Oliver's Story

But yet I think that's what I hoped we would discuss.

'Thank you, Father,' I replied. 'I think so too.'

'She seems … fond of you.' 

We were in the woods now. Framed by leafless trees.

'I'm … sort of fond of her,' I said at last.

My father weighed each word. He wasn't used to my receptiveness. Conditioned by the years of my hostility, he doubtless thought I'd turn him off at any point. But gradually he came to realize that I wouldn't. Thus he dared to ask me, 'Is it serious?'

We walked along. At last I looked at him and answered quietly.

'I wish I knew.'

Although I had been vague and almost enigmatic, Father sensed that I had honestly expressed what I was feeling. That is, confusion.

'Is there … a problem?' he inquired.

I looked at him and nodded silently.

'I think I understand,' he said.

How? I hadn't told him anything.

'Oliver, it's not unnatural that you would still be grieving.' Father's insight took me by surprise.

Or had he merely guessed that his remark might … touch me?

'No, it isn't Jenny,' I replied. 'I mean I think I'm ready for … ' Why was I telling this to him?

He didn't press. He waited for my thoughts to be complete.

After several moments he said softly, 'You did say there was a problem?'

'It's her family,' I answered.

'Oh,' he said. 'Is there … resistance?'

'On my part,' I replied. 'Her father … '

'Yes?'

' … was Walter Binnendale.'

'I see,' he said.

And with those simple words concluded the most intimate communication of our lives.

 

'Did they like me?'

'I would say you snowed them.'

We had reached the Massachusetts Turnpike. It was dark. Not a creature was stirring.

'Are you pleased?' she asked.

I didn't answer. Marcie had expected verbal cartwheels. And instead I focused on the empty road.

'What's the matter, Oliver?' she said at last.

'You were courting them.'

She seemed surprised that this had irked me.

'What's wrong with that?'

I let a little temper show. 'But why, goddammit? Why?'

A pause.

'Because I want to marry you,' she said.

Fortunately she was driving. I was stunned by the directness of her words. But then she never minces them.

'Then try romancing me!' I said.

She let us drive along with just the wind for background music. Then she answered, 'Is it still a courtship with the two of us? I should think we passed that stage a while ago.'

'Hmm,' I murmured in most noncommittal tones. Because I feared that total silence might imply assent.

'Well, where exactly are we, Oliver?' she asked.

'About three hours from New York,' I said.

'What have I done, precisely?'

We had stopped for coffee at the Ho Jo's after Sturbridge.

I wanted to say: Not enough.

And yet I was sufficiently composed to keep inflammatory words in check.

Because I knew I had been shaken by her matrimonial announcement. And was in no shape to frame a rational response.

'Well, what have I done to piss you off?' she asked again.

I longed to say: It's what you haven't done.

'Forget it, Marcie. We're both tired.'

'Oliver, you're angry at me. Why don't you communicate instead of brood!'

This time she was right.

'Okay,' I started, drawing circles with my finger on the laminated table. 'We've just spent two weeks apart. Even though we both were busy, I dreamed all that time of getting back with you — '

'Oliver — '

'I don't mean just in bed. I mean I craved your company. The two of us together.'

'Oh, come on,' she said. 'It was; a Christmas madness up in Ipswich.'

'It's not just this weekend. I mean all the time.'

She looked at me. I had not raised my voice, but still betrayed my fury.

'Ah, we're back to all my voyages these past few weeks.'

'We're not. I mean the next ten thousand weess.'

'Oliver,' she said. 'I thought what made us work was that we each respected that we had career commitments too.'

She's right. But just in theory.

'Hey — try reaching for 'career commitments' when you're all alone at three a.m.'

I sensed a women's lib-stick blow was imminent. But I was wrong.

'Hey,' she softly answered, 'I have. Lots of times.'

She touched my hand.

'Yeah? And what's it like to feel just hotel pillows?' I inquried.

'Lousy,' she replied.

We were always near the end zone, but we never scored. Wasn't it her turn to say let's change the game?

'How do you feel with lonely nights?' I asked.

'I tell myself I have no choice.'

'Do you believe yourself?'

I sensed hostilities at hand, a kind of Armageddon of the life styles.

'What do you want from a woman, Oliver?'

The tone was gentle. And the question loaded.

'Love,' I said.

'In other words, a clinging vine?'

'I'd settle for a few more evenings in the same apartment.'

I would not be philosophical. Or let her in the slightest way invoke the nature of my marriage.

Jenny also worked, goddammit.

'I thought the two of us were happy as a couple.'