaphors was unappreciated.

“You are saying one of us should tag along and be the other’s nanny?”

“I would—if you
needed
me.”

“Good Christ! I just came out and said I want to marry you!”

She looked tired and exasperated. And the moment really wasn’t opportune.

“Let’s go,” I said.

I paid. We stepped outside and started toward the car.

“Oliver,” said Marcie.

“Yeah?”

“Isn’t it just possible that you’re upset in retrospect? I mean because they
did
like me. And
didn’t
jump for joy when you brought Jenny home?”

“No,” I said. And buried her remark a million fathoms deep.

Marcie, to her credit, is a fighter.

All throughout our Christmas-New Year’s truce, I sensed her inwardly preparing for a New Campaign. The foe, of course, was her own instinct to mistrust the world.

And mine.

Anyway, as much as possible she stayed at home and tried to run the show by telephone. No easy trick with that post-Christmas lunacy. But still she did. She fought long-distance. And we spent the nights together. And—amazingly—some afternoons.

Then she sprung the big one on me New Year’s Eve. We were readying for the Simpsons’ party (yeah, I’d stashed some Alka-Seltzer, just in case). As I was shaving, Marcie joined me in the mirror and enhanced the picture. She did not mince words.

“Are you prepared for a commitment, Oliver?”

“Like what?” I asked, a trifle wary.

“Like how about a little trip? In February.”

“And I suppose you’ve chosen where.” Don’t be sarcastic, Oliver, she’s worked at this.

“Stay loose—and keep an open mind,” she said. “It’s true I have to check the Hong Kong Fashion Show and—”

“Hong Kong!”

She had caught me with the carrot of the Orient! My smile was hemispheric.

“So you dig, my friend?”

“You said you had to work,” I answered with suspicion.

“To merely show one’s face is not exactly work. Besides, the week before is Chinese New Year. We could have a solo celebration. Then going home, we’d stop off in Hawaii.”

“Well . . .” I said. But my expression broadcast: Holy shit! Then, ever cautious, I inquired:

“Do you have any business in Hawaii?”

“None. Unless you count collecting coconuts.”

What a New Year’s proposition!

“Well?” she said.

“I like it, Marce. Especially Hawaii. Quiet beaches . . . moonlight walks . . .”

“A sort of honeymoon,” she said.

Intriguing phraseology. I wondered how intentional.

I didn’t turn to her. Instead I checked the mirror for a glimpse of her expression.

It was fogged with steam.

I didn’t get permission from the boss.

I got encouragement.

Not that they were happy to be rid of me. But I had barely a day’s vacation since I joined the firm.

There would be some sacrifices, though. I couldn’t get involved in certain cases. Like the two in Washington involving draft resisters, which were using work I’d done for
Webber
v.
Selective Service
. And in February when the Congress would decide on how to deal with the de facto segregation problem. So I had some a priori retrospective qualms.

“You’re worried that the world will be set right while you’re away”—Mr. Jonas smiled—“but I promise we’ll reserve a few injustices for you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Be a little selfish, Oliver. You’ve earned it.”

Even while preparing for the trip (the Hong Kong Tourist Office inundates you with material), I handled several cases for the Midnight Raiders. And I blew the whistle on a fraudulent consumer con. Barry Pollack (champion in the School Board case) was following it up.

“Hey, Marce, what was the Treaty of Nanking?”

“It sounds like
The Mikado
,” she replied.

I would educate her over breakfast, over dinner, over toothpaste, even interrupt her at the office.

“The Treaty of Nanking, if you must know—”

“Oh, must I?”

“Yes. When the English outaggressed them in the Opium War—”

“Ah—opium.” Her eyes lit up.

I ignored her levity and lectured on.

“—China had to give up Hong Kong to the British.”

“Oh,” she said.

“That’s only the beginning,” I replied.

“I see,” said Marcie, “and the end will be that fighting lawyer Barrett’s gonna make them give it back. That right?”