Erich Segal - Oliver's Story

Book Club Associates

LONDON

This edition published 1977 by

Book Club Associates

By arrangement with Granada Publishing Ltd

Reprinted 1977

Copyright © Erich Segal 1977

Printed in Great Britain by

Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press) Ltd,

Bungay, Suffolk

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior

permission of the publishers.

For Karen

Amor mi mosse

Death ends a life, but it does not end a

relationship, which struggles on in the

survivor's mind towards some resolution

which it may never find.

— Robert Anderson

I Never Sang for My Father

June 1969

'Oliver, you're sick.'

'I'm what?'

'You're very sick.'

The expert who pronounced this startling diagnosis had come late in life to medicine. In fact, until today I thought he was a pastry chef. His name was Philip Cavilled. Once upon a time his daughter Jenny was my wife. She died. And we remained, our legacy from her to be each other's guardian. Therefore once a month I'd either visit him in Cranston, where we'd bowl and booze and eat exotic pizzas. Or he would join me in New York to run an equally exciting gamut of activities.

But today as he descended from the train, instead of greeting me with some affectionate obscenity, he shouted.

'Oliver, you're sick.'

'Really, Philip? In your sage professional opinion, what the hell is wrong with me?'

'You aren't married.'

Then without expatiating further, he just turned and, leatherette valise in hand, he headed for the exit.

Morning sunlight made the city's glass and steel seem almost friendly. So we both agreed to walk the twenty blocks to what I jocularly called my bachelor pad. At Forty-seventh Street and Park, Phil turned and asked, 'How have your evenings been?'

'Oh, busy,' I replied.

'Busy, huh? That's good. Who with?'

'The Midnight Raiders.'

'What are they — a street gang or a rock group?'

'Neither. We're a bunch of lawyers volunteering time in Harlem.'

'How many nights a week?'

'Three,' I said.

Again we strolled uptown in silence.

At Fifty-third and Park, Phil broke his silence once again. 'That still leaves four free nights.'

'I've got a lot of office homework too.'

'Oh, yeah, of course. We gotta do our homework.' Phil was less than sympathetic to my serious involvement with a lot of burning issues (e.g., draft cards). So I had to hint at their significance.

'I'm down in Washington a lot. I'm arguing a First Amendment case before the Court next month.

This high school teacher — '

'Oh, that's good, defending teachers,' Philip said. And added oh-so-casually, 'How's Washington for girls?'

'I don't know.' I shrugged and walked along.

At Sixty-first and Park, Phil Cavilleri stopped and looked me in the eye.

'Just when the hell do you intend to plug your motor into life again?'

'It hasn't been that long,' I said. And thought: the great philosopher who claimed that time heals wounds neglected to impart just how much time.

'Two years,' said Philip Cavilleri.

'Eighteen months,' I corrected him.

'Yeah, well … ' he answered, gravelly voice trailing off. Betraying that he too still felt the cold of that December day but … eighteen months ago.

In the remaining blocks I tried to warm things up again by touting the apartment I had rented since he last was here.

'So this is it?'

Phil looked around, an eyebrow raised. Everything was very orderly and neat. I'd had a woman come that morning specially.

'What do you call the style?' he asked. 'Contemporary Shitbox?'

'Hey,' I said. 'My needs are very simple.'

'I should say. Most rats in Cranston live as good as this. And some live better. What the hell are all these books?'

'Legal reference volumes, Phil.'

'Of course,' he said. 'And what exactly do you do for fun — feel up the leather bindings?'

I think I could successfully have argued an invasion of my privacy.

'Look, Philip, what I do when I'm alone is my own business.'

'Who denies it? But you're not alone tonight. So you and I are gonna make the social scene.'

'The what ?'

'I didn't buy this fancy jacket — which you haven't complimented, by the way — to watch some lousy film. I didn't get this suave new haircut just to make you think I'm cute. We're gonna move and groove. We are gonna make new friends … '

'What kind?'

'The female kind. Come on, get fancied up.'

'I'm going to the movies, Phil.'

'The hell you are. Hey, look, I know you're out to win the Nobel Prize for suffering, but I will not allow it. Do you hear me? I will not allow it.'

He was fulminating now.

Oliver,' quoth Philip Cavilleri, now turned priest, S.J., 'I'm here to save your soul and save your ass. And you will heed me. Do you heed?'

'Yes, Father Philip. What precisely should I do?'

'Get married, Oliver.'

We buried Jenny early one December morning. Luckily, because a huge New England storm made snowy statues of the world by afternoon.

My parents asked me if I'd go back to Boston with them on the train. I declined politely as I could, insisting Philip needed me or he would crack. In truth it was the other way around. Since all my life. I'd been immured from human loss and hurt, I needed Phil to teach me how to grieve.

'Please be in touch,' said Father.

'Yes, I will.' I shook his hand and kissed my mother's cheek. The train departed northward.

At first the Cavilleri house was noisy. Relatives were loath to let the two of us alone. But one by one, they peeled away — for naturally they all had families to go to. Each in parting made Phil promise that he'd open up the shop and get to work. It's the only thing to do. He always nodded sort of yeah.

And finally we sat there, just the two of us. There wasn't any need to move, since everyone had stocked the kitchen with a month's supply of everything.

Now, with no distractions from the aunts or cousins, I began to feel the Novocaine of ceremony wearing off. Before I had imagined I was hurting. Now I knew that I'd been merely numb. The agony was just beginning.

'Hey, you oughta get back to New York,' said Phil without too much conviction. I spared him the rejoinder that: his bakery seemed rather closed. I said, 'I can't. I have a New Year's Eve date here in Cranston.'

'Who?' he asked.

'With you,' I answered.

'That'll be a lotta fun,' he said, 'but promise me — on New Year's morning you'll go home.'

'Okay,' I said.

'Okay,' he said.

My parents called up every evening.

'No, there's nothing, Mrs Barrett,' Phil would say to her. She'd obviously asked how she could help.

'No, nothing, Father,' I would say when my turn came. 'But thanks.'

Phil showed me secret pictures. Photos that were once forbidden me by Jenny's most adamant command.

'Goddammit, Phil, I don't want Oliver to see me with my braces on!'

'But, Jenny, you were very cute.'

'I'm cuter now,' she answered, very Jenny-like. Then added, 'And no baby pictures, either, Phil.'