Oliver's Story (10 page)

Chapter Twenty-one

T
he castle of the princess is protected by a regiment. At first you meet the Keeper of the Gate, who vigorously questions the legitimacy of your presence in the royal precinct. Then, if satisfied, he will direct you to an antechamber where a footman by a switchboard then attempts to verify if you, a humble commoner, are actually expected by the monarchy.

“Yes, Mr. Barrett,” said the epauletted Cerberus, “you may go in.” His implication was that—to his mind—I’d barely passed.

“That’s splendid news,” I answered him in kind. “Can you direct me to the Binnendale apartment?”

“Cross the courtyard, take the far right entrance, then the elevator to the top.”

“What’s the number?” I inquired.

“There’s only one apartment, Mr. Barrett.”

“Thanks. I’m ever so obliged” (you pompous asshole).

There was no number on the single door. Nor any indication whatsoever of who dwelt therein. As I clutched my small bouquet of flowers purchased on the corner, I rang very couthly.

Seconds later, Marcie opened. She wore a kind of silky thing that women wear around the house—if they’re the Queen of Sheba. Anyway, I liked the parts the garment didn’t cover.

“Hey, you look familiar,” Marcie said.

“I intend to act much more so when I get inside,” I answered.

“Why wait?”

I didn’t. And I ran my hands on lots of silky-covered Marcie. Then I offered her the flowers.

“That’s all I could scrounge up,” I said. “Some lunatic bought up all the others in the city.”

Marcie took my arm and led me in.

And in and in.

The place was so enormous it was disconcerting. Even though the furnishings were all in perfect taste, there just was too damn much of everything. But mostly a preponderance of space.

On the walls were many of the selfsame artworks that had graced my dorm at Harvard. Though of course these weren’t reproductions.

“I like your interesting museum,” I remarked.

“I liked your fascinating phone call,” she retorted, deftly dodging all responsibility for ostentation.

Suddenly we found ourselves inside a coliseum.

I suppose the area was commonly referred to as a living room, but it was truly mammoth. Ceilings twenty feet at least. Huge windows overlooking Central Park. The view distracted me from adequate appraisal of the paintings. Though some, I noted, were surrealistic. Likewise their effect on me.

Marcie was amused that I was acting fazed.

“It’s tiny, but it’s home,” she quipped.

“Jesus, Marcie, you could set a tennis court up right in here.”

“I would,” she answered, “if you’d play with me.”

It was taking quite a while just to traverse this wide expanse. Our footsteps clicked in stereo upon the parquet floor.

“Where we going?” I inquired. “Pennsylvania?”

“Somewhere cozier,” she said. And squeezed my arm.

Some moments later we were in the library. A fireplace was glowing. And our drinks were waiting.

“A toast?” she asked.

“To Marcie’s ass,” I said, my goblet in the air.

“No,” Marcie disapproved.

I then proposed, “To Marcie’s tits.”

“Come on,” she vetoed.

“All right, to Marcie’s mind—”

“That’s better.”

“—as full of loveliness as Marcie’s tits and ass.”

“You’re crude,” she said.

“I’m awfully sorry,” I apologized profoundly. “I will henceforth totally desist.”

“Please, Oliver,” she said, “do
not
. I love it.”

And so we drank to that.

Several glasses later, I was loose enough to comment on the nature of her homestead.

“Hey, Marcie, how can someone who’s as alive as you stand living in a mausoleum? I mean my family house was
big
, but I had lawns to play on. All you have is rooms. Ancient musty rooms.”

She shrugged.

“Where did you and Michael live?” I asked.

“A duplex on Park Avenue.”

“Which he now owns?”

She nodded yes, then added, “Though I got my track shoes back.”

“Very generous,” I said, “but then you moved back in with Daddy?”

“Sorry, Doctor, I am not
that
freaky. After the divorce, my father wisely sent me on a tour of duty to the distant branches. And I worked like hell. It was a kind of therapy-apprenticeship. He died suddenly. I came back for the funeral and stayed here. Temporarily, I told myself. I knew I should’ve closed the house. But since each morning I was sitting at what used to be my father’s desk, some atavistic reflex made me feel I had to come . . . back home.”

“Be it ever so unhumble,” I appended. Then I rose, went over to her chair and placed my hand upon a lovely part of her anatomy.

No sooner had I touched her than a ghost appeared!

At least an ancient crone dressed all in black, except for a white lace collar and an apron.

It spoke.

“I knocked,” it said.

“Yes, Mildred?” Marcie answered casually, as I attempted to retract my fingers up my sleeve.

“Dinner’s ready,” said the beldam, and evaporated. Marcie smiled at me.

And I smiled back.

For despite the odd surroundings, I was strangely happy. If for no other reason than the nearness of . . . another individual. I’d forgotten what the mere proximity to someone else’s heartbeat could evoke.

“Are you hungry, Oliver?”

“I’m sure I will be by the time we reach the cafeteria.” And so we went. Down yet another gallery, across the soon-to-be-constructed tennis court, to the mahogany-and-crystal dining room.

“Lest you be misled,” said Marcie as we sat at the enormous table, “dinner was designed by me, but executed by a surrogate.”

“You mean a cook.”

“I do. I’m not domestic, Oliver.”

“Marcie, have no fear. My recent diet has been more or less like Alpo dog food.”

Dinner was unlike the night before in every way.

The food, of course, was better, but the conversation infinitely worse.

“Gee, delicious vichyssoise . . . beef Wellington . . . ah, Château Margaux fifty-nine . . . this soufflé is fantastic.”

So much for my effusions. Otherwise I simply ate.

“Oliver, you seem a little quiet.”

“I’m just speechless at these gastronomic wonders,” I replied.

She sensed my irony.

“I overdid it, huh?” she said.

“Marce, you didn’t have to make a fuss. I don’t care
what
we eat. It only matters that we’re eating with each other.”

“Yes,” she said.

But I could see she thought that I was criticizing her. I guess I was. But not intending to cause any grief. I hoped I hadn’t made her feel upset.

Anyway, I tried to reassure her.

“Hey—it doesn’t mean that I don’t like this, Marcie. Really. It reminds me of my home.”

“Which you despised.”

“Who said so?”

“You did. Yesterday.”

“Oh, yeah.”

I guess I’d let it all hang out at HoJo’s. (Was it only one short day ago?)

“Hey, look,” I said. “I’m sorry if you were offended. Somehow when my parents eat like this, it seems arthritic. On the other hand, with you it’s . . . elegant.”

“Do you really think so?”

This one called for some diplomacy.

“No,” I said, sincerely.

“My feelings aren’t hurt,” she said, her feelings obviously hurt. “I wanted to impress you. I don’t eat this way too often.”

That was a relief to learn.

“Well, how often?”

“Twice,” she said.

“A week?”

“Twice since Father died.” (Which was six years ago.)

I felt bastardly for asking.

“Shall we have coffee elsewhere?” asked the hostess.

“Can I pick the room?” I asked, abrim with innuendo.

“No,” said Marcie. “In my bailiwick you follow me.”

I did. Back to the library. Where coffee waited and some hidden speakers wafted Mozart.

“Have you really only entertained here twice?” I asked.

She nodded yes. “Both times for business.”

“How about your social life?” I asked, attempting to be delicate.

“It’s gotten better lately,” she replied.

“No, seriously, Marce, what would you normally do upon a New York evening?”

“Well,” she said, “it’s truly fascinating. I come home and jog if it’s still light outside. Then back to work. My office here has got extensions from the switchboard, so I take the California calls. . . .”

“Till after twelve, I’ll bet.”

“Not always.”

“Then what happens afterward?”

“I stop and socialize.”

“Aha. Which means . . . ?”

“Oh, ginger ale and sandwiches with Johnny.”

“Johnny?” (I’m incapable of masking jealousy.)

“Carson. He makes witty dinner conversation.”

“Oh,” I said. Relieved, I shifted back to offense.

“Don’t you do anything but work?”

“Marshall McLuhan says, ‘Where the whole man is involved there is no work.’ ”

“He’s full of shit and so are you. No, Marce. You tell yourself you’re so involved, but actually you’re just attempting to make ‘work’ anesthetize your loneliness.”

“Jesus, Oliver,” she said, somewhat surprised. “How can you know so much about a person that you’ve barely met?”

“I can’t,” I answered. “I was talking of myself.”

Curious. We both knew what we wanted next, yet neither dared disrupt the conversation. Finally, I had to broach some trivial realities.

“Hey, Marcie, it’s eleven-thirty.”

“Do you have a curfew, Oliver?”

“Oh, no. I also don’t have other things. Like clothes, for instance.”

“Was I coy or vague?” she asked.

“Let’s say you weren’t crystal clear,” I said, “and I was not about to show up with my little canvas overnight bag.”

Marcie smiled.

“That was deliberate,” she confessed.

“Why?”

She stood and offered me her hand.

Across the bed were strewn no fewer than a dozen shirts of silk. My size.

“Suppose I want to stay a year?” I asked.

“This may sound somewhat odd, my friend, but if you’ve got the inclination, I’ve got all the shirts.”

“Marcie?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve got a lot of . . . inclination.”

Then we made love as if the night before had only been the dress rehearsal.

Morning came too soon. It seemed like only 5
A.M
. and yet the buzzer from the clock on Marcie’s side was sounding reveille.

“What time is it?” I snorted.

“Five
A.M
.,” said Marcie. “Rise and shine.” She kissed my forehead.

“Are you berserk?”

“You know the court’s reserved for six.”

“Come on, no court’s in session—” Then I wakened to her meaning. “You have
tennis
planned?”

“It’s booked from six to eight. Seems a shame to waste it. . . .”

“Hey, I’ve got a better notion of what we could do.”

“What?” Marcie ingénued, though I had started touching her already. “Volleyball?”

“Yes, if that’s what you would like to call it.”

Anyway, whatever it was called, she was amenable to playing.

The difference was the bathroom.

As I showered, I was meditating on what elements distinguished Walter Binnendale’s abode from Dover House, my parents’ joint in Ipswich, Massachusetts.