Oliver's Story

candles of the city were beginning to be lit.

The wind was cold. It blew the hair across her forehead in the manner I had often found so beautiful.

'Hi, friend,' she said. 'Look down at: all those lights. We can see everything from here.'

I didn't answer.

'Want me to indicate the points of interest?'

'I saw enough this afternoon. With Johnny.'

'Oh,' she said.

Then gradually she noticed I had not returned her smile of welcome. I was looking up at her, wondering was this the woman I had almost … loved?

'Something wrong?' she asked.

'Everything,' I answered.

'For instance?'

I said it quietly.

'You've got little children working in your sweatshops.'

Marcie hesitated for a moment.

'Everybody does it.'

'Marcie, that is no excuse.'

'Look who's talking,' Marcie answered calmly. 'Mr Barrett of the Massachusetts textile fortune!'

I was prepared for this.

That's not the point.'

'Like hell! They took advantage of a situation just the way the industry is doing here.'

'A hundred years ago,' I said, 'I wasn't there to say it made me sick.'

'You're pretty sanctimonious,' she said. 'Just who picked you to change the world?'

'Look, Marcie, I can't change it. But I sure as hell don't have to join it.'

Then she shook her head.

'Oliver, this bleeding liberal number's just a pretext.'

I looked at her and didn't answer.

'You want to end it. And you're looking for a good excuse.'

I could've said I'd found a goddamn good one.

'Come on,' she said, 'you're lying to yourself. If I gave everything to charity and went to teach in Appalachia, you'd find some other reason.'

I reflected. All I really knew was I was anxious to depart.

'Maybe,' I allowed.

'Then why not have the balls to say you just don't like me?'

Marcie's cool was melting. She was not upset. Not angry. Yet not quite in full control of all her fabled poise.

'No. I like you, Marce,' I said. 'I just can't live with you.'

'Oliver,' she answered quietly, 'you couldn't live with anyone. You're still so hung up on Jenny, you don't want a new relationship.'

I could not respond. She really hurt me by evoking Jenny.

'Look, I know you,' she continued. 'All your 'deep in-yolvement with the issues' is a great facade. It's just a socially acceptable excuse to keep on mourning.'

'Marcie?'

'Yes?'

'You are a cold and heartless bitch.'

I turned and started off.

'Wait, Oliver.'

I stopped and looked around.

She stood there. Crying. Very softly.

'Oliver … I need you.'

I did not reply.

'And I think you need me too,' she said. For a moment] did not know what to do.

I looked at her. I knew how hopelessly alone she felt.

But therein lay the problem.

So did I.

I turned and walked down Austin Road. Not looking back.

Night had fallen.

And I wished the darkness could have drowned me.

 

'What is your opinion, Doctor?'

'I think lemon meringue.'

Joanna Stein, M.D., reached out across the counter and then placed a piece of pie upon her tray.

This and two stalks of celery would be her lunch. She'd just explained that she was on a diet.

'Pretty weird,' I commented.

'I can't help it,' she replied. 'I'm a sucker for the really gooey stuff. The celery is for my conscience.'

It was two weeks after I'd got back. I'd spent the first days feeling tired, then the next few feeling angry. Then, as if returning to square one, I just felt lonely.

With a difference.

Two years ago, my grief had overwhelmed all other feelings. Now I knew that what I needed was the company of someone. Someone nice. I wouldn't wait or wallow.

My only qualm in calling up Joanna Stein was having to concoct some bullshit to explain why I'd been out of touch so long.

She never asked.

When I telephoned, she merely indicated she was pleased to hear from me. I invited her to dinner. She suggested lunch right at the hospital. I leaped and here we were.

She had kissed me on the cheek when I arrived. Now, for once, I kissed her back. We asked each other how we'd been and gave replies with vague details. We'd both been working hard, extremely busy. And so forth. She asked about my lawyering. I told a Spiro Agnew joke. She laughed. We were it ease with one another.

Then I asked about her doctoring.

'I finish here in June, thank God.'

'What then?'

'Two years in San Francisco. At a teaching hospital and at a living wage.'

San Francisco is, I quickly calculated, several thousand miles from New York City. Oliver, you clod, don't fumble this one.

'California's great,' I said, to stall for time.

My social calendar had called for weekending in Cranston. Maybe I could ask her to drive up with me, just friend-to-friend. She would get along with Phil. And it would be a chance to get things started.

Then my mind absorbed her comment on my last remark.

'It's not just California,' Jo had answered. 'There's a guy involved.'

Oh. A guy. It stands to reason. Life goes on without you, Oliver. Or did you think she'd sit and pine?

I wondered if my face betrayed my disappointment.

'Hey, I'm glad to hear it,' I replied. 'A doctor?'

'Sure,' she smiled. 'Whom else would I encounter on this job?'

'Is he musical?' I asked.

'He barely cuts it on the oboe.'