Love Story

'I don't know,' I replied. 'Shakespeare.'

'Yeah, but who?' she said kind of plaintively. 'I can't remember which play, even. I went to Radcliffe, I should remember things. I once knew all the Mozart Köchel listings.'

'Big deal,' I said.

'You bet it was,' she said, and then screwed up her forehead, asking, 'What number is the C Minor Piano Concerto?'

'I'll look it up,' I said.

I knew just where. Back in the apartment, on a shelf by the piano. I would look it up and tell her first thing tomorrow.

'I used to know,' Jenny said, 'I did. I used to know.'

'Listen,' I said, Bogart style, 'do you want to talk music?'

'Would you prefer talking funerals?' she asked.

'No,' I said, sorry for having interrupted her.

'I discussed it with Phil. Are you listening, Ollie?'

I had turned my face away.

'Yeah, I'm listening, Jenny.'

'I told him he could have a Catholic service, you'd say okay. Okay?'

'Okay,' I said.

'Okay,' she replied.

And then I felt slightly relieved, because after all, whatever we talked of now would have to be an improvement.

I was wrong.

'Listen, Oliver,' said Jenny, and it was in her angry voice, albeit soft. 'Oliver, you've got to stop being sick!'

'Me?'

'That guilty look on your face, Oliver, it's sick.'

Honestly, I tried to change my expression, but my facial muscles were frozen.

'It's nobody's fault, you preppie bastard,' she was saying. 'Would you please stop blaming yourself!'

I wanted to keep looking at her because I wanted to never take my eyes from her, but still I had to lower my eyes, I was so ashamed that even now Jenny was reading my mind so perfectly.

'Listen, that's the only goddamn thing I'm asking, Ollie. Otherwise, I know you'll be okay.'

That thing in my gut was stirring again, so I was afraid to even speak the word 'okay.' I just looked mutely at Jenny.

'Screw Paris,' she said suddenly.

'Huh?'

'Screw Paris and music and all the crap you think you stole from me. I don't care, you sonovabitch. Can't you believe that?'

'No,' I answered truthfully.

'Then get the hell out of here,' she said. 'I don't want you at my goddamn deathbed.'

She meant it. I could tell when Jenny really meant something. So I bought permission to stay by telling a lie:

'I believe you,' I said.

'That's better,' she said. 'Now would you do me a favor?' From somewhere inside me came this devastating assault to make me cry. But I withstood. I would not cry. I would merely indicate to Jennifer — by the affirmative nodding of my head — that I would be happy to do her any favor whatsoever.

'Would you please hold me very tight?' she asked.

I put my hand on her forearm — Christ, so thin — and gave it a little squeeze.

'No, Oliver,' she said, 'really hold me. Next to me.'

I was very, very careful — of the tubes and things — as I got onto the bed with her and put my arms around her.

'Thanks, Ollie.'

Those were her last words.

22

Phil Cavilleri was in the solarium, smoking his nth cigarette, when I appeared.

'Phil? 'I said softly.

'Yeah?' He looked up and I think he already knew.

He obviously needed some kind of physical comforting. I walked over and placed my hand on his shoulder. I was afraid he might cry. I was pretty sure I wouldn't. Couldn't. I mean, I was past all that.

He put his hand on mine.

'I wish,' he muttered, 'I wished I hadn't …' He paused there, and I waited. What was the hurry, after all?

'I wish I hadn't promised Jenny to be strong for you.'

And, to honor his pledge, he patted my hand very gently. But I had to be alone. To breathe air. To take a walk, maybe.

Downstairs, the hospital lobby was absolutely still. All I could hear was the click of my own heels on the linoleum.

'Oliver.'

I stopped.

It was my father. Except for the woman at the reception desk we were all by ourselves there. In fact, we were among the few people in New York awake at that hour.

I couldn't face him. I went straight for the revolving door. But in an instant he was out there standing next to me.

'Oliver,' he said, 'you should have told me.'

It was very cold, which in a way was good because I was numb and wanted to feel something. My father continued to address me, and I continued to stand still and let the cold wind slap my face.

'As soon as I found out, I jumped into the car.'

I had forgotten my coat; the chill was starting to make me ache. Good. Good.

'Oliver,' said my father urgently, 'I want to help.'

'Jenny's dead,' I told him.

'I'm sorry,' he said in a stunned whisper.

Not knowing why, I repeated what I had long ago learned from the beautiful girl now dead.

'Love means not ever having to say you're sorry.'

And then I did what I had never done in his presence, much less in his arms. I cried.