Jennifer was awarded her degree on Wednesday. All sorts of relatives
from Cranston, Fall River-and even an aunt from Cleveland-flocked to
Cambridge to attend the ceremony. By prior arrangement, I was not introduced
as her fiance, and Jenny wore no ring: this so that none would be offended
(too soon) about missing our wedding.
"Aunt Laura , this is my boyfriend Oliver," Jenny would say, always
adding, "He isn't a college graduate."
There was plenty of rib poking, whispering and even open speculation,
but the relatives could pry no specific information from either of us-or
from Phil, who I guess was happy to avoid a discussion of love among the
atheists.
On Thursday, I became Jenny's academic equal, receiving my degree from
Harvard-like her own, magna cum laude. Moreover, I was Class Marshal, and in
this capacity got to lead the graduating seniors to their seats. This meant
walking ahead of even the summas, the super-superbrains. I was almost moved
to tell these types that my presence as their leader decisively proved my
theory that an hour in Dillon Field House is worth two in Widener Library.
But I refrained. Let the joy be universal.
I have no idea whether Oliver Barrett III was present. More than
seventeen thousand people jam into Harvard Yard on Commencement morning, and
I certainly was not scanning the rows with binoculars. Obviously, I had used
my allotted parent tickets for Phil and Jenny. Of course, as an alumnus, Old
Stony- face could enter and sit with the Class of '26. But then why should
he want to? I mean, weren't the banks open?
The wedding was that Sunday. Our reason for excluding Jenny's relatives
was out of genuine concern that our omission of the Father, Son and Holy
Ghost would make the occasion far too trying for unlapsed Catholics. It was
in Phillips Brooks House, old building in the north of Harvard Yard. Timothy
Blauvelt, the college Unitarian chaplain, presided. Naturally, Ray Stratton
was there, and I also invited Jeremy Nahum, a good friend from the Exeter
days, who had taken Amherst over Harvard. Jenny asked a girl friend from
Briggs Hall and-maybe for sentimental reasons-hertall, gawky colleague at
the reserve book desk. And of course Phil.
I put Ray Stratton in charge of Phil. I mean, just to keep him as loose
as possible. Not that Stratton was all that calm! The pair of them stood
there, looking tremendously uncomfortable, each silently reinforcing the
other's preconceived notion that this "do-it-yourself wedding" (as Phil
referred to it) was going to be (as Stratton kept predicting) "an incredible
horror show." Just because Jenny and I were going to address a few words
directly to one another! We had actually seen it done earlier that spring
when one of Jenny's musical friends, Marya Randall, married a design student
named Eric Levenson. It was a very beautiful thing, and really sold us on
the idea.
"Are you two ready?" asked Mr. Blauvelt.
"Yes," I said for both of us.
"Friends," said Mr. Blauvelt to the others, "we are here to witness the
union of two lives in marriage. Let us listen to the words they have chosen
to read on this sacred occasion.
The bride first. Jenny stood facing me and recited the poem she had
selected. It was very moving, perhaps especially to me, because it was a
sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett:
When our two souls stand up erect and strong, Face to face, silent,
drawing high and higher, Until the lengthening wings break into fire...
From the corner of my eye I saw Phil Cavilleri, pale, slack-jawed, eyes
wide with amazement and adoration
combined. We listened to Jenny finish the sonnet, which was in its way
a kind of prayer for
A place to stand and love in for a day,
With darkness and the death hour rounding it.
Then it was my turn. It had been hard finding a piece of poetry I could
read without blushing. I mean, I couldn't stand there and recite lace-doily
phrases. I couldn't. But a section of Walt Whitman's Song of the Open Road,
though kind of brief, said it all for me:
• . . I give you my hand!
I give you my love more precious than money,
I give you myself before preaching or law;
Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?
I finished, and there was a wonderful hush in the room. Then Ray
Stratton handed me the ring, and Jenny and I-ourselves-recited the marriage
vows, taking each other, from that day forward, to love and cherish, till
death do us part.
By the authority vested in him by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts,
Mr. Timothy Blauvelt pronounced us man and wife.
Upon reflection, our "post-game party" (as Stratton referred to it) was
pretentiously unpretentious. Jenny and I had absolutely rejected the
champagne route, and since there were so few of us we could all fit into one
booth, we went to drink beer at Cronin's. As I recall, Jim Cronin himself
set us up with a round, as a tribute to "the greatest Harvard hockey player
since the Cleary brothers."
"Like hell," argued Phil Cavilleri, pounding his fist on the table.
"He's better than all the Clearys put together." Philip's meaning, I believe
(he had never seen a Harvard hockey game), was that however well Bobby or
Billy Cleary might have skated, neither got to marry his lovely daughter. I
mean, we were all smashed, and it was just an excuse for getting more so.
I let Phil pick up the tab, a decision which later evoked one of
Jenny's rare compliments about my intuition ("You'll be a human being yet,
Preppie"). It got a little hairy at the end when we drove him to the bus,
however. I mean, the wet-eyes bit. His, Jenny's, maybe mine too; I don't
remember anything except that the moment was liquid.
Anyway, after all sorts of blessings, he got onto the bus and we waited
and waved until it drove out of sight. It was then that the awesome truth
started to get to me.
"Jenny, we're legally married!"
"Yeah, now I can be a bitch."