Oliver's Story

Why?

I could imagine Marcie's ruminations as she jetted from Los Angeles to Boston on December 24.

The quintessence would be why.

Why has he invited me to meet his parents? And for Christmas. Does this gesture mean he's getting … serious?

Naturally, we'd never broached such matters with each other. But I'm fairly confident that up there in the stratosphere a certain Bryn Mawr intellectual is pondering hypotheses to figure out her New York roommate's motivations.

And yet she never brought it to the surface and inquired, 'Oliver — why did you ask me?'

'I'm glad. For frankly, I'd have answered, 'I don't know.'

It had been a hasty impulse, typical of me. Calling home before consulting Marcie. Or my own inner thoughts. (Though Marcie really twinkled when I asked her.) I was also hasty in the self-deceiving message I transmitted to my brain: It's just a friend you happen to be going with and Christmas happens to be now. There's no significance and no 'intention' whatsoever.

Bullshit.

Oliver, you know damn well it isn't too ambiguous when you invite a girl to meet your parents.

Over Christmas.

Buddy, it is not the sophomore prom.

All this seemed so lucid now. One full week later. As I paced the Logan Airport terminal in sympathetic circles with her pilot's holding pattern.

In real life, Oliver, what would such a gesture intimate?

Now, after several days of probing, I could answer consciously. It hints of marriage. Matrimony.

Wedlock. Barrett, dost thou take this whirlwind …?

Which would therefore make the trip to Ipswich something that would fill some atavistic craving for parental approbation. Why do I still care what Mom and Daddy think?

Do you love her, Oliver?

Jesus, what a stupid time to ask yourself!

Yeah? Another inner voice shouts, This is the very time to ask!

Do I love her?

It's too complicated for a simple yes or no.

Then why the hell am I so sure I want to marry her?

Because …

Well, maybe it's irrational. But somehow I believe a real commitment would provide the catalyst.

The ceremony would evoke the 'love'.

'Oliver!'

The first one off the plane turned out to be the subject of rny thoughts. Who looked fantastic.

'Hey, I really missed you, friend,' she said, her hand caressing underneath my jacket. Though I held her just as tight, I couldn't wander anatomically. We were in Boston, after all. But wait till later …

'Where's your little bag?' I asked.

'I've got a bigger one. It's checked.'

'Oho. Will we be treated to a fashion show?'

'Nothing too far out,' she answered. Thus acknowledging her wardobe had been planned with mucho thought.

She was carrying an oblong package.

'I'll take that,' I offered.

'No, it's fragile,' she replied.

'Ah, your heart,' I quipped.

'Not quite,' she answered. 'Just your father's present.'

'Oh.'

'I'm nervous, Oliver,' she said.

We had traversed the Mystic River Bridge and were enmeshed in Route I Christmas traffic.

'You're full of crap,' I said.

'What if they don't like me?' she continued.

'Then we'll just exchange you after Christmas,' I replied.

Marcie pouted. Even so, her face was gorgeous.

'Say something reassuring, Oliver,' she asked.

'I'm nervous too,' I said.

Down Groton Street. The Gate. Then into our domain. And down the lengthy entrance road. The trees were barren, though the atmosphere kept something of a sylvan hush.

'It's peaceful,' Marcie said. (She could have called it grossly vast, as I had dubbed her place, but she was far above such pettiness.)

'Mother, this is Marcie Nash.'

If nothing else, her former husband had the perfect name. Exquisite in its blandness and evocative of zilch.

'We're happy, Marcie, you could be with us,' my mother said. 'We've looked forward to meeting you.'

'I'm grateful that you asked me down.'

What resplendent bullshit! Eye-to-eye with artificial smiles, these well-bred ladies mouthed the platitudes that buttress our whole social structure. Then went on to how-you-must-be-tired-after-such-a-journey, and how-you-must-be-exhausted-after-all-your-Christmas — preparations.

Father entered and they ran the selfsame gamut. Except he couldn't help betraying that he found her beautiful. Then, since — by the rule book — Marcie must be tired, she ascended to the guest room for some freshening.

We sat there. Mother, Father, I. We asked each other how we'd been and learned we'd all been fine. Which, naturally, was fine to hear. Would Marcie ('Charming girl,' said Mother) be too weary to go caroling? It's awfully cold out.

'Marcie's tough,' I answered, maybe meaning more than just her constitution. 'She could carol in a blizzard.'

'Preferably,' Marcie said, reentering in what the skiers will be wearing up at St Moritz this year, 'all that wind would cover up my off-key singing.'

'It doesn't matter, Marcie,' said my mother, taking things a bit too literally. 'It's the esprit that counts.'

Mother never lost an opportunity to substitute an English word with French. She'd had two years at Smith, goddammit, and it showed.

"That outfit's splendid, Marcie,' Father said. And I'm convinced he marveled at the way the tailoring did not disguise her … structure.

'It keeps out the wind,' said Marcie.

'It can be very cold this time of year,' my mother added.

Notice that one can go through a long and happy life discussing nothing but the weather.

'Oliver forewarned me,' Marcie said.

Her tolerance for small talk was amazing. Like volleying with marshmallows.

At seven-thirty we joined two dozen of the Ipswich high-class riffraff by the church. Our oldest caroler was Lyman Nichols, Harvard, '10 (age seventy-nine), the youngest Amy Harris, merely five. She was the daughter of my college classmate, Stuart.

Stuart was the only guy I'd ever seen undazzled by my date. How could he think of Marcie? He was clearly so in love with little Amy (much reciprocated) and with Sara, who had stayed at home with newborn Benjamin.

I suddenly was palpably aware of motion in my life. I felt time passing. And my heart was sad.

Stuart had a station wagon, so we drove with him. I held Amy on my lap.

'You're very lucky, Oliver,' said Stu.

'I know,' I answered.

Marcie, as required, indicated jealousy.

Hark, the herald angels sing …

Our repertoire was just as well worn as our route: the Upper Crusty members of the congregation, who would greet our musical appearance with polite applause, some feeble punch, and milk and cookies for the kids.

Marcie dug the whole routine.

'This is country, Oliver,' she said.

By half past nine, we'd all but finished our appointed rounds (a Christmas pun, ho ho), and as tradition bade, concluded at the ducal manor, Dover House.

Oh come, all ye faithful …

I watched my father and my mother looking out at us. And wondered as I saw them smile. Is it because I'm standing next to Marcie? Or had little Amy Harris caught their hearts as she had mine?

Food and drink was better at our place. In addition to the cow juice, there was toddy for the frozen adults. ('You're the savior,' Nichols, '10, said, patting Father on the back.) Everybody left soon after.

I filled my tank with toddy.

Marcie drank some expurgated eggnog.

'I loved that, Oliver,' she said, and took my hand.

I think my mother noticed. And was not upset. My father was, if anything, a trifle envious.

We trimmed the tree and Marcie complimented Mother on the beauty of the ornaments. She recognized the crystal of the star.

('It's lovely, Mrs Barrett. It looks Czech.'

'It is. My mother bought it just before the war.')

Then came other of the ancient venerated trinkets (some from ages I'd prefer our family forgot.) As they draped the strands of popcorn and cranberries on the branches, Marcie coyly noted,

'Someone must have slaved to make those garlands.'

At which Father caught the ball with ease.

'My wife's done little else all week.'

'Oh, really.' Mother blushed.

I just sat there, not that hot for trimming, sipping warm and soothing liquid, thinking: Marcie is romancing them.

Half past eleven, tree all garnished, gifts beneath, and my perennial wool stocking hung next to a new-old one for my guest. The time had come to say good night. At Mother's cue, we all ascended.

On the landing we bade one another happy dreams of sugarplums.

'Good night, Marcie,' Mother said.

'Good night and thank you,' echoed back.

'Good night, dear,' Mother said again. And kissed me on the cheek. A peck which I construed to mean that Marcie passed.

O.B. III and wife departed. Marcie turned.

'I'll sneak into your room,' I said.

'Are you absolutely crazy?'

'No, I'm absolutely horny,' I replied. 'Hey, Marce, it's Christmas Eve.'

'Your parents would be horrified,' she said. And maybe meant it.

'Marcie, I'll bet even they make love tonight.'

'They're married,' Marcie said. And with a hasty kiss upon my lips, she disengaged and disappeared.

What the hell!

I shuffled to my ancient room, its adolescent décor (pennants and team pictures) all museumly intact. I wanted to call someone ship-to-shore and tell him, 'Phil. I hope at least the action's good with you.'

I didn't.

I went to bed confused about what I was hoping to receive for Christmas.

Good morning! Merry Christmas! Here's a package just for you!

Mother gave my father yet another batch of ties and Sea Island cotton handkerchiefs. They looked very much like every year's. But then so did the dressing gown my father gave my mother.

I got half a dozen of whatever ties the Brooks man said were right for youth.

Marcie got the latest Daphne Du Maurier from Mother.

I had spent my annual five minutes at Christmas shopping and my gifts reflected it. My mother got some handkerchiefs, my father yet more ties, and Marcie got a book: The Joy of Cooking (we'll see how she reacts).

The tension (relatively speaking) centered on what our guest had brought.

To start with, Marcie's offerings had not, like ours, been wrapped at home. They had been swathed professionally (at you-know-where) in California.

Mother got a light-blue cashmere scarf ('You shouldn't have').

Father got that oblong box, which turned out to be Chateau Haut-Brion '59.

'What splendid wine,' he said. In truth he was no connoisseur. Our 'cellar' had some Scotch for Father's guests, some sherry for my mother's, and a case or two of fairly good champagne for grand occasions.

I received a pair of gloves. Though they were elegant, I still resented wearing Marcie's present at arms' length. It was too damn impersonal.

('Would you have preferred a mink-lined jock?' she later asked.

'Yes — that's where I was coldest!')

To top it off, or rather bottom it, I got what I had always got from Father. I received a check.

Joy to the World …

To this processional, zestfully performed by Mr Weeks, the organist, we entered church and headed for our pew. The house was full of all our 'peers', who were in fact discreetly peering at our female guest. ('She isn't one of us,' I'm sure they said.) No one turned to gaze overtly save for Mrs Rhodes, whose ninety-odd — extremely odd — long years could license such behavior.

But the congregation did watch Mrs Rhodes. And couldn't help but notice that she smiled after a thorough look at Marcie. Ah, the hag approves.

We sang politely (not as loudly as last evening) and we heard the Reverend Mr Lindley drone the service. Father read the lesson and, give credit, did it well. He took his breaths at commas, not, like Lindley, everywhere.

The sermon, Lord have mercy, showed the reverend was in sync with world affairs. He made mention of the conflict out in Southeast Asia, bade us think — at Christmastide — how much the Prince of Peace was needed in a World at War.

Thank Heaven Lindley is asthmatic so his sermons are gasped mercifully brief.

All benedicted, we retired to the steps of the church. To have a replay of the after Harvard-Yale game meetings. Save this morning everyone is sober.

'Jackson!' 'Mason!' 'Harris!' 'Barrett!' 'Cabot!' 'Lowell!'

God!

Things of minor consequence were mumbled in between articulations of the cronies' names.

Mother also had some friends to greet. But in a quiet manner, natch.

Then all at once a voice distinctly bellowed:

'Maah-cie dear!'

I whirled and saw my date embracing someone.

It was someone antiquated or — despite the church — he would have swallowed teeth.

Instantly my parents were at hand to see who had saluted Marcie with such fervor.

Good old Standish Farnham still had Marcie in his arms.

'Oh, Uncle Standish, what a nice surprise!'

Mother seemed enthused. Was Marcie niece to this distinguished 'one of us'?

'Maah-cie, what would bring a city gal like you out to these bahrbr'ous pahts?' asked Standish, a's as broad as Boston Harbor.

'She's staying with us,' Mother interposed.

'Oh, Alison, how fine,' said Standish, and then winked at me. 'Do gahd her from that rakish lad of yours.'

"We keep her under glass,' I answered wryly. And old Standish larfed.

'Are you two related?' I inquired, wishing Standish would remove his hand from Marcie's waist.

'Only by affection. Mr Farnham and my father were in partnership,' she said.

'Not pahtners,' he insisted, 'brothers.'

'Oh,' said Mother, clearly hoping for a juicy new detail.

'We had some hosses,' Standish said. 'I sold 'em when her father died. The fun went out.'

'Indeed,' my mother said, beneath her Christmas bonnet a Vesuvius of curiosity. (For Standish just assumed we knew who Marcie's daddy was.)

'If you have time, come over in the afternoon,' old Farnham said in parting.

'I have to be in New York City, Uncle Standish.'

'Ah — the busy little gal,' he crowed. 'Well, shame on you for sneaking into Boston like a criminal.' He blew a kiss to her and turned to us.

'Be sure she eats. If I recall my little Maah-cie, she was always on a diet. Merry Christmas.'

Then as an afterthought he called, 'Keep up the good work, Maah-cie. We're all proud of you!'

Father drove us back in Mother's station wagon. And in pregnant silence.

Pre-Christmas dinner, Father cracked a bottle of champagne.

'To Marcie,' said my mother.

We all raised our glasses. Marcie merely wet her lips. Quite out of character, I then proposed a toast to Jesus.

There were six of us. The four who rose this morning supplemented now by Geoff, my mother's nephew from Virginia, and Aunt Helen, spinster sister of rny father's father, who, I think, recalls Methuselah when both of them were studying at Harvard. Helen's deaf and Geoffrey eats as if he had a tapeworm. So the conversation wasn't noticeably changed.

We praised the mighty bird.

'Tell Florence, don't tell me,' my mother humbly said. 'She was up at dawn to start it off.'

'The stuffing's simply marvelous,' my New York roommate effervesced.

'Ipswich oysters, after all,' said Mother, pi eased as punch.

We feasted, everything aplenty. Geoff and I competed to be glutton of the day.

And strangely now, a second bottle of champagne was opened. Though I vaguely was aware that only I and Father were imbibing. Actually, I was so vague because I had imbibed the most.

Florence's perennial mince pie, then coffee in the parlor made it 3 p.m.

I'd have to wait a bit before we started to New York. To let my stomach settle and my brain grow clear.

'Marcie, would you like to take a walk?' my mother asked.

'I'd love to, Mrs Barrett.'

And they did.

Meanwhile Auntie Helen snoozed, and Geoff went up to plug into the football on the tube.

That left my father and myself.

'I'd really like some cool air too,' I said.

'I wouldn't mind a walk,' my father answered.

As we put our coats on, and went out into the winter frost, I was aware that,' had asked him for this promenade. I could have copped out with the football game like Geoff. But no, I wanted conversation. With my father.

'She's a lovely girl,' he said. Unasked.

But yet I think that's what I hoped we would discuss.

'Thank you, Father,' I replied. 'I think so too.'

'She seems … fond of you.'

We were in the woods now. Framed by leafless trees.

'I'm … sort of fond of her,' I said at last.

My father weighed each word. He wasn't used to my receptiveness. Conditioned by the years of my hostility, he doubtless thought I'd turn him off at any point. But gradually he came to realize that I wouldn't. Thus he dared to ask me, 'Is it serious?'

We walked along. At last I looked at him and answered quietly.

'I wish I knew.'

Although I had been vague and almost enigmatic, Father sensed that I had honestly expressed what I was feeling. That is, confusion.

'Is there … a problem?' he inquired.

I looked at him and nodded silently.

'I think I understand,' he said.

How? I hadn't told him anything.

'Oliver, it's not unnatural that you would still be grieving.' Father's insight took me by surprise.

Or had he merely guessed that his remark might … touch me?

'No, it isn't Jenny,' I replied. 'I mean I think I'm ready for … ' Why was I telling this to him?

He didn't press. He waited for my thoughts to be complete.

After several moments he said softly, 'You did say there was a problem?'

'It's her family,' I answered.

'Oh,' he said. 'Is there … resistance?'

'On my part,' I replied. 'Her father … '

'Yes?'

' … was Walter Binnendale.'

'I see,' he said.

And with those simple words concluded the most intimate communication of our lives.