Oliver's Story

'Marce, you didn't have to make a fuss. I don't care what we eat. It only matters that we're eating with each other.'

'Yes,' she said.

But I could see she thought that I was criticizing her. I guess I was. But not intending to cause any grief. I hoped I hadn't made her feel upset.

Anyway, I tried to reassure her.

'Hey — it doesn't mean that I don't like this, Marcie. Really. It reminds me of my home.'

'Which you despised.'

'Who said so?'

'You did. Yesterday.'

'Oh, yeah.'

I guess I'd let it all hang out at Hojo's. (Was it only one short day ago?)

'Hey, look,' I said. 'I'm sorry if you were offended. Somehow when my parents eat like this, it seems arthritic. On the other hand, with you it's … elegant.'

'Do you really think so?'

This one called for some diplomacy.

'No,' I said, sincerely.

'My feelings aren't hurt,' she said, her feelings obviously hurt. 'I wanted to impress you. I don't eat this way too often.'

That was a relief to learn.

'Well, how often?'

'Twice,' she said.

'A week?'

'Twice since Father died.' (Which was six years ago.)

I felt bastardly for asking.

'Shall we have coffee elsewhere?' asked the hostess.

'Can I pick the room?' I asked, abrim with innuendo.

'No,' said Marcie. 'In my bailiwick you follow me.'

I did. Back to the library. Where coffee waited and some hidden speakers wafted Mozart.

'Have you really only entertained here twice?' I asked.

She nodded yes. 'Both times for business.

'How about your social life?' I asked, attempting to be delicate.

'It's gotten better lately,' she replied.

'No, seriously, Marce, what would you normally do upon a New York evening?'

'Well,' she said, 'it's truly fascinating. I come home and jog if it's still light outside. Then back to work. My office here has got extensions from the switchboard, so I take the California calls … '

'Till after twelve, I'll bet.'

'Not always.'

'Then what happens afterwards?'

'I stop and socialize.'

'Aha. Which means …?'

'Oh, ginger ale and sandwiches with Johnny.'

'Johnny?' (I'm incapable of masking jealousy.)

'Carson. He makes witty dinner conversation.'

'Oh,' I said. Relieved, I shifted back to offense.

'Don't you do anything but work?'

'Marshall McLuhan says, 'Where the whole man is involved there is no work.' '

'He's full of shit and so are you. No, Marce. You tell yourself you're so involved, but actually you're just attempting to make 'work' anesthetize your loneliness.'

'Jesus, Oliver,' she said, somewhat surprised. 'How can you know so much about a person that you've barely met?'

'I can't,' I answered. 'I was talking of myself.'

Curious. We both knew what we wanted next, yet neither dared disrupt the conversation. Finally, I had to broach some trivial realities.

'Hey, Marcie, it's eleven-thirty.'

'Do you have a curfew, Oliver?'

'Oh, no. I also don't have other things. Like clothes, for instance.'

'Was I coy or vague?' she asked.

'Let's say you weren't crystal clear,' I said, 'and I was not about to show up with my little canvas overnight bag.'

Marcie smiled.

'That was deliberate,' she confessed.

'Why?'

She stood and offered me her hand.

Across the bed were strewn no fewer than a dozen shirts of silk. My size.

'Suppose I want to stay a year?' I asked.

'This may sound somewhat odd, my friend, but if you've got the inclination, I've got all the shirts.'

'Marcie?'

'Yes?'

'I've got a lot of … inclination.'

Then we made love as if the night before had only been the dress rehearsal.

Morning came too soon. It seemed like only 5 a.m. and yet the buzzer from the clock on Marcie's side was sounding reveille.

'What time is?' I snorted.

'Five a.m.,' said Marcie. 'Rise and shine.' She kissed my forehead.

'Are you berserk?'

'You know the court's reserved for six.'

'Come on, no court's in session — ' Then I wakened to her meaning. 'You have tennis planned?'

'It's booked from six to eight. Seems a shame to waste it … '

'Hey, I've got a better notion of what we could do.'

'What?' Marcie ingenued, though I had started touching her already. 'Volleyball?'

'Yes, if that's what you would call it.'

Anyway, whatever it was called, she was amenable to playing.

The difference was the bathroom.

As I showered, I was meditating on what elements distinguished Walter Binnendale's abode from Dover House, my parents' joint in Ipswich, Massachusetts.

Not the art. For we had masterpieces too. Although, befitting our more ancient fortune, of a prior century. The furnishings were vaguely similar. To me antique means old; I don't appreciate the vintages of bric-a-brac.

But the bathrooms! Here the Barretts proved themselves inextricably bound to Puritan tradition: rooms functional and basic. White-tile, simple — Spartan, one might even say. Surely nothing one might linger in. But not the Binnendales. Their baths were worthy of a Roman emperor. Or more precisely of the modern Roman principe who had created them. The mere notion of 'designing' such a room would have outraged the liberalest of Barretts.

In the mirror through the slightly opened portal I could see the bedroom.