Oliver's Story (2 page)

Chapter Three

“H
i, my name is Phil. I’m into baking cookies.”

Incredible! The way he’d caught the lingo, you would think that cupcakes were his hobby, not his livelihood.

“Hi there, Phil, I’m Jan. Your friend is cute.”

“And so is yours,” said Phil, as if to all this bullshit born.

This scintillating repartee was taking place in Maxwell’s Prune, a very fancy singles bar at Sixty-fourth and First. Well, actually, its name is Maxwell’s Plum, but my pervasive cynicism shrivels up the fruit of everybody else’s optimism. Simply put, I hate the joint. I can’t abide those self-styled beautiful young swingers chattering euphorically. And coming on like they were millionaires or literary critics. Or even really single.

“This is Oliver,” said Philip Cavilleri, suit by Robert Hall, coiffure by Dom of Cranston, cashmere sweater by Cardin (through Filene’s basement).

“Hi, Ol,” said Jan. “You’re very cute. Are you a cookie-lover too?”

She maybe was a model. What the magazines call statuesque. To me she looked like a giraffe. And of course she had a roly-poly friend. Marjory, who giggled when presented.

“Do you come here often?” queried Jan, the statuesque giraffe.

“Never,” I replied.

“Yeah, that’s what everybody says. I only come on weekends. I’m from out of town.”

“What a coincidence,” said Phil. “I also hail from out of town.”

“And you?” said Jan to me.

“I’m out to lunch,” I said.

“No shit,” said Jan.

“He means,” my colleague Philip interposed, “we’d like to ask you both to dinner.”

“Cool,” said Jan.

We dined in some place down the block called Flora’s Rib Cage.

“Very in,” said Jan.

But I might add not very inexpensive. Phil outwrestled me to get the check (although he couldn’t hide his shock upon perusing it). He grandiosely paid it with his Master Charge. I imagined he would have to sell enormous quantities of cookies for this gesture. . . .

“Are you very rich?” said giggly Marge to Phil.

“Well, let us say I am a man of means,” the Duke of Cranston answered, adding, “though I’m not as cultured as my son-in-law.”

There was a little pause. Ah, quite a sticky wicket, this.

“Son-in-law?” said Jan. “You two are, you know . . . ?” And she waved her bony, long-nailed hand in interrogatory circles.

Phil did not know how to answer, so I helped him, nodding yes.

“Hey, wow,” said Jan, “that’s far-out wild. But where’s your wives?”

“Well . . . uh,” said Phil, “they’re . . .”

Now another pause as Philip groped for equilibrium.

“Not in town,” I said, to spare him more embarrassment.

There was another pause as Jan absorbed the scene.

“That’s cool,” she said.

Phil was looking at the murals on the walls and I was at the limit of my patience.

“Girls,” I said, “I gotta leave.”

“Why?” asked Jan.

“I have a porno film to go to.” And I edged away.

“Hey,
that
is weird,” I heard the lissome Jan exclaim. “That creep goes out to porno films alone?”

“Oh, I don’t go to them,” I called across the crowded room. “I
act
in them.”

Seconds later, Phil had reached me on the street.

“Hey, look,” he said. “You gotta start.”

“Okay, we started.”

“So then why’d you leave?”

“The utter joy was killing me,” I said.

We walked in silence.

“Look,” said Philip finally. “It was a way of getting back to things.”

“There’s gotta be a better way.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said facetiously. “I’ll take an ad.”

That shut him up for several seconds. Then he said, “You did already.”

“What?”
I stopped and looked at him, incredulous. “I
what?
”

“You know that fancy book review that Jenny used to read? I took an ad for you. Don’t worry. Real discreet. With class. Sophisticated.”

“Oh,” I said. “Like what exactly was the essence?”

“Well, sort of ‘New York lawyer heavy into sports and anthropology—’ ”

“Where the hell’d you get the anthropology?”

He shrugged. “I thought it sounded intellectual.”

“Oh, great. I’m all aglow to read the answers.”

“Here,” he said. And from his pocket drew three different envelopes.

“What did they say?”

“I don’t read other people’s mail,” said Philip Cavilleri, staunch defender of the right to privacy.

So there, beneath an orange tungsten street lamp, my bemusement tinged with trepidation—not to mention Philip at my shoulder—I laid bare a sample message.

Holy shit! I thought but didn’t say. Phil, pretending that he wasn’t reading, simply gasped, “My God!”

The correspondent was indeed a person into anthropology. But this epistle was proposing pagan rites so wild and strange that Philip nearly fainted.

“It’s a joke,” he mumbled feebly.

“Yes. On you,” I answered.

“But who could like such weirdness, Oliver?”

“Philip, it’s a brave new world,” I said, and smiled to camouflage my own astonishment. I tossed the other letters in a bin.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Philip said, after a block or two of very chastened speechlessness. “I really didn’t know.”

I put my arm around his shoulder and began to laugh. Relieved, he chuckled too.

We wended homeward in the balmy New York evening. Just the two of us. Because our wives were . . . not in town.

Chapter Four

I
t helps to run.

It clears the mind. Releases tension. And it’s socially acceptable to do alone. So even when I’m working on some crucial case, or if I’ve spent all day in court, and even if it’s Washington or anywhere, I put my sweat suit on and run.

Once upon a time I did play squash. But that requires certain other skills. Like eloquence enough to say, “Nice shot” or “Do you think we’ll mangle Yale this year?” That far transcends my current capabilities. And so I run. Working out in Central Park, I never have to speak to anyone.

“Hey, Oliver, you s.o.b.!”

One afternoon I seemed to hear my name. Just imagination. No one ever paged me in the park. And so I jogged along.

“You goddamn Harvard snob!”

Although the world abounds with guys of that description, still I somehow sensed that I indeed was being called. I looked back and saw my former college roommate, Stephen Simpson, ’64, about to overtake me on his bike.

“Hey, what the hell is wrong with you?” he said by way of salutation.

“Simpson, what gives you the right to say that anything is wrong with me?”

“Well, first, I’m now a graduated doctor; second, I’m supposed to be your friend; and third, I leave you messages you never answer.”

“I figured med school students never have the time . . .”

“Hey, Barrett, I was busy, but I found the time to marry Gwen. I called—I even telegrammed an invitation to your office—and you didn’t show.”

“Gee, I’m sorry, Steve, I never got the message,” I prevaricated.

“Yeah? How come you sent a wedding present two weeks later?”

Jesus Christ, this Simpson shoulda been a lawyer! But how could I explain that all I really wanted was a leave of absence from the human race?

“I’m sorry, Steve,” I answered, hoping he would ride on by.

“You’re not sorry, you’re pathetic.”

“Thanks. Regards to Gwen.” He didn’t leave my side.

“Hey, look—don’t ask me why, but Gwen would love to see you,” Simpson said.

“That’s awfully masochistic. Has she seen a doctor?”

“Me. I told her she was off her rocker. But since we can’t afford the theater, you’re the cheapest way to get some laughs. How’s Friday night?”

“I’m busy, Simpson.”

“Sure, I know. There’s always night court. Anyway, show up at eight.”

He then accelerated by me, turning back but once. To say, as if addressing one of limited intelligence, “That’s eight
P.M
. this Friday night. We’re in the goddamn book, so no excuses.”

“Forget it, Steve. I won’t be there!”

He pretended not to hear my firm rebuttal. Goddamn arrogance to think I could be pushed around.

Anyway, the guy in Sherry-Lehmann claimed that Château Lynch-Bages, though a mere fifth growth, was very underrated and among the best Bordeaux (“Charming, round and witty”). So I got two bottles (’64). Even if the Simpsons would be bored to tears, they’d have a clever wine for consolation.

They acted pleased to see me.

“Oliver, you haven’t changed a bit!”

“You haven’t either, Gwen!”

I noticed that they also hadn’t changed their posters.

Andy Warhol at his Poppiest. (“I saw so damn much Campbell soup when I was young, I’d never hang it on the wall!” my wife remarked when we had visited them years ago.)

We sat down on the floor. From corner speakers Paul and Art were softly asking if we were goin’ to Scarborough Fair. Stephen opened some Mondavi white. I munched innumerable pretzels as we talked of metaphysical profundities. Like what a drag it was to be a resident, how rarely she and Steve could have a quiet evening. And of course, did I esteem that Harvard had a chance to mangle Yale that year? Gwen didn’t specify what sport. She could have asked if Yin would mangle Yang. But let it pass. The point is that they tried to make me feel that I could loosen up. It wasn’t half as bad as I’d imagined.

Then suddenly a bell rang and I froze.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Stay loose,” said Steve. “It’s just the other guests.”

I’d accurately sensed conspiracy in that bell’s timbre.

“What other guests?” I asked.

“Well, actually,” said Gwen, “it’s just a single guest.”

“You mean a guest who’s single, right?” I said, now feeling like a cornered animal.

“By chance,” said Steve, and left to get the door.

Dammit, this is why I
never
go to other people’s houses! I can’t endure the friends who try to “help.” I knew the whole scenario already. This would be a former roommate or an older sister or a classmate who was getting a divorce. Yet another ambush, dammit!

Inwardly enraged, I wanted to say, “Fuck.” But since I didn’t know Gwen well enough, I just said, “Shit.”

“Oliver, it’s someone nice.”

“I’m sorry, Gwen. I know you both meant well, but—”

At that very moment Steve returned with this night’s sacrificial victim.

Wire glasses.

What I noticed first was she was wearing rounded wire glasses. And was taking off her clothes. I mean the jacket she was wearing, which was white.

Simpson introduced Joanna Stein, M.D., a resident in pediatrics, whom he’d gone to med school with. They currently were slaving in the selfsame hospital. I didn’t even pay enough attention to decide if she was pretty. Someone said let’s all sit down and have a drink and so we did.

Lots of small talk after that.

Gradually I noticed that Joanna Stein, M.D., besides her rounded wire glasses, had a gentle voice. Later still I noticed that the thoughts articulated in that voice were sensitive and kind. I’m glad to say there was no mention of my “case.” I guess the Simpsons briefed her.

“It’s a crappy life,” I heard Steve Simpson say.

“I’ll drink to that,” I said. And then I realized he and Gwen were just commiserating with Joanna on how hard it was to be a resident.

“What do you do for recreation, Jo?” said I. And wondered, Christ, I hope she doesn’t think I’m hinting that I want to ask her out.

“I go to bed,” she answered.

“Oh?”

“I can’t help it,” she continued. “I get home so tired I just crash and sleep for twenty hours.”

“Oh.”

There was a pause. Who now would take the ball of conversation and attempt to pass or run for yardage? We sat in silence for what seemed a century. Until Gwen Simpson bade us come to dinner.

May I say in total candor that although Gwen is a lovely human being, she is not exactly gifted in the culinary arts. Sometimes when she simply boils up water it can taste all
burned
. Tonight was no exception. One could even claim she’d . . . overdone herself. But still I ate, in order not to have to talk. At least there were two doctors present should my stomach later need emergency attention.

And as things wore on, as we were savoring—would you believe—a cheesecake that seemed charcoal broiled, Joanna Stein inquired, “Oliver?”

Thanks to my experience in cross-examination, I responded quickly.

“Yes?”

“Do you like opera?”

Dammit, that’s a tricky question, I thought inwardly, while racing to consider what she might intend. Would she want to speak of operas like
Bobème
or
Traviata
, works in which, by chance, a lady dies in the finale? Just to offer me catharsis, maybe? No, she couldn’t be that gauche. But anyway, the room was hushed awaiting my reply.

“Oh, I don’t mind opera,” I replied, then shrewdly covering all bases, added, “I just don’t dig anything Italian, French or German.”

“Good,” she said, unfazed. Could she have meant the Chinese opera?

“Merritt’s singing Purcell Tuesday night.”

Dammit, I forgot to rule out English too! Now I’d probably got involved in taking her to some damn Limey opera.

“Sheila Merritt’s this year’s big soprano,” Stephen Simpson said, now double-teaming me.

“And she’s singing
Dido and Aeneas
,” added Gwen, thus making it a three-on-one encounter. (Dido—yet another girl who dies because the guy she went with was a selfish bastard!)

“That sounds great,” I said, capitulating. Though inwardly I cursed both Steve and Gwen. And most of all, Château Lynch-Bages, for weakening my first intention, which was to say that any music made me sick.

“Oh, I’m pleased,” Joanna said. “I’ve got two seats . . .”

Ah, here it comes.

“. . . but Steve and I are both on duty. I was hoping you and Gwen could use the tickets.”

“Gwen would really dig it, Oliver,” said Steve, his tone of voice implying that his wife deserved a break.

“Yeah, fine,” I said. Then realizing I should act a little more enthused, I told Joanna, “Thanks a lot.”

“I’m glad that you can go,” she said. “Please tell my parents that you saw me and I’m still alive.”

What was this? I now cringed inwardly, while picturing a seat adjoining the aggressive (“Like my daughter?”) mother of Joanna Stein.

“They’re in the strings,” she said, and hurried out with Steve.

Sitting there with Gwen, I thought of punishing myself for my absurd behavior. So I tried to chew another piece of charcoal cheesecake.

“Where the hell is ‘Strings’?” I asked her.

“Usually it’s eastward of the woodwinds. Joanna’s mother’s a violist and her father plays the cello with the New York City Opera.”

“Oh,” I said, and took a mouthful more of punishment.

A pause.

“Was it really all that painful meeting Jo?” she asked.

I looked at her.

And answered, “Yeah.”