Free Oliver's Story by Erich Segal

whatever may have prompted them, did not excuse the falsehood that I told myself. That I was not . . . involved.
    Because I nearly was. I very nearly was.
    That’s why I panicked and I fled. Because in almost liking someone else I felt disloyal to the only girl I ever loved.
    But how much longer could I live this way, forever on my guard lest human feelings catch me unaware? In point of fact, my turmoil now was multiplied. And I was torn by two dilemmas.
    One: How could I deal with memories of Jenny?
    Two: How could I find Marcie Nash?

Chapter Seventeen

    “B arrett, you’re a fucking lunatic!”
    “Be quiet, Simpson!” I retorted as I motioned frantically for him to keep his voice down.
    “What’s the matter—will I wake the tennis balls?” he growled. He was disgusted and confused.
    And with good reason. It was barely 6 A.M . I’d dragged him from his duties at the hospital to be my stooge at Gotham Tennis Club.
    “Oh, Barrett,” Simpson whined, while changing from his doctor whites to tennis whites I had provided, “tell me one more time why this is so important!”
    “It’s a favor, Steve,” I said. “I need a partner I can trust.”
    He didn’t understand. I hadn’t told him everything. “Hey, look,” he said, “we run whenever I can break away. I can’t devote my life to furthering your masochism. Why at dawn , goddammit?”
    “Please,” I said. So earnestly that Simpson sympathized. At least he shut his mouth.
    We ambled very slowly from the locker room. He from his tiredness and I from calculation.
    “We’re number six,” said Steve. And yawned.
    “I know,” I said. And as we headed there, I scrutinized the population of courts one through five. But no familiar face.
    We batted balls till 8 A.M ., with Simpson barely staying on his feet. And begging me to let him quit. I wasn’t too adroit myself.
    “You played like cottage cheese,” he puffed. “You must be overtired too.”
    “Yeah, yeah,” I said. And wondered where she was. In Cleveland maybe?
    “Steve, I gotta ask a giant favor.”
    “What?” he asked, suspicion in his eyes.
    “Another game. Tomorrow.”
    From my tone and pleading Simpson felt my urgency.
    “Okay. But not at six A.M .”
    “That’s just the point,” I said. “It’s gotta be at six again!”
    “No, goddammit, there are limits!” Simpson snarled. And punched the locker in frustration.
    “Please,” I said. And then confessed, “Steve, there’s a girl involved.”
    His weary eyes now widened. “Yeah?” he said.
    I nodded yes. And told him that I met her at the club and knew no other way of finding her.
    Simpson looked relieved that I was interested in someone. And agreed to play. Then he thought of something: “What if she’s not here tomorrow too?”
    “We’ll just have to keep on coming till she is.”
    He merely shrugged. A friend in need, if an exhausted friend indeed.
    At the office I kept badgering Anita. Even if I only left my desk to heed the call of nature, I’d come charging back demanding, “Any calls?”
    And when she went for lunch, I’d order in a sandwich. Thus I kept a constant watch upon the telephone (I didn’t trust that new kid at the switchboard). I wouldn’t miss when Marcie called.
    Except she didn’t.
    Wednesday afternoon I had to go to court to argue a motion for a preliminary injunction. This took almost two whole hours. I got back around a quarter after five.
    “Any calls, Anita?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Well . . . what? ”
    “Your doctor. He’s at home this evening after eight.”
    What could this be? Did London—whom I couldn’t see that day—think I was cracking?
    “What exactly was the message?”
    “Jesus, Oliver, I told you! She just said—”
    “What she? ”
    “Just let me finish, would you? She just said to tell you, ‘Dr. Stein will be at home this evening!’ ”
    “Dr. Stein . . .” I said, betraying disappointment. It had been Joanna.
    “Who were you expecting—Dr. Jonas Salk?” Anita