Oliver's Story

  Still no comment. What exactly would impress this guy?

  “I’m seducing Marcie Nash tonight!”

  Aha. He coughed.

  “Don’t you wonder why?” I asked, my tone demanding a response.

  He answered quietly. “You like her.”

  I began to laugh. He didn’t understand. I then explained this was the only way to get the answers. Crude as it may sound (and cynical), seduction is a potent way to truth. And when I’ve learned what Marcie has been hiding, I’ll just tell her off, depart, and feel terrific.

  Now if London dares to ask me for a fantasy, I’ll walk right out.

  He didn’t. And instead he made me ask myself why I had been so self-congratulating. Why had I been strutting verbally like some damn peacock? Was my emphasis on legal triumph just to draw attention from some other . . . insecurities?

  Of course not. Why should I be insecure?

  She’s just a girl.

  Or isn’t that the problem?

  “Hey, I’m naked, Marcie.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You caught me in the shower.”

  “Shall I call you back? I wouldn’t interrupt your monthly ritual.”

  “Never mind,” I snarled, ignoring her remark. “Just tell me where the hell you are.”

  “The White Plains shopping center. In Binnendale’s.”

  “Then be outside the front in twenty minutes and I’ll pick you up.”

  “Oliver,” she said, “it’s fifteen miles away!”

  “All right,” I casually replied. “I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

  “But, Oliver, please do me one small favor.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Put on your clothes.”

  Thanks to the mechanical perfection of my Targa 911S and also to my driving creativity (I even pass on center strips—the cops are always too impressed to stop me), I zoomed into the shopping center twenty-seven minutes later.

  Marcie Nash was waiting (posing?) just where I had told her to. She had a package in her hand. Her figure looked—if possible—more perfect than the other night.

  “Hello,” she said. As I leaped out, she came and kissed me on the cheek. And put the package in my hand. “Here’s a little gift to mollify and butter you. And, by the way, I like your car.”

  “It likes you too,” I said.

  “Then let me drive.”

  Oh, not my little Porsche. I couldn’t. . . .

  “Next time, Marcie,” I said.

  “Come on, I know the way,” she said.

  “To where?”

  “To where we’re going. Please . . .”

  “Marcie, no. It’s much too delicate an instrument.”

  “Don’t sweat,” she said while climbing into the driver’s seat. “Your instrument will be in expert hands.”

  And I confess it was. She drove like Jackie Stewart. Only he would never take a hairpin turn as fast as Marcie did. Frankly, I confess to intermittent trepidation. And some total fear.

  “Do you like it?” Marcie asked.

  “What?” I said, pretending not to notice the speedometer.

  “Your present,” Marcie said.

  Oh, yeah. I had forgotten all about the butter-up. My panicked fingers were still clutching that unopened offering.

  “Hey, unscrew your digits—open up and take a look.”

  It was a soft black cashmere sweater with Alfa Romeo emblazoned on the chest. In vivid red.

  “It’s Emilio Ascarelli. He’s the new Italian whiz kid.”

  Clearly Marcie had the money to afford this kind of thing. But why’d she buy it? Guilt, I guess.

  “Hey, this is gorgeous, Marcie. Thanks a lot.”

  “I’m pleased you’re pleased,” she said. “Part of my business is to guess the public’s taste.”

  “Ah, you’re a hooker,” I replied, with tiny smile to punctuate my witticism.

  “Isn’t everybody?” Marcie said. With charm. And grace.

  And maybe truth?

  One may well ask, since I’d been recently a bit uncertain of myself, how I could be so sure I would seduce Miss Marcie Nash.

  Because it’s easier without emotional involvement. I know by definition making love implies affection. But often nowadays the act is merely a competitive event. In this regard I felt completely comfortable—psyched up, in fact—to handle Marcie Nash.

  And yet the more I paid attention to the comely driver and forgot to watch the dash, the thoughts that London had evoked came back to me. Notwithstanding all the mystery and my ostensible hostility, did I not maybe slightly like this girl? And was I maybe faking myself out in order to reduce anxiety?

  For was it really possible, once having made most tender love with Jenny Cavilleri, to dichotomize? Could I divide the act of love, be sensual yet insincere?

  People can and do. As I would prove.

  For in my present state, without involvement was the only way I thought I could.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Guidebooks give Le Méchant Loup in Bedford Hills an “adequate” for its cuisine. But for its rustic atmosphere and lodgings it receives an “excellent.” Nestled (as they say) within the green and tranquil trees, it offers an escape from all the pressures of our urban lives.

  What the guidebooks need not even mention is Le Méchant Loup is perfect for a shack-up. Dinner may just barely pass, but up the stairs awaits the atmosphere that critics praise. Learning this would be our destination, I concluded that my chances for success were . . . “excellent.”

  Yet in a way I was annoyed.

  Who had chosen this locale? And who had made the reservation on whose own without consulting whom? And who was driving there so swiftly in my lovely Porsche?

  We turned off the highway, entering a forest with a narrow road which seemed to stretch for miles. At last a light shone up ahead. A lantern. And the sign: LE MéCHANT LOUP, A COUNTRY INN.

  Marcie slowed (at last) and turned into the courtyard. In the moonlight, all I could distinguish was the outline of a Swiss chalet. Visible within were two huge fireplaces flickering illumination on a dining room and living room. Nothing glimmered in the floors above. As we crossed the parking lot, I noticed but a single other car, a white Mercedes SLC. The place would not be overpopulated. Surely conversation could be . . . intimate.

  “Hope the food is worth the drive,” I quipped (ho ho).

  “Hope you won’t be disappointed,” Marcie said. And took my arm as we went in.

  They sat us at a table by the fireplace. I ordered drinks.

  “One orange juice and a carafe of any cheapo California white that isn’t Gallo.”

  “Cesar Chavez would be proud of you,” said Marcie, as the waitress bustled off. “You should make her check to see the oranges are union-picked.”

  “I’m not a watchdog for your morals, Marcie.”

  Then I looked around. We were the only people there.

  “Are we too early?” I inquired.

  “I think because it’s so far out, the people mostly come on weekends.”

  “Oh,” I said. And though I’d told myself I shouldn’t ask, I asked: “Have you been here before?”

  “No,” Marcie said. But I figured she was lying.

  “Why’d you pick it sight unseen?”

  “I heard it was romantic. And it is romantic, don’t you think?”

  “Oh . . . excellent,” I said. And took her hand.

  “They’ve got a fireplace in every upstairs room,” she said.

  “Sounds cool,” I said.

  “Sounds warm to me.” She smiled.

  A silence. Then as casually as possible I queried, “Are we also booked on high?”

  She nodded yes. And added, “Just in case.”

  I wondered why I wasn’t as elated as I thought I should be.

  “Just in case of what?” I asked.

  “Of snow,” she said. And squeezed my hand.

  The waitress brought us Marc
ie’s glass and my carafe. The fire joining forces with the wine now warmed in me the feeling of my Right to Know.

  “Say, Marcie, in what name did you reserve?”

  “Donald Duck,” she answered, poker-faced.

  “No, really, Marcie. I’m curious to know the names you pick for checking into different places.”

  “Oh?”

  “Like Cleveland, for example.”

  “Are we back to Cleveland?” Marcie said.

  “Just how were you registered in Cleveland?” lawyer Barrett barreled in.

  “Actually, I wasn’t,” she replied. Unhesitatingly. And unabashedly.

  Aha!

  “I mean I didn’t stay in a hotel,” she added casually.

  Oho?

  “But were you actually there?”

  She crinkled up her mouth.

  “Oliver,” she said after a moment. “What’s the purpose of this inquisition?”

  I smiled. I poured another glass, refueling in midair. And tried a different line of questioning.

  “Marcie, friends should level with each other, don’t you think?” That had seemed effective. My use of “friends” evoked a spark.

  “Obviously,” Marcie said.

  Perhaps my flattery, my quiet tone of voice, softened her. And so I asked directly, showing no scintilla of emotional involvement:

  “Marcie, are you hiding certain facts about yourself?”

  “I really was in Cleveland, Oliver,” she said.

  “Okay, but are you camouflaging other things?”

  There was a pause.

  And then she nodded yes.

  See, I was right. The air was clear at last. Or clearing, anyway.

  And yet the rest was silence. Marcie simply sat there and withheld all further comment. Yet now something of her aura of serene self-confidence had visibly diminished. She looked almost vulnerable. I felt a twinge of sympathy. Which I suppressed.

  “Well . . . ?” I said.

  She reached across the table and she touched my hand. “Hey, look. I know, I’ve been evasive. But please take it easy. I’ll come through.”

  What was that supposed to mean? Her hand remained on mine.

  “Can we order dinner?” Marcie said.

  What now? I asked myself. Settle for a slight postponement? Run the risk of never getting back to where we were: the verge of truth?

  “Marcie, can we cover one or two more little topics first?”

  She hesitated. Then replied, “If you insist.”

  “Please help me put the pieces of a puzzle in their place, okay?” She simply nodded. And I launched into a summary of the incriminating evidence.

  “What would one conclude about a lady who gave no address or phone? Who traveled and sojourned in unknown places incognito? Who never specified—indeed avoided—all discussion of her occupation?”

  Marcie offered no assistance. “What do you conclude?” she asked.

  “You’re shacking up with someone,” I said. Calmly and without recrimination.

  She smiled a slightly nervous smile. And shook her head.

  “Or else you’re married. Or he’s married.”

  She looked at me.

  “Am I supposed to check the answer on your questionnaire?”

  “Yes.”

  “None of the above.”

  Like hell, I thought.

  “Why would I be seeing you?” she asked.

  “Your contract’s nonexclusive.”

  She did not seem flattered.

  “Oliver, I’m not that kind of person.”

  “All right, then what kind are you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “A little insecure.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  That was uncalled for. And I instantly regretted saying it.

  “Is that a sample of your courtroom manner, Mr. Barrett?”

  “No,” I said politely. “But here I couldn’t nail you down for perjury.”

  “Oliver, stop being such a creep! A marginally nice and not too unattractive woman throws herself right at you. And instead of acting like a normal man, you play the Grand Inquisitor!”

  That “normal” zinger really sliced me. What a bitch. “Look, if you don’t like it, Marcie, you can call it off.”

  “I didn’t notice anything was on. But if you feel the sudden need to go to court—or church—or to a monastery—go!”

  “With pleasure,” I replied, and rose.

  “Good-bye,” she said.

  “Good-bye,” I said. But neither of us moved.

  “Go on—I’ll take the check,” she said. And waved me off as if I was a fly.

  But I would not be shooed.

  “Hey, look, I’m not a total bastard. I won’t leave you all alone here, miles from nowhere.”

  “Please don’t be gallant. I’ve got a car outside.”

  Again a valve exploded in my brain. I’d caught this bitch red-handed in another lie!

  “You claimed you’d never been here, Marcie. How the hell’d your car arrive—remote control?”

  “Oliver,” she said, now flushed with anger, “it is none of your damn paranoiac business. But to set you on your way, I’ll simply tell you that a guy I work with dropped it off. Because regardless of the outcome of our rendezvous, I have to be in Hartford in the morning.”

  “Why Hartford?” I demanded, though it really wasn’t any of my business.

  “Because my fancy lover wants to buy me some insurance!” Marcie shouted. “Now go soak your head.”

  I’d really gone too far too fast. I was confused. I mean I sensed that we should both stop shouting and sit down. But then we’d just exchanged a violent set of “go to hells.” And so I had to go.

  A summer rain was falling as I fumbled trying to unlock my car.

  “Hey—can we take a drive around the block?”

  Marcie was behind me, looking very solemn. She had left the inn without a coat or anything.

  “No, Marcie,” I replied. “We’ve already gone around in far too many circles.” I unlocked the car.

  “Oliver, I’ve got a reason.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you do.”

  “You didn’t give me half a chance.”

  “You didn’t give me half a truth.”

  I got in and closed the door. Marcie stood there as I revved the motor. Motionless and staring at me. As I slowly passed her, I rolled down the window.

  “Will you call me?” she said quietly.

  “You forget,” I answered, with no little irony, “I haven’t got your number. Think of that.”

  At which I shifted gears and gunned it from the courtyard to the road.

  And thence to New York City, to forget Miss Marcie Nash forever.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “What were you frightened of?”

  This was Dr. London’s only comment after I’d recounted everything.

  “I never said that I was frightened.”

  “But you ran off.”

  “Look, it became as clear as day that Marcie was a not so nice girl on the make.”

  “You mean seducing you?”

  He was naïve.

  “ ‘On the make.’ ” I then explained as patiently as possible, “because my name is Barrett, and it doesn’t take much research to discover that I come from money.”

  There. I’d made my point. Now there was silence in the court.

  “You don’t believe that,” Dr. London said at last. His certainty that I was not convinced forced me to think again.

  “I guess I don’t,” I said.

  There was another silence.

  “All right, you’re the doctor. What exactly did I feel?”

  “Oliver,” said London. “You are here precisely to improve communications with yourself.” He asked again, “How did you feel?”

  “A little vulnerable.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “A little scared.”

  “Of what?”

  I couldn’t answer
right away. In fact, I was incapable of answering out loud. I was afraid. But not because I thought she’d tell me: “Yeah, I’m living with an all-star fullback who’s a Ph.D. in astrophysics and who turns me on.”

  No. I rather think that I was scared of hearing:

  “Oliver, I like you.”

  Which would shake me up much more.

  Granted Marcie was a mystery. But she was neither Mata Hari nor the whore of Babylon. Indeed, her single fault was that she didn’t have an obvious, convenient fault. (I’d had to find her one!) And Marcie’s lies, whatever may have prompted them, did not excuse the falsehood that I told myself. That I was not . . . involved.

  Because I nearly was. I very nearly was.

  That’s why I panicked and I fled. Because in almost liking someone else I felt disloyal to the only girl I ever loved.

  But how much longer could I live this way, forever on my guard lest human feelings catch me unaware? In point of fact, my turmoil now was multiplied. And I was torn by two dilemmas.

  One: How could I deal with memories of Jenny?

  Two: How could I find Marcie Nash?

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Barrett, 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.