Oliver's Story by Erich Segal

going?” I inquired. “Pennsylvania?”
    “Somewhere cozier,” she said. And squeezed my arm.
    Some moments later we were in the library. A fireplace was glowing. And our drinks were waiting.
    “A toast?” she asked.
    “To Marcie’s ass,” I said, my goblet in the air.
    “No,” Marcie disapproved.
    I then proposed, “To Marcie’s tits.”
    “Come on,” she vetoed.
    “All right, to Marcie’s mind—”
    “That’s better.”
    “—as full of loveliness as Marcie’s tits and ass.”
    “You’re crude,” she said.
    “I’m awfully sorry,” I apologized profoundly. “I will henceforth totally desist.”
    “Please, Oliver,” she said, “do not . I love it.”
    And so we drank to that.
    Several glasses later, I was loose enough to comment on the nature of her homestead.
    “Hey, Marcie, how can someone who’s as alive as you stand living in a mausoleum? I mean my family house was big , but I had lawns to play on. All you have is rooms. Ancient musty rooms.”
    She shrugged.
    “Where did you and Michael live?” I asked.
    “A duplex on Park Avenue.”
    “Which he now owns?”
    She nodded yes, then added, “Though I got my track shoes back.”
    “Very generous,” I said, “but then you moved back in with Daddy?”
    “Sorry, Doctor, I am not that freaky. After the divorce, my father wisely sent me on a tour of duty to the distant branches. And I worked like hell. It was a kind of therapy-apprenticeship. He died suddenly. I came back for the funeral and stayed here. Temporarily, I told myself. I knew I should’ve closed the house. But since each morning I was sitting at what used to be my father’s desk, some atavistic reflex made me feel I had to come . . . back home.”
    “Be it ever so unhumble,” I appended. Then I rose, went over to her chair and placed my hand upon a lovely part of her anatomy.
    No sooner had I touched her than a ghost appeared!
    At least an ancient crone dressed all in black, except for a white lace collar and an apron.
    It spoke.
    “I knocked,” it said.
    “Yes, Mildred?” Marcie answered casually, as I attempted to retract my fingers up my sleeve.
    “Dinner’s ready,” said the beldam, and evaporated. Marcie smiled at me.
    And I smiled back.
    For despite the odd surroundings, I was strangely happy. If for no other reason than the nearness of . . . another individual. I’d forgotten what the mere proximity to someone else’s heartbeat could evoke.
    “Are you hungry, Oliver?”
    “I’m sure I will be by the time we reach the cafeteria.” And so we went. Down yet another gallery, across the soon-to-be-constructed tennis court, to the mahogany-and-crystal dining room.
    “Lest you be misled,” said Marcie as we sat at the enormous table, “dinner was designed by me, but executed by a surrogate.”
    “You mean a cook.”
    “I do. I’m not domestic, Oliver.”
    “Marcie, have no fear. My recent diet has been more or less like Alpo dog food.”
    Dinner was unlike the night before in every way.
    The food, of course, was better, but the conversation infinitely worse.
    “Gee, delicious vichyssoise . . . beef Wellington . . . ah, Château Margaux fifty-nine . . . this soufflé is fantastic.”
    So much for my effusions. Otherwise I simply ate.
    “Oliver, you seem a little quiet.”
    “I’m just speechless at these gastronomic wonders,” I replied.
    She sensed my irony.
    “I overdid it, huh?” she said.
    “Marce, you didn’t have to make a fuss. I don’t care what we eat. It only matters that we’re eating with each other.”
    “Yes,” she said.
    But I could see she thought that I was criticizing her. I guess I was. But not intending to cause any grief. I hoped I hadn’t made her feel upset.
    Anyway, I tried to reassure her.
    “Hey—it doesn’t mean that I don’t like this, Marcie. Really. It reminds me of my home.”
    “Which you despised.”
    “Who said so?”
    “You did. Yesterday.”
    “Oh, yeah.”
    I guess I’d let it all hang out at