Oliver's Story

'Come on.'

'Okay. What time?'

'Like early afternoon,' I said. 'Just let me know which train to meet.'

'Can I bring some stuff? Remember I purvey Rhode Island's finest punkin pie.'

'That's great.'

'And stuffin' too.'

'That's great.'

Marcie signaled madly from the sidelines, 'All the way!'

'Uh … Phil, there's just one thing. Do you know how to cook a turkey?'

'Like a Turk!' he said. 'An' I could get a good one from my buddy Angelo. You sure she wouldn't mind?'

'Who, Phil?'

'Your lovely fiancee. Some ladies get resentful when a fella barges in their kitchen.'

'Marcie's very loose on that,' I said.

She now was jumping up and down for joy.

'That's great. Then she must truly be a lovely girl. 'Marcie,' huh? Hey, Oliver — you think she'll like me?'

'Positive.'

'Then meet me at the train at half past ten. Okay?'

'Okay.'

I was about to put the phone down when I heard him call:

'Say, Oliver?'

'Yes, Phil?'

Thanksgivin' is a proper time to plan a wedding.

'Nighty-night, Phil.'

We at last had signed off. I looked at Marcie.

'Are you glad he's coming?'

'If you think he'll like me.'

'Hey — no sweat.'

'I've got a better chance if I don't cook.'

We smiled. There was a grain of truth in that.

'Wait a minute, Oliver,' she said. 'Aren't you expected up in Ipswich?'

True enough. Thanksgiving was a Barrett Holy Day. But force majeure.

'I'll call and say I'm caught up in that School Board case which starts on Monday.'

And Marcie also had to make some changes.

'I should be in Chicago, but I'll fly here for the dinner and then take the last plane back.

Thanksgiving is a crucial day on retail calendars. The sales start Friday.'

'Good. It'll mean a lot to Phil.'

'I'm glad,' she said.

'Okay, now that everything is organized,' I said facetiously, 'may I express emotions?'

'Yes. What sort?'

'Well … sadness. Harvard lost to Yale. It's been a wretched day. Could you remotely think of some way you might comfort me?'

'You need therapy,' she said. 'Would you be willing to stretch out upon the bed?'

'I would,' I said. And did. She sat down on the edge.

'Now do whatever comes to mind,' she said.

I did.

And we slept happily ever after.

All that week Phil Cavilleri labored ceaselessly preparing festive dainties. And he spent a fortune on investigative calls.

'Does she like walnuts in her stuffin'?'

'She's at work now, Phil.'

'At eight p.m.?'

'She works on Wednesday night,' I said by way of quasi-explanation.

'What's the number there?' he asked, alacritous to learn her preference in nuts.

'She's busy, Phil. But yes — I just remembered. Walnuts really turn her on.'

'That's great!'

And off he went. For then.

But in the days that followed we had conference calls concerning mushrooms, what type squash, the style of cranberries (the jelly or whole fruit?) and all the vegetables.

'They'll be strictly from the farm,' I was assured longdistance from Rhode Island. 'What you people in New York get is just frozen crap.'

Naturally, I fabricated all of Marcie's big decisions. This was her week for Cincinnati, Cleveland and Chicago. Though we spoke at frequent intervals, and for at least an hour each evening, menus for Thanksgiving had a low priority.

'How's the School Board preparation, friend?'

'I'm ready. Barry's research is terrific. All I have to do is argue. Meanwhile I'm rereading all the banned material. They won't let junior high school kids read Vonnegut. Or even Catcher in the Rye!'

'Oh, that book was sad,' said Marcie. 'Poor sweet lonely Holden Caulfield.'

'Don't you feel for me? I'm lonely too.'

'Oh, Oliver, I don't just feel for you. I grope.' If by some chance my phone was being tapped, the tapper surely got his rocks off every night when Marcie called.

On Thanksgiving morn I was awakened by a turkey at the door. Waving it was Philip Cavilleri, who'd decided at the final moment that a really early train was needed. To allow sufficient time for him to set a proper feast. ('I know your lousy oven — it reminds me of a ruptured toaster.')

'Hey, where is she?' Philip asked, the moment he'd put down his load of goodies. (He was semi-peeking almost everywhere.)

'Phil, she doesn't live here. And besides, she's in Chicago.'

'Why?'

'On business.'

'Oh. She works in business?'

'Yes.'

He was impressed. And then he quickly asked:

'Does she appreciate you, Oliver?'

Jesus, he would never stop!

'Come on, Phil, let's get to work.'

I cleaned. He cooked. I set the table. He dished out whatever would be served up cold. By noon the banquet was in readiness. Except the turkey, timed to ripen juicily at half past four. Marcie's plane would reach La Guardia by half past three. Since there would be no traffic on the holiday, we'd easily sit down to eat by five. While we waited, Phil and I devoured TV football. He refused to take the briefest walk, although the weather was November crisp and sunny. The dedicated pro, he always had to be in basting distance of the Bird.

Slightly after two, there was the telephone.

'Oliver?'

'Where are you, Marcie?'

'At the airport. In Chicago. I can't come.'

'Is something wrong?'