Erich Segal - Oliver's Story

I then kept my patience and explained in detail to the doctor what I had discovered. I'd asked Anita, who's my very thorough secretary, to get Marcie on the phone ('Just wanted to say hi,' I'd say). Naturally, my quarry hadn't told me where she would be staying. But Anita was a genius at locating people.

Binnendale's, whom she'd first telephoned, alleged they had no Marcie Nash among its personnel. But this did not dissuade Anita. She then called every possible hotel in greater Cleveland and the fashionable suburbs. When this didn't turn up any Marcie Nash, she tried motels and humbier hostelries. Nothing still. There absolutely was no Miss, Ms or Madame Marcie Nash in the vicinity of Cleveland.

Therefore, Q.E.D. and damn it all, she's lying. Ergo she is somewhere else.

'What then,' the doctor slowly asked, 'is your … conclusion?'

'But it's not a fantasy!' I quickly said.

He did not demur. The case was opened and I started strong. I'd been brooding over it all day.

'First of all, it's obvious she's shacking up with someone. That's the only explanation for not giving me her phone and her address. Maybe she's still even married.'

'Then why would she be seeing you?'

Christ, Dr London was naive. Or else behind the times. Or else ironic.

'I don't know. According to the articles I read, we're living in a liberated age. Maybe they just both agreed to "open" their relationship.'

'But if she's liberated, as you say, why doesn't she just tell you?'

'Aha, there lies the paradox. I figure Marcie's thirty — though she looks much younger. That means she's still a product of the early sixties — just like me. Things were not that loose and free back then. So, since the girls of Marcie's vintage still are more hung up than out, they tell you Cleveland when they're swinging in Bermuda.'

'That's your fantasy?'

'Look, it could be Barbados,' I conceded, 'but she's on vacation with the guy she's living with.

Who may or may not be her husband.'

'And you're angry … "

One did not need psychiatric training to discern that I was furious!

'Because she wasn't straight with me, goddammit!'

After bellowing, I wondered if the patient waiting outside leafing through the old New Yorkers heard my blast.

I shut up for several seconds. Why did I get so excited in the process of convincing him I wasn't?

'Christ, I pity any guy that gets involved with such an uptight hypocrite.'

A pause.

' "Involved"?' asked Dr London, seizing my own adjective to use against me.

'No.' I laughed. 'I am extremely uninvolved. In fact, not only am I gonna write her off — I'm gonna send that bitch a telegram instructing her to go to hell.'

Another pause.

'Except I can't,' I then confessed. 'I don't know her address.'

I was in the midst of dreaming that I was asleep when — dammit — someone woke me on the telephone.

'Hi. Did I arouse, disturb or otherwise intrude?' The merry caller was Miss Marcie Nash. Her implication: was I having fun, or simply waiting doglike for her call.

'What I'm doing's strictly classified,' I said, implying I was into some lubricious bit of grab-ass.

'Where the hell are you?'

'I'm at the airport,' she replied, as if it was the truth.

'Who're you with?' I asked quite casually, in hope she would be caught off guard.

'Some tired businessmen,' she said.

I bet the business had been very tiring.

'Well, did you get a tan?' I asked.

'A what?' she said. 'Hey, Barrett, are you smoking? Clear your head and tell me if we're playing tennis in the morning?'

I squinted at my wrist watch on the table. It was almost 1 a.m.

'It's already "in the morning",' I replied, annoyed by what she'd done all week compounded by her waking me. And not biting at my baited questions. And the whole continuing enigma.

'Do we play at six a.m.?' she asked. 'Say yes or no.' I thought a lot for several miniseconds. Why the hell would she come back from fun and frolic in the tropics and yet want to go play tennis so damn early? Also, why not play with 'roommate'? Was I just her tennis pro? Or did he have to breakfast with his wife? I ought to tell her off and go to sleep.

'Yeah, I'll be there,' I said. Which wasn't quite what I'd intended.

I beat her to a pulp.

Next morning on the tennis court I showed no mercy whatsoever. I was wordless (save for 'Are you ready?') and extremely vicious. Add to this the fact that Marcie's game was slightly off. She looked a trifle pale. Did it rain down in Bermuda? Or did she spend too much time indoors? Well, that was none of my concern.

'Heigh ho,' she said with difficulty when the swift debacle ended. 'Pancho didn't humor me today.'

'I had a week to lose my sense of humor, Marcie.'

'Why?'

'I thought the Cleveland joke was just a little much.'

'What do you mean?' she said, and seemed ingenuous.

'Look, I'm too pissed off to even talk about it.'

Marcie seemed confused. I mean she acted like she didn't have a clue that I was on to her.

'Hey, aren't we adults?' she said. 'Why can't we talk about what's bugging you?'

'It isn't worth discussing, Marcie.'

'Okay,' she said, and sounded disappointed. 'Obviously, you don't want to go to dinner.'

'I was not aware there was a dinner.'

'Isn't that supposed to be the prize?' she said.

I thought a moment. Should I tell her now? Or should I enjoy a lavish meal at her expense and then tell her to go to hell?

'Yeah — buy me a dinner,' I replied, a trifle gruffly.

'When and where?' she said, apparently undaunted by my impoliteness.

'No, I'll just pick you up. At your place,' I said pointedly.

'I won't be home,' she answered. Yeah, a likely story.

'Marcie, I will pick you up if you're in Timbuktu.'

'Okay, Oliver. I'll call you at your house around six-thirty and I'll tell you where I am.'

'Suppose I'm not at home?' I said. A pretty cool riposte, I thought. To which I added, 'Sometimes I have clients who invite me to their offices in outer space.'

'Okay, I'll keep calling till your rocket lands.'

She started toward the ladies' locker room and turned. 'Oliver, you know I'm starting to believe you're really crazy?'

'Hey, I won a big one.'

Dr London offered no congratulations. Yet he knew the action was significant since I'd referred to it in sessions past. So once again I had to abstract Channing v. Riverbank. The latter is the fancy condominium on East End Avenue, the former, Charles F. Channing, Jr, president of Magnitex, a former Penn State All-American, a prominent Republican … and also eminently black. His application for the purchase of the penthouse was denied for some odd reason. And that reason brought him to seek counsel. He chose J & M for our prestige. Old man Jonas gave his case to me.

We won it easily, invoking not the recent open housing laws — which have some ambiguities — but simply citing Jones v. Mayer, last year argued in the high court (392 U.S. 409). Herein the justices affirmed that 1866s civil rights act guaranteed to everyone the freedom to buy property. It was soundly rooted in the First Amendment. Riverbank was soundly routed. And my client moves in on the thirtieth.

'For once I even made some money for the firm,' I added. 'Channing is a millionaire.'

But London still withheld all comment.

'Old man Jonas took me out to lunch. Marsh — the other half — came by for coffee. They were hinting at a partnership … '