Love Story, Page 2

  “Quite a spill you took, Oliver.”

  “Yeah, Mr. Jencks. You know what kind of game they play.”

  I was looking everywhere for Jenny. 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 think… 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.

  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 I shouldn’t come up to your hockey games.”

  “Do you think I 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 Selzer, 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. Selzer 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 Barre
tt 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 Selzer’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. Ill 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.

  I don’t know why, but O.B. Ill 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.

  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 ’Cliffie 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.