Erich Segal - Oliver's Story

The quintessence would be why.

Why has he invited me to meet his parents? And for Christmas. Does this gesture mean he's getting … serious?

Naturally, we'd never broached such matters with each other. But I'm fairly confident that up there in the stratosphere a certain Bryn Mawr intellectual is pondering hypotheses to figure out her New York roommate's motivations.

And yet she never brought it to the surface and inquired, 'Oliver — why did you ask me?'

'I'm glad. For frankly, I'd have answered, 'I don't know.'

It had been a hasty impulse, typical of me. Calling home before consulting Marcie. Or my own inner thoughts. (Though Marcie really twinkled when I asked her.) I was also hasty in the self-deceiving message I transmitted to my brain: It's just a friend you happen to be going with and Christmas happens to be now. There's no significance and no 'intention' whatsoever.

Bullshit.

Oliver, you know damn well it isn't too ambiguous when you invite a girl to meet your parents.

Over Christmas.

Buddy, it is not the sophomore prom.

All this seemed so lucid now. One full week later. As I paced the Logan Airport terminal in sympathetic circles with her pilot's holding pattern.

In real life, Oliver, what would such a gesture intimate?

Now, after several days of probing, I could answer consciously. It hints of marriage. Matrimony.

Wedlock. Barrett, dost thou take this whirlwind …?

Which would therefore make the trip to Ipswich something that would fill some atavistic craving for parental approbation. Why do I still care what Mom and Daddy think?

Do you love her, Oliver?

Jesus, what a stupid time to ask yourself!

Yeah? Another inner voice shouts, This is the very time to ask!

Do I love her?

It's too complicated for a simple yes or no.

Then why the hell am I so sure I want to marry her?

Because …

Well, maybe it's irrational. But somehow I believe a real commitment would provide the catalyst.

The ceremony would evoke the 'love'.

'Oliver!'

The first one off the plane turned out to be the subject of rny thoughts. Who looked fantastic.

'Hey, I really missed you, friend,' she said, her hand caressing underneath my jacket. Though I held her just as tight, I couldn't wander anatomically. We were in Boston, after all. But wait till later …

'Where's your little bag?' I asked.

'I've got a bigger one. It's checked.'

'Oho. Will we be treated to a fashion show?'

'Nothing too far out,' she answered. Thus acknowledging her wardobe had been planned with mucho thought.

She was carrying an oblong package.

'I'll take that,' I offered.

'No, it's fragile,' she replied.

'Ah, your heart,' I quipped.

'Not quite,' she answered. 'Just your father's present.'

'Oh.'

'I'm nervous, Oliver,' she said.

We had traversed the Mystic River Bridge and were enmeshed in Route I Christmas traffic.

'You're full of crap,' I said.

'What if they don't like me?' she continued.

'Then we'll just exchange you after Christmas,' I replied.

Marcie pouted. Even so, her face was gorgeous.

'Say something reassuring, Oliver,' she asked.

'I'm nervous too,' I said.

Down Groton Street. The Gate. Then into our domain. And down the lengthy entrance road. The trees were barren, though the atmosphere kept something of a sylvan hush.

'It's peaceful,' Marcie said. (She could have called it grossly vast, as I had dubbed her place, but she was far above such pettiness.)

'Mother, this is Marcie Nash.'

If nothing else, her former husband had the perfect name. Exquisite in its blandness and evocative of zilch.

'We're happy, Marcie, you could be with us,' my mother said. 'We've looked forward to meeting you.'

'I'm grateful that you asked me down.'

What resplendent bullshit! Eye-to-eye with artificial smiles, these well-bred ladies mouthed the platitudes that buttress our whole social structure. Then went on to how-you-must-be-tired-after-such-a-journey, and how-you-must-be-exhausted-after-all-your-Christmas — preparations.

Father entered and they ran the selfsame gamut. Except he couldn't help betraying that he found her beautiful. Then, since — by the rule book — Marcie must be tired, she ascended to the guest room for some freshening.

We sat there. Mother, Father, I. We asked each other how we'd been and learned we'd all been fine. Which, naturally, was fine to hear. Would Marcie ('Charming girl,' said Mother) be too weary to go caroling? It's awfully cold out.

'Marcie's tough,' I answered, maybe meaning more than just her constitution. 'She could carol in a blizzard.'

'Preferably,' Marcie said, reentering in what the skiers will be wearing up at St Moritz this year, 'all that wind would cover up my off-key singing.'

'It doesn't matter, Marcie,' said my mother, taking things a bit too literally. 'It's the esprit that counts.'

Mother never lost an opportunity to substitute an English word with French. She'd had two years at Smith, goddammit, and it showed.

"That outfit's splendid, Marcie,' Father said. And I'm convinced he marveled at the way the tailoring did not disguise her … structure.

'It keeps out the wind,' said Marcie.

'It can be very cold this time of year,' my mother added.

Notice that one can go through a long and happy life discussing nothing but the weather.

'Oliver forewarned me,' Marcie said.

Her tolerance for small talk was amazing. Like volleying with marshmallows.

At seven-thirty we joined two dozen of the Ipswich high-class riffraff by the church. Our oldest caroler was Lyman Nichols, Harvard, '10 (age seventy-nine), the youngest Amy Harris, merely five. She was the daughter of my college classmate, Stuart.

Stuart was the only guy I'd ever seen undazzled by my date. How could he think of Marcie? He was clearly so in love with little Amy (much reciprocated) and with Sara, who had stayed at home with newborn Benjamin.

I suddenly was palpably aware of motion in my life. I felt time passing. And my heart was sad.

Stuart had a station wagon, so we drove with him. I held Amy on my lap.

'You're very lucky, Oliver,' said Stu.

'I know,' I answered.

Marcie, as required, indicated jealousy.

Hark, the herald angels sing …

Our repertoire was just as well worn as our route: the Upper Crusty members of the congregation, who would greet our musical appearance with polite applause, some feeble punch, and milk and cookies for the kids.

Marcie dug the whole routine.

'This is country , Oliver,' she said.

By half past nine, we'd all but finished our appointed rounds (a Christmas pun, ho ho), and as tradition bade, concluded at the ducal manor, Dover House.

Oh come, all ye faithful …

I watched my father and my mother looking out at us. And wondered as I saw them smile. Is it because I'm standing next to Marcie? Or had little Amy Harris caught their hearts as she had mine?

Food and drink was better at our place. In addition to the cow juice, there was toddy for the frozen adults. ('You're the savior,' Nichols, '10, said, patting Father on the back.) Everybody left soon after.

I filled my tank with toddy.

Marcie drank some expurgated eggnog.

'I loved that, Oliver,' she said, and took my hand.

I think my mother noticed. And was not upset. My father was, if anything, a trifle envious.

We trimmed the tree and Marcie complimented Mother on the beauty of the ornaments. She recognized the crystal of the star.

('It's lovely, Mrs Barrett. It looks Czech.'

'It is. My mother bought it just before the war.')

Then came other of the ancient venerated trinkets (some from ages I'd prefer our family forgot.) As they draped the strands of popcorn and cranberries on the branches, Marcie coyly noted,