Erich Segal - Oliver's Story

'Because a woman is a woman. Wives gotta be at home here with their families. It's nature's way.'

I would not dispute his philosophy of nature.

'Look,' he said, 'it's your own goddamn fault. If you would make an honest woman of her — '

'Phil!'

'What's true is true,' he barked, defending someone he had never met. 'Those woman's-lib Comanches can throw pies at me, but I know what the Bible says. A man an' woman gotta cleave together. Right?'

'Right,' I said, and hoped that it would shut him up. It did. For several seconds.

'Hey, what the hell does "cleave" mean, anyway?' he asked.

'Hold very close,' I answered.

'Has she read the Bible, Oliver?'

'I guess so.'

'Call her up. There's bound to be a Gideon in her hotel.'

'I will,' I said.

'What are your feelings?'

Dr London, here's a time I really need your help. My feelings?

'Anger. Rage. Pissed off.'

But also more.

'Confused. I don't know what to feel. We're on the verge of … I don't know.'

Yeah, I did know, but couldn't say it.

'I mean … building a relationship. Or trying to. How can we tell if it can really work if we don't have the time together? Time in person. Not just on the telephone. I'm not the slightest bit religious, but if I thought that we'd be separated Christmas Eve, I'd … '

Maybe cry? I'm sure that even Jack the Ripper spent the Yule with friends.

'Look, the problem's serious. I mean the Denver store's got shaky management. Marcie had to go. She has to stay. It's nothing she can delegate. And who the hell's suggesting she should delegate? To hold my hand? To cook my breakfast?

'Dammit — it's her job! I've got to live with that. I'm not complaining. All right, sure I am. But I'm the one who's immature …

'And maybe more than that. I'm selfish. Inconsiderate. Marcie is my … we're a … sort of couple. She's got hasslement in Denver. Truly. Even though she is the boss, some wise-ass locals think she's got a heavy hand. It's not that easy.

'Meanwhile I'm just lounging here and moaning over nothing, when I maybe should be there to back her up. A little personal support. Christ, I know what it would mean to me. And if I did, she'd really know … '

I hesitated. How much was I telling Dr London with my incompleted sentences?

'I think I ought to fly to Denver.'

Silence. I was pleased with my decision. Then I realized this was Friday.

'On the other hand, next Monday I'm supposed to go to trial against that School Board. I've been dying to get in there with those Yahoos … '

Pause for introspection. Weigh your values, Oliver.

'Okay, I could give the ball to Barry Pollack. Actually, he's deeper into it than I. Of course, he's younger. They might rattle him. Ah, shit, I know I'd make it stronger. It's important!'

Christ, what a ferocious game of psychic Ping-Pong. I was dazed from hearing my own counterarguments!

'But dammit, Marcie's more important! Never mind how cool she is, she's out there all alone and she could use a friend. And maybe I could — once in my whole life — consider someone other than my goddamn self!'

I was convinced by my last argument. I think.

'I fly to Denver, right?'

I looked at the doctor. London pondered for a moment and replied:

'If not, I'll see you five o'clock on Monday.'

'Oliver, don't leave me — I'll crack up.'

'Don't worry, it'll be all right. Stay loose.'

Bouncing over potholes in a taxi to the airport, I was tranquilizing Barry Pollack for his day in court.

'But, Ollie, why? Why pull this sudden fade-out on me now?'

'You'll handle it. You know the research upside down.'

'I know I know my stuff. But, Oliver, I can't debate and bullshit anywhere like you. They'll foul me up. We'll lose!'

I soothed him and explained how he could parry all the opposition's thrusts. Remember, speak distinctly. Very slowly. Baritone, if possible. And always call our expert witness 'doctor'; it impresses them.

'Christ, I'm scared. Why must you go to Denver now?'

'It's necessary. Bar. I can't be more specific'

We bounced in nervous silence for a mile.

'Hey, Ol?'

'Yeah, Bar?'

'Will you tell me, if I guess what's going on?'

'Yeah. Maybe.'

'It's an offer. A fantastic offer. Right?'

Just then we reached the terminal. I was halfway out before the taxi stopped.

'Well, is it?' Barry asked. 'Is it an offer?'

Oliver the Cheshire Cat shook hands with his young colleague through the taxi window.

'Hey — good luck to both of us.'

I turned and headed for the check-in desk. God bless you, Barry — you were shaking so, you didn't notice I was edgy too.

Because I hadn't told her I was coming.

No sooner did we land in Mile High City (as the jolly pilot endlessly referred to it), I grabbed my little suitcase, picked a cabby who looked like he'd drive extremely fast and said, 'Brown Palace.

Please shake ass.'

'Then hold yer old sombrero, buddy,' he replied. I'd chosen well.

By 9 p.m. (eleven minutes later) we were at the Palace, Denver's venerable hostelry. It has a massive lobby, sort of a fin de siècle astrodome. The floors are piled in tiers with one huge garden in the middle. You get dizzy merely looking at the hollowness above.

I knew her suite from all those phone calls. I deposited my luggage at the desk and started jogging toward the seventh floor. I didn't call the room.

I took a second just to catch my breath (the altitude). Then knocked.

There was silence.

Then a man appeared. If I may say, a very handsome man. A plastic prince.

'May I help you?'

Who the hell was he? His accent wasn't Denver. It was pseudo-English via Mars.

'I'd like to speak to Marcie,' I replied.

'I'm afraid she's busy at the moment.'

With what? What had I stumbled into? This guy was too beautiful. The kind of face you want to punch on principle.

'I'd like to see her anyway,' I said.

He had about two inches on me height-wise. And his suit was so well made I couldn't tell where it left off and he began.

'Mm, are you expected by Miss Binnendale?' His way of saying 'Mm' could be the prelude to a broken jaw.

Before I could continue with polemics or with punches, a fernale voice floated from within.

'What is it, Jeremy?'

'Nothing, Marcie. A mistake.'

He turned to me again.

'Jeremy, I'm no mistake,' I said. 'My parents wanted me.' Either the effect of wit, or else the menace in my tone, made Jeremy step back and let me enter.

I wondered as I strode the little corridor how Marcie would react. And what the hell she might be in the midst of.

The living room was wall-to-wall gray flannel.

Which is to say, executives were scattered everywhere, each by an ashtray, puffing nervously or chewing cardboard sandwiches.

At a desk, unsmoking and uneating (also not undressed, as I had feared), was Marcie Binnendale.

I'd caught her in the flagrant midst of … business.

'Do you know this gentleman?' said Jeremy.

'Indeed,' said Marcie, smiling. But not flying to my arms, as I had dreamed en route.

'Hello,' I said. 'I'm sorry if I interrupted.'

Marcie looked around, and then said to her platoon, 'Excuse me for a moment.'

She and I went to the corridor. I took her hand, but Marcie gently kept me from a grasp of more.

'Hey — what are you doing here?'