Erich Segal - Oliver's Story

Happily for my finances, the third and final Nash was Rodney P., a buyer who had been in Europe for the last six weeks.

'Where does that leave you?' Steve asked, heroically continuing to join me for the early morning matches.

'Nowhere,' I replied.

Also I was plagued by a recurrent nightmare.

I kept reliving that excruciating fight I had with Jenny in the first year we were married. She had wanted me to see my father, or at least to make my peace by telephone. I'm still chagrined at how I yelled at her. I was a madman. Frightened, Jenny fled to god-knows-where. I sprinted madly, turning everything in Cambridge upside down. But couldn't find her. Then at last in panic I came home and found her waiting on the outside steps.

That was my dream exactly, save for one detail: Jenny didn't reappear.

I searched as frantically as ever. I returned in desperation as I had. But Jenny wasn't there at all.

What was that supposed to mean?

That I was scared of losing Jenny?

Or that I wanted (!) to lose Jenny?

Dr London offered a suggestion: Was I not of late involved in yet another quest for yet another lady after yet another fit of anger?

Yes. I was in search of Marcie Nash.

But what does Marcie have to do with Jenny?

Nothing, naturally.

Three weeks later, I gave up. Marcie-with-the-unknown-second-name would never call. And who could really blame her? Meanwhile I was very near collapse from my athletic schedule. Not to mention endless finger-tapping, waiting for that phone to ring. Needless to report, my legal work was lousy — when I got around to doing any. Everything was going to hell. Except my mood, which was already there. This would have to stop. So on the three-week anniversary of the Massacre at Méchant Loup, I said, That's it, the case is closed. Tomorrow I return to sanity. And to commemorate this great occasion, I decided to play hooky for the afternoon.

'Oliver, where can I reach you if I need you?' asked Anita, who was also near a breakdown from my ceaseless and bizarre demands for messages that never came.

'No one needs me,' I replied, and left the office.

Henceforth, as I walked uptown, I would no longer suffer from hallucinations. Fantasies of seeing Marcie just ahead. Naturally they always turned out to be yet another tall and slender blonde. Once I even saw one with a tennis racket. How I sprinted (I was in such splendid shape), only to be wrong again. Yet another almost-Marcie. New York City teems with her facsimiles.

Now when I reached the Fifties, I would go by Binnendale's department store precisely as I had before my three-week malady. Dispassionate. The mind on lofty thoughts like legal precedents or what I'd have for dinner. No more costly explorations, no more systematic cruising of the various departments in hopes of glimpsing Marcie in the Tennis Shop or maybe Lingerie. Now I'd simply glance at what the windows pitched, and move on by.

But hey, since last I looked — that is, since yesterday — there'd been some changes. One new decoration seized my eye: EXCLUSIVE — JUST ARRIVED FROM ITALY. THE LATEST BY EMILIO ASCARELLI.

And on the handsome shoulders of a Yalie-looking dummy was a cashmere sweater. Black.

Emblazoned Alfa Romeo. But the window's claim that this exclusive item just arrived was perjury.

My body could refute it in an instant. For by chance (or maybe not by chance) I had that sweater on right now. And I'd received it several weeks ago. Three weeks, to be precise.

At last a solid clue! Whoever handled imports must have sold or given one to Marcie in advance.

I maybe now could storm the citadel, decked out in evidence, demanding and receiving instant answers.

But hold it, Oliver. You said the frenzy's over and it is. Move on. The goddamn cashmere case is closed.

I was at home some minutes later, going through my vast collection of athletic garments, with a view to running in the park. I'd narrowed down the choice of socks to three or four ungrungy ones (or relatively speaking), when the phone rang.

Let it ring. I have priorities.

It wouldn't stop. Probably Anita with some trivia from Washington.

I picked it up to cut it off.

'Barrett isn't here!' I growled.

'Oh? Is he with his clients up in outer space?'

Marcie.

'Uh — ' (How's that for eloquence?)

'What are you doing, Oliver?' she said. Quite softly.

'I was just about to run in Central Park,' I said.

'Too bad. I would have joined you. But I ran this morning.'

Ah, that explained her recent absence in the afternoons.

'Oh,' I said. And quickly added, That's too bad.'

'I called your office, just to ask you if you'd had lunch. But if you're going running — '

'No,' I quickly said. 'I'm sorta hungry.'

A little pause.

'That's good,' she said.

'Where should we meet?' I asked.

'Would you come and pick me up?'

Would I what ?

'Where are you, Marcie?'

'At Binnendale's. The business offices on top. Just ask for— '

'Yeah. Okay. What time?'

'Don't rush. At your convenience. I'll be waiting.'

'Okay.'

And we both hung up at once.

Quandary: Should I sprint immediately? Or did I have time to shave and shower?

Compromise: Perform ablutions, then take taxi to make up lost time.

In fifteen minutes I was back at Binnendale's.

I wanted to race up the stairs, but figured that appearing through the fire doors would not be cool.

So I took the elevator. Up to the very top.

At the summit, I emerged into a veritable paradise. Carpet like a huge expanse of virgin beach — and just as soft. Up the shore there sat a secretary. And behind her was America. I mean a map of the United States with little flags to indicate where Binnendale's had staked their claims.

'May I help you, sir?' the secretary said.

'Uh … yes. My name is Barrett — '

'Yes. You want Marcie,' she replied.

'Uh … that's correct.'

'Just take that corridor,' she said, 'and go straight down. I'll say that you're en route.'

I quickly hit the corridor, then told myself slow down. Walk, do not run. As slow as possible. (I only wish I could decelerate my heart.)

It was a lush cocoonlike tunnel. Where the hell would it end up? Anyway, the neighborhood seemed fairly good.

First I passed by William Ashworth's office (General Merchandise Manager).

Then Arnold H. Sundel, the Treasurer.

Then Stephen Nicols, Jr, First Vice-President.

At last the passage opened out. And in the wide expanse before me sat two secretaries.

Behind them as I neared, a portal opened.

There she was.

I stopped.

Marcie looked at me and I at her. I couldn't think of anything appropriate to say.

'Come in,' she said (she clearly won the prize for poise).

I followed her inside. The room was large and elegant.

No one else was there.

Only then could I appreciate why she was all alone.

Finally she spoke.

'It's been a miserable three weeks.'

'Not business-wise,' I answered. 'I've gone bankrupt shopping here to try and find you.'

Marcie smiled a little.

'Look,' I said, attempting an apology, 'I guess I was a little too precipitous.'

'I helped precipitate,' she said. 'I was a little too mysterious.'

But now the mystery was solved.

'You don't exactly work for Binnendale's,' I said. 'It works for you.'

She nodded. Almost in embarrassment.

'I should have told you sooner,' Marcie said.

'That's okay. I understand now." She seemed enormously relieved.

'Hey, Marce, you can't imagine just how well I understand the syndrome. When you're rich that inner demon's always asking, 'Do they like me for myself or just my dough?' That sound familiar?'