. (engl)
Chapter 1
What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died?
That she was beautiful. And brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach.
And the Beatles. And me. Once, when she specifically Jumped me with those
musical types, I asked her what the order was, and she replied, smiling,
"Alphabetical." At the time I smiled too. But now I sit and wonder whether
she was listing me by my first name-in which case I would trail Mozart-or by
my last name, in which case I would edge n there between Bach and the
Beatles. Either way I don't come first, which for some stupid reason bothers
hell out of me, having grown up with the notion that I always had to be
number one. Family heritage, don't you know?
In the fall of my senior year, I got into the habit of studying at the
Radcliffe library. Not just to eye the cheese, although I admit that I liked
to look. The place was quiet, nobody knew me, and the reserve books were
less in demand. The day before one of my history hour exams, I still hadn't
gotten around to reading the first book on the list, an endemic Harvard
disease. I ambled over to the reserve desk to get one of the tomes that
would bail me out on the morrow. There were two girls working there. One a
tall tennis-anyone type, the other a bespectacled mouse type. I opted for
Minnie Four-Eyes.
"Do you have The Waning of the Middle Ages?"
She shot a glance up at me.
"Do you have your own library?" she asked.
"Listen, Harvard is allowed to use the Radcliffe library."
"I'm not talking legality, Preppie, I'm talking ethics. You guys have
five million books. We have a few lousy thousand."
Christ, a superior-being type! The kind who think since the ratio of
Radcliffe to Harvard is five to one, the girls must be five times as smart.
I normally cut these types to ribbons, but just then I badly needed that
goddamn book.
"Listen, I need that goddamn book."
"Wouldja please watch your profanity, Preppie?"
"What makes you so sure I went to prep school?"
"You look stupid and rich," she said, removing her glasses.
"You're wrong," I protested. "I'm actually smart and poor.
"Oh, no, Preppie. i'm smart and poor."
She was staring straight at me. Her eyes were brown. Okay, maybe I look
rich, but I wouldn't let some 'Cliffie-even one with pretty eyes-call me
dumb.
"What the hell makes you so smart?" I asked.
"I wouldn't go for coffee with you," she answered. "Listen-I wouldn't
ask you."
"That," she replied, "is what makes you stupid."
Let me explain why I took her for coffee. By shrewdly capitulating at
the crucial moment-i.e., by pretending that I suddenly wanted to-I got my
book. And since she couldn't leave until the library closed, I had plenty of
time to absorb some pithy phrases about the shift of royal dependence from
cleric to lawyer in the late eleventh century. I got an A minus on the exam,
coincidentally the same grade I assigned to Jenny's legs when she first
walked from behind that desk. I can't say I gave her costume an honor grade,
however; it was a bit too Boho for my taste. I especially ~gthed that Indian
thing she carried for a handbag. Fortunately I didn't mention this, as I
later discovered it was of her own design.
We went to the Midget Restaurant, a nearby sandwich joint which,
despite its name, is not restricted to people of small stature. I ordered
two coffees and a brownie with ice cream (for her).
"I'm Jennifer Cavilleri," she said, "an American of Italian descent."
As if I wouldn't have known. "And a music major," she added.
"My name is Oliver," I said.
"First or last?" she asked.
"First," I answered, and then confessed that my entire name was Oliver
Barrett. (I mean, that's most of
"Oh," she said. "Barrett, like the poet?"
"Yes," I said. "No relation."
In the pause that ensued, I gave thanks that she hadn't come up with
the usual distressing question:
"Barrett, like the hall?" For it is my special albatross to be related
to the guy that built Barrett Hall, the largest and ugliest structure in
Harvard Yard, a colossal monument to my family's money, vanity and flagrant
Harvardism.
After that, she was pretty quiet. Could we have run out of conversation
so quickly? Had I turned her off by not being related to the poet? What? She
simply sat there, semi-smiling at me. For something to do, I checked out her
notebooks. Her handwriting was curious-small sharp little letters with no
capitals (who did she think she was, e. e. cummings?). And she was taking
some pretty snowy courses: Comp. Lit. 105, Music 150, Music
201- "Music 201? Isn't that a graduate course?"
She nodded yes, and was not very good at masking her pride.
"Renaissance polyphony."
"What's polyphony?"
"Nothing sexual, Preppie."
Why was I putting up with this? Doesn't she read the Crimson? Doesn't
she know who I am?
"Hey, don't you know who I am?"
"Yeah," she answered with kind of disdain. "You're the guy that owns
Barrett Hall."
She didn't know who I was.
"I don't own Barrett Hall," I quibbled. "My great- grandfather happened
to give it to Harvard."
"So his not-so-great grandson would be sure to get
That was the limit.
"Jenny, if you're so convinced I'm a loser, why did you bulldoze me
into buying you coffee?"
She looked me straight in the eye and smiled. "I like your body," she
said.
Part of being a big winner is the ability to be a good loser. There's
no paradox involved. It's a distinctly Harvard thing to be able to turn any
defeat into victory.
"Tough luck, Barrett. You played a helluva game." "Really, i'm so glad
you fellows took it. I mean, you people need to win so badly."
Of course, an out-and-out triumph is better. I mean, if you have the
option, the last-minute score is preferable. And as I walked Jenny back to
her dorm, I had not despaired of ultimate victory over this snotty Radcliffe
bitch.
"Listen, you snotty Radcliffe bitch, Friday night is the Dartmouth
hockey game"
"So?".
"So I'd like you to come."
She replied with the usual Radcliffe reverence for sport:
"Why the hell should I come to a lousy hockey game?"
I answered casually:
"Because I'm playing."
There was a brief silence. I think I heard snow falling.
"For which side?" she asked.
CHAPTER 2
Oliver Barrett IV
Ipswich, Mass.
Age 20
Major: Social Studies
Dean's List: '60,, '62 '63
All-ivy First Team: '62, '63;
Career Aim: Law
Senior
Phillips Exeter
5'11" 185 lbs.
By now Jenny had read my bio in the program. I made triple sure that
Vic Claman, the manager, saw that she got one.
"For Christ's sake, Barrett, is this your first date?"
"Shut up, Vic, or you'll be chewing your teeth."
As we warmed up on the ice, I didn't wave to her (how uncool!) or even
look her way. And yet I think she thought I was glancing at her. I mean, did
she remove her glasses during the National Anthem out of respect for the
flag?
By the middle of the second period, we were beating Dartmouth o-o. That
is, Davey Johnston and I were about to perforate their nets. The Green
bastards sensed this, and began to play rougher. Maybe they could break a
bone or two before we broke them open. The fans were already screaming for
blood. And in hockey this literally means blood or, failing that, a goal. As
a kind of noblesse oblige, I have never denied them either.
Al Redding, Dartmouth center, charged across our blue line and I
slammed into him, stole the puck and started down-ice. The fans were
roaring. I could see Davey Johnston on my left, but I thought I would take
it all the way, their goalie being a slightly chicken type I had terrorized
since he played for Deerfield. Before I could get off a shot, both their
defensemen .were on me, and I had to skate around their nets to keep hold of
the puck. There were three of us, flailing away against the boards and each
other. It had always been my policy, in pile-ups like this, to lash mightily
at anything wearing enemy colors. Somewhere beneath our skates was the puck,
but for the moment we were concentrating on beating the shit out of each
other.
A ref blew his whistle.
"You-two minutes in the box!"
I looked up. He was pointing at me. Me? What had I done to deserve a
penalty?
"Come on, ref, what'd I do?"
Somehow he wasn't interested in further dialogue. He was calling to the
officials' desk-"Number seven, two minutes -and signaling with his arms.
Iremonstrated a bit, but that's de rigueur. The crowd expects a
protest, no matter how flagrant the offense. The ref waved me off. Seething
with frustration, I skated toward the penalty box. As I climbed in,
listening to the click of my skate blades on the wood of the floor, I heard
the bark of the PA system:
"Penalty. Barrett of Harvard. Two minutes. Holding."
The crowd booed; several Harvards impugned the vision and integrity of
the referees. I sat, trying to catch my breath, not looking up or even out
onto the ice, where Dartmouth outmanned us.
"Why are you sitting here when all your friends are out playing?"
The voice was Jenny's. I ignored her, and exhorted my teammates
instead.
"C'mon, Harvard, get that puck!"
"What did you do wrong?"
I turned and answered her. She was my date, after
"I tried too hard."
And I went back to watching my teammates try to hold off Al Redding's
determined efforts to score.
"Is this a big disgrace?"
"Jenny, please, I'm trying to concentrate!"
"On what?"
"On how I'm gonna total that bastard Al Redding!"
I looked out onto the ice to give moral support to my colleagues.
"Are you a dirty player?"
My eyes were riveted on our goal, now swarming with Green bastards. I
couldn't wait to get out there again. Jenny persisted.
"Would you ever 'total' me?"
I answered her without turning.
"I will right now if you don't shut up.
"I'm leaving. Good-bye."
By the time I turned, she had disappeared. As I stood up to look
further, I was informed that my two-minute sentence was up. I leaped the
barrier, back onto the ice.
The crowd welcomed my return. Barrett s on wing, all's right with the
team. Wherever she was hiding, Jenny would hear the big enthusiasm for my
presence. So who cares where she is.
Where is she?
Al Redding slapped a murderous shot, which our goalie deflected off
toward Gene Kennaway, who then passed it down-ice in my vicinity. As I
skated after the puck, I thought I had a split second to glance up at the
stands to search for Jenny. I did. I saw her. She was there.
The next thing I knew I was on my ass.
Two Green bastards had slammed into me, my ass was on the ice, and I
was-Christ!--embarrassed beyond belief. Barrett dumped! I could hear the
loyal Harvard fans groaning for me as I skidded. I could hear the
bloodthirsty Dartmouth fans chanting.
"Hit 'em again! Hit 'em again!"
What would Jenny think?
Dartmouth had the puck around our goal again, and again our goalie
deflected their shot. Kennaway pushed it at Johnston, who rifled it down to
me (I had stood up by this time). Now the crowd was wild. This had to be a
score. I took the puck and sped all out across Dartmouth's blue line. Two
Dartmouth defensemen were coming straight at me.
"Go, Oliver, go! Knock their heads off!"
I heard Jenny's shrill scream above the crowd. It was exquisitely
violent. I faked out one defenseman, slammed the other so hard he lost his
breath and then
-instead of shooting off balance-I passed off to Davey Johnston, who
had come up the right side. Davey slapped it into the nets. Harvard score!
In an instant, we were hugging and kissing. Me and Davey Johnston and
the other guys. Hugging and kissing and back slapping and jumping up and
down (on skates). The crowd was screaming. And the Dartmouth guy I hit was
still on his ass. The fans threw programs onto the ice. This really broke
Dartmouth's back. (That's a metaphor; the defenseman got up when he caught
his breath.) We creamed them 7-0.
If I were a sentimentalist, and cared enough about Harvard to hang a
photograph on the wall, it would not be of Winthrop House, or Mem Church,
but of Dillon. Dillon Field House. If I had a spiritual home at Harvard,
this was it. Nate Pusey may revoke my diploma for saying this, but Widener
Library means far less to me than Dillon. Every afternoon of my college life
I walked into that place, greeted my buddies with friendly obscenities, shed
the trappings of civilization and turned into a jock. How great to put on
the pads and the good old number ~ shirt (I had dreams of them retiring that
number; they didn't), to take the skates and walk out toward the Watson
Rink.
The return to Dillon would be even better. Peeling off the sweaty gear,
strutting naked to the supply desk to get a towel.
"How 'd it go today, Ollie?"
"Good, Richie. Good, Jimmy."
Then into the showers to listen to who did what to whom how many times
last Saturday night. "We got these pigs from Mount Ida, see . . . ?" And I
was privileged to enjoy a private place of meditation. Being blessed with a
bad knee (yes, blessed: have you seen my draft card?), I had to give it some
whirlpool after playing. As I sat and watched the rings run round my knee, I
could catalog my cuts and bruises (I enjoy them, in a way), and kind of
think about anything or nothing. Tonight I could think of a goal, an assist
and virtually locking up my third consecutive All-Ivy.
"Taking' some whirly-pooly, Ollie?"
It was Jackie Felt, our trainer and self-appointed spiritual guide.
"What does it look like I'm doing, Felt, beating off?"
Jackie chortled and lit up with an idiot grin.
"Know what's wrong with yer knee, Ollie? Diya know?"
I'd been to every orthopedist in the East, but Felt knew better.
"Yer not eatin' right."
Ireally wasn't very interested.
"Yer not eatin' enough salt."
Maybe if I humor him he'll go away.
"Okay, Jack, I'll start eating more salt."
Jesus, was he pleased! He walked off with this amazing look of
accomplishment on his idiot face. Anyway, I was alone again. I let my whole
pleasantly aching body slide into the whirlpool, closed my eyes and just sat
there, up to my neck in warmth. Ahhhhhhh.
Jesus! Jenny would be waiting outside. I hope! Still! Jesus! How long
had I lingered in that comfort while she was out there in the Cambridge
cold? I set a new record for getting dressed. I wasn't even quite dry as I
pushed open the center door of Dillon.
The cold air hit me. God, was it freezing. And dark. There was still a
small cluster of fans. Mostly old hockey faithfuls, the grads who've never
mentally shed the pads. Guys like old Jordan Jencks, who come to every
single game, home or away. How do they do it? I mean, Jencks is a big
banker. And why do they do it?
"Quite a spill you took, Oliver."
"Yeah, Mr. Jencks. You know what kind of game they play."
I was looking everywhere for 4enny. Had she left and walked all the way
back to Radcliffe alone?
"Jenny?"
I took three or four steps away from the fans, searching desperately.
Suddenly she popped out from behind a bush, her face swathed in a scarf,
only her eyes showing.
"Hey, Preppie, it's cold as hell out here." Was I glad to see her!
"Jenny!"
Like instinctively, I kissed her lightly on the forehead.
"Did I say you could?" she said.
"What?"
"Did I say you could kiss me?"
"Sorry. I was carried away.
"I wasn't."
We were pretty much all alone out there, and it was dark and cold and
late. I kissed her again. But not on the forehead, and not lightly. It
lasted a long nice time. When we stopped kissing, she was still holding on
to my sleeves.
"I don't like it," she said.
"What?"
"The fact that I like it."
As we walked all the way back (I have a car, but she wanted to walk),
Jenny held on to my sleeve. Not my arm, my sleeve. Don't ask me to explain
that. At the doorstep of Briggs Hall, I did not kiss her good night.
"Listen, Jen, I may not call you for a few months." She was silent for
a moment. A few moments.
Finally she asked, "Why?"
"Then again, I may call you as soon as I get to my room."
I turned and began to walk off.
"Bastard!" I heard her whisper.
I pivoted again and scored from a distance of twenty feet.
"See, Jenny, you can dish it out, but you can't take it"
I would like to have seen the expression on her face, but strategy
forbade my looking back.
My roommate, Ray Stratton, was playing poker with two football buddies
as I entered the room.
"Hello, animals."
They responded with appropriate grunts. "Whatja get tonight, Ollie?"
Ray asked. "An assist and a goal," I replied. "Off Cavilleri."
"None of your business," I replied.
"Who's this?" asked one of the behemoths. "Jenny Cavilleri," answered
Ray. "Wonky music type."
"I know that one," said another. "A real tight-ass." I ignored these
crude and horny bastards as I untangled the phone and started to take it
into my bedroom.
"She plays piano with the Bach Society," said Stratton.
"What does she play with Barrett?"
"Probably hard to get!"
Oinks, grunts and guffaws. The animals were laughing.
"Gentlemen," I announced as I took leave, "up yours."
I closed my door on another wave of subhuman noises, took off my shoes,
lay back on the bed and dialed Jenny's number.
We spoke in whispers.
"Hey, Jen..
"Yeah?"
"Jen... what would you say if I told you.. I hesitated. She waited.
"I ~hink... I'm in love with you."
There was a pause. Then she answered very softly.
"I would say. . . you were full of shit." She hung up.
I wasn't unhappy. Or surprised.
CHAPTER 3
I got hurt in the Cornell game.
It was my own fault, really. At a heated juncture, I made the
unfortunate error of referring to their center as a "fucking Canuck." My
oversight was in not remembering that four members of their team were
Canadians-all, it turned out, extremely patriotic, well-built and within
earshot. To add insult to injury, the penalty was called on me. And not a
common one, either:
five minutes for fighting. You should have heard the Cornell fans ride
me when it was announced! Not many Harvard rooters had come way the hell up
to Ithaca, New York, even though the Ivy title was at stake. Five minutes! I
could see our coach tearing his hair out, as I climbed into the box.
Jackie Felt came scampering over. It was only then
I realized that the whole right side of my face was a
a bloody mess. "Jesus Christ," he kept repeating as
he worked me over with a styptic pencil. "Jesus, Ollie." I sat quietly,
staring blankly ahead. I was ashamed
to look onto the ice, where my worst fears were quickly realized;
Cornell scored. The Red fans screamed and bellowed and hooted. It was a tie
now. Cornell could very possibly win the game-and with it, the Ivy title.
Shit-and I had barely gone through half my penalty.
Across the rink, the minuscule Harvard contingent was grim and silent.
By now the fans for both sides had forgotten me. Only one spectator still
had his eyes on the penalty box. Yes, he was there. "if the conference
breaks in time, i'll try to get to Cornell." Sitting among the Harvard
rooters-but not rooting, of course- was Oliver Barrett III.
Across the gulf of ice, Old Stonyface observed in expressionless
silence as the last bit of blood on the face of his only son was stopped by
adhesive papers. What was he thinking, do you think? Tch tch tch-or words to
that effect?
"Oliver, if you like fighting so much, why don't you go out for the
boxing team?"
"Exeter doesn't have a boxing team, Father."
"Well, perhaps 1 shouldn't come up to your hockey games."
"Do you think 1 fight for your benefit, Father?"
"Well, I wouldn't say 'benefit.'"
But of course, who could tell what he was thinking? Oliver Barrett III
was a walking, sometimes talking Mount Rushmore. Stonyface.
Perhaps Old Stony was indulging in his usual self- celebration: Look at
me, there are extremely few Harvard spectators here this evening, and yet I
am one of them. I, Oliver Barrett III, an extremely busy man with banks to
run and so forth, I have taken the time to come up to Cornell for a lousy
hockey game. How wonderful. (For whom?)
The crowd roared again, but really wild this time. Another Cornell
goal. They were ahead. And I had two minutes of penalty to go! Davey
Johnston skated up-ice, red-faced, angry. He passed right by me without so
much as a glance. And did I notice tears in his eyes? I mean, okay, the
title was at stake, but Jesus- tears! But then Davey, our captain, had this
incredible streak going for him: seven years and he'd never played on a
losing side, high school or college. It was like a minor legend. And he was
a senior. And this was our last tough game.
Which we lost, 6-3.
After the game, an X ray determined that no bones were broken, and then
twelve stitches were sewn into my cheek by Richard Seizer, M.D. Jackie Felt
hovered around the med room, telling the Cornell physician how I wasn't
eating right and that all this might have been averted had I been taking
sufficient salt pills. Seizer ignored Jack, and gave me a stern warning
about my nearly damaging "the floor of my orbit" (those are the medical
terms) and that not to play for a week would be the wisest thing. I thanked
him. He left, with Felt dogging him to talk more of nutrition. I was glad
to. be alone.
I showered slowly, being careful not to wet my sore face. The Novocain
was wearing off a little, but I was somehow happy to feel pain. I mean,
hadn't I really fucked up? We'd blown the title, broken our own streak (all
the seniors had been undefeated) and Davey Johnston's too. Maybe the blame
wasn't totally mine, but right then I felt like it was.
There was nobody in the locker room. They must all have been at the
motel already. I supposed no one wanted to see me or speak to me. With this
terrible bitter taste in my mouth-I felt so bad I could taste it- I packed
my gear and walked outside. There were not many Harvard fans out there in
the wintry wilds of upstate New York.
"How's the cheek, Barrett?"
"Okay, thanks, Mr. Jencks."
"You'll probably want a steak," said another familiar voice. Thus spake
Oliver Barrett III. How typical of him to suggest the old-fashioned cure for
a black eye.
"Thank you, Father," I said. "The doctor took care of it." I indicated
the gauze pad covering Seizer's twelve stitches.
"I mean for your stomach, son.
At dinner, we had yet another in our continuing series of
nonconversations, all of which commence with "How've you been?" and conclude
with "Anything I can do?"
"How've you been, son?"
"Fine, sir."
"Does your face hurt?"
"No, sir.
It was beginning to hurt like hell.
"I'd like Jack Wells to look at it on Monday."
"Not necessary, Father."
"He's a specialist-"
"The Cornell doctor wasn't exactly a veterinarian," I said, hoping to
dampen my father's usual snobbish enthusiasm for specialists, experts, and
all other "top people."
"Too bad," remarked Oliver Barrett III, in what I first took to be a
stab at humor, "you did get a beastly cut."
"Yes sir," I said. (Was I supposed to chuckle?)
And then I wondered if my father's quasi-witticism had not been
intended as some sort of implicit reprimand for my actions on the ice.
"Or were you implying that I behaved like an animal this evening?"
His expression suggested some pleasure at the fact that I had asked
him. But he simply replied, "You were the one who mentioned veterinarians."
At this point, I decided to study the menu.
As the main course was served, Old Stony launched into another of his
simplistic sermonettes, this one, if I recall-and I try not to-concerning
victories and defeats. He noted that we had lost the title (very sharp of
you, Father), but after all, in sport what really counts is not the winning
but the playing. His remarks sounded suspiciously close to a paraphrase of
the Olympic motto, and I sensed this was the overture to a put-down of such
athletic trivia as Ivy titles. But I was not about to feed him any Olympic
straight lines, so I gave him his quota of "Yes sir"s and shut up.
We ran the usual conversational gamut, which centers around Old Stony's
favorite nontopic, my plans.
"Tell me, Oliver, have you heard from the Law School?"
"Actually, Father, I haven't definitely decided on law school."
"I was merely asking if law school had definitely decided on you."
Was this another witticism? Was I supposed to smile at my father's rosy
rhetoric?
"No sir. I haven't heard."
"I could give Price Zimmermann a ring-"
"No!" I interrupted as an instant reflex. "Please don't, sir".
"Not to influence," O.B. III said very uprightly "just to inquire."
"Father, I want to get the , letter with everyone else
Please."
"Yes. Of course. Fine."
"Thank you, sir."
"Besides there really isn't much doubt about your getting in," he
added.
Idon't know why, but O.B. III has a way of disparaging me even while
uttering laudatory phrases.
"It's no cinch," I replied. "They don't have a hockey team, after all."
I have no idea why I was putting myself down. Maybe it was because he
was taking the opposite view.
"You have other qualities," said Oliver Barrett III, but declined to
elaborate. (I doubt if he could have.)
The meal was as lousy as the conversation, except that I could have
predicted the staleness of the rolls even before they arrived, whereas I can
never predict what subject my father will set blandly before me.
"And there's always the Peace Corps," he remarked, completely out of
the blue.
"Sir?" I asked, not quite sure whether he was making a statement or
asking a question.
"I think the Peace Corps is a fine thing, don't you?" he said.
"Well," I replied, "it's certainly better than the War Corps."
We were even. I didn't know what he meant and vice versa. Was that it
for the topic? Would we now discuss other current affairs or government
programs? No. I had momentarily forgotten that our quintessential theme is
always my plans.
"I would certainly have no objection to your joining the Peace Corps,
Oliver."
"It's mutual, sir," I replied, matching his own generosity of spirit.
I'm sure Old Stony never listens to me anyway, so I'm not surprised that he
didn't react to my quiet little sarcasm.
"But among your classmates," he continued, "what is the attitude
there?"
"Sir?"
"Do they feel the Peace Corps is relevant to their lives?"
I guess my father needs to hear the phrase as much as a fish needs
water: "Yes sir."
Even the apple pie was stale.
At about eleven-thirty, I walked him to his car.
"Anything I can do, son?"
"No, sir. Good night, sir."
And he drove off.
Yes, there are planes between Boston and Ithaca, New York, but Oliver
Barrett III chose to drive. Not that those many hours at the wheel could be
taken as some kind of parental gesture. My father simply likes to drive.
Fast. And at that hour of the night in an Aston Martin DBS you can go fast
as hell. I have no doubt that Oliver Barrett III was out to break his
Ithaca- Boston speed record, set the year previous after we had beaten
Cornell and taken the title. I know, because I saw him glance at his watch.
I went back to the motel to phone Jenny.
It was the only good part of the evening. I told her all about the
fight (omitting the precise nature of the casus belli) and I could tell she
enjoyed it. Not many of her wonky musician friends either threw or received
punches.
"Did you at least total the guy that hit you?" she asked.
"Yeah. Totally. I creamed him."
"I wish I coulda seen it. Maybe you'll beat up somebody in the Yale
game, huh?"
"Yeah."
I smiled. How she loved the simple things in life.
CHAPTER 4
"Jenny's on the downstairs phone."
This information was announced to me by the girl on bells, although I
had not identified myself or my purpose in coming to Briggs Hall that Monday
evening. I quickly concluded that this meant points for me. Obviously the
'Cliffle who greeted me read the Crimson and knew who I was. Okay, that had
happened many times. More significant was the fact that Jenny had been
mentioning that she was dating me.
"Thanks," I said. "I'll wait here."
"Too bad about Cornell. The Crime says four guys jumped you."
"Yeah. And I got the penalty. Five minutes.
"Yeah."
The difference between a friend and a fan is that with the latter you
quickly run out of conversation.
"Jenny off the phone yet?"
She checked her switchboard, replied, "No."
Who could Jenny be talking to that was worth appropriating moments set
aside for a date with me? Some musical wonk? It was not unknown to me that
Martin Davidson, Adams House senior and conductor of the Bach Society
orchestra, considered himself to have a franchise on Jenny's attention. Not
body; I don't think the guy could wave more than his baton. Anyway, I would
put a stop to this usurpation of my time.
"Where's the phone booth?"
"Around the corner." She pointed in the precise direction.
I ambled into the lounge area. From afar I could see Jenny on the
phone. She had left the booth door open. I walked slowly, casually, hoping
she would catch sight of me, my bandages, my injuries in Toto, and be moved
to slam down the receiver and rush to my arms. As I approached, I could hear
fragments of conversation.
"Yeah. Of course! Absolutely. Oh, me too, Phil. I love you too, Phil."
I stopped ambling. Who was she talking to? It wasn't
Davidson-there was no Phil in any part of his name.
I had long ago checked him out in our Class Register:
Martin Eugene Davidson, 70 Riverside Drive, New
York. High School of Music and Art. His photo suggested sensitivity,
intelligence and about fifty pounds less than me. But why was I bothering
about Davidson? Clearly both he and I were being shot down by Jennifer
Cavilleri, for someone to whom she was at this moment (how gross!) blowing
kisses into the phone!
I had been away only forty-eight hours, and some bastard named Phil had
crawled into bed with Jenny (it had to be that!).
"Yeah, Phil, I love you too. 'Bye."
As she was hanging up, she saw me, and without so much as blushing, she
smiled and waved me a kiss. How could she be so two-faced?
She kissed me lightly on my unhurt cheek.
"Hey-you look awful."
"I'm injured, Jen."
"Does the other guy look worse?"
"Yeah. Much. I always make the other guy look worse."
I said that as ominously as I could, sort of implying that I would
punch-out any rivals who would creep into bed with Jenny while I was out of
sight and evidently out of mind. She grabbed my sleeve and we started toward
the door.
"Night, Jenny," called the girl on bells.
"Night, Sara Jane," Jenny called back.
When we were outside, about to step into my MG, I oxygenated my lungs
with a breath of evening, and put the question as casually as I could.
"Say, Jen . .
"Yeah?"
"Uh-who's Phil?"
She answered matter-of-factly as she got into the car:
"My father."
I wasn't about to believe a story like that.
"You call your father Phil?"
"That's his name. What do you call yours?" Jenny had once told me she
had been raised by her father, some sort of a baker type, in Cranston, Rhode
Island. When she was very young, her mother was killed in a car crash. All
this by way of explaining why she had no driver's license. Her father, in
every other way "a truly good guy" (her words), was incredibly superstitious
about letting his only daughter drive. This was a real drag during her last
years of high school, when she was taking piano with a guy in Providence.
But then she got to read all of Proust on those long bus rides.
"What do you call yours?" she asked again.
I had been so out of it, I hadn't heard her question.
"My what?"
"What term do you employ when you speak of your progenitor?"
I answered with the term I'd always wanted to employ.
"Sonovabitch."
"To his face?" she asked.
"I never see his face."
"He wears a mask?"
"In a way, yes. Of stone. Of absolute stone."
"Go on-he must be proud as hell. You're a big Harvard jock."
I looked at her. I guess she didn't know everything, after all.
"So was he, Jenny."
"Bigger than All-Ivy wing?"
Iliked the way she enjoyed my athletic credentials. Too bad I had to
shoot myself down by giving her my father's.
"He rowed single sculls in the 1928 Olympics."
"God," she said. "Did he win?"
"No," I answered, and I guess she could tell that the fact that he was
sixth in the finals actually afforded me some comfort.
There was a little silence. Now maybe Jenny would understand that to be
Oliver Barrett IV doesn't just mean living with that gray stone edifice in
Harvard Yard. It involves a kind of muscular intimidation as well. I mean,
the image of athletic achievement looming down on you. I mean, on me.
"But what does he do to qualify as a sonovabitch?" Jenny asked.
"Make me," I replied.
"Beg pardon?"
"Make me," I repeated.
Her eyes widened like saucers. "You mean like incest?" she asked.
"Don't give me your family problems, Jen. I've got enough of my own."
"Like what, Oliver?" she asked, "like just what is it he makes you do?"
"The 'right things'" I said.
"What's wrong with the 'right things'?" she asked, delighting in the
apparent paradox.
I told her how I loathed being programmed for the Barrett
Tradition-which she should have realized, having seen me cringe at having to
mention the numeral at the end of my name. And I did not like having to
deliver x amount of achievement every single term.
"Oh yeah," said Jenny with broad sarcasm, "I notice how you hate
getting A's, being All-Ivy-"
"What I hate is that he expects no less!" Just saying what I had always
felt (but never before spoken) made me feel uncomfortable as hell, but now I
had to make Jenny understand it all. "And he's so incredibly blase when I do
come through. I mean he just takes me absolutely for granted."
"But he's a busy man. Doesn't he run lots of banks and things?"
"Jesus, Jenny, whose side are you on?"
"Is this a war?" she asked.
"Most definitely," I replied.
"That's ridiculous, Oliver."
She seemed genuinely unconvinced. And there I got my first inkling of a
cultural gap between us. I mean, three and a half years of Harvard-Radcliffe
had pretty much made us into the cocky intellectuals that institution
traditionally produces, but when it came to accepting the fact that my
father was made of stone, she adhered to some atavistic
Italian-Mediterranean notion of papa-loves-bambinos, and there was no
arguing otherwise.
I tried to cite a case in point. That ridiculous nonconversation after
the Cornell game. This definitely made an impression on her. But the goddamn
wrong one.
"He went all the way up to Ithaca to watch a lousy hockey game?"
Itried to explain that my father was all form and no content. She was
still obsessed with the fact that he had traveled so far for such a
(relatively) trivial sports event.
"Look, Jenny, can we just forget it?"
"Thank God you're hung up about your father," she replied. "That means
you're not perfect."
"Oh-you mean you are?"
"Hell no, Preppie. If I was, would I be going out with you?"
Back to business as usual.
CHAPTER 5
I would like to say a word about our physical relationship.
For a strangely long while there wasn't any. I mean, there wasn't
anything more significant than those kisses already mentioned (all of which
I still remember in greatest detail). This was not standard procedure as far
as I was concerned, being rather impulsive, impatient and quick to action.
If you were to tell any of a dozen girls at Tower Court, VJellesley, that
Oliver Barrett IV had been dating a young lady daily for three weeks and had
not slept with her, they would surely have laughed and severely questioned
the femininity of the girl involved. But of course the actual facts were
quite different.
1 didn't know what to do.
Don't misunderstand or take that too literally. I knew all the moves. I
just couldn't cope with my own feelings about making them. Jenny was so
smart that I was afraid she might laugh at what I had traditionally
considered the suave romantic (and unstoppable) style of Oliver Barrett IV.
I was afraid of being rejected, yes. I was also afraid of being accepted for
the wrong reasons. What I am fumbling to say is that I felt different about
Jennifer, and didn't know what to say or even who to ask about it. ("You
should have asked me," she said later.) I just knew I had these feelings.
For her. For all of her.
"You're gonna flunk out, Oliver."
We were sitting in my room on a Sunday afternoon, reading.
"Oliver, you're gonna flunk out if you just sit there watching me
study."
"I'm not watching you study. I'm studying."
"Bullshit. You're looking at my legs."
"Only once in a while. Every chapter."
''That book has extremely short chapters.
"Listen, you narcissistic bitch, you're not that great- looking!"
"I know. But can I help it if you think so?"
I threw down my book and crossed the room to where she was sitting.
"Jenny, for Christ's sake, how can I read John Stuart Mill when every
single second I'm dying to make love to you?"
She screwed up her brow and frowned.
"Oh, Oliver, wouldja please?"
I was crouching by her chair. She looked back into her book.
"Jenny-"
She closed her book softly, put it down, then placed her hands on the
sides of my neck.
"Oliver-wouldja please."
It all happened at once. Everything.
Our first physical encounter was the polar opposite of our first verbal
one. It was all so unhurried, so soft, so gentle. I had never realized that
this was the real Jenny-the soft one, whose touch was so light and so
loving. And yet what truly shocked me was my own response. I was gentle. I
was tender. Was this the real Oliver Barrett IV?
As I said, I had never seen Jenny with so much as her sweater opened an
extra button. I was somewhat surprised to find that she wore a tiny golden
cross. On one of those chains that never unlock. Meaning that when we made
love, she still wore the cross. In a resting moment of that lovely
afternoon, at one of those junctures when everything and nothing is
relevant, I touched the little cross and inquired what her priest might have
to say about our being in bed together, and so forth. She answered that she
had no priest.
"Aren't you a good Catholic girl?" I asked.
"Well, I'm a girl," she said. "And I'm good."
She