Love Story Page 7

  “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.

  “Jen?”

  “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.

  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. 861-908).

  “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.”

  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 advantage 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 $11,800, the absolute highest salary received by any member of our graduating class.

  So you see I was only third academically.

  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.

  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, Ol?”) 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 Marsh, I was almost certain. Would I please drop by his office on the way home? When I heard this was not to be a three-way conversation (“I spoke to Mrs. Barrett earlier today”), my suspicions were confirmed. Jenny could not have children. Although, let’s not phrase it in the absolute, Oliver; remember Sheppard mentioned there were things like corrective surgery and so forth. But I couldn’t concentrate at all, and it was foolish to wait it out till five o’clock. I called Sheppard back and asked if he could see me in the early afternoon. He said okay.