Oliver's Story (5 page)

Chapter Ten

A
t 5
A.M
. New York is dark both physically and metaphorically. From down the block, its second floor illuminated, the tennis club seemed like a baby’s night light for the sleeping city. I entered, signed the register, and was directed to the locker rooms. Yawning constantly, I changed and strolled out to the playing area. Lights from all those tennis courts near blinded me. And every one was in full use. These go-go Gothamites about to start their frantic day all seemed to need a frantic tennis session to prepare them for the Game Out There.

Anticipating that Miss Marcie Nash would wear the chicest tennis togs available, I clad myself as shabbily as possible. My uniform was what the fashion page might call “off white.” In truth, it was the end result of accidentally mixing many colored garments in the Laundromat. Further, I selected what I called my Stan Kowalski shirt. Although it actually was grungier than anything that Marlon Brando ever wore. I was sartorially subtle. Or in other words, a slob.

And just as I expected, she had neon balls. The yellow and fluorescent kind the pros all use.

“Good morning, Merry Sunshine.”

She was there already, practicing her serves into the net.

“Hey, you know it’s absolutely dark outside?” I said.

“That’s precisely why we’re playing
inside
, Sancho.”

“Pancho,” I corrected her, “Miss Narcie Mash . . .”

For I could josh with nomenclature too.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but nothing ever breaks my serve,” she said, still slamming. Marcie’s hair, which on the track had floated in the breeze, was now tied back into a horse’s tail. (I’d have to make a pun on that.) And, typical pretentious tennis player, she had sweatbands on both wrists.

“Call me what you wish, dear Pancho. Can we start to play?”

“What for?” I asked.

“I beg your pardon?” Marcie said.

“The stakes,” I said. “What are we playing for?”

“Oh, isn’t fun enough?” said Marcie Nash demurely and ingenuously.

“Nothing’s fun at six
A.M
.,” I said. “I need a tangible incentive.”

“Half a buck,” she said.

“Was that a reference to my personality?” I asked.

“Hey, you’re a wit. No, I meant fifty cents.”

“Uhn-uhn.” I shook my head and indicated that it had to be substantial. If she played at Gotham she could not be impecunious. Unless she’d joined on spec. That is, in hope the bread she’d cast on membership would soon return as wedding cake.

“Are you rich?” she said to me.

“How is that relevant?” I answered, ever on the defense, since the fates have forced me to be linked to Barrett money bags.

“Just to know how much you can afford to lose,” she said.

Tricky question, that. My problem was to find out how much
she
could part with. And so I figured something that would save our mutually smirking faces.

“Look,” I said, “why don’t we say the loser takes the winner out to dinner. And the winner picks the place.”

“I pick ‘21,’ ” she said.

“A trifle prematurely,” I remarked. “But since I’ll take it too, please be forewarned: I eat as much as any elephant.”

“I have no doubt,” she said. “You run like one.”

This psyching had to stop. Goddammit, let’s begin!

I played with her. I mean I wanted to humiliate her in the end and thus I played the bluffer’s game. I missed some easy shots. Reacted slowly. Never charged up to the net. Meanwhile Marcie bit, and played all out.

Actually, she wasn’t bad. Her moves were swift. Her shots were almost always accurately placed. Her serve was strong and had some spin. Yeah, she had practiced often and was fairly good.

“Hey, you’re not too bad at all.”

Thus Marcie Nash to
me
, after lengthy although indecisive play. We had traded games about as evenly as I could manage. With my lethal shots still deep inside my hustler’s closet. And in fact, I’d let her break my “Simple Simon” service several times.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to knock off soon,” she said. “I have to be at work by half past eight.”

“Gee whiz,” I said (how’s that for masking my aggression?), “can’t we play just one last game? I mean for fun? We’ll call it sudden death and winner gets the dinner.”

“Well, okay,” Marcie Nash conceded, seeming nonetheless a trifle worried that she might be late. Dear me. The boss might be annoyed and not promote her. Yea, ambition should be made of sterner stuff.

“Just one quick game,” she said, reluctantly.

“Miss Nash,” I said, “I promise you this game will be the swiftest of your life.”

And so it was. I let her serve. But now, not only did I charge the net—I virtually stampeded it. Whambam, thank you, ma’am. Marcie Nash was literally shell-shocked. And she never scored a point.

“Holy shit,” she said, “you hustled me!”

“Let’s say I took awhile in warming up,” I answered. “Gee whiz, I hope this doesn’t make you late for work.”

“That’s okay—I mean, that’s fine,” she stammered, somewhat traumatized. “Eight o’clock at ‘21’?”

I nodded yeah. “Shall I book it for ‘Gonzales’?” she inquired.

“No, that’s just my racket name. Otherwise they call me Barrett. Oliver ‘The Great Pretender’ Barrett.”

“Oh,” she said. “I liked Gonzales better.” And then sprinted to the ladies’ locker room. For some strange reason, I began to smile.

“What amuses you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re smiling,” Dr. London said.

“It’s a long and boring story,” I insisted. Yet I nonetheless explained what seemed to make morose, depressive Barrett doff his tragic mask.

“It’s not the girl herself,” I told him in summation, “it’s the principle. I love to put aggressive women down.”

“And there’s nothing else?” inquired the doctor.

“Nothing,” I replied. “She’s even got a mediocre backhand.”

Chapter Eleven

S
he was dressed in money.

I don’t mean the slightest bit flamboyant. Quite the opposite. She radiated the supreme in ostentation—absolute simplicity. Her hairdo seemed free-flowing and yet flawless. As if a chic photographer had caught it with a high-speed lens.

This was disconcerting. The utter neatness of Miss Marcie Nash, her perfect posture, her composure, made me feel like last week’s spinach scrunched haphazardly into a Baggie. Clearly she must be a model. Or at least do something in the fashion game.

I reached her table. It was in a quiet corner.

“Hi,” she said.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

“Actually, you’re early,” she replied.

“That must mean that you came even earlier,” I said.

“I’d say that was a logical conclusion, Mr. Barrett.” She smiled. “Are you going to sit down or are you waiting for permission?”

I sat down.

“What are you drinking?” I inquired, pointing at the orange-colored liquid in her glass.

“Orange juice,” she said.

“And what?”

“And ice.”

“That’s all?”

She nodded yes. Before I could ask why she was abstemious, a waiter was at hand, and welcomed us as if we ate there every day.

“And how are we tonight?”

“We’re fine. What’s good?” I said, unable to sustain this kind of phony badinage.

“The scallops are superb. . . .”

“A Boston specialty,” I said, a sudden gastronomic chauvinist.

“Ours are from Long Island,” he replied.

“Okay, we’ll see how they stand up.” I turned to Marcie. “Shall we try the local imitation?”

Marcie smiled assent.

“And to begin?” The waiter looked at her.

“Hearts of lettuce with a drop of lemon juice.”

Now I knew for sure she was a model. Otherwise the self-starvation made no sense. Meanwhile I requested fettucini (“Don’t be stingy with the butter”). Our host then bowed and scraped away.

We were alone.

“Well, here we are,” I said. (And I confess I had rehearsed this opening all afternoon.)

Before she could concur that we indeed were there, a new arrival greeted us.

“The wine, m’sieu?”

I queried Marcie.

“Get something just for you,” she said.

“Not even wine?”

“I’m very chaste in that respect,” she said, “but I would recommend a nice Meursault for you. Your victory would otherwise be incomplete.”

“Meursault,” I told the sommelier.

“A ’sixty-six, if possible,” said Marcie just to help. He evaporated and we were alone again.

“Why don’t you drink at all?” I asked.

“No principles involved. I simply like to keep control of all my senses.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean? What senses did she have in mind?

“So you’re from Boston?” Marcie said (our dialogue was not exactly loose).

“I am,” I said. “And you?”

“I’m not from Boston,” she replied.

Was that a subtle put-down?

“Are you in the fashion business?” I inquired.

“Partially. And you?”

“I’m into liberties,” I answered.

“Taking them or giving them?” Her smile distracted me from telling if she’d been sarcastic.

“I try to make the government behave,” I said.

“That isn’t easy,” Marcie said.

“Well, I haven’t quite succeeded yet.”

The sommelier arrived and ceremoniously filled my glass. Then I myself began a vintage flow. What you might call a magnum of description. On what progressive lawyers were involved in at this point in time.

I do confess I didn’t know quite how to talk to . . . girls.

I mean it had been many years since I’d been on what you might call a date. I sensed that tales of self would not be cool. (“That egomaniac!” she’d tell her roommate.)

Hence we discussed—or rather I discoursed upon—the Warren Court’s decisions on the rights of individuals. And would the Burger kings continue to enhance the Fourth Amendment? That depends on who they choose to fill the Fortas seat. Keep your copy of the Constitution, Marcie, it may soon be out of print!

As I was moving to the First Amendment, waiters swooped upon us with Long Island scallops. Yeah, they aren’t bad. But not as good as Boston. Anyway, about the First—the high court rulings are ambiguous! How can they in
O’Brien
v.
U.S.
say that it’s
not
symbolic speech to burn a draft card and turn right around in
Tinker
v.
Des Moines
and rule that wearing armbands to protest the war is “purest speech.” What the hell, I ask you, is their real position?

“Don’t
you
know?” asked Marcie. And before I could assess if she was subtly implying that I’d spoken far too much, the maîitre d’ was present once again to ask what we would like “to top it off.” I ordered
pot de crème au chocolat
and coffee. All she had was tea. I began to feel a bit uneasy. Should I ask her if I’d talked a bit too long? Apologize? Still, after all, she could’ve interrupted, right?

“Did you argue
all
those cases?” Marcie asked (facetiously?).

“Of course not. But there’s a new appeal I am consulting on. They’re trying to define a Conscientious Objector. As a precedent, they’re using
Webber
v.
Selective Service
, which I argued. Then I do some volunteer work—”

“You don’t seem to ever stop,” she said.

“Well, as Jimi Hendrix said at Woodstock, ‘Things are pretty dirty and the world could use a scrub-down.’ ”

“Were you there?”

“No, I just read
Time
magazine to help me go to sleep.”

“Oh,” Marcie said.

Did that open syllable mean I’d disappointed her? Or was I boring? Now that I looked back on this last hour (and a half!), I realized that I hadn’t given her a chance to talk.

“What exactly do you do in fashion?” I inquired.

“Nothing socially uplifting. I’m with Binnendale’s. You know the chain?”

Who doesn’t know that golden chain of stores? That forty-carat lodestone for Conspicuous Consumers? Anyway, this tidbit clarified a lot. Miss Nash was obviously perfect for that flashy enterprise: so blond, so firm, so fully stacked, her Bryn Mawr elocution so mellifluous she probably could sell a handbag to a crocodile.

“I don’t do that much selling,” she replied as I continued with my awkward questioning. I’d figured her to be a sales trainee with grandiose ambitions.

“Then what exactly
do
you do?” I asked still more directly. This is how you break a witness down. Keep rephrasing questions that are basically the same.

“Hey, don’t you get it up to here?” she said, her hand upon her slender throat. “Doesn’t talking
anybody’s
business bore you silly?”

She clearly meant that I’d been goddamn tedious.

“I hope my legal lecture didn’t turn you off.”

“No, honestly, I found it interesting. I only wish you’d said some more about yourself.”

What could I say? I guessed the truth would be the best resort.

“There’s nothing very pleasant I could tell you.”

“Why?”

A pause. I looked into my coffee cup.

“I had a wife,” I said.

“That’s not unusual,” she said. But sort of gently.

“She died.”

There was a pause.

“I’m sorry,” Marcie said.

“That’s okay,” I said. There is no other answer.

We then sat silently.

“I wish you’d told me sooner, Oliver.”

“It’s not all that easy.”

“Doesn’t talking help?”

“God, you’re almost sounding like my shrink,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. “I thought I sounded like my own.”

“Hey, what did you need shrinking for?” I asked, amazed that someone with such poise could possibly need doctorizing. “You didn’t lose a wife.”

That was a grim attempt at humor. Also unsuccessful.

“I lost a husband,” Marcie said.

Oh, Barrett, with what grace you put your foot into your mouth!

“Jesus, Marcie,” was the most I could say.

“Don’t misconstrue,” she quickly added. “It was only by divorce. But when we split our lives and our possessions, Michael got the confidence and I got all the hangups.”

“Who was Mr. Nash?” I asked, immensely curious to know what kind of guy could snare this kind of girl.

“Can we change the subject, please?” she said. And sounded—so I thought—a trifle sad.

Curiously, I felt relieved that somewhere underneath her cool exterior Miss Marcie Nash had something that she couldn’t talk about. Maybe even memories of hurt. That made her seem more human and her pedestal less lofty. Still, I didn’t know what next to say.

Marcie did. “Oh, my, it’s getting late.”

My watch informed me that it was indeed ten forty-five. But still I thought that saying it right then meant I
had
turned her off.

“Check, please,” she requested of the passing maître d’.

“Hey—no,” I said. “I want to buy you dinner.”

“Absolutely not. A deal’s a deal.”

True, at first I’d wanted her to pay. But now I felt so guilty for my gaucheries I had to expiate by treating her.

“I’ll take the check, please,” said yours truly, overruling her.

“Hey,” objected Marcie. “We could wrestle, but we’d have to keep our clothes on and it wouldn’t be much fun. So cool it, huh?” And then she said, “Dmitri?”

She knew the maître d’ by name.

“Yes, ma’am?” Dmitri said.

“Please add a tip and sign for me.”

“Of course, madam,” he said, and greased off noiselessly.

I felt ill at ease. First she had upset me with the candid dinner talk. Then the mention of the naked wrestling (though by indirection) made me think: if she was sexually aggressive, how would I respond? And finally, she had her own account at “21”! Who was this girl?

“Oliver,” she said, displaying all those perfect teeth, “I’ll take you home.”

“You will?”

“It’s on my way,” she said.

I couldn’t hide it from myself. I was uptight about . . . the obvious.

“But, Oliver,” she added with demureness and perhaps a tinge of irony, “because I bought you dinner doesn’t mean you have to sleep with me.”

“Oh, I’m much relieved,” I said, pretending that I was pretending. “I wouldn’t want to give you the impression I was loose.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “You’re anything but loose.”

In the taxicab as we were rocketing to my abode, a sudden thought occurred to me.

“Hey, Marcie,” I said, as casually as possible.

“Yes, Oliver?”

“When you said my house was on your way—I hadn’t told you where I lived.”

“Oh, I just assumed you were an East Sixties type.”

“And where do
you
live?”

“Not far from you,” she said.

“That’s nicely vague. And I suppose your phone’s not listed either.”

“No,” she said. But offered neither explanation nor the number.

“Marcie?”

“Oliver?” Her tone was still unruffled and ingenuous.

“Why all the mystery?”

She reached across the cab and put her leather-gloved hand upon my nervous fist. She said, “Hang on there for a little bit, okay?”

Damn! Because there was no traffic at that hour, the taxi reached my place with speed uncommon—and right now much unappreciated.

“Wait a second,” Marcie told the driver. I paused to hear if she might mention her next stop. But she was much too shrewd. She smiled at me, and with a tinsel brio murmured, “Thanks a lot.”