Oliver's Story

Book Club Associates LONDON This edition published 1977 by Book Club Associates By arrangement with Granada Publishing Ltd Reprinted 1977 Copyright © Erich Segal 1977 Printed in Great Britain by Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press) Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers. For Karen Amor mi mosse Death ends a life, but it does not end a relationship, which struggles on in the survivor's mind towards some resolution which it may never find. — Robert Anderson I Never Sang for My Father June 1969 'Oliver, you're sick.' 'I'm what?' 'You're very sick.' The expert who pronounced this startling diagnosis had come late in life to medicine. In fact, until today I thought he was a pastry chef. His name was Philip Cavilled. Once upon a time his daughter Jenny was my wife. She died. And we remained, our legacy from her to be each other's guardian. Therefore once a month I'd either visit him in Cranston, where we'd bowl and booze and eat exotic pizzas. Or he would join me in New York to run an equally exciting gamut of activities. But today as he descended from the train, instead of greeting me with some affectionate obscenity, he shouted. 'Oliver, you're sick.' 'Really, Philip? In your sage professional opinion, what the hell is wrong with me?' 'You aren't married.' Then without expatiating further, he just turned and, leatherette valise in hand, he headed for the exit. Morning sunlight made the city's glass and steel seem almost friendly. So we both agreed to walk the twenty blocks to what I jocularly called my bachelor pad. At Forty-seventh Street and Park, Phil turned and asked, 'How have your evenings been?' 'Oh, busy,' I replied. 'Busy, huh? That's good. Who with?' 'The Midnight Raiders.' 'What are they — a street gang or a rock group?' 'Neither. We're a bunch of lawyers volunteering time in Harlem.' 'How many nights a week?' 'Three,' I said. Again we strolled uptown in silence. At Fifty-third and Park, Phil broke his silence once again. 'That still leaves four free nights.' 'I've got a lot of office homework too.' 'Oh, yeah, of course. We gotta do our homework.' Phil was less than sympathetic to my serious involvement with a lot of burning issues (e.g., draft cards). So I had to hint at their significance. 'I'm down in Washington a lot. I'm arguing a First Amendment case before the Court next month. This high school teacher — ' 'Oh, that's good, defending teachers,' Philip said. And added oh-so-casually, 'How's Washington for girls?' 'I don't know.' I shrugged and walked along. At Sixty-first and Park, Phil Cavilleri stopped and looked me in the eye. 'Just when the hell do you intend to plug your motor into life again?' 'It hasn't been that long,' I said. And thought: the great philosopher who claimed that time heals wounds neglected to impart just how much time. 'Two years,' said Philip Cavilleri. 'Eighteen months,' I corrected him. 'Yeah, well . . . ' he answered, gravelly voice trailing off. Betraying that he too still felt the cold of that December day but . . .