Love Story

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!

18

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 let her make breakfast and so forth.

'Seeing Stratton today?' she asked, as I was having a second bowl of Special K.

'Who?' I asked.

'Raymond Stratton '64,' 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!