Oliver's Story

'No, Marcie,' I replied. 'We've already gone around in far too many circles.' I unlocked the car.

'Oliver, I've got a reason.'

'Oh, I'm sure you do.'

'You didn't give me half a chance.'

'You didn't give me half a truth.'

I got in and closed the door. Marcie stood there as I revved the motor. Motionless and staring at me. As I slowly passed her, I rolled down the window.

'Will you call me?' she said quietly.

'You forget,' I answered, with no little irony, 'I haven't got your number. Think of that.'

At which I shifted gears and gunned it from the courtyard to the road.

And thence to New York City, to forget Miss Marcie Nash forever.

 

'What were you frightened of?'

This was Dr London's only comment after I'd recounted everything.

'I never said that I was frightened.'

'But you ran off.'

'Look, it became as clear as day that Marcie was a not so nice girl on the make.'

'You mean seducing you?'

He was naive.

' 'On the make',' I then explained as patiently as possible, 'because my name is Barrett, and it doesn't take much research to discover that I come from money.'

There. I'd made my point. Now there was silence in the court.

'You don't believe that,' Dr London said at last. His certainty that I was not convinced forced me to think again.

'I guess I don't,' I said.

There was another silence.

'All right, you're the doctor. What exactly did I feel?'

'Oliver,' said London. 'You are here precisely to improve communications with yourself.' He asked again, 'How did you feel?'

'A little vulnerable.'

'And …?'

'A little scared.'

'Of what?'

I couldn't answer right away. In fact, I was incapable of answering out loud. I was afraid. But not because I thought she'd tell me: 'Yeah, I'm living with an all-star fullback who's a Ph.D. in astrophysics and who turns me on.'

No. I rather think that I was scared of hearing:

'Oliver, I like you.'

Which would shake me up much more.

Granted Marcie was a mystery. But she was neither Mata Hari nor the whore of Babylon. Indeed, her single fault was that she didn't have an obvious, convenient fault. (I'd had to find her one!) And Marcie's lies, whatever may have prompted them, did not excuse the falsehood that I told myself.

That I was not … involved.

Because I nearly was. I very nearly was.

That's why I panicked and I fled. Because in almost liking someone else I felt disloyal to the only girl I ever loved.

But how much longer could I live this way, forever on my guard lest human feelings catch me unaware? In point of fact, my turmoil now was multiplied. And I was torn by two dilemmas.

One: How could I deal with memories of Jenny?

Two: How could I find Marcie Nash?

 

'Barrett, you're a fucking lunatic!'

'Be quiet, Simpson!' I retorted as I motioned frantically for him to keep his voice down.

'What's the matter — will I wake the tennis balls?' he growled. He was disgusted and confused.

And with good reason. It was barely 6 a.m. I'd dragged him from his duties at the hospital to be my stooge at Gotham Tennis Club.

'Oh, Barrett,' Simpson whined, while changing from his doctor whites to tennis whites I had provided, 'tell me one more time why this is so important!'

'It's a favor, Steve,' I said. 'I need a partner I can trust.'

He didn't understand. I hadn't told him everything.

'Hey, look,' he said, 'we run whenever I can break away. I can't devote my life to furthering your masochism. Why at dawn, goddammit?'

'Please,' I said. So earnestly that Simpson sympathized. At least he shut his mouth.

We ambled very slowly from the locker room. He from his tiredness and I from calculation.

'We're number six,' said Steve. And yawned.

'I know,' I said. And as we headed there, I scrutinized the population of courts one through five.

But no familiar face.

We batted balls till 8 a.m., with Simpson barely staying on his feet. And begging me to let him quit. I wasn't too adroit myself.

'You played like cottage cheese,' he puffed. 'You must be overtired too.'

'Yeah, yeah,' I said. And wondered where she was. In Cleveland maybe?

'Steve, I gotta ask a giant favor.'

'What?' he asked, suspicion in his eyes.

'Another game. Tomorrow.'

From my tone and pleading Simpson felt my urgency.

'Okay. But not at six a.m.'

'That's just the point,' I said. 'It's gotta be at six again!'

'No, goddammit, there are limits!' Simpson snarled. And punched the locker in frustration.

'Please,' I said. And then confessed, 'Steve, there's a girl involved.'

His weary eyes now widened. 'Yeah?' he said.

I nodded yes. And told him that I met her at the club and knew no other way of finding her.

Simpson looked relieved that I was interested in someone. And agreed to play. Then he thought of something: 'What if she's not here tomorrow too?'

'We'll just have to keep on coming till she is.'

He merely shrugged. A friend in need, if an exhausted friend indeed.

At the office I kept badgering Anita. Even if I only left my desk to heed the call of nature, I'd come charging back demanding, 'Any calls?'

And when she went for lunch, I'd order in a sandwich. Thus I kept a constant watch upon the telephone (I didn't trust that new kid at the switchboard). I wouldn't miss when Marcie called.

Except she didn't.