Erich Segal - Oliver's Story

'Then why not have the balls to say you just don't like me?'

Marcie's cool was melting. She was not upset. Not angry. Yet not quite in full control of all her fabled poise.

'No. I like you, Marce,' I said. 'I just can't live with you.'

'Oliver,' she answered quietly, 'you couldn't live with anyone. You're still so hung up on Jenny, you don't want a new relationship.'

I could not respond. She really hurt me by evoking Jenny.

'Look, I know you,' she continued. 'All your "deep in-yolvement with the issues" is a great facade. It's just a socially acceptable excuse to keep on mourning.'

'Marcie?'

'Yes?'

'You are a cold and heartless bitch.'

I turned and started off.

'Wait, Oliver.'

I stopped and looked around.

She stood there. Crying. Very softly.

'Oliver … I need you.'

I did not reply.

'And I think you need me too,' she said. For a moment] did not know what to do.

I looked at her. I knew how hopelessly alone she felt.

But therein lay the problem.

So did I.

I turned and walked down Austin Road. Not looking back.

Night had fallen.

And I wished the darkness could have drowned me.

'What is your opinion, Doctor?'

'I think lemon meringue.'

Joanna Stein, M.D., reached out across the counter and then placed a piece of pie upon her tray.

This and two stalks of celery would be her lunch. She'd just explained that she was on a diet.

'Pretty weird,' I commented.

'I can't help it,' she replied. 'I'm a sucker for the really gooey stuff. The celery is for my conscience.'

It was two weeks after I'd got back. I'd spent the first days feeling tired, then the next few feeling angry. Then, as if returning to square one, I just felt lonely.

With a difference.

Two years ago, my grief had overwhelmed all other feelings. Now I knew that what I needed was the company of someone. Someone nice. I wouldn't wait or wallow.

My only qualm in calling up Joanna Stein was having to concoct some bullshit to explain why I'd been out of touch so long.

She never asked.

When I telephoned, she merely indicated she was pleased to hear from me. I invited her to dinner. She suggested lunch right at the hospital. I leaped and here we were.

She had kissed me on the cheek when I arrived. Now, for once, I kissed her back. We asked each other how we'd been and gave replies with vague details. We'd both been working hard, extremely busy. And so forth. She asked about my lawyering. I told a Spiro Agnew joke. She laughed. We were it ease with one another.

Then I asked about her doctoring.

'I finish here in June, thank God.'

'What then?'

'Two years in San Francisco. At a teaching hospital and at a living wage.'

San Francisco is, I quickly calculated, several thousand miles from New York City. Oliver, you clod, don't fumble this one.

'California's great,' I said, to stall for time.

My social calendar had called for weekending in Cranston. Maybe I could ask her to drive up with me, just friend-to-friend. She would get along with Phil. And it would be a chance to get things started.

Then my mind absorbed her comment on my last remark.

'It's not just California,' Jo had answered. 'There's a guy involved.'

Oh. A guy. It stands to reason. Life goes on without you, Oliver. Or did you think she'd sit and pine?

I wondered if my face betrayed my disappointment.

'Hey, I'm glad to hear it,' I replied. 'A doctor?'

'Sure,' she smiled. 'Whom else would I encounter on this job?'

'Is he musical?' I asked.

'He barely cuts it on the oboe.'

He clearly cuts it with Joanna.

That's enough of jealous prying, Oliver. Now show you're cool and change the subject.

'How's King Louis?'

'Crazier than ever,' she replied. 'They all send love and tell you any Sunday … '

No. I wouldn't want to meet the oboist.

'Great. I'll come sometime,' I lied.

There was a little pause. I sipped my coffee.

'Hey, can I level with you, Oliver?' she whispered furtively.

'Sure, Jo.'

'I'm embarrassed, but I'd … like another piece of pie.'

Gallantly, I fetched her one, pretending it was for myself. Joanna Stein, M.D., expressed eternal gratitude.

Our hour soon was up.

'Good luck in San Francisco, Jo,' I said in parting.

'Please keep in touch.'

'Yeah. Sure,' I said.

And I walked very slowly downtown to my office.

Three weeks later came a turning point.

After years of threatening to do so, Father actually turned sixty-five. They held a celebration in his office.

The shuttle I flew up on was an hour late because of snowy weather. By the time I entered, many had drunk deeply at the flowing punch bowls. I was in an undulating sea of tweed. Everyone was saying what a jolly fellow Father was. And soon they would be singing it.

I behaved. I talked to Father's partners and their families. First Mr Ward, a friendly fossil, and his future-fossil children. Then to the Seymours, once a lively couple, now reduced to but a single melancholy topic: Everett, their only son, a helicopter pilot in Vietnam.

Mother stood at Father's side, receiving envoys from the far-flung Barrett enterprises. There was even someone from the textile workers' union.

I could easily distinguish him. Jamie Francis was the only guest who didn't wear a Brooks or J. Press suit.

'Sorry you were late,' said Jamie. 'Wish you coulda heard my speech. Look — the members all pitched in.'

He pointed at the board-room table, where a gold Eternamatic clock shone 6:15.

'Your father's a good man. You should be proud,' continued Jamie. 'I've sat around a table with him nearly thirty five years and I can tell you that they don't come any better.'

I just nodded. Jamie seemed intent on giving me a replay of his testimonial.

'Back in the fifties, all the owners ran like rats and set up plants down South. They left their people high and dry.'

That's no exaggeration. New England mill towns nowadays are almost ghost towns.

'But your dad just sat us down and said, "We're gonna stay. Now help us be competitive."'

'Go on,' I said, as if he needed prompting.

'We asked for new machinery.. I guess no bank was nuts enough to finance him … '

He took a breath.

'So Mr Barrett put his money where his mouth was. Three million bucks to save our jobs.'

My father never told me this. But then I'd never asked.

'Of course the pressure's really on him now,' said Jamie.

'Why?'

He looked at me and spoke two syllables: 'Hong Kong.'

I nodded.

He continued. 'And Formosa. And they're starting now in South Korea. What the hell!'

'Yeah, Mr Francis,' I replied, 'that's wicked competition.' As well I knew.

'I'd use stronger language if we weren't in your father's office. He's a really good man, Oliver.

Not like — if you'll pardon me — some other Barretts.'

'Yeah,' I said.

'In fact,' said Jamie, 'I think that's; why he's tried so damn hard to be fair to us.'

Suddenly, I looked across the room and saw a wholly different person where my father had been standing. One who'd shared with me a feeling that I had never known he had.

But unlike me, had done much more than talk about it.

Justice triumphed in November.

After several seasons of our discontent, Harvard beat the ass off Yale in football. Fourteen-twelve. Decisive factors were the Lord and our defensive unit. The first sent mighty winds to hamper Massey's throwing game; the second stalled a final Eli drive. All of us in Soldiers Field were smiling.