Oliver's Story (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

“O
liver, how sure are you?”

“Marcie, I am positive.”

She was waiting when I got back from New Haven, looking like a freshly made soufflé. You’d never think she’d spent the whole day on a flight from coast to coast.

Though the conversation with my father was among a multitude of topics I reported, it aroused her interest.

“You said no, right out of hand?”

“And out of mind,” I said, “and of conviction.”

Then I remembered whom I was addressing.

“Naturally, if you were in my place, you’d take the damn thing over, wouldn’t you? I mean I guess that’s what you did.”

“But I was angry,” Marcie said sincerely. “I was out to prove a lot of things.”

“So am I. And that’s exactly why I turned it down.”

“And you’re willing to let . . . well . . . a heritage die out?”

“Some heritage—America’s first sweatshops!”

“Oliver, that’s ancient history. Nowadays a union worker earns fantastic—”

“That’s beside the point.”

“And look at all the good your family’s done! The hospital, the hall at Harvard. Contributions—”

“Look, let’s not discuss it, huh?”

“Why not? You’re being juvenile! You’re like some flaming radical in retrospect!”

Why the hell was she so passionately pushing me to join the damn Establishment?

“Goddammit, Marcie!”

Suddenly the bell! That is, the ringing telephone called the antagonists to neutral corners.

“Should I answer?” Marcie said.

“The hell with it—it’s nearly midnight.”

“It could be important.”

“Not for me,” I said.

“I live here too,” she said.

“Then answer it,” I barked, pissed off that what I’d hoped would be an amorous reunion was now rancorous.

Marcie answered.

“It’s for you,” she said. And handed me the phone.

“Yeah, what?” I growled.

“Hey, terrific! She’s still there!” a voice enthused.

Philip Cavilleri. And I had to smile.

“Are you checking up on me?”

“You want an honest answer? Yes. So how’s it goin’?”

“What’s your meaning, Philip?”

He replied with, “Ding dong, ding dong.”

“What the hell is that—your cuckoo clock?”

“It’s weddin’ bells! When do they ring, goddammit?”

“Phil, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Then tell me now, so I can go to sleep in peace.”

“Philip,” I replied with feigned exasperation, “did you call me just to broadcast marriage propaganda or was there a further message?”

“Yeah. Let’s talk some turkey.”

“Phil, I told you—”

“I mean real-life turkey. Stuffed. Thanksgivin’ birdies.”

“Oh.” Next week, of course, would be the holiday.

“I want you and that cultured female voice to join my fam’ly gathering on the Day of Grace.”

“Who’s coming to your gathering?” I asked.

“The Pilgrim Fathers! What the hell’s the difference?”

“Whom have you invited, Philip?” I insisted, fearing hordes of overzealous Cranstonites.

“So far, only me,” he said.

“Oh,” I retorted. And remembered Philip couldn’t bear to join his relatives on holidays. (“All those damn bambinos crying,” he’d complain. And I would humor his alleged excuse.)

“Good. Then you can join us here. . . .” I glanced at Marcie, who encouraged me, while also semaphoring, “Who the hell will cook?”

“Marcie wants to meet you,” I insisted.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Philip said.

“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 fiancée. 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 weddin’.”

“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 long-distance 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?”

“Not here. But there’s a crisis in the Denver store. I’m flying there in twenty minutes. I’ll explain tonight.”

“Is it serious?”

“Yeah, I guess. It may take several days, but if we’re lucky we can save the ship.”

“How can I help?” I asked.

“Well . . . please explain to Philip. Tell him that I’m really sorry.”

“Okay. But that won’t be easy.”

Minipause. Which would have been much longer were she not in haste to catch her plane.

“Hey, you sound slightly pissed.”

I weighed my words. I didn’t want to aggravate her problems.

“Only disappointed, Marce. I mean we—never mind.”

“Please hang in there till I get to Denver. It’ll take some long explaining.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Say something nice, please, Oliver.”

“I hope they serve you turkey on your flight.”

There was some consolation in my solo feast with Phil.

It was like old times. We were together, just the two of us.

The food was wonderful. It’s just my thoughts were rather difficult to swallow.

Philip tried to help me brave it.

“Look,” he said, “such things can happen in the world of business. Business people travel. It’s the nature of . . . the business.”

“Yeah.”

“Besides, there’s other people who can’t make it home. Like soldiers . . .”

Great analogy!

“And if they made her stay away, that must mean Marcie is important, right?”

I didn’t answer.

“Has she some executive position?”

“Sort of.”

“Well, that’s to her credit. She’s a modrun girl. Christ, you should be proud. She’s an achiever. Is she bucking for promotion?”

“In a way.”

“That’s good. Ambitious. That’s to be proud of, Oliver.”

I nodded. Just to show I wasn’t sleeping.

“When I was growin’ up,” quoth Phil, “a family took pride to say, ‘My kid’s ambitious.’ Of course they usta say it of the fellas. But these modrun girls, they’re equal, ain’t they?”