Authors: Erich Segal
Oliver's Story (12 page)
P
lease 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.”
W
hat 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 ribbons 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.
But not in swimming, driving or reading maps. Or even—as I recently had tried to recreate the situation—in teaching someone how to light a stove.
It means you learn about yourself from constant dialogue with one another. Establishing new circuits in the satellite transmitting your emotions.
Jenny would have nightmares and would wake me up. In those days, before we knew how sick she was, she’d ask me, genuinely scared, “If I can’t have a baby, Oliver—would you still feel the same?”
Which didn’t prompt a knee-jerk reassurance on my part. Instead, it opened up a whole new complex of emotions that I hadn’t known were there. Yes, Jen, it would upset my ego not to have a baby born of you, the person that I love.
This didn’t alter our relationship. Instead, her honest qualm provoking such an honest question made me realize that I wasn’t such a hero. That I wasn’t really ready to face childlessness with great maturity and big bravado. I told her I would need some help from
her
. And then we knew ourselves a whole lot better, thanks to our admissions of self-doubt.
And we were closer.
“Jesus, Oliver, you didn’t bullshit.”
“Did the unheroic truth upset you, Jenny?”
“No, I’m glad.”
“How come?”
“Because I know you never bullshit, Oliver.”
Marce and I don’t have that kind of conversation yet. I mean, she tells me when she’s down and when she’s nervous. And that she worries sometimes when she’s on the road that I might find a new “diversion.” Actually, that feeling’s mutual. Yet strangely, when we talk we say the proper words, but they trip out too easily upon the tongue.
Maybe that’s because I have exaggerated expectations. I’m impatient. People who have had a happy marriage know exactly what they need. And lack. But it’s unfair to make precipitous demands of someone who has never had a . . . friend . . . that she could trust.
Still, I’m hoping someday she will
need
me more. That she will maybe even wake me up and ask me something like:
“If I can’t have a baby, would you feel the same?”