Oliver's Story

She was dressed in money.

I don't mean the slightest bit flamboyant. Quite the opposite. She radiated the supreme in ostentation — absolute simplicity. Her hairdo seemed free-flowing and yet flawless. As if a chic photographer had caught it with a high-speed lens.

This was disconcerting. The utter neatness of Miss Marcie Nash, her perfect posture, her composure, made me feel like last week's spinach scrunched haphazardly into a Baggie. Clearly she must be a model. Or at least do something in the fashion game.

I reached her table. It was in a quiet corner.

'Hi,' she said.

'I hope I didn't keep you waiting.'

'Actually, you're early,' she replied.

'That must mean that you came even earlier,' I said.

'I'd say that was a logical conclusion, Mr Barrett.' She smiled. 'Are you going to sit down or are you waiting for permission?'

I sat down.

'What are you drinking?' I inquired, pointing at the orange-colored liquid in her glass.

'Orange juice,' she said.

'And what?'

'And ice.'

'That's all?'

She nodded yes. Before I could ask why she was abstemious, a waiter was at hand, and welcomed us as if we ate there every day.

'And how are we tonight?'

'We're fine. What's good?' I said, unable to sustain this kind of phony badinage.

'The scallops are superb … '

'A Boston specialty,' I said, a sudden gastronomic chauvinist.

'Ours are from Long Island,' he replied.

'Okay, we'll see how they stand up.' I turned to Marcie. 'Shall we try the local imitation?'

Marcie smiled assent.

'And to begin?' The waited looked at her.

'Hearts of lettuce with a drop of lemon juice.'

Now I knew for sure she was a model. Otherwise the self-starvation made no sense. Meanwhile I requested fettucini ('Don't be stingy with the butter'). Our host then bowed and scraped away.

We were alone.

'Well, here we are,' I said. (And I confess I had rehearsed this opening all afternoon.) Before she could concur that we indeed were there, a new arrival greeted us.

The wine, m'sieu?'

I queried Marcie.

'Get something just for you,' she said.

'Not even wine?'

'I'm very chaste in that respect,' she said, 'but I would recommend a nice Meursault for you. Your victory would otherwise be incomplete.'

'Meursault,' I told the sommelier.

'A 'sixty-six, if possible,' said Marcie just to help. He evaporated and we were alone again.

'Why don't you drink at all?' I asked.

'No principles involved. I simply like to keep control of all my senses.'

What the hell was that supposed to mean? What senses did she have in mind?

'So you're from Boston?' Marcie said (our dialogue was not exactly loose).

'I am,' I said. 'And you?'

'I'm not from Boston,' she replied.

Was that a subtle put-down?

'Are you in the fashion business?' I inquired.

'Partially. And you?'

'I'm into liberties,' I answered.

'Taking them or giving them?' Her smile distracted me from telling if she'd been sarcastic.

'I try to make the government behave,' I said.

'That isn't easy,' Marcie said.

'Well, I haven't quite succeeded yet.'

The sommelier arrived and ceremoniously filled my glass. Then I myself began a vintage flow.

What you might call a magnum of description. On what progressive lawyers were involved in at this point in time.

I do confess I didn't know quite how to talk to … girls.

I mean it had been many years since I'd been on what you might call a date. I sensed that tales of self would not be cool. ('That egomaniac!' she'd tell her roommate.) Hence we discussed — or rather I discoursed upon — the Warren Court's decisions on the rights of individuals. And would the Burger kings continue to enhance the Fourth Amendment? That depends on who they choose to fill the Fortas seat. Keep your copy of the Constitution, Marcie, it may soon be out of print! As I was moving to the First Amendment, waiters swooped upon us with Long Island scallops. Yeah, they aren't bad. But not as good as Boston. Anyway, about the First — the high court rulings are ambiguous! How can they in O'Brien v. U.S. say that it's not symbolic speech to burn a draft card and turn right around in Tinker v. Des Moines and rule that wearing armbands to protest the war is 'purest speech'. What the hell, I ask you, is their real position?

'Don't you know?' asked Marcie. And before I could assess if she was subtly implying that I'd spoken far too much, the maitre d' was present once again to ask what we would like 'to top it off'. I ordered pot de crème au chocolat and coffee. All she had was tea. I began to feel a bit uneasy.

Should I ask her if I'd talked a bit too long? Apologize? Still, after all, she could've interrupted, right?

'Did you argue all those cases?' Marcie asked (facetiously?).

'Of course not. But there's a new appeal I am consulting on. They're trying to define a Conscientious Objector. As a precedent, they're using Webber v. Selective Service, which I argued. Then I do some volunteer work — '

'You don't seem to ever stop,' she said.

'Well, as Jimi Hendrix said at Woodstock, "Things are pretty dirty and the world could use a scrubdown." '

'Were you there?'

'No, I just read Time magazine to help me to go to sleep.'

'Oh,' Marcie said.

Did that open syllable mean I'd disappointed her? Or was I boring? Now that I looked back on this last hour (and a half!), I realized that I hadn't given her a chance to talk.

'What exactly do you do in fashion?' I inquired.

'Nothing socially uplifting. I'm with Binnendale's. You know the chain?'

Who doesn't know that golden chain of stores? That forty-carat lodestone for Conspicuous Consumers? Anyway, this tidbit clarified a lot. Miss Nash was obviously perfect for that flashy enterprise: so blond, so firm, so fully stacked, her Bryn Mawr elocution so mellifluous she probably could sell a handbag to a crocodile.

'I don't do that much selling,' she replied as I continued with my awkward questioning. I'd figured her to be a sales trainee with grandiose ambitions.

'Then what exactly do you do?' I asked still more directly. This is how you break a witness down.

Keep rephrasing questions that are basically the same.

'Hey, don't you get it up to here?' she said, her hand upon her slender throat. 'Doesn't talking anybody's business bore you silly?'

She clearly meant that I'd been goddamn tedious.

'I hope my legal lecture didn't turn you off.'

'No, honestly, I found it interesting. I only wish you'd said some more about yourself.'

What could I say? I guessed the truth would be the best resort.

'There's nothing very pleasant I could tell you.'

'Why?'

A pause. I looked into my coffee cup.

'I had a wife,' I said.

'That's not unusual,' she said. But sort of gently.

'She died.'

There was a pause.

'I'm sorry,' Marcie said.

'That's okay,' I said. There is no other answer.

We then sat silently.

'I wish you'd told me sooner, Oliver.'

'It's not all that easy.'

'Doesn't talking help?'

'God, you're almost sounding like my shrink,' I said.

'Oh,' she said. 'I thought I sounded like my own.'

'Hey, what did you need shrinking for?' I asked, amazed that someone with such poise could possibly need doctorizing. 'You didn't lose a wife.'

That was a grim attempt at humour. Also unsuccessful.

'I lost a husband,' Marcie said.

Oh, Barrett, with what grace you put your foot into your mouth!

'Jesus, Marcie,' was the most I could say.

'Don't misconstrue,' she quickly added. 'It was only by divorce. But when we split our lives and our possessions, Michael got the confidence and I got all the hangups.'

'Who was Mr Nash?' I asked, immensely curious to know what kind of guy could snare this kind of girl.

'Can we change the subject, please?' she said. And sounded — so I thought — a trifle sad.

Curiously, I felt relieved that somewhere underneath her cool exterior Miss Marcie Nash had something that she couldn't talk about. Maybe even memories of hurt. That made her seem more human and her pedestal less lofty. Still, I didn't know what next to say.

Marcie did. 'Oh, my, it's getting late.'

My watch informed me that it was indeed ten forty-five. But still I thought that saying it right then meant I had turned her off.

'Check, please,' she requested of the passing maitre d'.

'Hey — no,' I said. 'I want to buy you dinner.'

'Absolutely not. A deal's a deal.'

True, at first I'd wanted her to pay. But now I felt so guilty for my gaucheries I had to expiate by treating her.

'I'll take the check, please,' said yours truly, overruling her.

'Hey,' objected Marcie. 'We could wrestle, but we'd have to keep our clothes on and it wouldn't be much fun. So cool it, huh?' And then she said, 'Dmitri?'

She knew the maître d' by name.

'Yes, ma'am?' Dmitri said.

'Please add a tip and sign for me.'

'Of course, madam,' he said, and greased off noiselessly.

I felt ill at ease. First she had upset me with the candid dinner talk. Then the mention of the naked wrestling (though by indirection) made me think: if she was sexually aggressive, how would I respond? And finally, she had her own account at '21'! Who was this girl?

'Oliver,' she said, displaying all those perfect teeth, "I'll take you home.'

'You will?'

'It's on my way,' she said.

I couldn't hide it from myself. I was uptight about … the obvious.

'But, Oliver,' she added with demurenes and perhaps a tinge of irony, 'because I bought you dinner doesn't mean you have to sleep with me.'

'Oh, I'm much relieved,' I said, pretending that I was pretending. 'I wouldn't want to give you the impression I was loose.'

'Oh, no,' she said. 'You're anything but loose.'

In the taxicab as we were rocketing to my abode, a sudden thought occurred to me.

'Hey, Marcie,' I said, as casually as possible.

'Yes, Oliver?'

'When you said my house was on your way — I hadn't told you where I lived.'

'Oh, I just assumed you were an East Sixties type.'

'And where do you live?'

'Not far from you,' she said.

'That's nicely vague. And I suppose your phone's not listed either.'

'No,' she said. But offered neither explanation nor the number.

'Marcie?'

'Oliver?' Her tone was still unruffled and ingenuous.

'Why all the mystery?'

She reached across the cab and put her leather-gloved hand upon my nervous fist. She said,

'Hang on there for a little bit, okay?'

Damn! Because there was no traffic at that hour, the taxi reached my place with speed uncommon — and right now much unappreciated.

'Wait a second,' Marcie told the driver. I paused to hear if she might mention her next stop. But she was much too shrewd. She smiled at me, and with a tinsel brio murmured, Thanks a lot.'

'Oh, no,' said I, aggressively genteel. 'It's I who should thank you.'

There was a pause. I would be damned if I would beg for further scraps of information. So I left the cab.

'Hey, Oliver,' she called, 'more tennis Tuesday next?'

I was happy she suggested it. In fact, I showed too much by answering, 'But that's a week from now. Why can't we play before?'

'Because I'll be in Cleveland,' Marcie said.

'All that time?' I asked incredulously. 'No one's ever spent a whole entire week in Cleveland!'

'Purge yourself of Eastern snobberies, my friend. I'll call you Monday evening to confirm the time. Good night, sweet prince.'

Then, as if the cabby knew his Hamlet, he gunned off.

As I undid the third lock on my door, I started to get angry. What the hell was this?

And who the hell was she?