Oliver's Story (16 page)

“And you are full of shit,” I answered. “You’re still too much in love with your own power.”

This was not expressed in tones accusatory. Though it was the goddamn truth.

“Hey,” she said, “you tested me.”

“I did,” I answered, “and you flunked.”

“You’re arrogant and selfish,” she said playfully.

I nodded yes. “I’m also human.”

Marcie looked at me. “But will you stick with me . . . ?”

“The snow has gotta melt,” I said.

And then we rose, hiked arm in arm back to the car.

And drove to Denver. Where there wasn’t any snow at all.

Chapter Thirty-one

I
t was Wednesday evening by the time we reached New York. Marcie’d set her Denver house in order by that morning and we even toyed with going for another snowball fight. But superego triumphed. It was time to work again. And I could even give some help to Barry Pollack in the homestretch (we had kept in touch by phone).

The line for cabs was endless and we froze our heels. At last our turn arrived. And right before us stood a crumpled piece of yellow tin. In other words, a New York taxi.

“I won’t go to Queens,” the driver growled in greeting.

“I won’t either,” I replied, while yanking at his mutilated door, “so let’s try twenty-three East Sixty-fourth.”

We both were in now. He was legally enjoined to take us to our stated destination.

“Let’s try five-oh-four East Eighty-sixth.”

What?

This was Marcie’s startling suggestion.

“Who the hell lives there?” I asked.

“We do.” She smiled.

“We
do?
”

“What are you, buddy,” said the cabby, “an amnesiac?”

“What are you, cabby,” I retorted, “Woody Allen?”

“At least I can remember where I live,” he said in self-defense.

By now the cabby’s fellow cabbies were encouraging his swift departure with a loud cacophony of horns and curses.

“Okay—
where?
” he now demanded.

“East Eighty-sixth,” said Marcie. And then whispered to me she’d explain en route. To say the least, it took me by surprise.

In military terms it’s called a DMZ—the area where neither army can deploy its forces. This was Marcie’s notion in selecting an apartment that would be not hers, not mine, not even ours, but rather neutral territory.

Okay. That made sense. My rat house was a bit too much. And she had stood the test of grime.

“Well?” said Marcie.

Unequivocally, the place was great. I mean it looked exactly like those perfect layouts on the upper floors of Binnendale’s. I’d watched young couples gazing at those model rooms, and dreaming, “Gee, if we could live like this.”

Marcie took me through the living room, the gadget-laden kitchen (“I’ll take cooking lessons, Oliver”), her future office, then the king-size bedroom and, at last, the big surprise:
my
office.

Yes. We had separate rooms for His and Her professions. Mine was furnished in a herd of leather. Shelves of glass and chrome to hold my legal books. Sophisticated lighting. Everything.

“Well?” said Marcie, clearly wanting me to burst into a song.

“It’s unreal,” I said.

And wondered why I felt like we were on a stage set reading from a script. By her.

And why that should make any difference.

“What are your feelings?”

Dr. London hadn’t changed his methods in my absence.

“Look, we share the rent.”

Come on, I told myself, who pays is not a feeling. And it wasn’t even what was really on my mind.

“It isn’t ego, Doctor. But the way she likes to . . . manage both our lives.”

A pause.

“Look, I don’t need a decorator. Or romantic lighting. Can’t she understand all that is bullshit? Jenny bought us beat-up furniture, a creaking bed and a crummy table,
all
for ninety-seven bucks! The only dinner guests we ever had were roaches. It was windy in the winter. We could smell what all our neighbors had for dinner. It was utter grunge!”

Another pause.

“But we were
happy
and I never really noticed. Yeah, I noticed when the bed leg broke—’cause we were in it. And we laughed.”

Another pause. Oliver, what is it that you’re saying?

I think I’m saying that I don’t like Marcie’s new apartment.

Yes, my brand-new office
is
a showplace. But when I have to think, I go back to my old basement. Where the books still are. And where the bills still come. And where, when Marcie’s out of town, I still bunk out.

And inasmuch as we are in a Christmas countdown situation, Marcie is conspicuously absent. In Chicago at the moment.

And I’m feeling bad.

Because I have to work tonight. And I can’t do so in the dream house there on Eighty-sixth Street. Because New York is decked with boughs of holly. And I’m feeling lousy even though I now have
two
apartments to be lonely in. And I’m ashamed to call Phil just to talk. For fear of having to admit that I’m alone.

So here it is December 12, Barrett working in his subterranean retreat in search of precedents in musty volumes. And longing for a time he can’t retrieve.

When work could palliate, benumb, indeed preoccupy. But thanks to new-acquired powers of psychic
intro
spection, I can’t
extro
spect. I mean I just can’t concentrate. I’m wallowing in
me
instead of
Meister
v.
Georgia
.

And because the Muzak in my office elevator daily cannonades my ears with carols, I have a Yuletide schizophrenia.

Here’s the problem, Doctor. (I am talking to myself, but since I value my opinion, I refer to me as Doctor.)

God—in his capacity as Judge of the Celestial Court—has reaffirmed the following as law:

I may be easy on some other of the good Lord’s legislation, but I bend to this one.

Barrett, thou art homesick, ergo thou hadst better—dammit—make some plans.

But, Doctor, there’s the problem.

Where is home?

(“Where the heart is, naturally. That will be fifty dollars, please.”)

Thank you, Doctor. For another fifty, may I ask:

Where is my goddamn heart?

It isn’t that I didn’t sometimes know.

I was a little kid once. I liked getting gifts and trimming trees.

I was a husband and though Jenny was agnostic (“Oliver, I wouldn’t hurt His feelings and say ‘atheist’ ”), she’d come home from her two jobs and we would have a party with each other. Singing bawdy variations on the Yuletide lyrics.

Which still says a lot for Christmas. ’Cause together is together and that’s what the evening always made us.

Meanwhile it is half past nine, some dozen shopping days to Christmas and I’m out of it already. For, as I said, I have this problem.

Christmas can’t be spent in Cranston as of late. My friend there says he’s joined an over-forties cruise 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.

Chapter Thirty-two

W
hy?

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 my 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 wardrobe 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 1 Christmas traffic.

“You’re full of crap,” I said.

“What if they don’t like me?” she continued.

“Then we’ll just exchange you after Christmas,” I replied.

Marcie pouted. Even so, her face was gorgeous.

“Say
something
reassuring, Oliver,” she asked.

“I’m nervous too,” I said.

Down Groton Street. The Gate. Then into our domain. And down the lengthy entrance road. The trees were barren, though the atmosphere kept something of a sylvan hush.

“It’s peaceful,” Marcie said. (She could have called it grossly vast, as I had dubbed her place, but she was far above such pettiness.)

“Mother, this is Marcie Nash.”

If nothing else, her former husband had the perfect name. Exquisite in its blandness and evocative of zilch.

“We’re happy, Marcie, you could be with us,” my mother said. “We’ve looked forward to meeting you.”

“I’m grateful that you asked me down.”

What resplendent bullshit! Eye-to-eye with artificial smiles, these well-bred ladies mouthed the platitudes that buttress our whole social structure. Then went on to how-you-must-be-tired-after-such-a-journey, and how-
you
-must-be-exhausted-after-all-your-Christmas-preparations.

Father entered and they ran the selfsame gamut. Except he couldn’t help betraying that he found her beautiful. Then, since—by the rule book—Marcie
must
be tired, she ascended to the guest room for some freshening.

We sat there. Mother, Father, I. We asked each other how we’d been and learned we’d all been fine. Which, naturally, was fine to hear. Would Marcie (“Charming girl,” said Mother) be too weary to go caroling? It’s awfully cold out.

“Marcie’s tough,” I answered, maybe meaning more than just her constitution. “She could carol in a blizzard.”

“Preferably,” Marcie said, reentering in what the skiers will be wearing up at St. Moritz this year, “all that wind would cover up my off-key singing.”

“It doesn’t matter, Marcie,” said my mother, taking things a bit too literally. “It’s the
esprit
that counts.”

Mother never lost an opportunity to substitute an English word with French. She’d had two years at Smith, goddammit, and it showed.

“That outfit’s splendid, Marcie,” Father said. And I’m convinced he marveled at the way the tailoring did not disguise her . . . structure.

“It keeps out the wind,” said Marcie.

“It can be
very
cold this time of year,” my mother added.

Notice that one can go through a long and happy life discussing nothing but the weather.

“Oliver forewarned me,” Marcie said.

Her tolerance for small talk was amazing. Like volleying with marshmallows.

At seven-thirty we joined two dozen of the Ipswich high-class riffraff by the church. Our oldest caroler was Lyman Nichols, Harvard, ’10 (age seventy-nine), the youngest Amy Harris, merely five. She was the daughter of my college classmate, Stuart.

Stuart was the only guy I’d ever seen undazzled by my date. How could he think of Marcie? He was clearly so in love with little Amy (much reciprocated) and with Sara, who had stayed at home with ten-month Benjamin.

I suddenly was palpably aware of motion in my life. I
felt
time passing. And my heart was sad.

Stuart had a station wagon, so we drove with him. I held Amy on my lap.

“You’re very lucky, Oliver,” said Stu.

“I know,” I answered.

Marcie, as required, indicated jealousy.

Hark, the herald angels sing . . .

Our repertoire was just as well worn as our route: the Upper Crusty members of the congregation, who would greet our musical appearance with polite applause, some feeble punch, and milk and cookies for the kids.

Marcie dug the whole routine.

“This is
country
, Oliver,” she said.

By half past nine, we’d all but finished our appointed rounds (a Christmas pun, ho ho), and as tradition bade, concluded at the ducal manor, Dover House.

Oh come, all ye faithful . . .

I watched my father and my mother looking out at us. And wondered as I saw them smile. Is it because I’m standing next to Marcie? Or had little Amy Harris caught their hearts as she had mine?

Food and drink was better at our place. In addition to the cow juice, there was toddy for the frozen adults. (“You’re the savior,” Nichols, ’10, said, patting Father on the back.)

Everybody left soon after.

I filled my tank with toddy.

Marcie drank some expurgated eggnog.

“I loved that, Oliver,” she said, and took my hand.

I think my mother noticed. And was not upset. My father was, if anything, a trifle envious.

We trimmed the tree and Marcie complimented Mother on the beauty of the ornaments. She recognized the crystal of the star.

(“It’s lovely, Mrs. Barrett. It looks Czech.”

“It is. My mother bought it just before the war.”)

Then came other of the ancient venerated trinkets (some from ages I’d prefer our family forgot). As they draped the strands of popcorn and cranberries on the branches, Marcie coyly noted, “Someone must have
slaved
to make those garlands.”

At which Father caught the ball with ease.

“My wife’s done little else all week.”

“Oh, really.” Mother blushed.

I just sat there, not that hot for trimming, sipping warm and soothing liquid, thinking: Marcie is romancing them.

Half past eleven, tree all garnished, gifts beneath, and my perennial wool stocking hung next to a new-old one for my guest. The time had come to say good night. At Mother’s cue, we all ascended. On the landing we bade one another happy dreams of sugarplums.

“Good night, Marcie,” Mother said.

“Good night and thank you,” echoed back.

“Good night, dear,” Mother said again. And kissed me on the cheek. A peck which I construed to mean that Marcie passed.

O.B. III and wife departed. Marcie turned.

“I’ll sneak into your room,” I said.

“Are you absolutely crazy?”

“No, I’m absolutely horny,” I replied. “Hey, Marce, it’s Christmas Eve.”

“Your parents would be horrified,” she said. And maybe meant it.

“Marcie, I’ll bet even
they
make love tonight.”

“They’re married,” Marcie said. And with a hasty kiss upon my lips, she disengaged and disappeared.

What the hell!

I shuffled to my ancient room, its adolescent décor (pennants and team pictures) all museumly intact. I wanted to call someone ship-to-shore and tell him, “Phil, I hope at least the action’s good with you.”

I didn’t.

I went to bed confused about what I was hoping to receive for Christmas.

Good morning! Merry Christmas! Here’s a package just for
you!

Mother gave my father yet another batch of ties and Sea Island cotton handkerchiefs. They looked very much like every year’s. But then so did the dressing gown my father gave my mother.

I got half a dozen of whatever ties the Brooks man said were right for youth.

Marcie got the latest Daphne Du Maurier from Mother.

I had spent my annual five minutes at Christmas shopping and my gifts reflected it. My mother got some handkerchiefs, my father yet more ties, and Marcie got a book:
The Joy of Cooking
(we’ll see how she reacts).

The tension (relatively speaking) centered on what our guest had brought.

To start with, Marcie’s offerings had not, like ours, been wrapped at home. They had been swathed professionally (at you-know-where) in California.

Mother got a light-blue cashmere scarf (“You shouldn’t have”).

Father got that oblong box, which turned out to be Château Haut-Brion ’59.

“What splendid wine,” he said. In truth he was no connoisseur. Our “cellar” had some Scotch for Father’s guests, some sherry for my mother’s, and a case or two of fairly good champagne for grand occasions.

I received a pair of gloves. Though they were elegant, I still resented wearing Marcie’s present at arms’ length. It was too damn impersonal.

(“Would you have preferred a mink-lined jock?” she later asked.

“Yes—that’s where I was coldest!”)

To top it off, or rather bottom it, I got what I had always got from Father. I received a check.