Oliver's Story

Howard Johnson's.

Thus before our fireside embracings I took Marcie for a lavish meal at Ho Jo'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.

Afterwards 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.

 

'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 seemed 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.