Jennifer was awarded her degree on Wednesday. All sorts of relatives from Cranston, Fall River - and even an aunt from Cleveland - flocked to Cambridge to attend the ceremony. By prior arrangement, I was not introduced as her fianc? and Jenny wore no ring: this so that none would be offended (too soon) about missing our wedding.
  'Aunt Clara, this is my boyfriend Oliver,' Jenny would say, always adding, 'He isn't a college graduate.'
  There was plenty of rib poking, whispering and even overt speculation, but the relatives could pry no specific information from either of us - or from Phil, who I guess was happy to avoid a discussion of love among the atheists.
  On Thursday, I became Jenny's academic equal, receiving my degree from Harvard - like her own, magna cum laude. Moreover, I was Class Marshal, and in this capacity got to lead the graduating seniors to their seats. This meant walking ahead of even the summas, the super-superbrains. I was almost moved to tell these types that my presence as their leader decisively proved my theory that an hour in Dillon Field House is worth two in Widener Library. But I refrained. Let the joy be universal.
  I have no idea whether Oliver Barrett 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 Stonyface could enter and sit with the Class of བ. 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, an 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 - her tall, 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 nigh and nigher,
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.'

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 dough 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 Khayyam? 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'
  'Listen, it's three bucks.'
  'What do you mean?'
  'I 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, Ol, 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 ticker, 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.

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.'
  I 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.
  'Listen, 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?
  I 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 Caf?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 1 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 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.

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,
  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 ོ, was bookish, bespectacled, nonathletic and not her type, and the number - two man was Bella Landau, Bryn Mawr ོ, 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.'

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.

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 ོ, 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, calenders, 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.
  'Do you know whose fault it is?' I asked, not mincing any words.
  'I really wouldn't say 'fault,' Oliver,' he replied.
  'Well, okay, do you know which of us is malfunctioning?'
  'Yes. Jenny.'
  I had been more or less prepared for this, but the finality with which the doctor pronounced it still threw me. He wasn't saying anything more, so I assumed he wanted a statement of some sort from me.
  'Okay, so we'll adopt kids. I mean, the important thing is that we love each other, right?'
  And then he told me.
  'Oliver, the problem is more serious than that. Jenny is very sick.'
  'Would you define 'very sick,' please?'
  'She's dying.'
  'That's impossible,' I said.
  And I waited for the doctor to tell me that it was all a grim joke.
  'She is, Oliver,' he said. 'I'm very sorry to have to tell you this.'
  I insisted that he had made some mistake - perhaps that idiot nurse of his had screwed up again and given him the wrong X rays or something. He replied with as much compassion as he could that Jenny's blood test had been repeated three times. There was absolutely no question about the diagnosis. He would of course have to refer us - me - Jenny to a hematologist. In fact, he could suggest -
  I waved my hand to cut him off. I wanted silence for a minute. Just silence to let it all sink in. Then a thought occurred to me.
  'What did you tell Jenny, doctor?'
  'That you were both all right.'
  'She bought it?'
  'I think so.'
  'When do we have to tell her?'
  'At this point, it's up to you.'
  Up to me! Christ, at this point I didn't feel up to breathing.
  The doctor explained that what therapy they had for Jenny's form of leukemia was merely palliative - it could relieve, it might retard, but it could not reverse. So at that point it was up to me. They could withhold therapy for a while.
  But at that moment all I really could think of was how obscene the whole fucking thing was.
  'She's only twenty-four!' I told the doctor, shouting, I think. He nodded, very patiently, knowing full well Jenny's age, but also understanding what agony this was for me. Finally I realized that I couldn't just sit in this man's office forever. So I asked him what to do. I mean, what I should do. He told me to act as normal as possible for as long as possible. I thanked him and left.
  Normal! Normal!

I began to think about God.
  I mean, the notion of a Supreme Being existing somewhere began to creep into my private thoughts. Not because I wanted to strike Him on the face, to punch Him out for what He was about to do to me - to Jenny, that is. No, the kind of religious thoughts I had were just the opposite. Like when I woke up in the morning and Jenny was there. Still there. I'm sorry, embarrassed even, but I hoped there was a God I could say thank you to. Thank you for letting me wake up and see Jennifer.
  I was trying like hell to act normal, so of course I
  'Seeing Stratton today?' she asked, as I was having a second bowl of Special K.
  'Who?' I asked.
  'Raymond Stratton ོ,' she said, 'your best friend. Your roommate before me.'
  'Yeah. We were supposed to play squash. I think I'll cancel it.'
  'Bullshit.'
  'What, Jen?'
  'Don't go canceling squash games, Preppie. I don't want a flabby husband, dammit!'
  'Okay,' I said, 'but let's have dinner downtown.'
  'Why?' she asked.
  'What do you mean, 'why'?' I yelled, trying to work up my normal mock anger. 'Can't I take my goddamn wife to dinner if I want to?'
  'Who is she, Barrett? What's her name?' Jenny asked.
  'What?'
  'Listen,' she explained. 'When you have to take your wife to dinner on a weekday, you must be screwing someone!'
  'Jennifer!' I bellowed, now honestly hurt. 'I will not have that kind of talk at my breakfast table!'
  'Then get your ass home to my dinner table. Okay?'
  'Okay.'

And I told this God, whoever and wherever He might be, that I would gladly settle for the status quo. I don't mind the agony, sir, I don't mind knowing as long as Jenny doesn't know. Did you hear me, Lord, sir? You can name the price.

'Oliver?'
  'Yes, Mr. Jonas?'
  He had called me into his office.
  'Are you familiar with the Beck affair?' he asked.
  Of course I was. Robert L. Beck, photographer for Life magazine, had the shit kicked out of him by the Chicago police, while trying to photograph a riot. Jonas considered this one of the key cases for the firm.
  'I know the cops punched him out, sir,' I told Jonas, lightheartedly (hah!).
  'I'd like you to handle it, Oliver,' he said.
  'Myself?' I asked.
  'You can take along one of the younger men,' he replied.
  Younger men? I was the youngest guy in the office. But I read his message: Oliver, despite your chronological age, you are already one of the elders of this office. One of us, Oliver.
  'Thank you, sir,' I said.
  'How soon can you leave for Chicago?' he asked.
  I had resolved to tell nobody, to shoulder the entire burden myself. So I gave old man Jonas some bullshit, I don't even remember exactly what, about how I didn't feel I could leave New York at this time, sir. And I hoped he would understand. But I know he was disappointed at my reaction to what was obviously a very significant gesture. Oh, Christ, Mr. Jonas, when you find out the real reason!

Paradox: Oliver Barrett IV leaving the office earlier, yet walking homeward more slowly. How can you explain that?
  I had gotten into the habit of window shopping on Fifth Avenue, looking at the wonderful and silly extravagant things I would have bought Jennifer had I not wanted to keep up that fiction of . . . normal.
  Sure, I was afraid to go home. Because now, several weeks after I had first learned the true facts, she was beginning to lose weight. I mean, just a little and she herself probably didn't notice. But I, who knew, noticed.
  I would window shop the airlines: Brazil, the Carribbean, Hawaii ('Get away from it all - fly into the sunshine!') and so forth. On this particular afternoon, TWA was pushing Europe in the off season: London for shoppers, Paris for lovers . . .
  'What about my scholarship? What about Paris, which I've never seen in my whole goddamn life?'
  ''What about our marriage?'
  'Who said anything about marriage?'
  'Me. I'm saying it now'
  'You want to marry me?'
  'Yes.'
  'Why?'

I was such a fantastically good credit risk that I already owned a Diners Club card. Zip! My signature on the dotted line and I .Was the proud possessor of two tickets (first class, no less) to the City of Lovers.
  Jenny looked kind of pale and gray when I got home, but I hoped my fantastic idea would put some color in those cheeks.
  'Guess what, Mrs. Barrett,' I said.
  'You got fired,' guessed my optimistic wife.
  'No. Fired up,' I replied, and pulled out the tickets.
  'Up, up and away,' I said. 'Tomorrow night to Paris.'
  'Bullshit, Oliver,' she said. But quietly, with none of her usual mock-aggression. As she spoke it then, it was a kind of endearment: 'Bullshit, Oliver.'
  'Hey, can you define 'bullshit' more specifically, please?'
  'Hey, Ollie,' she said softly, 'that's not the way we're gonna do it.'
  'Do what? 'I asked.
  'I don't want Paris. I don't need Paris. I just want you - '
  'That you've got, baby!' I interrupted, sounding falsely merry.
  'And I want time,' she continued, 'which you can't give me.'
  Now I looked into her eyes. They were ineffably sad. But sad in a way only I understood. They were saying she was sorry. That is, sorry for me.
  We stood there silently holding one another. Please, if one of us cries, let both of us cry. But preferably neither of us.
  And then Jenny explained how she had been feeling 'absolutely shitty' and gone back to Dr. Sheppard, not for consultation, but confrontation: Tell me what's wrong with me, dammit. And he did.
  I felt strangely guilty at not having been the one to break it to her. She sensed this, and made a calculatedly stupid remark.
  'He's a Yalie, Ol'
  'Who is, Jen?'
  'Ackerman. The hernatologist. A total Yalie. College and Med School.'
  'Oh,' I said, knowing that she was trying to inject some levity into the grim proceedings.
  'Can he at least read and write?' I asked.
  'That remains to be seen,' smiled Mrs. Oliver Barrett, Radcliffe ོ, 'but I know he can talk. And I wanted to talk.'
  'Okay, then, for the Yalie doctor,' I said.
  'Okay,' she said.

Now at least I wasn't afraid to go home, I wasn't scared about 'acting normal.' We were once again sharing everything, even if it was the awful knowledge that our days together were every one of them numbered.
  There were things we had to discuss, things not usually broached by twenty-four-year-old couples.
  'I'm counting on you to be strong, you hockey jock,' she said.
  'I will, I will,' I answered, wondering if the always knowing Jennifer could tell that the great hockey jock was frightened.
  'I mean, for Phil,' she continued. 'It's gonna be
  hardest for him. You, after all, you'll be the merry-widower.'
  'I won't be merry,' I interrupted.
  'You'll be merry, goddammit. I want you to be merry. Okay?'
  'Okay.'
  'Okay.'

It was about a month later, right after dinner. She was still doing the cooking; she insisted on it. I had finally persuaded her to allow me to clean up (though she gave me heat about it not being 'man's work'), and was putting away the dishes while she played Chopin on the piano. I heard her stop in mid - Prelude, and walked immediately into the living room. She was just sitting there.
  'Are you okay, Jen?' I asked, meaning it in a relative sense. She answered with another question.
  'Are you rich enough to pay for a taxi?' she asked.
  'Sure,' I replied. 'Where do you want to go?'
  'Like - the hospital,' she said.
  I was aware, in the swift flurry of motions that followed, that this was it. Jenny was going to walk out of our apartment and never come back. As she just sat there while I threw a few things together for her, I wondered what was crossing her mind. About the apartment, I mean. What would she want to look at to remember?
  Nothing. She just sat still, focusing on nothing at all.
  'Hey,' I said, 'anything special you want to take along?'
  'Uh uh.' She nodded no, then added as an afterthought, 'You.'

Downstairs it was tough to get a cab, it being theater hour and all. The doorman was blowing his whistle and waving his arms like a wild-eyed hockey referee. Jenny just leaned against me, and I secretly wished there would be no taxi, that she would just keep leaning on me. But we finally got one. And the cabbie was - just our luck - a jolly type. When he heard Mount Sinai Hospital on the double, he launched into a whole routine.
  'Don't worry, children, you're in experienced hands. The stork and I have been doing business for years.'
  In the back seat, Jenny was cuddled up against me. I was kissing her hair.
  'Is this your first?' asked our jolly driver.
  I guess Jenny could feel I was about to snap at the guy, and she whispered to me:
  'Be nice, Oliver. He's trying to be nice to us.'
  'Yes, sir,' I told him. 'It's the first, and my wife isn't feeling so great, so could we jump a few lights, please?'
  He got us to Mount Sinai in nothing flat. He was very nice, getting out to open the door for us and everything. Before taking off again, he wished us all sorts of good fortune and happiness. Jenny thanked him.

She seemed unsteady on her feet and I wanted to carry her in, but she insisted, 'Not this threshold, Preppie.' So we walked in and suffered through that painfully nit-picking process of checking in.
  'Do you have Blue Shield or other medical plan?'
  'No.'
  (Who could have thought of such trivia? We were too busy buying dishes.)
  Of course, Jenny's arrival was not unexpected. It had earlier been foreseen and was now being supervised by Bernard Ackerman, M.D., who was, as Jenny predicted, a good guy, albeit a total Yalie.
  'She's getting white cells and platelets,' Dr. Ackerman told me. 'That's what she needs most at the moment. She doesn't want antimetabolites at all.'
  'What does that mean?' I asked.
  'It's a treatment that slows cell destruction,' he explained, 'but - as Jenny knows - there can be unpleasant side effects.'
  'Listen, doctor' - I know I was lecturing him needlessly - 'Jenny's the boss. Whatever she says goes. Just you guys do everything you possibly can to make it not hurt.'
  'You can be sure of that,' he said.
  'I don't care what it costs, doctor.' I think I was raising my voice.
  'It could be weeks or months,' he said.
  'Screw the cost,' I said. He was very patient with me. I mean, I was bullying him, really.
  'I was simply saying,' Ackerman explained, 'that there's really no way of knowing how long - or how short - she'll linger.'
  'Just remember, doctor,' I commanded him, 'just remember I want her to have the very best. Private room. Special nurses. Everything. Please. I've got the money.'

20

It is impossible to drive from East Sixty-third Street, Manhattan, to Boston, Massachusetts, in less than three hours and twenty minutes. Believe me, I have tested the outer limits on this track, and I am certain that no automobile, foreign or domestic, even with some Graham Hill type at the wheel, can make it faster. I had the MG at a hundred and five on the Mass Turnpike.
  I have this cordless electric razor and you can be sure I shaved carefully, and changed my shirt in the car, before entering those hallowed offices on State Street. Even at 8 A.M. there were several distinguished - looking Boston types waiting to see Oliver Barrett III. His secretary - who knew me - didn't blink twice when she spoke my name into the intercom.
  My father did not say, 'Show him in.'
  Instead, his door opened and he appeared in person. He said, 'Oliver.'
  Preoccupied as I was with physical appearances, I noticed that he seemed a bit pale, that his hair had grown grayish (and perhaps thinner) in these three years.
  'Come in, son,' he said. I couldn't read the tone. I just walked toward his office.
  I sat in the 'client's chair.'
  We looked at one another, then let our gazes drift onto other objects in the room. I let mine fall among the items on his desk: scissors in a leather case, letter opener with a leather handle, a photo of Mother taken years ago. A photo of me (Exeter graduation).
  'How've you been, son?' he asked.
  'Well, sir,' I answered.
  'And how's Jennifer?' he asked.
  Instead of lying to him, I evaded the issue - although it was the issue - by blurting out the reason for my sudden reappearance.
  'Father, I need to borrow five thousand dollars. For a good reason.'
  He looked at me. And sort of nodded, I think.
  'Well? 'he said.
  'Sir?' I asked.
  'May I know the reason?' he asked.
  'I can't tell you, Father. Just lend me the dough. Please.'
  I had the feeling - if one can actually receive feelings from Oliver Barrett III - that he intended to give me the money. I also sensed that he didn't want to give me any heat. But he did want to . . . talk.
  'Don't they pay you at Jonas and Marsh?' he asked.
  'Yes, sir.'
  I was tempted to tell him how much, merely to let him know it was a class record, but then I thought if he knew where I worked, he probably knew my salary as well.
  'And doesn't she teach too?' he asked.
  Well, he doesn't know everything.
  'Don't call her 'she,'' I said.
  'Doesn't Jennifer teach?' he asked politely.
  'And please leave her out of this, Father. This is a personal matter. A very important personal matter.'
  'Have you gotten some girl in trouble?' he asked, but without any deprecation in his voice.
  'Yeah,' I said, 'yes, sir. That's it. Give me the dough. Please.'
  I don't think for a moment he believed my reason. I don't think he really wanted to know. He had questioned me merely, as I said before, so we could . . . talk.
  He reached into his desk drawer and took out a checkbook bound in the same cordovan leather as the handle of his letter opener and the case for his scissors. He opened it slowly. Not to torture me, I don't think, but to stall for time. To find things to say. Non-abrasive things.
  He finished writing the check, tore it from the book and then held it out toward me. I was maybe a split second slow in realizing I should reach out my hand to meet his. So he got embarrassed (I think), withdrew his hand and placed the check on the edge of his desk. He looked at me now and nodded. His expression seemed to say, 'There it is, son.' But all he really did was nod.
  It's not that I wanted to leave, either. It's just that I myself couldn't think of anything neutral to say. And we couldn't just sit there, both of us willing to talk and yet unable even to look the other straight in the face.
  I leaned over and picked up the check. Yes, it said five thousand dollars, signed Oliver Barrett HI. It was already dry. I folded it carefully and put it into my shirt pocket as I rose and shuffled to the door. I should at least have said something to the effect that I knew that on my account very important Boston dignitaries (maybe even Washington) were cooling their heels in his outer office, and yet if we had more to say to one another I could even hang around your office, Father, and you would cancel your luncheon plans . . . and so forth.
  I stood there with the door half open, and summoned the courage to look at him and say:
  'Thank you, Father.'