“Where’d you get these knives and forks?” she asked.
“Oh, here and there.”
“I’ll say. No two pieces match.”
“I like variety.” (Yes. We had owned a total set. It’s stashed away with other stuff suggesting marriage.)
We sat down on the floor and had our dinner. I was as loose as my uptightness would allow. I wondered if the grunge of the apartment and its claustrophobic clutter made my guest nostalgic for her normal way of life.
“It’s nice,” she said. And touched my hand. “Do you have any music?”
“No.” (I’d given Jenny’s stereo away.)
“Nothing?”
“Just the radio that wakes me up.”
“Okay if I tune in to QXR?” she asked.
I nodded, tried to smile, and Marcie rose. The radio was by the bed. Which was some four or five steps’ journey from where we were camping. I was wondering if she’d return or wait for me to join her there. Could she notice my depression? Did she think my ardor had already waned?
Suddenly the telephone.
Marcie stood above it.
“Shall I answer, Oliver?”
“Why not?”
“It could be some little friend of yours,” she smiled.
“You flatter me. Impossible. You answer it.”
She shrugged and did.
“Good evening. . . . Yes, that number is correct. . . . It is. He’s . . . Who am I? How is that relevant?”
Who the hell was at the other end, interrogating my own private guests? I rose and sternly grabbed the phone.
“Yeah? Who is this?”
A silence on the other end was broken by a gravelly “Congratulations!”
“Oh—Phil.”
“Well, glory be to God,” the holy Cavilleri rolled.
“How are you, Phil?” I said casually.
He totally ignored my question while pursuing his.
“Is she nice?”
“Who, Philip?” I retorted icily.
“Her, the she, the gal who answered.”
“Oh, that’s just the maid,” I said.
“At ten o’clock at night? Come on—come off it. Level with me.”
“I mean my secretary. You recall Anita—with the lots of hair. I’m giving her some notes about my School Board case.”
“Don’t bullshit me. If that’s Anita, I’m the Cardinal of Cranston.”
“Phil, I’m busy.”
“Sure, I know. And I’ll hang up. But don’t tell me you’re gonna write no letters when I do.”
Philip, never one to talk in whispers, had been responding at a pitch so loud it broadcast through the whole apartment. Marcie was amused.
“Hey,” I inquired, so coolly I impressed myself, “when will we get together?”
“At the weddin’,” Philip said.
“Whaat?”
“Hey, is she tall or small? Or fat or thin? Or light or dark?”
“She’s pumpernickel.”
“Ah,” said Phil, and pounced upon my jocular detail, “you do admit that she’s a she. Now, does she like you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ignore the question. Sure she likes you. You’re terrific. If she needs some selling, I’ll just pep her on the phone. Hey—put her on.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Then she’s sold? She digs you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then what’s she doin’ in your house at ten P.M.?”
Tears of laughter poured down Marcie’s face. At me. Because I was so bad at playing Puritan.
“Oliver, I know I’m interruptin’, so I’ll ask you one quick question and the ball is yours to do with as your heart contents.”
“About our meeting, Phil—”
“Oliver, that’s not my question.”
“What’s your question, Philip?”
“When’s the weddin’, Oliver?”
He hung up loudly. I could sense his laughter all the way from Cranston.
“Who was that?” asked Marcie, though I’m sure she guessed. “He seems to love you very much.”
I looked at her with gratitude for understanding.
“Yeah. The feeling’s mutual.”
Marcie came and sat upon the bed. And took my hand.
“I know you feel uncomfortable,” she said.
“It’s sort of crowded here,” I answered.
“In your head as well. And mine.” We sat in silence. How much had she intuited?
“I never slept with Michael in the big apartment,” Marcie offered.
“I never slept with Jenny . . . here.”
“I understand,” she said. “But if I met his parents it would just evoke a headache or a touch of nausea. Anything that brings up Jenny is still agony for you.”
I could not refute a single thing she said.
“Should I go home?” she asked. “I’d really understand if you said yes.”
Without the slightest introspection—for it was the only way—I answered no.
“Let’s take a walk. And have a drink outside.”
Marcie had this strange take-over manner. I mean I liked her strength. And her ability to . . . cope with situations.
Wine for me and orange juice for her.
She sensed I wanted to hang in there, so she kept the conversation superficial. We discussed her occupation.
Not many of us know exactly what the presidents of chain stores do. It’s not that glamorous. They have to visit every store and walk down every single aisle.
“How often?”
“All the time. When I’m not doing that, I check the shows in Europe and the Orient. To get a feel for what the next big sexy thing might be.”
“What is ‘sexy’ in the business connotation, Marce?”
“When you wear that stupid cashmere thing I gave you, you promote our ‘fantasy’ or ‘sexy’ line. Look, twenty different stores can sell a simple sweater. But we’re always on the prowl for image-makers, items people never knew they needed. If we’re right, they see it in our ad and kill each other to be first in line. You dig?”
“In economic terms,” I said with Ivy League pomposity, “you build a false demand for a supply of what inherently is worthless.”
“Dull but accurate.” She nodded.
“Put in brighter terms, if you say, ‘Shit is in,’ then everybody buys manure.”
“Correct. Our only problem is if someone gets that brilliant notion first!”
Marcie’s car was parked (illegally) in front of my apartment. It was late when we got back. But I felt better. Or the wine had made me think I did.
“Well,” she said, “I’ve walked you home.”
Exquisite tact. I had both options now. I also knew which one I . . . needed.
“Marcie, if you go, you’ll sleep alone and I’ll sleep alone. In economic terms, that’s inefficient use of bedroom space. Would you agree?”
“I would,” she said.
“Besides, I’d really like to put my arms around you.”
She acknowledged a coincidental inclination.
Marcie woke me with a cup of coffee.
In a Styrofoam container?
“I couldn’t start the stove,” she said. “I went out to the corner shop.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Please understand. We aren’t “living together.”
Although it’s been a summer of excitement.
It’s true we eat together, talk together, laugh (and disagree) together, sleep together under the same roof (i.e., my basement). But neither party has acknowledged an arrangement. And certainly no obligations. Everything is day-to-day. Although we try as much as possible to be with one another. We do have something rather rare, I think. A kind of . . . friendship. And it’s all the more unusual because it’s not platonic.
Marcie keeps her wardrobe at the castle and picks up mail and messages when she’s exchanging garments. Happily, at times she also picks up food prepared by her now underactive staff
. We eat it off the coffee table with disparate spoons and rap about whatever’s in the air. Will LBJ stand up in history? (“Damn tall.”) What horror show will Nixon stage to “Vietnamize”? Moon shots while the cities fester. Dr. Spock. James Earl Ray. Chappaquiddick. Green Bay Packers. Spiro T. Jackie O. Would the world be better if Cosell and Kissinger changed jobs?
Sometimes Marcie has to work till nearly twelve. I pick her up, we have a midnight sandwich and walk slowly home—that is, to my place.
Sometimes I’m in Washington, which means that she’s alone—although there’s always stuff to keep her busy. Then she meets my shuttle at La Guardia and drives me in. But mostly, I’m the one providing airport transportation.
Look, the nature of her work involves a lot of travel. The obligatory visits to each branch. Which means at least a week away while covering the Eastern corridor, part of another week for Cleveland, Cincinnati and Chicago. And of course the Western circuit: Denver, L.A., San Francisco. Naturally, the absences are not consecutive. For one, New York’s the base of operations, where she has to “charge her batteries.” And lately, for another, it’s the place she charges mine. We have a lot of days together. Now and then we even have a week.
Naturally, I’d like to see her more, but understand what her commitments mean. The papers nowadays decry what they call sexist-male suppression of his partner’s individuality. But I won’t be hung with that rap twice. And I see other couples far less fortunate than we. Luci Danziger has tenure in the Princeton Psych Department and her husband, Peter, teaches math in Boston. Even double academic salaries don’t allow them luxuries that Marce and I enjoy: the myriad of phone calls, stolen weekends in exotic midway places (I could write a song about our recent Cincinnati idyll).
I do confess I’m lonely when she’s out of town. Especially in summer, with the lovers in the park. The telephone’s a pretty meager substitute. Because the minute you hang up, your hand is empty.
We are, from what I gather in the media, a modern couple. He works. She works. They share responsibilities—or lack of them. They show respect for one another. Probably they don’t want children.
Actually, I would like children someday. And I don’t think marriage is so obsolete. But anyway, the whole discussion’s moot. Marcie’s never advocated motherhood or matrimony. She seems pleased with what we have. Which is, I guess, affection bound by neither time nor definition.
None of this is stuff we talk about when we’re together. We’re too busy doing things. Part of our incessant motion is the fact it keeps us out of my adobe (though Marcie’s never once complained of claustrophobia). We jog. We play a lot of tennis (not at 6 A.M.; I put my sneaker down). We see a lot of movies and whatever Walter Kerr suggests is worthwhile in the theater. We share a common phobia for parties; we’re jealous of each other’s company and like to be alone. Still, now and then we do see friends upon a casual evening.
Rightfully, Steve Simpson claimed a moral option on our first night out. Gwen was hot to cook, but sharp dyspeptic apprehensions made me vote for Giamatti’s in the Village. Okay, cool—we’ll see you both at eight.
Now, Marcie has this little social problem. She’s a conversation-stopper. Which isn’t something teenage girls should dream of. First, we can’t ignore the matter of her looks (indeed, that is the essence of the problem). Take Steve—a normal, happy husband. He examines Marcie’s physiognomy, albeit from afar, in a manner somewhat less than nonchalant. He doesn’t stare exactly, but he does indulge in rather heavy gazing. Thus, a priori, Marcie has already put off someone else’s wife. And even though she dresses with consistent understatement, other females seem to ferret out the fashion. And are not too pleased.
We move across the sawdust floor of Giamatti’s. Stephen is already standing (good manners, or for better viewing?). Gwen is smiling on the outside. Doubtless hoping that for all her poise and obvious panache, at least my girl will be a five-watt bulb.
Introductions are another hurdle. You say “Binnendale” and even a sophisticate is not unmoved. With most celebrities there is a built-in, solid-state reaction (“Loved your piece on boxing, Mr. Mailer”; “How’s the national security, Professor Kissinger?” and so on). Always there’s a point of reference you can gloss upon. But what to say to Marcie: “Liked your new displays”?
Marcie copes, of course. Her policy is always to initiate the conversation. Though she ends up doing lots of talking at. Which obviously makes it tough to get to know her. And which explains why people often find her cold.
Anyway, we start with badinage like Giamatti’s is so tough to find. (“Did you get lost as well?”) John Lennon eats here when he’s in New York. The common party lines.
Then Marcie literally grabs the ball. She’s very anxious to display her friendliness to friends of mine. She buckshots Steve with questions on neurology. And doing so, evinces more than layman’s knowledge of the field.
On learning that Gwen teaches history at Dalton, she dilates on the state of New York City’s private education. Back in her day at Brearley, things were pretty rigid, structured, all the rest. She speaks enthusiastically about the innovations. Especially the mathematics programs, training kids to use computers when they’re very young.
Gwen has vaguely heard about this stuff. Of course with all the hours of history she teaches, there’s no time to get the feedback from the other disciplines. Yet she observes how Marcie’s so well tuned in to the current New York academic scene. Marcie answers that she reads lots of magazines on planes.
Anyway, I cringe at much of this. And hurt for Marcie. No one ever gets to glimpse the ugly duckling underneath the outer swan. They can’t conceive she’s so unconfident she comes on extra strong to compensate. I understand. But I’m no good at chairing conversations.
Anyway, I try. And turn to topics in the world of sport. Steve is warmed and Gwen relieved. Very soon we’re ranging far and wide on jocky issues of the day—the Stanley Cup, the Davis Cup, Phil Esposito, Derek Sanderson, Bill Russell, will the Yankees move to Jersey—and I’m having too much fun to notice anything except the ice is broken. Everybody’s loose. We’re even using locker-room locutions.
Only when the waiter takes the order do I notice that the song has only been a trio. When I hear Gwen Simpson join the conversation, saying, “I’ll have the scaloppine alla minorese.”
“What the hell is wrong with Marcie?”
Thus Steve to me a few days later as we finished jogging. (This was Marcie’s week to walk the Eastern corridor.) I’d asked him casually, to get some notion of what he and Gwen had thought. As we left the park and crossed Fifth Avenue, he asked again, “What’s wrong with her?”
“What do you mean—‘What’s wrong with her?’ There’s nothing wrong, goddammit.”
Stephen looked at me and shook his head. I had not understood.
“That’s just the point,” he said. “She’s goddamn perfect.”
Chapter Twenty-five
What the hell is wrong with me?
I’ve just been readmitted to the human race. The petals of my soul are opening. I should be overjoyed. And yet for some strange reason, I feel only mezzo-mezzo. Maybe it’s just leaves-are-falling blues.
Not that I’m depressed.
How could I be? I’m cooking on all burners. Working well. So much so, I can now devote more hours to the Raiders up in Harlem and to civil liberties.
As for Marcie, in the words of Stephen Simpson, it is goddamn perfect. Our interests coincide in almost everything.
And we are literally a team. Mixed doubles, to be quite specific. Competing in a tourney for the tristate area. We conquered Gotham Club with ease and have been facing combos from the provinces. With moderate success (which is to say we’re undefeated).
She deserves the credit. I’m outclassed by more than half the guys, but Marcie simply runs the legs off all her female competition. I never thought I’d see myself admit athletic mediocrity. But I just hang in there, and thanks to Marcie, we’ve won ribb
ons and certificates, and are en route to our first gold-leaf trophy.
And she’s been really Marcie-like as we advance in competition. Being victims of the schedule, we have to play on certain nights—or forfeit. Once, the Gotham quarter final was a Wednesday 9 P.M. She’d spent the day in Cleveland, took a dinner flight, put on her tennis clothes before they landed, and while I was bullshitting the referee, appeared by nine-fifteen. We edged a victory, went home and crashed. Next morning she was off again at seven to Chicago. Happily, there was no game the week she spent out on the Coast.
To sum it up: a man and woman synchronized in mood and pace of life. It works.
Then why the hell am I not quite as happy as the scoreboard says I should be?
Clearly this was topic number one with Dr. London.
“It’s not depression, Doctor. I feel great. I’m full of optimism. Marce and I . . . the two of us . . .”
I paused. I had intended to say, “We communicate incessantly.” But it is difficult to pull a fast one on yourself.
“. . . we don’t talk to one another.”
Yes, I said it. And I meant it, though it sounded paradoxical. For did we not—as well our bills attested—gab for hours nightly on the phone?
Yes. But we don’t really say that much.
“I’m happy, Oliver” is not communication. It is just a testimonial.
I could be wrong, of course.
What the hell do I know of relationships? All I’ve ever been is married. And it doesn’t seem appropriate to make comparisons with Jenny. I mean, I only know the two of us were very much in love. At the time, of course, I wasn’t analytical. I didn’t scrutinize my feelings through a psychiatric microscope. And I can’t articulate precisely why with Jenny I was so supremely happy.
Yet the funny thing is Jen and I had so much less in common. She was passionately unimpressed by sports. When I watched football she would read a book across the room.
I taught her how to swim.
I never did succeed in teaching her to drive.
But what the hell—is being man and wife some kind of educational experience?
You bet your ass it is.