rett III was present. More than
seventeen thousand people jam into Harvard Yard on Commencement morning, and
I certainly was not scanning the rows with binoculars. Obviously, I had used
my allotted parent tickets for Phil and Jenny. Of course, as an alumnus, Old
Stony- face could enter and sit with the Class of '26. But then why should
he want to? I mean, weren't the banks open?
The wedding was that Sunday. Our reason for excluding Jenny's relatives
was out of genuine concern that our omission of the Father, Son and Holy
Ghost would make the occasion far too trying for unlapsed Catholics. It was
in Phillips Brooks House, old building in the north of Harvard Yard. Timothy
Blauvelt, the college Unitarian chaplain, presided. Naturally, Ray Stratton
was there, and I also invited Jeremy Nahum, a good friend from the Exeter
days, who had taken Amherst over Harvard. Jenny asked a girl friend from
Briggs Hall and-maybe for sentimental reasons-hertall, gawky colleague at
the reserve book desk. And of course Phil.
I put Ray Stratton in charge of Phil. I mean, just to keep him as loose
as possible. Not that Stratton was all that calm! The pair of them stood
there, looking tremendously uncomfortable, each silently reinforcing the
other's preconceived notion that this "do-it-yourself wedding" (as Phil
referred to it) was going to be (as Stratton kept predicting) "an incredible
horror show." Just because Jenny and I were going to address a few words
directly to one another! We had actually seen it done earlier that spring
when one of Jenny's musical friends, Marya Randall, married a design student
named Eric Levenson. It was a very beautiful thing, and really sold us on
the idea.
"Are you two ready?" asked Mr. Blauvelt.
"Yes," I said for both of us.
"Friends," said Mr. Blauvelt to the others, "we are here to witness the
union of two lives in marriage. Let us listen to the words they have chosen
to read on this sacred occasion.
The bride first. Jenny stood facing me and recited the poem she had
selected. It was very moving, perhaps especially to me, because it was a
sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett:
When our two souls stand up erect and strong, Face to face, silent,
drawing high and higher, Until the lengthening wings break into fire...
From the corner of my eye I saw Phil Cavilleri, pale, slack-jawed, eyes
wide with amazement and adoration
combined. We listened to Jenny finish the sonnet, which was in its way
a kind of prayer for
A place to stand and love in for a day,
With darkness and the death hour rounding it.
Then it was my turn. It had been hard finding a piece of poetry I could
read without blushing. I mean, I couldn't stand there and recite lace-doily
phrases. I couldn't. But a section of Walt Whitman's Song of the Open Road,
though kind of brief, said it all for me:
• . . I give you my hand!
I give you my love more precious than money,
I give you myself before preaching or law;
Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?
I finished, and there was a wonderful hush in the room. Then Ray
Stratton handed me the ring, and Jenny and I-ourselves-recited the marriage
vows, taking each other, from that day forward, to love and cherish, till
death do us part.
By the authority vested in him by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts,
Mr. Timothy Blauvelt pronounced us man and wife.
Upon reflection, our "post-game party" (as Stratton referred to it) was
pretentiously unpretentious. Jenny and I had absolutely rejected the
champagne route, and since there were so few of us we could all fit into one
booth, we went to drink beer at Cronin's. As I recall, Jim Cronin himself
set us up with a round, as a tribute to "the greatest Harvard hockey player
since the Cleary brothers."
"Like hell," argued Phil Cavilleri, pounding his fist on the table.
"He's better than all the Clearys put together." Philip's meaning, I believe
(he had never seen a Harvard hockey game), was that however well Bobby or
Billy Cleary might have skated, neither got to marry his lovely daughter. I
mean, we were all smashed, and it was just an excuse for getting more so.
I let Phil pick up the tab, a decision which later evoked one of
Jenny's rare compliments about my intuition ("You'll be a human being yet,
Preppie"). It got a little hairy at the end when we drove him to the bus,
however. I mean, the wet-eyes bit. His, Jenny's, maybe mine too; I don't
remember anything except that the moment was liquid.
Anyway, after all sorts of blessings, he got onto the bus and we waited
and waved until it drove out of sight. It was then that the awesome truth
started to get to me.
"Jenny, we're legally married!"
"Yeah, now I can be a bitch."
CHAPTER 12
If a single word can describe our daily life during those first three
years, it is "scrounge." Every waking moment we were concentrating on how
the hell we would be able to scrape up enough money to do whatever it was we
had to do. Usually it was just break even. And there's nothing romantic
about it, either. Remember the famous stanza in Omar Khayam? You know, the
book of verses underneath the bough, the loaf of bread, the jug of wine and
so forth? Substitute Scott on Trusts for that book of verses and see how
this poetic vision stacks up against my idyllic existence. Ah, paradise? No,
bullshit. All I'd think about is how much that book was (could we get it
secondhand?) and where, if anywhere, we might be able to charge that bread
and wine. And then how we might ultimately scrounge up the dough to pay off
our debts.
Life changes. Even the simplest decision must be scrutinized by the
ever vigilant budget committee of your mind.
"Hey, Oliver, let's go see Becket tonight." "Lissen, it's three bucks."
"What do you mean?"
"1 mean a buck fifty for you and a buck fifty for me"
"Does that mean yes or no?"
"Neither. It just means three bucks."
Our honeymoon was spent on a yacht and with twenty-one children. That
is, I sailed a thirty-six-foot Rhodes from seven in the morning till
whenever my passengers had enough, and Jenny was a children's counselor. It
was a place called the Pequod Boat Club in Dennis Port (not far from
Hyannis), an establishment that included a large hotel, a marina and several
dozen houses for rent. In one of the tinier bungalows, I have nailed an
imaginary plaque: "Oliver and Jenny slept here-when they weren't making
love." I think it s a tribute to us both that after a long day of being kind
to our customers, for we were largely dependent on their tips for our
income, Jenny and I were nonetheless kind to each other. I simply say
"kind," because I lack the vocabulary to describe what loving and being
loved by Jennifer Cavilleri is like. Sorry, I mean Jennifer Barrett.
Before leaving for the Cape, we found a cheap apartment in North
Cambridge. I called it North Cambridge, although the address was technically
in the town of Somerville and the house was, as Jenny described it, "in the
state of disrepair." It had originally been a two- family structure, now
converted into four apartments, overpriced even at its "cheap" rental. But
what the hell can graduate students do? It's a seller's market.
"Hey, 01, why do you think the fire department hasn't condemned the
joint?" Jenny asked.
"They're probably afraid to walk inside," I said.
"So am I."
"You weren't in June," I said.
(This dialogue was taking place upon our reentry in September.)
"I wasn't married then. Speaking as a married woman, I consider this
place to be unsafe at any speed."
"What do you intend to do about it?"
"Speak to my husband," she replied. "He'll take care of it."
"Hey, I'm your husband," I said.
"Really? Prove it."
"How?" I asked, inwardly thinking, Oh no, in the Street?
"Carry me over the threshold," she said.
"You don't believe in that nonsense, do you?"
"Carry me, and I'll decide after."
Okay. I scooped her in my arms and hauled her up five steps onto the
porch.
"Why'd you stop?" she asked.
"Isn't this the threshold?"
"Negative, negative," she said.
"I see our name by the bell."
"This is not the official goddamn threshold. Upstairs, you turkey!"
It was twenty-four steps up to our "official" homestead, and I had to
pause about halfway to catch my breath.
"Why are you so heavy?" I asked her.
"Did you ever think I might be pregnant?" she answered.
This didn't make it easier for me to catch my breath.
"Are you?" I could finally say.
"Hah! Scared you, didn't I?"
"Nah."
"Don't bullshit me, Preppie."
"Yeah. For a second there, I clutched."
I carried her the rest of the way.
This is among the precious few moments I can recall in which the verb
"scrounge" has no relevance whatever.
My illustrious name enabled us to establish a charge account at a
grocery store which would otherwise have denied credit to students. And yet
it worked to our disadvantage at a place I would least have expected:
the Shady Lane School, where Jenny was to teach.
"Of course, Shady Lane isn't able to match the public school salaries,"
Miss Anne Miller Whitman, the principal, told my wife, adding something to
the effect that Barretts wouldn't be concerned with "that aspect" anyway.
Jenny tried to dispel her illusions, but all she could get in addition to
the already offered thirty-five hundred for the year was about two minutes
of "ho ho ho"s. Miss Whitman thought Jenny was being so witty in her remarks
about Barretts having to pay the rent just like other people.
When Jenny recounted all this to me, I made a few imaginative
suggestions about what Miss Whitman could do with her-ho ho ho-thirty-five
hundred. But then Jenny asked if I would like to drop out of law school and
support her while she took the education credits needed to teach in a public
school. I gave the whole situation a big think for about two seconds and
reached an accurate and succinct conclusion:
"Shit."
"That's pretty eloquent," said my wife.
"What am I supposed to say, Jenny-'ho ho ho'?"
"No. Just learn to like spaghetti."
I did. I learned to like spaghetti, and Jenny learned every conceivable
recipe to make pasta seem like something else. What with our summer
earnings, her salary, the income anticipated from my planned night work in
the post office during Christmas rush, we were doing okay. I mean, there
were a lot of movies we didn't see (and concerts she didn't go to), but we
were making ends meet.
Of course, about all we were meeting were ends. I mean, socially both
our lives changed drastically. We were still in Cambridge, and theoretically
Jenny could have stayed with all her music groups. But there wasn't time.
She came home from Shady Lane exhausted, and there was dinner yet to cook
(eating out was beyond the realm of maximum feasibility). Meanwhile my own
friends were considerate enough to let us alone. I mean, they didn't invite
us so we wouldn't have to invite them, if you know what I mean.
We even skipped the football games.
As a member of the Varsity Club, I was entitled to seats in their
terrific section on the fifty-yard line. But it was six bucks a ticket,
which is twelve bucks.
"It's not," argued Jenny, "it's six bucks. You can go without me. I
don't know a thing about football except people shout 'Hit 'em again,' which
is what you adore, which is why I want you to goddamn go!"
"The case is closed," I would reply, being after all the husband and
head of household. "Besides, I can use the time to study." Still, I would
spend Saturday afternoons with a transistor at my ear, listening to the roar
of the fans, who, though geographically but a mile away, were now in another
world.
I used my Varsity Club privileges to get Yale game seats for Robbie
Wald, a Law School classmate. When Robbie left our apartment, effusively
grateful, Jenny asked if I wouldn't tell her again just who got to sit in
the V. Club section, and I once more explained that it was for those who,
regardless of age or size or social rank, had nobly served fair Harvard on
the playing fields.
"On the water too?" she asked.
"Jocks are jocks," I answered, "dry or wet."
"Except you, Oliver," she said. "You're frozen."
I let the subject drop, assuming that this was simply Jennifer's usual
flip repartee, not wanting to think there had been any more to her question
concerning the athletic traditions of Harvard University. Such as perhaps
the subtle suggestion that although Soldiers Field holds 45,000 people, all
former athletes would be seated in that one terrific section. All. Old and
young. Wet, dry-and even frozen. And was it merely six dollars that kept me
away from the stadium those Saturday afternoons?
No; if she had something else in mind, I would rather not discuss it.
CHAPTER 13
Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Barrett III
request the pleasure of your company
at a dinner in celebration of Mr. Barrett's sixtieth birthday Saturday,
the sixth of March
at seven o'clock
Dover House, Ipswich, Massachusetts
R.s.v.p.
"Well?" asked Jennifer.
"Do you even have to ask?" I replied. I was in the midst of abstracting
The State v. Percival, a crucial precedent in criminal law. Jenny was sort
of waving the invitation to bug me.
"I think it's about time, Oliver," she said.
"For what?"
"For you know very well what," she answered. "Does he have to crawl
here on his hands and knees?"
I kept working as she worked me over.
"Ollie-he's reaching out to you!"
"Bullshit, Jenny. My mother addressed the envelope."
"I thought you said you didn't look at it!" she sort of yelled.
Okay, so I did glance at it earlier. Maybe it had slipped my mind. I
was, after all, in the midst of abstracting The State v. Percival, and in
the virtual shadow of exams. The point was she should have stopped
haranguing me.
"Ollie, think," she said, her tone kind of pleading now. "Sixty goddamn
years old. Nothing says he'll still be around when you're finally ready for
the reconciliation.
Informed Jenny in the simplest possible terms that there would never be
a reconciliation and would she please let me continue my studying. She sat
down quietly, squeezing herself onto a corner of the hassock where I had my
feet. Although she didn't make a sound, I quickly became aware that she was
looking at me very hard. I glanced up.
"Someday," she said, "when you're being bugged by Oliver V-"
"He won't be called Oliver, be sure of that!" I snapped at her. She
didn't raise her voice, though she usually did when I did.
"Lissen, Ol, even if we name him Bozo the Clown, that kid's still gonna
resent you 'cause you were a big Harvard jock. And by the time he's a
freshman, you'll probably be in the Supreme Court!"
I told her that our son would definitely not resent me. She then
inquired how I could be so certain of that. I couldn't produce evidence. I
mean, I simply knew our son would not resent me, I couldn't say precisely
why. As an absolute non sequitur, Jenny then remarked:
"Your father loves you too, Oliver. He loves you just the way you'll
love Bozo. But you Barretts are so damn proud and competitive, you'll go
through life thinking you hate each other."
"If it weren't for you," I said facetiously.
"Yes," she said.
"The case is closed," I said, being, after all, the husband and head of
household. My eyes returned to The State v. Percival and Jenny got up. But
then she remembered:
"There's still the matter of the RSVP."
I allowed that a Radcliffe music major could probably compose a nice
little negative RSVP without professional guidance.
"Lissen, Oliver," she said, "I've probably lied or cheated in my life.
But I've never deliberately hurt anyone. I don't think I could."
Really, at that moment she was only hurting me, so I asked her politely
to handle the RSVP in whatever manner she wished, as long as the essence of
the message was that we wouldn't show unless hell froze over.
I returned once again to The State v. Percival.
"What's the number?" I heard her say very softly. She was at the
telephone.
"Can't you just write a note?"
"In a minute I'll lose my nerve. What's the number?"
I told her and was instantaneously immersed in Percival's appeal to the
Supreme Court. I was not listening to Jenny. That is, I tried not to. She
was in the same room, after all.
"Oh-good evening, sir," I heard her say. Did the Sonovabitch answer the
phone? Wasn't he in Washington during the week? That's what a recent profile
in The New York Times said. Goddamn journalism is going downhill nowadays.
How long does it take to say no?
Somehow Jennifer had already taken more time than one would think
necessary to pronounce this simple syllable.
"Ollie?"
She had her hand over the mouthpiece.
"Ollie, does it have to be negative?"
The nod of my head indicated that it had to be, the wave of my hand
indicated that she should hurry the hell up.
"I'm terribly sorry," she said into the phone. "I mean, we're terribly
sorry, sir....
We're! Did she have to involve me in this? And why can't she get to the
point and hang up?
"Oliver!"
She had her hand on the mouthpiece again and was talking very loud.
"He's wounded, Oliver! Can you just sit there and let your father
bleed?"
Had she not been in such an emotional state, I could have explained
once again that stones do not bleed, that she should not project her
Italian-Mediterranean misconceptions about parents onto the craggy heights
of Mount Rushmore. But she was very upset. And it was upsetting me too.
"Oliver," she pleaded, "could you just say a word?"
To him? She must be going out of her mind!
"I mean, like just maybe 'hello'?"
She was offering the phone to me. And trying not to cry.
"I will never talk to him. Ever," I said with perfect calm.
And now she was crying. Nothing audible, but tears pouring down her
face. And then she-she begged.
"For me, Oliver. I've never asked you for anything. Please."
Three of us. Three of us just standing (I somehow imagined my father
being there as well) waiting for something. What? For me?
1 couldn't do it.
Didn't Jenny understand she was asking the impossible? That I would
have done absolutely anything else? As I looked at the floor, shaking my
head in adamant refusal and extreme discomfort, Jenny addressed me with a
kind of whispered fury I had never heard from her:
"You are a heartless bastard," she said. And then she ended the
telephone conversation with my father, saying: "Mr. Barrett, Oliver does
want you to know that in his own special way...
She paused for breath. She had been sobbing, so it wasn't easy. I was
much too astonished to do anything but await the end of my alleged
"message."
"Oliver loves you very much," she said, and hung up very quickly.
There is no rational explanation for my actions in the next split
second. I plead temporary insanity. Correction: I plead nothing. I must
never be forgiven for what I did.
I ripped the phone from her hand, then from the socket-and hurled it
across the room.
"God damn you, Jenny! Why don't you get the hell out of my life!"
I stood still, panting like the animal I had suddenly become. Jesus
Christ! What the hell had happened to me? I turned to look at Jen.
But she was gone.
I mean absolutely gone, because I didn't even hear footsteps on the
stairs. Christ, she must have dashed out the instant I grabbed the phone.
Even her coat and scarf were still there. The pain of not knowing what to do
was exceeded only by that of knowing what I had done.
I searched everywhere.
In the Law School library, I prowled the rows of grinding students,
looking and looking. Up and back, at least half a dozen times. Though I
didn't utter a sound, I knew my glance was so intense, my face so fierce, I
was disturbing the whole fucking place. Who cares?
But Jenny wasn't there.
Then all through Harkness Commons, the lounge, the cafeteria. Then a
wild sprint to look around Agassiz Hall at Radcliffe. Not there, either. I
was running everywhere now, my legs trying to catch up with the pace of my
heart.
Paine Hall? (Ironic goddamn name!) Downstairs are piano practice rooms.
I know Jenny. When she's angry, she pounds the fucking keyboard. Right? But
how about when she's scared to death?
It's crazy walking down the corridor, practice rooms on either side.
The sounds of Mozart and Bartok, Bach and Brahms filter out from the doors
and blend into this weird infernal sound.
Jenny's got to be here!
Instinct made me stop at a door where I heard the pounding (angry?)
sound of a Chopin prelude. I paused for a second. The playing was
lousy-stops and starts and many mistakes. At one pause I heard a girl's
voice mutter, "Shit!" It had to be Jenny. I flung open the door.
A Radcliffe girl was at the piano. She looked up. An ugly,
big-shouldered hippie Radcliffe girl, annoyed at my invasion.
"What's the scene, man?" she asked.
"Bad, bad," I replied, and closed the door again.
Then I tried Harvard Square. The Cafe Pamplona, Tommy's Arcade, even
Hayes Bick-lots of artistic types go there. Nothing.
Where would Jenny have gone?
By now the subway was closed, but if she had gone straight to the
Square she could have caught a train to Boston. To the bus terminal.
It was almost i A.M. as I deposited a quarter and two dimes in the
slot. I was in one of the booths by the kiosk in Harvard Square.
"Hello, Phil?"
"Hey.. ." he said sleepily. "Who's this?"
"It's me-Oliver."
"Oliver!" He sounded scared. "Is Jenny hurt?" he asked quickly. If he
was asking me, did that mean she wasn't with him?
"Uh-no, Phil, no.
"Thank Christ. How are you, Oliver?"
Once assured of his daughter's safety, he was casual and friendly. As
if he had not been aroused from the depths of slumber.
"Fine, Phil, I'm great. Fine. Say, Phil, what do you hear from Jenny?"
"Not enough, goddammit," he answered in a strangely calm voice.
"What do you mean, Phil?"
"Christ, she should call more often, goddammit. I'm not a stranger, you
know."
If you can be relieved and panicked at the same time, that's what I
was.
"Is she there with you?" he asked me.
"Huh?"
"Put Jenny on; I'll yell at her myself."
"I can't, Phil."
"Oh, is she asleep? If she's asleep, don't disturb her."
"Yeah," I said.
"Listen, you bastard," he said.
"Yes, sir?"
"How goddamn far is Cranston that you can't come down on a Sunday
afternoon? Huh? Or I can come up, Oliver."
"Uh-no, Phil. We'll come down."
"'When?"
"Some Sunday."
"Don't give me that 'some' crap. A loyal child doesn't say 'some,' he
says 'this.' This Sunday, Oliver."
"Yes, sir. This Sunday."
"Four o'clock. But drive carefully. Right?"
"Right."
"And next time call collect, goddammit." He hung up.
I just stood there, lost on that island in the dark of Harvard Square,
not knowing where to go or what to do next. A colored guy approached me and
inquired if I was in need of a fix. I kind of absently replied, "No, thank
you, sir."
I wasn't running now. I mean, what was the rush to return to the empty
house? It was very late and I was numb-more with fright than with the cold
(although it wasn't warm, believe me). From several yards off, I thought I
saw someone sitting on the top of the steps. This had to be my eyes playing
tricks, because the figure was motionless.
But it was Jenny.
She was sitting on the top step.
I was too tired to panic, too relieved to speak. Inwardly I hoped she
had some blunt instrument with which to hit me.
"Ollie?"
We both spoke so quietly, it was impossible to take an emotional
reading.
"I forgot my key," Jenny said.
I stood there at the bottom of the steps, afraid to ask how long she
had been sitting, knowing only that I had wronged her terribly.
"Jenny, I'm sorry-"
"Stop!" She cut off my apology, then said very quietly, "Love means not
ever having to say you're sorry."
I climbed up the stairs to where she was sitting.
"I'd like to go to sleep. Okay?" she said.
"Okay."
We walked up to our apartment. As we undressed, she looked at me
reassuringly.
"I meant what I said, Oliver."
And that was all.
CHAPTER 14
It was July when the letter came.
It had been forwarded from Cambridge to Dennis Port, so I guess I got
the news a day or so late. I charged over to where Jenny was supervising her
children in a game of kickball (or something), and said in my best Bogart
tones:
"Let's go."
"Huh?"
"Let's go," I repeated, and with such obvious authority that she began
to follow me as I walked toward the water.
"What's going on, Oliver? Wouldja tell me, please, for God sake?"
I continued to stride powerfully onto the dock.
"Onto the boat, Jennifer," I ordered, pointing to it with the very hand
that held the letter, which she didn't even notice.
"Oliver, I have children to take care of," she protested, even while
stepping obediently on board.
"Goddammit, Oliver, will you explain what's going on?" We were now a
few hundred yards from shore. "I have something to tell you," I said.
"Couldn't you have told it on dry land?" she yelled. "No, goddammit," I
yelled back (we were neither of us angry, but there was lots of wind, and we
had to shout to be heard).
"I wanted to be alone with you. Look what I have." I waved the envelope
at her. She immediately recognized the letterhead.
"Hey-Harvard Law School! Have you been kicked out?"
"Guess again, you optimistic bitch," I yelled. "You were first in the
class!" she guessed. I was now almost ashamed to tell her. "Not quite.
Third."
"Oh," she said. "Only third?"
"Listen-that still means I make the goddamn Law Review," I shouted.
She just sat there with an absolute no-expression expression.
"Christ, Jenny," I kind of whined, "say something!"
"Not until I meet numbers one and two," she said.
I looked at her, hoping she would break into the smile I knew she was
suppressing.
"C'mon, Jenny!" I pleaded.
"I'm leaving. Good-bye," she said, and jumped immediately into the
water. I dove right in after her and the next thing I knew we were both
hanging on to the side of the boat and giggling.
"Hey," I said in one of my wittier observations, "you went overboard
for me."
"Don't be too cocky," she replied. "Third is still only third."
"Hey, listen, you bitch," I said.
"What, you bastard?" she replied.
"I owe you a helluva lot," I said sincerely.
"Not true, you bastard, not true," she answered.
"Not true?" I inquired, somewhat surprised.
"You owe me everything," she said.
That night we blew twenty-three bucks on a lobster dinner at a fancy
place in Yarmouth. Jenny was still reserving judgment until she could check
out the two gentlemen who had, as she put it, "defeated me."
Stupid as it sounds, I was so in love with her that the moment we got
back to Cambridge, I rushed to find out who the first two guys were. I was
relieved to discover that the top man, Erwin Blasband, City College '64, was
bookish, bespectacled, nonathletic and not her type, and the number-two man
was Bella Landau, Bryn Mawr '64, a girl. This was all to the good,
especially since Bella Landau was rather cool looking (as lady law students
go), and I could twit Jenny a bit with "details" of what went on in those
late-night hours at Gannett House, the Law Review building. And Jesus, there
were late nights. It was not unusual for me to come home at two or three in
the morning. I mean, six courses, plus editing the Law Review, plus the fact
that I actually authored an article in one of the issues ("Legal Assistance
for the Urban Poor: A Study of Boston's Roxbury District" by Oliver Barrett
IV, HLR, March, 1966, pp. 861-9o8).
"A good piece. A really good piece."
That's all Joel Fleishman, the senior editor, could repeat again and
again. Frankly, I had expected a more articulate compliment from the guy who
would next year clerk for Justice Douglas, but that's all he kept saying as
he checked over my final draft. Christ, Jenny had told me it was "incisive,
intelligent and really well written." Couldn't Fleishman match that?
"Fleishman called it a good piece, Jen."
"Jesus, did I wait up so late just to hear that?" she said. "Didn't he
comment on your research, or your style, or anything?"
"No, Jen. He just called it 'good.'"
"Then what took you all this long?"
I gave her a little wink.
"I had some stuff to go over with Bella Landau," I said.
"Oh?" she said.
I couldn't read the tone.
"Are you jealous?" I asked straight out.
"No; I've got much better legs," she said.
"Can you write a brief?"
"Can she make lasagna?"
"Yes,~~ I answered. "Matter of fact, she brought some over to Gannett
House tonight. Everybody said they were as good as your legs."
Jenny nodded, "I'll bet."
"What do you say to that?" I said.
"Does Bella Landau pay your rent?" she asked. "Damn," I replied, "why
can't I ever quit when I'm ahead?"
"Because, Preppie," said my loving wife, "you never are."
CHAPTER 15
We finished in that order.
I mean, Erwin, Bella and myself were the top three in the Law School
graduating class. The time for triumph was at hand. Job interviews. Offers.
Pleas. Snow jobs. Everywhere I turned somebody seemed to be waving a flag
that read: "Work for us, Barrett!"
But I followed only the green flags. I mean, I wasn't totally crass,
but I eliminated the prestige alternatives, like clerking for a judge, and
the public service alternatives, like Department of Justice, in favor of a
lucrative job that would get the dirty word "scrounge" out of our goddamn
vocabulary.
Third though I was, I enjoyed one inestimable ad-
vantage in competing for the best legal spots. I was the only guy in
the top ten who wasn't Jewish. (And anyone who says it doesn't matter is
full of it.) Christ, there are dozens of firms who will kiss the ass of a
WASP who can merely pass the bar. Consider the case of yours truly: Law
Review, All-Ivy, Harvard and you know what else. Hordes of people were
fighting to get my name and numeral onto their stationery. I felt like a
bonus baby-and I loved every minute of it.
There was one especially intriguing offer from a firm in Los Angeles.
The recruiter, Mr. (why risk a lawsuit?), kept telling me:
"Barrett baby, in our territory we get it all the time. Day and night.
I mean, we can even have it sent up to the office!"
Not that we were interested in California, but I'd still like to know
precisely what Mr. was discussing. Jenny and I came up with some pretty wild
possibilities, but for L.A. they probably weren't wild enough. (I finally
had to get Mr. off my back by telling him that I really didn't care for "it"
at all. He was crestfallen.)
Actually, we had made up our minds to stay on the East Coast. As it
turned out, we still had dozens of fantastic offers from Boston, New York
and Washington. Jenny at one time thought D.C. might be good ("You could
check out the White House, Ol"), but I leaned toward New York. And so, with
my wife's blessing, I finally said yes to the firm of Jonas and Marsh, a
prestigious office (Marsh was a former Attorney General) that was very
civil-liberties oriented ("You can do good and make good at once," said
Jenny). Also, they really snowed me. I mean, old man Jonas came up to
Boston, took us to dinner at Pier Four and sent Jenny flowers the next day.
Jenny went around for a week sort of singing a jingle that went "Jonas,
Marsh and Barrett." I told her not so fast and she told me to go screw
because I was probably singing the same tune in my head. I don't have to
tell you she was right.
Allow me to mention, however, that Jonas and Marsh paid Oliver Barrett
IV $11 ,8oo, the absolute highest salary received by any member of our
graduating class.
So you see I was only third academically.
CHAPTER 16
CHANGE OF ADDRESS
From July 1,1967
Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Barrett IV
263 East 63rd Street
New York, N.Y. 10021
"It's so nouveau riche," complained Jenny. "But we are nouveau riche,"
I insisted.
What was adding to my overall feeling of euphoric triumph was the fact
that the monthly rate for my car was damn near as much as we had paid for
our entire apartment in Cambridge! Jonas and Marsh was an easy ten-minute
walk (or strut-I preferred the latter gait), and so were the fancy shops
like Bonwit's and so forth where I insisted that my wife, the bitch,
immediately open accounts and start spending.
"Why, Oliver?"
"Because, goddammit, Jenny, I 'want to be taken advantage of!"
I joined the Harvard Club of New York, proposed by Raymond Stratton
'64, newly returned to civilian life after having actually shot at some
Vietcong ("I'm not positive it was VC, actually. I heard noises, so I opened
fire at the bushes"). Ray and I played squash at least three times a week,
and I made a mental note, giving myself three years to become Club champion.
Whether it was merely because I had resurfaced in Harvard territory, or
because word of my Law School successes had gotten around (I didn't brag
about the salary, honest), my "friends" discovered me once more. We had
moved in at the height of the summer (I had to take a cram course for the
New York bar exam), and the first invitations were for weekends.
"Fuck 'em, Oliver. I don't want to waste two days bullshitting with a
bunch of vapid preppies."
"Okay, Jen, but what should I tell them?" "Just say I'm pregnant,
Oliver."
"Are you?" I asked.
"No, but if we stay home this weekend I might be."
We had a name already picked out. I mean, I had, and I think I got
Jenny to agree finally.
"Hey-you won't laugh?" I said to her, when first broaching the subject.
She was in the kitchen at the time (a yellow color-keyed thing that even
included a dishwasher).
"What?" she asked, still slicing tomatoes.
"I've really grown fond of the name Bozo," I said.
"You mean seriously?" she asked.
"Yeah. I honestly dig it."
"You would name our child Bozo?" she asked again. "Yes. Really.
Honestly, Jen, it's the name of a super- jock."
"Bozo Barrett." She tried it on for size.
"Christ, he'll be an incredible bruiser," I continued, convincing
myself further with each word I spoke. "'Bozo Barrett, Harvard's huge
All-Ivy tackle.'"
"Yeah-but, Oliver," she asked, "suppose-just suppose-the kid's not
coordinated?"
"Impossible, Jen, the genes are too good. Truly." I meant it sincerely.
This whole Bozo business had gotten to be a frequent daydream of mine as I
strutted to work.
I pursued the matter at dinner. We had bought great Danish china.
"Bozo will be a very well-coordinated bruiser," I told Jenny. "In fact,
if he has your hands, we can put him in the backfield."
She was just smirking at me, searching no doubt for some sneaky
put-down to disrupt my idyllic vision. But lacking a truly devastating
remark, she merely cut the cake and gave me a piece. And she was still
hearing me out.
"Think of it, Jenny," I continued, even with my mouth full, "two
hundred and forty pounds of bruising finesse."
"Two hundred and forty pounds?" she said. "There's nothing in our genes
that says two hundred and forty pounds, Oliver."
"We'll feed him up, Jen. Hi-Proteen, Nutrament, the whole
diet-supplement bit."
"Oh, yeah? Suppose he won't eat, Oliver?"
"He'll eat, goddammit," I said, getting slightly pissed off already at
the kid who would soon be sitting at our table not cooperating with my plans
for his athletic triumphs. "He'll eat or I'll break his face."
At which point Jenny looked me straight in the eye and smiled.
"Not if he weighs two forty, you won't.~~
"Oh," I replied, momentarily set back, then quickly realized, "But he
won't be two-forty right away!"
"Yeah, yeah," said Jenny, now shaking an admonitory spoon at me, "but
when he is, Preppie, start running!" And she laughed like hell.
It's really comic, but while she was laughing I had this vision of a
two-hundred-and-forty-pound kid in a diaper chasing after me in Central
Park, shouting, "You be nicer to my mother, Preppie!" Christ, hopefully
Jenny would keep Bozo from destroying me.
CHAPTER 17
It is not all that easy to make a baby.
I mean, there is a certain irony involved when guys who spend the first
years of their sex lives preoccupied with not getting girls pregnant (and
when I first started, condoms were still in) then reverse their thinking and
become obsessed with conception and not its contra.
Yes, it can become an obsession. And it can divest the most glorious
aspect of a happy married life of its naturalness and spontaneity. I mean,
to program your thinking (unfortunate verb, "program"; it suggests a
machine)-to program your thinking about the act of love in accordance with
rules, calendars, strategy
("Wouldn't it be better tomorrow morning, 01?") can be a source of
discomfort, disgust and ultimately terror.
For when you see that your layman's knowledge and (you assume) normal
healthy efforts are not succeeding in the matter of increase-and-multiply,
it can bring the most awful thoughts to your mind.
"I'm sure you understand, Oliver, that 'sterility' would have nothing
to do with 'virility.'" Thus Dr. Mortimer Sheppard to me during the first
conversation, when Jenny and I had finally decided we needed expert
consultation.
"He understands, doctor," said Jenny for me, knowing without my ever
having mentioned it that the notion of being sterile-of possibly being
sterile-was devastating to me. Didn't her voice even suggest that she hoped,
if an insufficiency were to be discovered, it would be her own?
But the doctor had merely been spelling it all out for us, telling us
the worst, before going on to say that there was still a great possibility
that both of us were okay, and that we might soon be proud parents. But of
course we would both undergo a battery of tests. Complete physicals. The
works. (I don't want to repeat the unpleasant specifics of this kind of
thorough investigation.)
We went through the tests on a Monday. Jenny during the day, I after
work (I was fantastically immersed in the legal world). Dr. Sheppard called
Jenny in again that Friday explaining that his nurse had screwed up and he
needed to check a few things again. When Jenny told me of the revisit, I
began to suspect that perhaps he had found the.., insufficiency with her. I
think she suspected the same. The nurse-screwing-up alibi is pretty trite.
When Dr. Sheppard called me at Jonas and Mars