Oliver's Story (8 page)

Chapter Seventeen

“B
arrett, you’re a fucking lunatic!”

“Be quiet, Simpson!” I retorted as I motioned frantically for him to keep his voice down.

“What’s the matter—will I wake the tennis balls?” he growled. He was disgusted and confused.

And with good reason. It was barely 6
A.M
. I’d dragged him from his duties at the hospital to be my stooge at Gotham Tennis Club.

“Oh, Barrett,” Simpson whined, while changing from his doctor whites to tennis whites I had provided, “tell me one more time why this is so important!”

“It’s a favor, Steve,” I said. “I need a partner I can trust.”

He didn’t understand. I hadn’t told him everything. “Hey, look,” he said, “we run whenever I can break away. I can’t devote my life to furthering your masochism. Why at
dawn
, goddammit?”

“Please,” I said. So earnestly that Simpson sympathized. At least he shut his mouth.

We ambled very slowly from the locker room. He from his tiredness and I from calculation.

“We’re number six,” said Steve. And yawned.

“I know,” I said. And as we headed there, I scrutinized the population of courts one through five. But no familiar face.

We batted balls till 8
A.M
., with Simpson barely staying on his feet. And begging me to let him quit. I wasn’t too adroit myself.

“You played like cottage cheese,” he puffed. “You must be overtired too.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. And wondered where she was. In Cleveland maybe?

“Steve, I gotta ask a giant favor.”

“What?” he asked, suspicion in his eyes.

“Another game. Tomorrow.”

From my tone and pleading Simpson felt my urgency.

“Okay. But not at six
A.M
.”

“That’s just the point,” I said. “It’s
gotta
be at six again!”

“No, goddammit, there are limits!” Simpson snarled. And punched the locker in frustration.

“Please,” I said. And then confessed, “Steve, there’s a girl involved.”

His weary eyes now widened. “Yeah?” he said.

I nodded yes. And told him that I met her at the club and knew no other way of finding her.

Simpson looked relieved that I was interested in someone. And agreed to play. Then he thought of something: “What if she’s not here tomorrow too?”

“We’ll just have to keep on coming till she is.”

He merely shrugged. A friend in need, if an exhausted friend indeed.

At the office I kept badgering Anita. Even if I only left my desk to heed the call of nature, I’d come charging back demanding, “Any calls?”

And when she went for lunch, I’d order in a sandwich. Thus I kept a constant watch upon the telephone (I didn’t trust that new kid at the switchboard). I wouldn’t miss when Marcie called.

Except she didn’t.

Wednesday afternoon I had to go to court to argue a motion for a preliminary injunction. This took almost two whole hours. I got back around a quarter after five.

“Any calls, Anita?”

“Yeah.”

“Well . . .
what?
”

“Your doctor. He’s at home this evening after eight.”

What could this be? Did London—whom I couldn’t see that day—think I was cracking?

“What
exactly
was the message?”

“Jesus, Oliver, I told you! She just said—”

“What
she?
”

“Just let me finish, would you? She just said to tell you, ‘Dr. Stein will be at home this evening!’ ”

“Dr. Stein . . .” I said, betraying disappointment. It had been Joanna.

“Who were you expecting—Dr. Jonas Salk?” Anita asked.

I reflected for a minisecond. Maybe what I needed was a friendly conversation with a human being like Joanna. No, that would be unfair. She’s too . . . together for a guy like me.

“And nothing else?” I snarled.

“I left some memos. Interoffice. Okay if I leave?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

I hurried to my desk. As might have been expected, interoffice memos in a law firm all related to assorted cases that the firm was handling. Not a word from Marcie.

Two days later, old man Jonas asked me to his office for a meeting. Damn. I told Anita I would buy her lunch if she would stay on guard. The boss had brought me in—again with Mr. Marsh—to talk about the case of Harold Baye, a wiretapper for the FBI who had discovered he himself was being bugged by his own bureau. Insects of this sort were now a veritable plague. Harold had hairy tales to tell about surveillance of some White House staff. Naturally, he didn’t have much dough. But Jonas thought the firm should take his case “to tune the public in.”

The second that our meeting broke, I sprinted back.

“Any calls, Anita?”

“Washington, D.C.,” she said, kind of impressed at having taken such a message. “The director of the OEO.”

“Oh,” I said, not quite enthusiastic. “Nothing else?”

“Were you expecting maybe Jacqueline Onassis?”

“Hey, look—don’t kid around, Anita,” I retorted frostily. And stomped into my office.

I overheard Anita mutter, honestly confused, “What’s
eating
him?”

Naturally, I wasn’t merely passive, waiting for a call. I played tennis every morning. When poor Simpson couldn’t make it, I took “lessons” from old Petie Clark, their antiquated pro.

“Let me tell you, sonny, Petie’s taught ’em all. They go from me to Wimbledon.”

“Hey, did you ever teach a Marcie Nash?”

“You mean that pretty little gal—”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“—who won the doubles with that red-haired fella back in ’48?”

“Never mind. Forget it, Petie.”

“Tell the truth, I don’t remember if I taught that one or not.”

And every afternoon I ran. Against the traffic, so I’d get a better look at faces. Still no luck. Whatever Marcie did, it sometimes took her out of town for many days. But I would persevere.

Though I had immediately joined the Gotham Tennis Club (the sole criterion for membership is money), they would not cooperate. I mean the office would vouchsafe no information whatsoever on my fellow clubbees.

“You mean you haven’t got a list?”

“It’s just for office use. I’m sorry, Mr. Barrett.”

In a moment of frustration, I considered asking Harold Baye to bug their phone. But then I stopped myself. Still, that’s an index of my desperate state of mind.

Obviously, I inquired at Binnendale’s. With some fishy story of an aunt and an inheritance, I learned that they did, in fact, have three employees with the surname Nash. I checked them personally.

First, in Ladies’ Shoes, I met Priscilla Nash. She was a friendly woman who had worked there over forty years. She’d never married. And her only living relative was Uncle Hank in Georgia and her only friend a cat named Agamemnon. To obtain this information cost me eighty-seven bucks. I had to purchase boots, “a birthday present for my sister,” as I chatted amiably with Miss Nash. (I got Anita’s size; the gift just added to her schizophrenia.)

Then to Mr. B., their with-it men’s department. There to meet Miss Elvy Nash. “Hello,” said Elvy, flashing lots of charm and chic. This Nash was black and very beautiful. “What can I do you for today?” she smiled. Oh, what indeed!

Miss Elvy Nash persuaded me that guys were really into shirt-and-sweater combinations. Before I knew it I was holding six of them. And she was ringing up—would you believe?—three hundred dollars and some change. “Now the chicks won’t keep their hands off you. You’ll look as fine as wine,” Miss Elvy said. And I departed looking good. But still, unfortunately, looking.

Happily for my finances, the third and final Nash was Rodney P., a buyer who had been in Europe for the last six weeks.

“Where does that leave you?” Steve asked, heroically continuing to join me for the early morning matches.

“Nowhere,” I replied.

Also I was plagued by a recurrent nightmare.

I kept reliving that excruciating fight I had with Jenny in the first year we were married. She had wanted me to see my father, or at least to make my peace by telephone. I’m still chagrined at how I yelled at her. I was a madman. Frightened, Jenny fled to god-knows-where. I sprinted madly, turning everything in Cambridge upside down. But couldn’t find her. Then at last in panic I came home and found her waiting on the outside steps.

That was my dream exactly, save for one detail: Jenny didn’t reappear.

I searched as frantically as ever. I returned in desperation as I had.
But Jenny wasn’t there at all.

What was that supposed to mean?

That I was scared of losing Jenny?

Or that I wanted (!) to lose Jenny?

Dr. London offered a suggestion: Was I not of late involved in yet another quest for yet another lady after yet another fit of anger?

Yes. I was in search of Marcie Nash.

But what does Marcie have to do with Jenny?

Nothing, naturally.

Chapter Eighteen

T
hree weeks later, I gave up. Marcie-with-the-unknown-second-name would never call. And who could really blame her? Meanwhile I was very near collapse from my athletic schedule. Not to mention endless finger-tapping, waiting for that phone to ring. Needless to report, my legal work was lousy—when I got around to doing any. Everything was going to hell. Except my mood, which was already there. This would have to stop. So on the three-week anniversary of the Massacre at Méchant Loup, I said, That’s it, the case is closed. Tomorrow I return to sanity. And to commemorate this great occasion, I decided to play hooky for the afternoon.

“Oliver, where can I reach you if I need you?” asked Anita, who was also near a breakdown from my ceaseless and bizarre demands for messages that never came.

“No one needs me,” I replied, and left the office.

Henceforth, as I walked uptown, I would no longer suffer from hallucinations. Fantasies of seeing Marcie just ahead. Naturally they always turned out to be yet another tall and slender blonde. Once I even saw one with a tennis racket. How I sprinted (I was in such splendid shape), only to be wrong again. Yet another almost-Marcie. New York City teems with her facsimiles.

Now when I reached the Fifties, I would go by Binnendale’s department store precisely as I had before my three-week malady. Dispassionate. The mind on lofty thoughts like legal precedents or what I’d have for dinner. No more costly explorations, no more systematic cruising of the various departments in hopes of glimpsing Marcie in the Tennis Shop or maybe Lingerie. Now I’d simply glance at what the windows pitched, and move on by.

But hey, since last I looked—that is, since yesterday—there’d been some changes. One new decoration seized my eye:
EXCLUSIVE—JUST ARRIVED FROM ITALY. THE LATEST BY EMILIO ASCARELLI
.

And on the handsome shoulders of a Yalie-looking dummy was a cashmere sweater. Black. Emblazoned Alfa Romeo. But the window’s claim that this exclusive item just arrived was perjury. My body could refute it in an instant. For by chance (or maybe not by chance) I had that sweater on right now. And I’d received it several weeks ago. Three weeks, to be precise.

At last a solid clue! Whoever handled imports must have sold or given one to Marcie in advance. I maybe now could storm the citadel, decked out in evidence, demanding and receiving instant answers.

But hold it, Oliver. You said the frenzy’s over and it is. Move on. The goddamn cashmere case is closed.

I was at home some minutes later, going through my vast collection of athletic garments, with a view to running in the park. I’d narrowed down the choice of socks to three or four ungrungy ones (or relatively speaking), when the phone rang.

Let it ring. I have priorities.

It wouldn’t stop. Probably Anita with some trivia from Washington.

I picked it up to cut it off.

“Barrett isn’t here!” I growled.

“Oh? Is he with his clients up in outer space?”

Marcie.

“Uh—” (How’s that for eloquence?)

“What are you doing, Oliver?” she said. Quite softly.

“I was just about to run in Central Park,” I said.

“Too bad. I would have joined you. But I ran this morning.”

Ah, that explained her recent absence in the afternoons.

“Oh,” I said. And quickly added, “That’s too bad.”

“I called your office, just to ask you if you’d had lunch. But if you’re going running—”

“No,” I quickly said. “I’m sorta hungry.”

A little pause.

“That’s good,” she said.

“Where should we meet?” I asked.

“Would you come and pick me up?”

Would I
what?

“Where are you, Marcie?”

“At Binnendale’s. The business offices on top. Just ask for—”

“Yeah. Okay. What time?”

“Don’t rush. At your convenience. I’ll be waiting.”

“Okay.”

And we both hung up at once.

Quandary: Should I sprint immediately? Or did I have time to shave and shower?

Compromise: Perform ablutions, then take taxi to make up lost time.

In fifteen minutes I was back at Binnendale’s.

I wanted to race up the stairs, but figured that appearing through the fire doors would not be cool. So I took the elevator. Up to the very top.

At the summit, I emerged into a veritable paradise. Carpet like a huge expanse of virgin beach—and just as soft. Up the shore, there sat a secretary. And behind her was America. I mean a map of the United States with little flags to indicate where Binnendale’s had staked its claims.

“May I help you, sir?” the secretary said.

“Uh . . . yes. My name is Barrett—”

“Yes. You want Marcie,” she replied.

“Uh . . . that’s correct.”

“Just take that corridor,” she said, “and go straight down. I’ll say that you’re en route.”

I quickly hit the corridor, then told myself to slow down. Walk, do not run. As slow as possible. (I only wished I could decelerate my heart.)

It was a lush cocoonlike tunnel. Where the hell would it end up? Anyway, the neighborhood seemed fairly good.

First I passed by William Ashworth’s office (General Merchandise Manager).

Then Arnold H. Sundel, the Treasurer.

Then Stephen Nichols, Jr., First Vice-President.

At last the passage opened out. And in the wide expanse before me sat two secretaries.

Behind them as I neared, a portal opened.

There she was.

I stopped.

Marcie looked at me and I at her. I couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say.

“Come in,” she said (she clearly won the prize for poise).

I followed her inside. The room was large and elegant.

No one else was there.

Only then could I appreciate why she was all alone.

Finally she spoke.

“It’s been a miserable three weeks.”

“Not business-wise,” I answered. “I’ve gone bankrupt shopping here to try and find you.”

Marcie smiled a little.

“Look,” I said, attempting an apology, “I guess I was a little too precipitous.”

“I helped precipitate,” she said. “I was a little too mysterious.”

But now the mystery was solved.

“You don’t exactly work for Binnendale’s,” I said. “It works for you.”

She nodded. Almost in embarrassment.

“I should have told you sooner,” Marcie said.

“That’s okay. I understand now.” She seemed enormously relieved.

“Hey, Marce, you can’t imagine just how
well
I understand the syndrome. When you’re rich that inner demon’s always asking, ‘Do they like me for myself or just my dough?’ That sound familiar?”

I looked at her.

“That’s sort of it,” she said.

I wanted to say more. Like, Hey, you’re really beautiful. You’re bright. You’ve got a thousand qualities that any guy would groove on. But I couldn’t. Yet.

Someone had to make some kind of move. And so I did.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said.

She nodded, rummaged in her top desk drawer, withdrew a key. And tossed it to me.

“It’s downstairs,” she said.

“You mean I get to drive?” said I, agreeably amazed. She smiled and nodded yes.

“But please be careful, Oliver. My instrument is no less delicate than yours.”