Oliver's Story

instead. ('Who knows what it could lead to?') It is Phil's impression that he's made things easier. But he sails off and leaves me on the dock of a dilemma.

Ipswich, Massachusetts, where my parents live, lays claim to being home for me.

Marcie Binnendale, with whom I live when she's in striking distance, argues that the stockings should be hung on Eighty-sixth Street.

I would like to be where I won't feel alone. But somehow sense that both these options offer merely half a loaf.

Ah — wait! There is a legal precedent for halving loaves! The judge, I think, was Solomon (his first name, King). His watershed decision would be my solution.

Christmas spent with Marcie.

But in Ipswich, Massachusetts.

Falalalala lalalala.

'Hello, Mother.'

'How are you, Oliver?'

'I'm fine. How's Father?'

'Fine.'

'That's fine. Uh — it's about — uh — Christmas.'

'Oh, I do hope this time — '

'Yes,' I instantly assured her, 'we'll be there. I mean — uh — Mother, may I bring a guest? Uh — if there's room.'

Idiotic question!

'Yes, of course, dear.'

'It's a friend.'

That's brilliant, Oliver. She might have thought it was an enemy.

'Oh,' Mother said, unable to conceal emotion (not to mention curiosity). That's fine.'

'From out of town. We'd have to put her up.'

'That's fine,' said Mother. 'Is it someone … that, we know?' In other words, who is her family?

'No one that we have to make a fuss for. Mother.'

That would fake her out!

'That's fine,' she said.

'I'll drive up early Christmas Eve. Marcie will be flying from the Coast.'

'Oh.'

Considering my history, my mother doubtless thought it might be from the Coast of Timbuktu.

'Well, we'll look forward to you and Miss … '

'Nash. Marcie Nash.'

'We'll look forward to your visit.'

It is mutual. And that, as Dr London will attest, is quite a feeling.

 

Why?

I could imagine Marcie's ruminations as she jetted from Los Angeles to Boston on December 24.

The quintessence would be why.

Why has he invited me to meet his parents? And for Christmas. Does this gesture mean he's getting … serious?

Naturally, we'd never broached such matters with each other. But I'm fairly confident that up there in the stratosphere a certain Bryn Mawr intellectual is pondering hypotheses to figure out her New York roommate's motivations.

And yet she never brought it to the surface and inquired, 'Oliver — why did you ask me?'

'I'm glad. For frankly, I'd have answered, 'I don't know.'

It had been a hasty impulse, typical of me. Calling home before consulting Marcie. Or my own inner thoughts. (Though Marcie really twinkled when I asked her.) I was also hasty in the self-deceiving message I transmitted to my brain: It's just a friend you happen to be going with and Christmas happens to be now. There's no significance and no 'intention' whatsoever.

Bullshit.

Oliver, you know damn well it isn't too ambiguous when you invite a girl to meet your parents.

Over Christmas.

Buddy, it is not the sophomore prom.

All this seemed so lucid now. One full week later. As I paced the Logan Airport terminal in sympathetic circles with her pilot's holding pattern.

In real life, Oliver, what would such a gesture intimate?

Now, after several days of probing, I could answer consciously. It hints of marriage. Matrimony.

Wedlock. Barrett, dost thou take this whirlwind …?

Which would therefore make the trip to Ipswich something that would fill some atavistic craving for parental approbation. Why do I still care what Mom and Daddy think?

Do you love her, Oliver?

Jesus, what a stupid time to ask yourself!

Yeah? Another inner voice shouts, This is the very time to ask!

Do I love her?

It's too complicated for a simple yes or no.

Then why the hell am I so sure I want to marry her?

Because …

Well, maybe it's irrational. But somehow I believe a real commitment would provide the catalyst.

The ceremony would evoke the 'love'.

'Oliver!'

The first one off the plane turned out to be the subject of rny thoughts. Who looked fantastic.

'Hey, I really missed you, friend,' she said, her hand caressing underneath my jacket. Though I held her just as tight, I couldn't wander anatomically. We were in Boston, after all. But wait till later …

'Where's your little bag?' I asked.

'I've got a bigger one. It's checked.'

'Oho. Will we be treated to a fashion show?'

'Nothing too far out,' she answered. Thus acknowledging her wardobe had been planned with mucho thought.

She was carrying an oblong package.

'I'll take that,' I offered.

'No, it's fragile,' she replied.

'Ah, your heart,' I quipped.

'Not quite,' she answered. 'Just your father's present.'

'Oh.'

'I'm nervous, Oliver,' she said.

We had traversed the Mystic River Bridge and were enmeshed in Route I Christmas traffic.

'You're full of crap,' I said.

'What if they don't like me?' she continued.