Erich Segal - Oliver's Story

'Do you ever see her?'

'She was at the wedding.'

Marcie's little smile could not convince me that she didn't care.

'I'm sorry that I asked.'

'I would have told you anyway,' she said. 'Now you.'

'What?'

'Tell me something terrible about your past.' I thought a minute. And confessed.

'I was a dirty hockey player.'

'Really?' Marcie flashed.

'Uh-huh.'

'I want the details , Oliver!'

She really did. Half an hour later she was still demanding hockey stories.

But I then lightly put my hand upon her lips.

'Tomorrow, Marce,' I said.

As I was paying, she remarked, 'Hey, Oliver, this was the nicest meal I ever had.' I somehow think she didn't mean the macaroni or the hot fudge sundae.

Afterwards we walked back hand in hand to Uncle Abner's.

And then built a fire.

And then helped each other not be shy when we both were.

And later in the evening did some more nice things much less self-consciously.

And fell asleep in one another's arms.

Marcie woke at dawn. But I was out already, sitting by the lake to watch the sun come up.

Bundled in her coat, her hair all tousled, she sat next to me and whispered (though there wasn't anyone for miles).

'How do you feel?'

'Okay,' I answered, reaching for her hand. But knowing also that my eyes and voice revealed a trace of sadness.

'Do you feel … uneasy, Oliver?'

I nodded that I sort of did.

"Because you thought of … Jenny?'

'No,' I said, and looked out toward the lake. 'Because I didn't.'

Then, forsaking verbal conversation, we stood up and walked back down to Howard Johnson's for a massive breakfast.

'What are your feelings?'

'Jesus, can't you tell?'

I was grinning like an idiot. What other symptoms could confirm the diagnosis I was happy — pirouettes around the doctor's office?

'I can't put it medically. Your science seems to lack the terminology for joy.'

Still no answer. Couldn't London say at least 'Congratulations'?

'Doctor, I am high! Like a flag on the fourth of July!'

Sure I knew the words were trite. But hell, I was excited, anxious to discuss. Well, not discuss — just crow about it. After endless months of numbness, here at last was something that resembled human sensibility. How could I put it so that a psychiatrist could get the message?

'Look, we like each other, Doctor. A relationship is in the making. Blood is flowing in a former statue.'

'Those are headlines,' Dr London offered.

'It's the essence,' I insisted. 'Don't you fathom that I'm feeling good?'

There was a pause. Why was it he could so well comprehend my prior pain and now seemed so obtuse to my euphoria? I looked straight at him for an answer. All he said was: 'Five o'clock tomorrow.' I bounced up and bounded out.

We'd left Vermont at seven forty-five and, stopping twice for coffee, gas and kisses, reached her baroque apartment fortress by eleven-thirty. A doorman took the car. I grabbed her hand and brought her to a nice proximity.

'There are people watching!' she objected. Not too strenuously.

'It's New York. Nobody gives a shit.'

We kissed. And true to my prediction, no one in the city gave a damn. But us.

'Let's meet for lunch,' I said.

'It's lunchtime now .'

That's great. We're right on time.'

'I have a job to go to,' Marcie said.

'No sweat — I'm cozy with your boss.'

'But you have obligations. Who was guarding civil liberties while you were out of town?'

Hah. She wouldn't hoist me by my previous petard.

'Marcie, I'm here to exercise my fundamental right to the pursuit of happiness.'

'Not in the street.'

'We'll go upstairs and have … a cup of Ovaltine.'

'Mr Barrett, go directly to your goddamn office, do legalizing or whatever, and come back for dinner.'

'When?' I asked impatiently.

'At dinnertime,' she said, and tried to move inside. But I still held her hand.

"I'm hungry now.'

'You'll have to wait till nine.'

'Six-thirty,' I retorted.

'Half past eight,' she counteroffered.

'Seven,' I insisted.

'Eight o'clock's the bottom line.'

'You drive a ruthless bargain,' I responded, acquiescing.

'I'm a ruthless bitch,' she said. Then smiled and sprinted through the iron gates of her enormous castle.

In the office elevator, I began to yawn. Our shut-eye had been minimal and only now were the effects affecting me. I also looked exactly like a human wrinkle. At one of our coffee stops, I'd bought a cheapo razor and attempted shaving. No machines, however, were dispensing shirts. So I inevitably looked like I'd been doing what I had been doing.

'Well, it's Mr Romeo!' Anita cried.

Who the hell had told her?

'It says right on your sweater: "Alfa Romeo". I thought it was your name. You surely aren't Mr Barrett. He is always in the office with the dawn.'

'I overslept,' I said, and started for the refuge of my chamber.

'Oliver, get ready for a shock.'

I paused.

'What happened?'

'Flower people have attacked.'

'What?'

'Can't you smell from here?'

I entered what was once my office and was now a huge botanical extravaganza. Floral effervescence everywhere. Even my own desk was now … a bed of roses.

'Somebody loves you,' said Anita, sniffing sweetly at the door.

'Was there a card?' I queried, praying that she hadn't opened it.

'On your roses — I mean on your desk,' she said.

I reached for it. Thank heaven it was sealed and indicated 'Personal'.

'It's very heavy paper,' said Anita. 'When I held it to the light I couldn't read a thing,'

'You can go to lunch,' I answered, giving her a non-caloric smile.

'What's happened, Oliver?' she said while scrutinizing me. (My shirt was slightly frazzled, but no other clues. I'd checked.)

'What do you mean, Anita?'

'You neglected totally to hassle me for messages.'

I told her once again to go and snicker out at lunch. And hang 'Do not disturb' out on the knob.

'Who has that kind of signs? This isn't a motel, y'know!' She left and shut the door.

I nearly ripped the envelope to shreds while opening. The message was: I didn't know your favourite and didn't want to disappoint.

Love,

M.

I smiled and grabbed the phone.

'She's in conference. May I say who's calling?'

'It's her Uncle Abner,' I said, sounding as avuncular as possible. There was a pause, a click, and suddenly the boss.

'Yes?'

Marcie on the line, her tone extremely crisp.

'How come your tone's so goddamn crisp?'

'I'm in a meeting with the West Coast managers.'

Aha, the upper echelon. The varsity. And she was giving them her imitation of a Frigidaire.

'I'll call you back,' said Marcie, clearly desperate to preserve her frosty image.

'I'll just be brief,' I said. 'The flowers were a lovely touch — '

'That's fine,' she answered. 'I'll get back to you — '

'And one more thing. You've got the most fantastic ass — '

A sudden click. The bitch hung up on me!

My heart ached and a drowsy numbness filled my soul.

'Is he dead?'

Vaguely I began to comprehend more words on the horizon of my consciousness. The voice resembled that of Barry Pollack, a recent law grad who'd just joined the firm.

'He looked so healthy just this morning.'

Now Anita, trying for an Oscar as bereaved relation.

'How did he get there?' Barry asked.

I sat up. Christ, I had been sleeping on my bed of roses!

'Hi, guys,' I murmured, yawning but pretending that I always took siestas on my desk. 'Try knocking next time, huh?'