Love Story

'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. III 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. III 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.