by Erich Segal
“What do you call yours?” she asked again.
I had been so out of it, I hadn’t heard her question.
“My what?”
“What term do you employ when you speak of your progenitor?”
I answered with the term I’d always wanted to employ.
“Sonovabitch.”
“To his face?” she asked.
“I never see his face.”
“He wears a mask?”
“In a way, yes. Of stone. Of absolute stone.”
“Go on—he must be proud as hell. You’re a big Harvard jock.”
I looked at her. I guess she didn’t know everything, after all.
“So was he, Jenny.”
“Bigger than All-Ivy wing?”
I liked the way she enjoyed my athletic credentials. Too bad I had to shoot myself down by giving her my father’s.
“He rowed single sculls in the 1928 Olympics.”
“God,” she said. “Did he win?”
“No,” I answered, and I guess she could tell that the fact that he was sixth in the finals actually afforded me some comfort.
There was a little silence. Now maybe Jenny would understand that to be Oliver Barrett IV doesn’t just mean living with that gray stone edifice in Harvard Yard. It involves a kind of muscular intimidation as well. I mean, the image of athletic achievement looming down on you. I mean, on me.
“But what does he do to qualify as a sonovabitch?” Jenny asked.
“Make me,” I replied.
“Beg pardon?”
“Make me,” I repeated.
Her eyes widened like saucers. “You mean like incest?” she asked.
“Don’t give me your family problems, Jen. I’ve got enough of my own.”
“Like what, Oliver?” she asked, “like just what is it he makes you do?”
“The ‘right things,’” I said.
“What’s wrong with the ‘right things’?” she asked, delighting in the apparent paradox.
I told her how I loathed being programmed for the Barrett Tradition—which she should have realized, having seen me cringe at having to mention the numeral at the end of my name. And I did not like having to deliver x amount of achievement every single term.
“Oh yeah,” said Jenny with broad sarcasm, “I notice how you hate getting A’s, being All-Ivy—”
“What I hate is that he expects no less!” Just saying what I had always felt (but never before spoken) made me feel uncomfortable as hell, but now I had to make Jenny understand it all. “And he’s so incredibly blasé when I do come through. I mean he just takes me absolutely for granted.”
“But he’s a busy man. Doesn’t he run lots of banks and things?”
“Jesus, Jenny, whose side are you on?”
“Is this a war?” she asked.
“Most definitely,” I replied.
“That’s ridiculous, Oliver.”
She seemed genuinely unconvinced. And there I got my first inkling of a cultural gap between us. I mean, three and a half years of Harvard-Radcliffe had pretty much made us into the cocky intellectuals that institution traditionally produces, but when it came to accepting the fact that my father was made of stone, she adhered to some atavistic Italian-Mediterranean notion of papa-loves-bambinos, and there was no arguing otherwise.
I tried to cite a case in point. That ridiculous nonconversation after the Cornell game. This definitely made an impression on her. But the goddamn wrong one.
“He went all the way up to Ithaca to watch a lousy hockey game?”
I tried to explain that my father was all form and no content. She was still obsessed with the fact that he had traveled so far for such a (relatively) trivial sports event.
“Look, Jenny, can we just forget it?”
“Thank God you’re hung up about your father,” she replied. “That means you’re not perfect.”
“Oh—you mean you are?”
“Hell no, Preppie. If I was, would I be going out with you?”
Back to business as usual.
5
I would like to say a word about our physical relationship.
For a strangely long while there wasn’t any. I mean, there wasn’t anything more significant than those kisses already mentioned (all of which I still remember in greatest detail). This was not standard procedure as far as I was concerned, being rather impulsive, impatient and quick to action. If you were to tell any of a dozen girls at Tower Court, Wellesley, that Oliver Barrett IV had been dating a young lady daily for three weeks and had not slept with her, they would surely have laughed and severely questioned the femininity of the girl involved. But of course the actual facts were quite different.
I didn’t know what to do.
Don’t misunderstand or take that too literally. I knew all the moves. I just couldn’t cope with my own feelings about making them. Jenny was so smart that I was afraid she might laugh at what I had traditionally considered the suave romantic (and unstoppable) style of Oliver Barrett IV. I was afraid of being rejected, yes. I was also afraid of being accepted for the wrong reasons. What I am fumbling to say is that I felt different about Jennifer, and didn’t know what to say or even who to ask about it. (“You should have asked me,” she said later.) I just knew I had these feelings. For her. For all of her.
“You’re gonna flunk out, Oliver.”
We were sitting in my room on a Sunday afternoon, reading.
“Oliver, you’re gonna flunk out if you just sit there watching me study.”
“I’m not watching you study. I’m studying.”
“Bullshit. You’re looking at my legs.”
“Only once in a while. Every chapter.”
“That book has extremely short chapters.”
“Listen, you narcissistic bitch, you’re not that great-looking!”
“I know. But can I help it if you think so?”
I threw down my book and crossed the room to where she was sitting.
“Jenny, for Christ’s sake, how can I read John Stuart Mill when every single second I’m dying to make love to you?”
She screwed up her brow and frowned.
“Oh, Oliver, wouldja please?”
I was crouching by her chair. She looked back into her book.
“Jenny—”
She closed her book softly, put it down, then placed her hands on the sides of my neck.
“Oliver—wouldja please.”
It all happened at once. Everything.
Our first physical encounter was the polar opposite of our first verbal one. It was all so unhurried, so soft, so gentle. I had never realized that this was the real Jenny—the soft one, whose touch was so light and so loving. And yet what truly shocked me was my own response. I was gentle. I was tender. Was this the real Oliver Barrett IV?
As I said, I had never seen Jenny with so much as her sweater opened an extra button. I was somewhat surprised to find that she wore a tiny golden cross. On one of those chains that never unlock. Meaning that when we made love, she still wore the cross. In a resting moment of that lovely afternoon, at one of those junctures when everything and nothing is relevant, I touched the little cross and inquired what her priest might have to say about our being in bed together, and so forth. She answered that she had no priest.
“Aren’t you a good Catholic girl?” I asked.
“Well, I’m a girl,” she said. “And I’m good.”
She looked at me for confirmation and I smiled. She smiled back.
“So that’s two out of three.”
I then asked her why the cross, welded, no less. She explained that it had been her mother’s; she wore it for sentimental reasons, not religious. The conversation returned to ourselves.
“Hey, Oliver, did I tell you that I love you?” she said.
“No, Jen.”
“Why didn’t you ask me?”
“I was afraid to, frankly.”
“Ask me now.”
“Do you love me, Jenny?”
/>
She looked at me and wasn’t being evasive when she answered:
“What do you think?”
“Yeah. I guess. Maybe.”
I kissed her neck.
“Oliver?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t just love you…”
Oh, Christ, what was this?
“I love you very much, Oliver.”
6
I love Ray Stratton.
He may not be a genius or a great football player (kind of slow at the snap), but he was always a good roommate and loyal friend. And how that poor bastard suffered through most of our senior year. Where did he go to study when he saw the tie placed on the doorknob of our room (the traditional signal for “action within”)? Admittedly, he didn’t study that much, but he had to sometimes. Let’s say he used the House library, or Lamont, or even the Pi Eta Club. But where did he sleep on those Saturday nights when Jenny and I decided to disobey parietal rules and stay together? Ray had to scrounge for places to sack in—neighbors’ couches, etc., assuming they had nothing going for them. Well, at least it was after the football season. And I would have done the same thing for him.
But what was Ray’s reward? In days of yore I had shared with him the minutest details of my amorous triumphs. Now he was not only denied these inalienable roommate’s rights, but I never even came out and admitted that Jenny and I were lovers. I would just indicate when we would be needing the room, and so forth. Stratton could draw what conclusion he wished.
“I mean, Christ, Barrett, are you making it or not?” he would ask.
“Raymond, as a friend I’m asking you not to ask.”
“But Christ, Barrett, afternoons, Friday nights, Saturday nights. Christ, you must be making it.”
“Then why bother asking me, Ray?”
“Because it’s unhealthy.”
“What is?”
“The whole situation, Ol. I mean, it was never like this before. I mean, this total freeze-out on details for big Ray. I mean, this is unwarranted. Unhealthy. Christ, what does she do that’s so different?”
“Look, Ray, in a mature love affair—”
“Love?”
“Don’t say it like it’s a dirty word.”
“At your age? Love? Christ, I greatly fear, old buddy.”
“For what? My sanity?”
“Your bachelorhood. Your freedom. Your life!”
Poor Ray. He really meant it.
“Afraid you’re losing a roommate, huh?”
“Shit, in a way I’ve gained one, she spends so much time here.”
I was dressing for a concert, so this dialogue would shortly come to a close.
“Don’t sweat, Raymond. We’ll have that apartment in New York. Different babies every night. We’ll do it all.”
“Don’t tell me not to sweat, Barrett. That girl’s got you.”
“It’s all under control,” I replied. “Stay loose.” I was adjusting my tie and heading for the door. Stratton was somehow unconvinced.
“Hey, Ollie?”
“Yeah?”
“You are making it, aren’t you?”
“Jesus Christ, Stratton!”
I was not taking Jenny to this concert; I was watching her in it. The Bach Society was doing the Fifth Brandenburg Concerto at Dunster House, and Jenny was harpsichord soloist. I had heard her play many times, of course, but never with a group or in public. Christ, was I proud. She didn’t make any mistakes that I could notice.
“I can’t believe how great you were,” I said after the concert.
“That shows what you know about music, Preppie.”
“I know enough.”
We were in the Dunster courtyard. It was one of those April afternoons when you’d believe spring might finally reach Cambridge. Her musical colleagues were strolling nearby (including Martin Davidson, throwing invisible hate bombs in my direction), so I couldn’t argue keyboard expertise with her.
We crossed Memorial Drive to walk along the river.
“Wise up, Barrett, wouldja please. I play okay. Not great. Not even ‘All-Ivy.’ Just okay. Okay?”
How could I argue when she wanted to put herself down?
“Okay. You play okay. I just mean you should always keep at it.”
“Who said I wasn’t going to keep at it, for God’s sake? I’m gonna study with Nadia Boulanger, aren’t I?”
What the hell was she talking about? From the way she immediately shut up, I sensed this was something she had not intended to mention.
“Who?” I asked.
“Nadia Boulanger. A famous music teacher. In Paris.” She said those last two words rather quickly.
“In Paris?” I asked, rather slowly.
“She takes very few American pupils. I was lucky. I got a good scholarship too.”
“Jennifer—you are going to Paris?”
“I’ve never seen Europe. I can hardly wait.”
I grabbed her by the shoulders. Maybe I was too rough, I don’t know.
“Hey—how long have you known this?”
For once in her life, Jenny couldn’t look me square in the eye.
“Ollie, don’t be stupid,” she said. “It’s inevitable.”
“What’s inevitable?”
“We graduate and we go our separate ways. You’ll go to law school—”
“Wait a minute—what are you talking about?”
Now she looked me in the eye. And her face was sad.
“Ollie, you’re a preppie millionaire, and I’m a social zero.”
I was still holding onto her shoulders.
“What the hell does that have to do with separate ways? We’re together now, we’re happy.”
“Ollie, don’t be stupid,” she repeated. “Harvard is like Santa’s Christmas bag. You can stuff any crazy kind of toy into it. But when the holiday’s over, they shake you out…” She hesitated.
“…and you gotta go back where you belong.”
“You mean you’re going to bake cookies in Cranston, Rhode Island?”
I was saying desperate things.
“Pastries,” she said. “And don’t make fun of my father.”
“Then don’t leave me, Jenny. Please.”
“What about my scholarship? What about Paris, which I’ve never seen in my whole goddamn life?”
“What about our marriage?”
It was I who spoke those words, although for a split second I wasn’t sure I really had.
“Who said anything about marriage?”
“Me. I’m saying it now.”
“You want to marry me?”
“Yes.”
She tilted her head, did not smile, but merely inquired:
“Why?”
I looked her straight in the eye.
“Because,” I said.
“Oh,” she said. “That’s a very good reason.”
She took my arm (not my sleeve this time), and we walked along the river. There was nothing more to say, really.
7
Ipswich, Mass., is some forty minutes from the Mystic River Bridge, depending on the weather and how you drive. I have actually made it on occasion in twenty-nine minutes. A certain distinguished Boston banker claims an even faster time, but when one is discussing sub thirty minutes from Bridge to Barretts’, it is difficult to separate fact from fancy. I happen to consider twenty-nine minutes as the absolute limit. I mean, you can’t ignore the traffic signals on Route 1, can you?
“You’re driving like a maniac,” Jenny said.
“This is Boston,” I replied. “Everyone drives like a maniac.” We were halted for a red light on Route 1 at the time.
“You’ll kill us before your parents can murder us.”
“Listen, Jen, my parents are lovely people.”
The light changed. The MG was at sixty in under ten seconds.
“Even the Sonovabitch?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Oliver Barrett III.”
“Ah, he’s a nice gu
y. You’ll really like him.”
“How do you know?”
“Everybody likes him,” I replied.
“Then why don’t you?”
“Because everybody likes him,” I said.
Why was I taking her to meet them, anyway? I mean, did I really need Old Stonyface’s blessing or anything? Part of it was that she wanted to (“That’s the way it’s done, Oliver”) and part of it was the simple fact that Oliver III was my banker in the very grossest sense: he paid the goddamn tuition.
It had to be Sunday dinner, didn’t it? I mean, that’s comme il faut, right? Sunday, when all the lousy drivers were clogging Route 1 and getting in my way. I pulled off the main drag onto Groton Street, a road whose turns I had been taking at high speeds since I was thirteen.
“There are no houses here,” said Jenny, “just trees.”
“The houses are behind the trees.”
When traveling down Groton Street, you’ve got to be very careful or else you’ll miss the turnoff into our place. Actually, I missed the turnoff myself that afternoon. I was three hundred yards down the road when I screeched to a halt.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Past it,” I mumbled, between obscenities.
Is there something symbolic in the fact that I backed up three hundred yards to the entrance of our place? Anyway, I drove slowly once we were on Barrett soil. It’s at least a half mile in from Groton Street to Dover House proper. En route you pass other…well, buildings. I guess it’s fairly impressive when you see it for the first time.
“Holy shit!” Jenny said.
“What’s the matter, Jen?”
“Pull over, Oliver. No kidding. Stop the car.”
I stopped the car. She was clutching.
“Hey, I didn’t think it would be like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like this rich. I mean, I bet you have serfs living here.”
I wanted to reach over and touch her, but my palms were not dry (an uncommon state), and so I gave her verbal reassurance.
“Please, Jen. It’ll be a breeze.”
“Yeah, but why is it I suddenly wish my name was Abigail Adams, or Wendy WASP?”
We drove the rest of the way in silence, parked and walked up to the front door. As we waited for the ring to be answered, Jenny succumbed to a last-minute panic.
