Love Story

'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 I 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 guy. 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 I 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.

'Let's run,' she said.

'Let's stay and fight,' I said.

Was either of us joking?

The door was opened by Florence, a devoted and antique servant of the Barrett family.

'Ah, Master Oliver,' she greeted me.

God, how I hate to be called that! I detest that implicitly derogatory distinction between me and Old Stonyface.

My parents, Florence informed us, were waiting in the library. Jenny was taken aback by some of the portraits we passed. Not just that some were by John Singer Sargent (notably Oliver Barrett II, sometimes displayed in the Boston Museum), but the new realization that not all of my forebears were named Barrett. There had been solid Barrett women who had mated well and bred such creatures as Barrett Winthrop, Richard Barrett Sewall and even Abbott Lawrence Lyman, who had the temerity to go through life (and Harvard, its implicit analogue), becoming a prize-winning chemist, without so much as a Barrett in his middle name!

'Jesus Christ,' said Jenny. 'I see half the buildings at Harvard hanging here.'

'It's all crap,' I told her.

'I didn't know you were related to Sewall Boat House too,' she said.

'Yeah. I come from a long line of wood and stone.'

At the end of the long row of portraits, and just before one turns into the library, stands a glass case. In the case are trophies. Athletic trophies.

'They're gorgeous,' Jenny said. 'I've never seen ones that look like real gold and silver.'

'They are.'

'Jesus. Yours?'

'No. His.'

It is an indisputable matter of record that Oliver Barrett III did not place in the Amsterdam Olympics. It is, however, also quite true that he enjoyed significant rowing triumphs on various other occasions. Several. Many. The well-polished proof of this was now before Jennifer's dazzled eyes.

'They don't give stuff like that in the Cranston bowling leagues.'

Then I think she tossed me a bone.

'Do you have trophies, Oliver?'

'Yes.'

'In a case?'

'Up in my room. Under the bed.'

She gave me one of her good Jenny-looks and whispered:

'We'll go look at them later, huh?'

Before I could answer, or even gauge Jenny's true motivations for suggesting a trip to my bedroom, we were interrupted.

'Ah, hello there.'

Sonovabitch! It was the Sonovabitch.

'Oh, hello, sir. This is Jennifer — '

'Ah, hello there.'

He was shaking her hand before I could finish the introduction. I noted that he was not wearing any of his Banker Costumes. No indeed; Oliver III had on a fancy cashmere sport jacket. And there was an insidious smile on his usually rocklike countenance.

'Do come in and meet Mrs. Barrett.'

Another once-in-a-lifetime thrill was in store for Jennifer: meeting Alison Forbes 'Tipsy' Barrett.

(In perverse moments I wondered how her boarding-school nickname might have affected her, had she not grown up to be the earnest do-gooder museum trustee she was.) Let the record show that Tipsy Forbes never completed college. She left Smith in her sophomore year, with the full blessing of her parents, to wed Oliver Barrett III.

'My wife Alison, this is Jennifer — '

He had already usurped the function of introducing her.

'Calliveri,' I added, since Old Stony didn't know her last name.

'Cavilleri,' Jenny added politely, since I had mispronounced it — for the first and only time in my goddamn life.

'As in Cavalleria Rusticana?' asked my mother, probably to prove that despite her drop-out status, she was still pretty cultured.

'Right.' Jenny smiled at her. 'No relation.'

'Ah,' said my mother.

'Ah,' said my father.

To which, all the time wondering if they had caught Jenny's humor, I could but add: 'Ah?'

Mother and Jenny shook hands, and after the usual exchange of banalities from which one never progressed in my house, we sat down. Everybody was quiet. I tried to sense what was happening. Doubtless, Mother was sizing up Jennifer, checking out her costume (not Boho this afternoon), her posture, her demeanor, her accent. Face it, the Sound of Cranston was there even in the politest of moments. Perhaps Jenny was sizing up Mother. Girls do that, I'm told. It's supposed to reveal things about the guys they're going to marry. Maybe she was also sizing up Oliver III. Did she notice he was taller than I? Did she like his cashmere jacket?

Oliver III, of course, would be concentrating his fire on me, as usual.

'How've you been, son?'

For a goddamn Rhodes scholar, he is one lousy conversationalist.

'Fine, sir. Fine.'

As a kind of equal-time gesture, Mother greeted Jennifer.

'Did you have a nice trip down?'

'Yes,' Jenny replied, 'nice and swift.'

'Oliver is a swift driver,' interposed Old Stony.

'No swifter than you, Father,' I retorted.

What would he say to that?

'Uh — yes. I suppose not.'

You bet your ass not, Father.

Mother, who is always on his side, whatever the circumstances, turned the subject to one of more universal interest — music or art, I believe. I wasn't exactly listening carefully. Subsequently, a teacup found its way into my hand.