“Meanwhile I’m just lounging here and moaning over nothing, when I maybe should be there to back her up. A little personal support. Christ, I know what it would mean to me. And if I did, she’d really know . . .”
I hesitated. How much was I telling Dr. London with my incompleted sentences?
“I think I ought to fly to Denver.”
Silence. I was pleased with my decision. Then I realized this was Friday.
“On the other hand, next Monday I’m supposed to go to trial against that School Board. I’ve been dying to get in there with those Yahoos . . .”
Pause for introspection. Weigh your values, Oliver.
“Okay, I could give the ball to Barry Pollack. Actually, he’s deeper into it than I. Of course, he’s younger. They might rattle him. Ah, shit, I know I’d make it stronger. It’s important!”
Christ, what a ferocious game of psychic Ping-Pong. I was dazed from hearing my own counterarguments!
“But dammit, Marcie’s more important! Never mind how cool she is, she’s out there all alone and she could use a friend. And maybe I could—once in my whole life—consider someone other than my goddamn self!”
I was convinced by my last argument. I think.
“I fly to Denver, right?”
I looked at the doctor. London pondered for a moment and replied:
“If not, I’ll see you five o’clock on Monday.”
Chapter Thirty
“Oliver, don’t leave me—I’ll crack up.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be all right. Stay loose.”
Bouncing over potholes in a taxi to the airport, I was tranquilizing Barry Pollack for his day in court.
“But, Ollie, why? Why pull this sudden fade-out on me now?”
“You’ll handle it. You know the research upside down.”
“I know I know my stuff. But, Oliver, I can’t debate and bullshit anywhere like you. They’ll foul me up. We’ll lose!”
I soothed him and explained how he could parry all the opposition’s thrusts. Remember, speak distinctly. Very slowly. Baritone, if possible. And always call our expert witness “doctor”; it impresses them.
“Christ, I’m scared. Why must you go to Denver now?”
“It’s necessary, Bar. I can’t be more specific.”
We bounced in nervous silence for a mile.
“Hey, Ol?”
“Yeah, Bar?”
“Will you tell me, if I guess what’s going on?”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“It’s an offer. A fantastic offer. Right?”
Just then we reached the terminal. I was halfway out before the taxi stopped.
“Well, is it?” Barry asked. “Is it an offer?”
Oliver the Cheshire Cat shook hands with his young colleague through the taxi window.
“Hey—good luck to both of us.”
I turned and headed for the check-in desk. God bless you, Barry—you were shaking so, you didn’t notice I was edgy too.
Because I hadn’t told her I was coming.
No sooner did we land in Mile High City (as the jolly pilot endlessly referred to it), I grabbed my little suitcase, picked a cabby who looked like he’d drive extremely fast and said, “Brown Palace. Please shake ass.”
“Then hold yer old sombrero, buddy,” he replied. I’d chosen well.
By 9 P.M. (eleven minutes later) we were at the Palace, Denver’s venerable hostelry. It has a massive lobby, sort of a fin de siècle astrodome. The floors are piled in tiers with one huge garden in the middle. You get dizzy merely looking at the hollowness above.
I knew her suite from all those phone calls. I deposited my luggage at the desk and started jogging toward the seventh floor. I didn’t call the room.
I took a second just to catch my breath (the altitude). Then knocked.
There was silence.
Then a man appeared. If I may say, a very handsome man. A plastic prince.
“May I help you?”
Who the hell was he? His accent wasn’t Denver. It was pseudo-English via Mars.
“I’d like to speak to Marcie,” I replied.
“I’m afraid she’s busy at the moment.”
With what? What had I stumbled into? This guy was too beautiful. The kind of face you want to punch on principle.
“I’d like to see her anyway,” I said.
He had about two inches on me height-wise. And his suit was so well made I couldn’t tell where it left off and he began.
“Mm, are you expected by Miss Binnendale?” His way of saying “Mm” could be the prelude to a broken jaw.
Before I could continue with polemics or with punches, a female voice floated from within.
“What is it, Jeremy?”
“Nothing, Marcie. A mistake.”
He turned to me again.
“Jeremy, I’m no mistake,” I said. “My parents wanted me.” Either the effect of wit, or else the menace in my tone, made Jeremy step back and let me enter.
I wondered as I strode the little corridor how Marcie would react. And what the hell she might be in the midst of.
The living room was wall-to-wall gray flannel.
Which is to say, executives were scattered everywhere, each by an ashtray, puffing nervously or chewing cardboard sandwiches.
At a desk, unsmoking and uneating (also not undressed, as I had feared), was Marcie Binnendale. I’d caught her in the flagrant midst of . . . business.
“Do you know this gentleman?” said Jeremy.
“Indeed,” said Marcie, smiling. But not flying to my arms, as I had dreamed en route.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m sorry if I interrupted.”
Marcie looked around, and then said to her platoon, “Excuse me for a moment.”
She and I went to the corridor. I took her hand, but Marcie gently kept me from a grasp of more.
“Hey—what are you doing here?”
“I thought you’d need a friend. I’ll stay until you settle things.”
“But what about your lawsuit?”
“Screw it. You were more important.” And I grabbed her waist.
“Are you berserk?” she whispered, anything but angry.
“Yeah. Berserk from sleeping—or not sleeping—in a double bed alone. Berserk from missing you across the plywood toast and soggy eggs. Berserk—”
“Hey, friend,” she said, and pointed to the other room, “I’m in a meeting.”
Who gave a shit what all the flannelites could hear. I ranted on. “—and I was wondering if even in your presidential turmoil, you might also feel a little bit berserk and—”
“Schmuck,” she whispered sternly, “I am in a meeting.”
“I can see you’re busy, Marce. But look—just take your time, and when you’re finished, I’ll be waiting in my room.”
“This could last forever. . . .”
“Then I’ll wait forever.”
Marcie dug the sound of that.
“Okay, my friend.”
She kissed me on the cheek. And then went back to her affairs.
“Oh, my love, my Aphrodite, my exquisite rhapsody . . .”
Jean-Pierre Aumont, a Foreign Legion officer, was putting it to some pneumatic desert princess, who was gasping, “Non non non, beware mon père!”
It was after midnight and this ancient movie was the only game in town on Denver television.
Otherwise, my company was a diminishing supply of Coors. I was so punchy I was talking to the screen.
“For Christ’s sake, Jean-Pierre, just rip off her costume!” He paid no heed to me and kept the bullshit—and his hands—too high.
Until a knock.
Thank God.
“Hi, baby,” Marcie said.
She was tired-looking, and her hair was semi-loose. The way I liked it.
“How’s it going?”
“I sent everybody home.”
“Did you solve it all?”
“Oh, no. It’s still a hopeless mess. May I come
in?”
I was so exhausted I was slouching in the doorway, sort of blocking her.
She came in. Took off her shoes. Flopped on the bed. And then looked wearily at me.
“You big romantic schmuck. You punted that important case?”
I smiled.
“I had priorities,” I answered. “You were off in Denver in a bind. And I just thought you needed someone to be there with you.”
“It’s nice,” she said. “It’s slightly crazy, but it’s awful nice.”
I got onto the bed and took her in my arms.
In roughly fifteen seconds we were both asleep.
I had this dream: that Marcie slipped into my tent and while I slumbered, whispered, “Oliver, we’re gonna spend the day together. Just the two of us. And get as high as possible.”
When I awoke I saw a dream come true.
Marcie stood there, dressed for snow. And in her hand a ski suit that might just fit me.
“Come on,” she said. “We’re going to a mountain.”
“But what about your meeting?”
“It’s with you today. I’ll reconvene the others after dinner.”
“Jesus, Marcie, what’s got into you?”
“Priorities.” She smiled.
Marcie knocked a person’s head off.
The victim was a snowman and the cause of death decapitation by a snowball.
“What’s the next game?” I inquired.
“I’ll tell you after lunch,” she said.
Where precisely in the vast expanse of Rocky Mountain Park we now were camping, I had no idea. But nothing animate was visible from us to the horizon. And the loudest noise was footsteps crunching snow. Unadulterated whiteness everywhere. Like nature’s wedding cake.
She maybe couldn’t light a city stove, but Marcie was fantastic with a can of Sterno. We dined on soup and sandwich in the Rockies. Screw all fancy restaurants. And all legal obligations. And all telephones. And any city population more than two.
“Where exactly are we?” (Marcie had the compass.)
“Sort of slightly east of Nowhere in Particular.”
“I like the neighborhood.”
“And if you hadn’t pulled your bull-in-china-shop routine, I’d still be back in Denver in a smoke-filled room.”
She made coffee on the Sterno. Experts might have called it not too good or barely drinkable, and yet it made me warm.
“Marcie,” I said, only half in jest, “you are a closet cook.”
“But only in the wilderness . . .”
“Then that’s your place in life.”
She looked at me. Then looked around and radiated happiness.
“I wish we didn’t have to leave,” she said.
“We don’t,” I answered.
And my tone was serious.
“Marcie, we could stay here till the glaciers melted, or until we wanted to comb beaches. Or canoe the Amazon. I mean it.”
She hesitated. Pondering how to react to my—what was it? A suggestion? A proposal?
“Are you sort of testing me or are you sort of serious?” she asked.
“I’m sort of both. I could be seduced to quit the rat race, couldn’t you? I mean not many people have our options. . . .”
“Come on, Barrett,” she protested, “you’re the most ambitious guy I’ve ever met. Except for me. I bet you even dream of being President.”
I smiled. But presidential timber cannot tell a lie.
“Okay. I did. But lately I’ve been thinking I would rather teach my kids to ice-skate.”
“Really?”
Not facetious, she was honestly surprised.
“Only if they want to learn,” I added. “Couldn’t you get pleasure out of something noncompetitive?”
She thought a second.
“It certainly would be a new experience,” she answered. “Till you came along I only got my rocks off from those look-at-me type victories. . . .”
“Tell me what you think would make you happy now.”
“A guy,” she said.
“What kind?”
“Who wouldn’t wholly buy my act, I guess. Who’d understand that what I really want is . . . not to always be the boss.”
I waited, while the mountains sat in silence, offering no comment.
“You,” she said at last.
“I’m glad,” I answered.
“What should we do now, Oliver?”
We were high on quiet. And our sentences were punctuated with reflective pauses.
“Wanna know what you should do?” I said.
“Yes.”
I breathed deeply and then told her.
“Sell the stores.”
She nearly dropped her coffee.
“Whaat?”
“Listen, Marcie, I could write a thesis on the life style of a store-chain president. It’s constant motion, constant changes, fire engine always ready in the driveway.”
“All too true.”
“Well, that may be great for business, but relationships are just the opposite. They need lots of time and very little motion.”
Marcie didn’t answer. So I lectured on.
“Therefore,” I said blithely, “sell all your stores. We’ll get a lush consultancy for you in any city you would like. I can chase the ambulances anywhere. Then maybe we could both grow roots. And grow some other little things.”
“You’re dreaming.” Marcie laughed.
“And you are full of shit,” I answered. “You’re still too much in love with your own power.”
This was not expressed in tones accusatory. Though it was the goddamn truth.
“Hey,” she said, “you tested me.”
“I did,” I answered, “and you flunked.”
“You’re arrogant and selfish,” she said playfully.
I nodded yes. “I’m also human.”
Marcie looked at me. “But will you stick with me . . . ?”
“The snow has gotta melt,” I said.
And then we rose, hiked arm in arm back to the car.
And drove to Denver. Where there wasn’t any snow at all.
Chapter Thirty-one
It was Wednesday evening by the time we reached New York. Marcie’d set her Denver house in order by that morning and we even toyed with going for another snowball fight. But superego triumphed. It was time to work again. And I could even give some help to Barry Pollack in the homestretch (we had kept in touch by phone).
The line for cabs was endless and we froze our heels. At last our turn arrived. And right before us stood a crumpled piece of yellow tin. In other words, a New York taxi.
“I won’t go to Queens,” the driver growled in greeting.
“I won’t either,” I replied, while yanking at his mutilated door, “so let’s try twenty-three East Sixty-fourth.”
We both were in now. He was legally enjoined to take us to our stated destination.
“Let’s try five-oh-four East Eighty-sixth.”
What?
This was Marcie’s startling suggestion.
“Who the hell lives there?” I asked.
“We do.” She smiled.
“We do?”
“What are you, buddy,” said the cabby, “an amnesiac?”
“What are you, cabby,” I retorted, “Woody Allen?”
“At least I can remember where I live,” he said in self-defense.
By now the cabby’s fellow cabbies were encouraging his swift departure with a loud cacophony of horns and curses.
“Okay—where?” he now demanded.
“East Eighty-sixth,” said Marcie. And then whispered to me she’d explain en route. To say the least, it took me by surprise.
In military terms it’s called a DMZ—the area where neither army can deploy its forces. This was Marcie’s notion in selecting an apartment that would be not hers, not mine, not even ours, but rather neutral territory.
Okay. That made sense. My rat house was a bit too much. And she had stood the test
of grime.
“Well?” said Marcie.
Unequivocally, the place was great. I mean it looked exactly like those perfect layouts on the upper floors of Binnendale’s. I’d watched young couples gazing at those model rooms, and dreaming, “Gee, if we could live like this.”
Marcie took me through the living room, the gadget-laden kitchen (“I’ll take cooking lessons, Oliver”), her future office, then the king-size bedroom and, at last, the big surprise: my office.
Yes. We had separate rooms for His and Her professions. Mine was furnished in a herd of leather. Shelves of glass and chrome to hold my legal books. Sophisticated lighting. Everything.
“Well?” said Marcie, clearly wanting me to burst into a song.
“It’s unreal,” I said.
And wondered why I felt like we were on a stage set reading from a script. By her.
And why that should make any difference.
“What are your feelings?”
Dr. London hadn’t changed his methods in my absence.
“Look, we share the rent.”
Come on, I told myself, who pays is not a feeling. And it wasn’t even what was really on my mind.
“It isn’t ego, Doctor. But the way she likes to . . . manage both our lives.”
A pause.
“Look, I don’t need a decorator. Or romantic lighting. Can’t she understand all that is bullshit? Jenny bought us beat-up furniture, a creaking bed and a crummy table, all for ninety-seven bucks! The only dinner guests we ever had were roaches. It was windy in the winter. We could smell what all our neighbors had for dinner. It was utter grunge!”
Another pause.
“But we were happy and I never really noticed. Yeah, I noticed when the bed leg broke—’cause we were in it. And we laughed.”
Another pause. Oliver, what is it that you’re saying?
I think I’m saying that I don’t like Marcie’s new apartment.
Yes, my brand-new office is a showplace. But when I have to think, I go back to my old basement. Where the books still are. And where the bills still come. And where, when Marcie’s out of town, I still bunk out.
And inasmuch as we are in a Christmas countdown situation, Marcie is conspicuously absent. In Chicago at the moment.
And I’m feeling bad.
Because I have to work tonight. And I can’t do so in the dream house there on Eighty-sixth Street. Because New York is decked with boughs of holly. And I’m feeling lousy even though I now have two apartments to be lonely in. And I’m ashamed to call Phil just to talk. For fear of having to admit that I’m alone.