Oliver's Story

'So you're from Boston?' Marcie said (our dialogue was not exactly loose).

'I am,' I said. 'And you?'

'I'm not from Boston,' she replied.

Was that a subtle put-down?

'Are you in the fashion business?' I inquired.

'Partially. And you?'

'I'm into liberties,' I answered.

'Taking them or giving them?' Her smile distracted me from telling if she'd been sarcastic.

'I try to make the government behave,' I said.

'That isn't easy,' Marcie said.

'Well, I haven't quite succeeded yet.'

The sommelier arrived and ceremoniously filled my glass. Then I myself began a vintage flow.

What you might call a magnum of description. On what progressive lawyers were involved in at this point in time.

I do confess I didn't know quite how to talk to … girls.

I mean it had been many years since I'd been on what you might call a date. I sensed that tales of self would not be cool. ('That egomaniac!' she'd tell her roommate.) Hence we discussed — or rather I discoursed upon — the Warren Court's decisions on the rights of individuals. And would the Burger kings continue to enhance the Fourth Amendment? That depends on who they choose to fill the Fortas seat. Keep your copy of the Constitution, Marcie, it may soon be out of print! As I was moving to the First Amendment, waiters swooped upon us with Long Island scallops. Yeah, they aren't bad. But not as good as Boston. Anyway, about the First — the high court rulings are ambiguous! How can they in O'Brien v. U.S. say that it's not symbolic speech to burn a draft card and turn right around in Tinker v. Des Moines and rule that wearing armbands to protest the war is 'purest speech'. What the hell, I ask you, is their real position?

'Don't you know?' asked Marcie. And before I could assess if she was subtly implying that I'd spoken far too much, the maitre d' was present once again to ask what we would like 'to top it off'. I ordered pot de creme au chocolat and coffee. All she had was tea. I began to feel a bit uneasy.

Should I ask her if I'd talked a bit too long? Apologize? Still, after all, she could've interrupted, right?

'Did you argue all those cases?' Marcie asked (facetiously?).

'Of course not. But there's a new appeal I am consulting on. They're trying to define a Conscientious Objector. As a precedent, they're using Webber v. Selective Service, which I argued. Then I do some volunteer work — '

'You don't seem to ever stop,' she said.

'Well, as Jimi Hendrix said at Woodstock, 'Things are pretty dirty and the world could use a scrubdown.' '

'Were you there?'

'No, I just read Time magazine to help me to go to sleep.'

'Oh,' Marcie said.

Did that open syllable mean I'd disappointed her? Or was I boring? Now that I looked back on this last hour (and a half!), I realized that I hadn't given her a chance to talk.

'What exactly do you do in fashion?' I inquired.

'Nothing socially uplifting. I'm with Binnendale's. You know the chain?'

Who doesn't know that golden chain of stores? That forty-carat lodestone for Conspicuous Consumers? Anyway, this tidbit clarified a lot. Miss Nash was obviously perfect for that flashy enterprise: so blond, so firm, so fully stacked, her Bryn Mawr elocution so mellifluous she probably could sell a handbag to a crocodile.

'I don't do that much selling,' she replied as I continued with my awkward questioning. I'd figured her to be a sales trainee with grandiose ambitions.

'Then what exactly do you do?' I asked still more directly. This is how you break a witness down.

Keep rephrasing questions that are basically the same.

'Hey, don't you get it up to here?' she said, her hand upon her slender throat. 'Doesn't talking anybody's business bore you silly?'

She clearly meant that I'd been goddamn tedious.

'I hope my legal lecture didn't turn you off.'

'No, honestly, I found it interesting. I only wish you'd said some more about yourself.'

What could I say? I guessed the truth would be the best resort.

'There's nothing very pleasant I could tell you.'

'Why?'

A pause. I looked into my coffee cup.

'I had a wife,' I said.

'That's not unusual,' she said. But sort of gently.

'She died.'

There was a pause.

'I'm sorry,' Marcie said.

'That's okay,' I said. There is no other answer.

We then sat silently.

'I wish you'd told me sooner, Oliver.'

'It's not all that easy.'

'Doesn't talking help?'

'God, you're almost sounding like my shrink,' I said.

'Oh,' she said. 'I thought I sounded like my own.'

'Hey, what did you need shrinking for?' I asked, amazed that someone with such poise could possibly need doctorizing. 'You didn't lose a wife.'

That was a grim attempt at humour. Also unsuccessful.

'I lost a husband,' Marcie said.

Oh, Barrett, with what grace you put your foot into your mouth!

'Jesus, Marcie,' was the most I could say.

'Don't misconstrue,' she quickly added. 'It was only by divorce. But when we split our lives and our possessions, Michael got the confidence and I got all the hangups.'

'Who was Mr Nash?' I asked, immensely curious to know what kind of guy could snare this kind of girl.

'Can we change the subject, please?' she said. And sounded — so I thought — a trifle sad.

Curiously, I felt relieved that somewhere underneath her cool exterior Miss Marcie Nash had something that she couldn't talk about. Maybe even memories of hurt. That made her seem more human and her pedestal less lofty. Still, I didn't know what next to say.

Marcie did. 'Oh, my, it's getting late.'

My watch informed me that it was indeed ten forty-five. But still I thought that saying it right then meant I had turned her off.

'Check, please,' she requested of the passing maitre d'.

'Hey — no,' I said. 'I want to buy you dinner.'

'Absolutely not. A deal's a deal.'

True, at first I'd wanted her to pay. But now I felt so guilty for my gaucheries I had to expiate by treating her.

'I'll take the check, please,' said yours truly, overruling her.