Love Story

'Uh — no, Phil, no.'

'Thank Christ. How are you, Oliver?'

Once assured of his daughter's safety, he was casual and friendly. As if he had not been aroused from the depths of slumber.

'Fine, Phil, I'm great. Fine. Say, Phil, what do you hear from Jenny?'

'Not enough, goddammit,' he answered in a strangely calm voice.

'What do you mean, Phil?'

'Christ, she should call more often, goddammit. I'm not a stranger, you know.'

If you can be relieved and panicked at the same time, that's what I was.

'Is she there with you?' he asked me.

'Huh?'

'Put Jenny on; I'll yell at her myself.'

'I can't, Phil.'

'Oh, is she asleep? If she's asleep, don't disturb her.'

'Yeah,' I said.

'Listen, you bastard,' he said.

'Yes, sir?'

'How goddamn far is Cranston that you can't come down on a Sunday afternoon? Huh? Or I can come up, Oliver.'

'Uh — no, Phil. We'll come down.'

'When?'

'Some Sunday.'

'Don't give me that 'some' crap. A loyal child doesn't say 'some,' he says 'this.' This Sunday, Oliver.'

'Yes, sir. This Sunday.'

'Four o'clock. But drive carefully. Right?'

'Right.'

'And next time call collect, goddammit.'

He hung up.

I just stood there, lost on that island in the dark of Harvard Square, not knowing where to go or what to do next. A colored guy approached me and inquired if I was in need of a fix. I kind of absently replied, 'No, thank you, sir.'

I wasn't running now. I mean, what was the rush to return to the empty house? It was very late and I was numb — more with fright than with the cold (although it wasn't warm, believe me). From several yards off, I thought I saw someone sitting on the top of the steps. This had to be my eyes playing tricks, because the figure was motionless.

But it was Jenny.

She was sitting on the top step.

I was too tired to panic, too relieved to speak. Inwardly I hoped she had some blunt instrument with which to hit me.

'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.