Oliver's Story (19 page)
Authors: Erich Segal
The supervisor chattered in Chinese. John told me he was proud of how efficiently his ladies could produce the goods.
“The shirts they make here are terrific,” John remarked.
He stopped and pointed to a female figure feeding shirt sleeves swiftly to the jaws of a machine.
“Look. Fantastic double-needle stitching. Highest quality. You just don’t get that in the States these days.”
I looked.
Sadly, John had picked a poor example. Not of workmanship, but of the worker.
“How old is this little girl?” I asked.
The moppet sewed on deftly, paying us no heed. If anything, she picked her pace up slightly.
“She fourteen,” the supervisor said.
He evidently knew some English.
“John, that’s utter bullshit,” I said quietly. “This kid is ten at most.”
“Fourteen,” the supervisor parroted. And John concurred.
“Oliver, that is the legal minimum.”
“I’m not disputing law, I’m simply saying this girl’s ten years old!”
“She has card,” the supervisor said. He had a working knowledge of the tongue.
“Let’s see,” I said. Politely. Though I didn’t add a “please.” John was impassive as the supervisor asked the little kid for her ID. She looked in panic. Christ, if only I could reassure her that it wasn’t a bust.
“Here, sir.”
The boss waved a card at me. It had no picture.
“John,” I said, “it has no photograph.”
“A picture’s not required if you’re under seventeen,” he said.
“I see,” I said.
They looked as if they wanted me to move on by.
“In other words,” I then continued, “this kid’s got an older sister’s card.”
“Fourteen!” the supervisor shouted once again. He gave the little girl her card back. Much relieved, she turned and started working even faster than before. But now taking furtive glances at me. Shit, suppose she hurts herself?
“Tell her to stay loose,” I said to John.
He told her something in Chinese and she worked on, no longer glancing at me.
“Tea, please,” said the supervisor, and he bowed us toward the cubicle that was his office.
John could see I hadn’t bought the number.
“Look,” he said, “she does a fourteen-year-old’s job.”
“And gets how much? You said they pay the ‘youngsters’ half.”
“Oliver,” said John, unruffled, “she takes home ten dollars every day.”
“Oh, fine,” I said, and added, “Hong Kong dollars. That’s a
dollar-eighty,
U.S. bucks, correct?”
The supervisor handed me a shirt.
“He wants you to inspect the workmanship,” said John.
“It’s fine,” I said. “That ‘double stitching’ stuff is really class (whatever that may be). In fact, I own a few of these myself.”
You see, the shirts they made here bore the label Mr. B. And guys, it seems, are wearing them this year in sweater combinations.
As I sipped my tea, I wondered if a million miles away in old New York, Miss Elvy Nash knew
how
they made those fine-as-wine creations she was pushing.
“Let’s go,” I said to John.
I needed air.
I changed the conversation to the weather.
“It must be pretty brutal in the summer months,” I said.
“Very humid,” John replied.
We had run this gamut, so I knew the right riposte.
“Just like New York in August, huh?”
“About,” he said.
“Does it . . . slow the ladies any?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“I didn’t notice air-conditioning back there,” I said.
He looked at me.
“This is Asia, Oliver,” he said, “not California.”
And on we drove.
“Is your apartment air-conditioned?” I inquired.
John Hsiang looked at me again.
“Oliver,” he calmly said, “here in the Orient the worker lives with different expectations.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“But don’t you think that even here in Asia, John, the average worker’s expectation is to have enough to
eat?
”
He didn’t answer.
“So,” I then continued, “you agree a dollar-eighty’s not enough to live on, right?”
I knew his thoughts had long ago karate-chopped me dead.
“People work much harder here,” he stated very righteously. “Our ladies don’t read magazines in beauty parlors.”
I sensed that John was conjuring up his private image of my mother lazing underneath a dryer.
“For example,” he then added. “The young girl you saw. Her whole family works there. And her mother does some extra sewing for us in the evening.”
“At her house?”
“Yes,” John replied.
“Oh,” I said. “What labor law calls ‘homework,’ right?”
“Right.”
I waited for a sec.
“Johnny, you’re a B-School graduate,” I said. “You should recall why ‘homework’ is illegal in the States.”
He smiled. “You don’t know Hong Kong law.”
“Come on, you fucking hypocrite!”
He slammed the brakes and skidded to a stop.
“I don’t have to take abuse,” he said.
“You’re right,” I answered, and I opened up the door. But damn, before I stormed away I had to make him
hear
the answer.
“Homework is illegal,” I said softly, “ ’cause it gets around the union wage. Guys who have to work like that get paid whatever the employer cares to give them. Which is generally zilch.”
John Hsiang glared at me.
“Oration over, Mr. Liberal?” he inquired.
“Yes.”
“Then listen for a change and learn the local facts of life. They don’t join unions here ’cause people
want
to split their pay and people want their kids to work and people
want
the chance to take some pieces home. You
dig?
”
I wouldn’t answer.
“And for your goddamn lawyer information,” John concluded, “there is
no
minimum wage in Hong Kong Colony. Now go to hell!”
He gunned away before I could inform him I already
was
there.
T
he explanations for the things we do in life are many and complex. Supposedly mature adults should live by logic, listen to their reason. Think things out before they act.
But then they maybe never heard what Dr. London told me once. Long after everything was over.
Freud—yes, Freud himself—once said that for the little things in life we should, of course, react according to our reason.
But for really big decisions, we should heed what our unconscious tells us.
Marcie Binnendale was standing eighteen hundred feet above the Hong Kong harbor. It was twilight. And the candles of the city were beginning to be lit.
The wind was cold. It blew the hair across her forehead in the manner I had often found so beautiful.
“Hi, friend,” she said. “Look down at all those lights. We can see everything from here.”
I didn’t answer.
“Want me to indicate the points of interest?”
“I saw enough this afternoon. With Johnny.”
“Oh,” she said.
Then gradually she noticed I had not returned her smile of welcome. I was looking up at her, wondering was this the woman I had almost . . . loved?
“Something wrong?” she asked.
“Everything,” I answered.
“For instance?”
I said it quietly.
“You’ve got little children working in your sweatshops.”
Marcie hesitated for a moment.
“Everybody does it.”
“Marcie, that is no excuse.”
“Look who’s talking,” Marcie answered calmly. “Mr. Barrett of the Massachusetts textile fortune!”
I was prepared for this.
“That’s not the point.”
“Like hell! They took advantage of a situation just the way the industry is doing here.”
“A hundred years ago,” I said, “I wasn’t there to say it made me sick.”
“You’re pretty sanctimonious,” she said. “Just who picked you to change the world?”
“Look, Marcie, I can’t change it. But I sure as hell don’t have to join it.”
Then she shook her head.
“Oliver, this bleeding liberal number’s just a pretext.”
I looked at her and didn’t answer.
“You want to end it. And you’re looking for a good excuse.”
I could’ve said I’d found a goddamn good one.
“Come on,” she said, “you’re lying to yourself. If I gave
everything
to charity and went to teach in Appalachia, you’d find some other reason.”
I reflected. All I really knew was I was anxious to depart.
“Maybe,” I allowed.
“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 involvement with the issues’ is a great façade. 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 I 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.
“W
hat 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 at 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 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.
“That was fine,” said Father as we drove to downtown Boston.
“Not just fine—fantastic!” I replied.
The surest sign of growing old is that you start to
care
about who wins the Harvard-Yale game.
But as I said, the crucial thing is that we won.
Father parked the car near State Street in his office lot.
And we headed toward the restaurant to feast on lobster and banalities.
He strode with vigor. For despite his age, he still rowed on the Charles five times a week. He was in shape.
Our conversation was conspicuously football-oriented. Father never had—and I sensed never would—asked me the fate of my relationship with Marcie. Nor would he broach the other subjects he assumed taboo.
And so I took to the offensive.
As we passed the offices of Barrett, Ward and Seymour, I said, “Father?”
“Yes?”
“I’d like to talk to you about . . . the Firm.”
He glanced at me. He didn’t smile But it took every muscle in his body to restrain himself. Athlete that he was, he wouldn’t break his stroke until he crossed the finish line.
This was no sudden whim. And yet I never told my father by what complicated paths I had arrived at the decision to be . . . part of things. For it had taken time to work it out.
Unlike my usual decisions, I had pondered every day (and night) since I’d returned from Father’s party more than half a year ago.
To start with, I could never love New York again.
It’s not a city to cure loneliness. And what I needed most was to belong. Somewhere.
And maybe it was not just that I came to see my family with different eyes. Maybe I just wanted to go home.
I’ve tried to be so many things so far, just to avoid confronting who I am.
And I am Oliver Barrett. The Fourth.
