CHAPTER 12

 

 

If a single word can describe our daily life during those first three

years, it is "scrounge." Every waking moment we were concentrating on how

the hell we would be able to scrape up enough money to do whatever it was we

had to do. Usually it was just break even. And there's nothing romantic

about it, either. Remember the famous stanza in Omar Khayam? You know, the

book of verses underneath the bough, the loaf of bread, the jug of wine and

so forth? Substitute Scott on Trusts for that book of verses and see how

this poetic vision stacks up against my idyllic existence. Ah, paradise? No,

bullshit. All I'd think about is how much that book was (could we get it

secondhand?) and where, if anywhere, we might be able to charge that bread

and wine. And then how we might ultimately scrounge up the dough to pay off

our debts.

Life changes. Even the simplest decision must be scrutinized by the

ever vigilant budget committee of your mind.

"Hey, Oliver, let's go see Becket tonight." "Lissen, it's three bucks."

"What do you mean?"

"1 mean a buck fifty for you and a buck fifty for me"

"Does that mean yes or no?"

"Neither. It just means three bucks."

 

Our honeymoon was spent on a yacht and with twenty-one children. That

is, I sailed a thirty-six-foot Rhodes from seven in the morning till

whenever my passengers had enough, and Jenny was a children's counselor. It

was a place called the Pequod Boat Club in Dennis Port (not far from

Hyannis), an establishment that included a large hotel, a marina and several

dozen houses for rent. In one of the tinier bungalows, I have nailed an

imaginary plaque: "Oliver and Jenny slept here-when they weren't making

love." I think it s a tribute to us both that after a long day of being kind

to our customers, for we were largely dependent on their tips for our

income, Jenny and I were nonetheless kind to each other. I simply say

"kind," because I lack the vocabulary to describe what loving and being

loved by Jennifer Cavilleri is like. Sorry, I mean Jennifer Barrett.

 

Before leaving for the Cape, we found a cheap apartment in North

Cambridge. I called it North Cambridge, although the address was technically

in the town of Somerville and the house was, as Jenny described it, "in the

state of disrepair." It had originally been a two- family structure, now

converted into four apartments, overpriced even at its "cheap" rental. But

what the hell can graduate students do? It's a seller's market.

"Hey, 01, why do you think the fire department hasn't condemned the

joint?" Jenny asked.

"They're probably afraid to walk inside," I said.

"So am I."

"You weren't in June," I said.

(This dialogue was taking place upon our reentry in September.)

"I wasn't married then. Speaking as a married woman, I consider this

place to be unsafe at any speed."

"What do you intend to do about it?"

"Speak to my husband," she replied. "He'll take care of it."

"Hey, I'm your husband," I said.

"Really? Prove it."

"How?" I asked, inwardly thinking, Oh no, in the Street?

"Carry me over the threshold," she said.

"You don't believe in that nonsense, do you?"

"Carry me, and I'll decide after."

Okay. I scooped her in my arms and hauled her up five steps onto the

porch.

"Why'd you stop?" she asked.

"Isn't this the threshold?"

"Negative, negative," she said.

"I see our name by the bell."

"This is not the official goddamn threshold. Upstairs, you turkey!"

It was twenty-four steps up to our "official" homestead, and I had to

pause about halfway to catch my breath.

"Why are you so heavy?" I asked her.

"Did you ever think I might be pregnant?" she answered.

This didn't make it easier for me to catch my breath.

"Are you?" I could finally say.

"Hah! Scared you, didn't I?"

"Nah."

"Don't bullshit me, Preppie."

"Yeah. For a second there, I clutched."

I carried her the rest of the way.

This is among the precious few moments I can recall in which the verb

"scrounge" has no relevance whatever.

 

My illustrious name enabled us to establish a charge account at a

grocery store which would otherwise have denied credit to students. And yet

it worked to our disadvantage at a place I would least have expected:

the Shady Lane School, where Jenny was to teach.

"Of course, Shady Lane isn't able to match the public school salaries,"

Miss Anne Miller Whitman, the principal, told my wife, adding something to

the effect that Barretts wouldn't be concerned with "that aspect" anyway.

Jenny tried to dispel her illusions, but all she could get in addition to

the already offered thirty-five hundred for the year was about two minutes

of "ho ho ho"s. Miss Whitman thought Jenny was being so witty in her remarks

about Barretts having to pay the rent just like other people.

When Jenny recounted all this to me, I made a few imaginative

suggestions about what Miss Whitman could do with her-ho ho ho-thirty-five

hundred. But then Jenny asked if I would like to drop out of law school and

support her while she took the education credits needed to teach in a public

school. I gave the whole situation a big think for about two seconds and

reached an accurate and succinct conclusion:

"Shit."

"That's pretty eloquent," said my wife.

"What am I supposed to say, Jenny-'ho ho ho'?"

"No. Just learn to like spaghetti."

 

I did. I learned to like spaghetti, and Jenny learned every conceivable

recipe to make pasta seem like something else. What with our summer

earnings, her salary, the income anticipated from my planned night work in

the post office during Christmas rush, we were doing okay. I mean, there

were a lot of movies we didn't see (and concerts she didn't go to), but we

were making ends meet.

Of course, about all we were meeting were ends. I mean, socially both

our lives changed drastically. We were still in Cambridge, and theoretically

Jenny could have stayed with all her music groups. But there wasn't time.

She came home from Shady Lane exhausted, and there was dinner yet to cook

(eating out was beyond the realm of maximum feasibility). Meanwhile my own

friends were considerate enough to let us alone. I mean, they didn't invite

us so we wouldn't have to invite them, if you know what I mean.

We even skipped the football games.

As a member of the Varsity Club, I was entitled to seats in their

terrific section on the fifty-yard line. But it was six bucks a ticket,

which is twelve bucks.

"It's not," argued Jenny, "it's six bucks. You can go without me. I

don't know a thing about football except people shout 'Hit 'em again,' which

is what you adore, which is why I want you to goddamn go!"

"The case is closed," I would reply, being after all the husband and

head of household. "Besides, I can use the time to study." Still, I would

spend Saturday afternoons with a transistor at my ear, listening to the roar

of the fans, who, though geographically but a mile away, were now in another

world.

I used my Varsity Club privileges to get Yale game seats for Robbie

Wald, a Law School classmate. When Robbie left our apartment, effusively

grateful, Jenny asked if I wouldn't tell her again just who got to sit in

the V. Club section, and I once more explained that it was for those who,

regardless of age or size or social rank, had nobly served fair Harvard on

the playing fields.

"On the water too?" she asked.

"Jocks are jocks," I answered, "dry or wet."

"Except you, Oliver," she said. "You're frozen."

I let the subject drop, assuming that this was simply Jennifer's usual

flip repartee, not wanting to think there had been any more to her question

concerning the athletic traditions of Harvard University. Such as perhaps

the subtle suggestion that although Soldiers Field holds 45,000 people, all

former athletes would be seated in that one terrific section. All. Old and

young. Wet, dry-and even frozen. And was it merely six dollars that kept me

away from the stadium those Saturday afternoons?

No; if she had something else in mind, I would rather not discuss it.