Oliver's Story

'Okay.'

'It isn't very big … '

'That's fine.'

' … and just make dinner. By ourselves. The staff is you and me. I'll do the goddamn dishes … '

'Fine,' she answered. When we'd jogged another hundred yards, she interrupted our athletic reverie.

'But Oliver,' she said, a trifle plaintively, 'who'll do the goddamn cooking?'

I looked at her.

'Something in my stomach says you aren't being jocular.'

She wasn't. On our final lap she told me of her culinary training. It was nil. She once had wanted to enroll in Cordon Bleu, but Mike objected. One can always get the teacher to come cook for one.

I was sort of pleased. I had mastered pasta, scrambled eggs and half a dozen other tricky dishes.

This made me the expert who could introduce her to the kitchen.

On the way to my place — which takes longer if you drive than if you jog — we stopped for take-out Chinese food. I had enormous difficulty in finalizing my selection.

'Problems?' Marcie asked, observing my exhaustive study of the menu.

'Yeah. I can't make up my mind.'

'It's only dinner,' Marcie said. And what: she may have meant — or understood — I'll never know.

I am sitting in my living room, trying to read last week's Sunday Times and pretending that a lady in my bathroom showering is nothing extraordinary.

'Hey,' I heard her call, 'the towels here are sort of … rancid.'

'Yes,' I said.

'Do you have clean ones?'

'No,' I said.

There was a pause.

'I'll be okay,' she said.

The bathroom was suffused with smells of femininity. I thought my shower would be quick (I only had one lousy nozzle, after all), and yet the perfume made me stay. Or was I afraid to leave the reassuring flow of warmth?

I was emotional, all right. And hypersensitive. But strange to say, at this point in the evening with a woman out there waiting to play house with me according to my oddball rules, I couldn't tell if I was happy or if I was sad.

I only knew that I was feeling.

Marcie Binnendale was in the kitchenette, pretending she could light a stove.

'You need matches, Marce,' I coughed, while quickly opening the window. 'I'll show you.'

'Sorry, friend,' she said, extremely ill at ease. 'I'm lost in here.'

I warmed the Chinese food, took out some beer and poured an orange juice. Marcie set the (coffee) table.

'Where'd you get these knives and forks?' she asked.

'Oh, here and there.'

'I'll say. No two pieces match.'

'I like variety.' (Yes. We had owned a total set. It's stashed away with other stuff suggesting marriage.)

We sat down on the floor and had our dinner. I was as loose as my uprightness would allow. I wondered if the grunge of the apartment and its claustrophobic clutter made my guest nostalgic for her normal way of life.

'It's nice,' she said. And touched my hand. 'Do you have any music?'

'No.' (I'd given Jenny's stereo away.)

'Nothing?'

'Just the radio that wakes me up.'

'Okay if I tune into QXR?' she asked.

I nodded, tried to smile, and Marcie rose. The radio was by the bed. Which was some four or five steps' journey from where we were camping. I was wondering if she'd return or wait for me to join her there. Could she notice my depression? Did she think my ardor had already waned?

Suddenly the telephone.

Marcie stood above it.

'Shall I answer, Oliver?'

'Why not?'

'It could be some little friend of yours,' she smiled.

'You flatter me. Impossible. You answer it.'

She shrugged and did.

'Good evening … Yes, that number is correct … It is. He's … Who am I? How is that relevant?'

Who the hell was at the other end, interrogating my own private guests? I rose and sternly grabbed the phone.

'Yeah? Who is this?'

A silence on the other end was broken by a gravelly 'Congratulations!'

'Oh — Phil.'

'Well, glory be to God,' the holy Cavilleri rolled.

'How are you, Phil?' I said casually.

He totally ignored my question while pursuing his.

'Is she nice?'

'Who, Philip?' I retorted icily.

'Her, the she, the gal who answered.'

'Oh, that's just the maid,' I said.

'At ten o'clock at night? Come on — come off it. Level with me.'

'I mean my secretary. You recall Anita — with the lots of hair. I'm giving her some notes about my School Board case.'

'Don't bullshit me. If that's Anita, I'm the Cardinal of Cranston.'

'Phil, I'm busy.'

'Sure, I know. And I'll hang up. But don't tell me you're gonna write no letters when I do.'

Philip, never one to talk in whispers, had been responding at a pitch so loud it broadcast through the whole apartment. Marcie was amused.

'Hey,' I inquired, so coolly I impressed myself, 'when will we get together?'

'At the weddin',' Philip said.

'Whaat?'

'Hey, is she tall or small? Or fat or thin? Or light or dark?'

'She's pumpernickel.'

'Ah,' said Phil, and pounced upon my jocular detail, 'you do admit that she's a she. Now, does she like you?'

'I don't know.'

'Ignore the question. Sure she likes you. You're terrific. If she needs some selling, I'll just pep her on the phone. Hey — put her on.'

'Don't bother.'

'Then she's sold? She digs you?'

'I don't know.'

'Then what's she doin' in your house at ten p.m.?'